Page 14 of Prime Time

“About what it’s like to be touched, kissed, by a redneck cowboy. That’s what you thought of me the first time you saw me, didn’t you?”

“No,” she said, untruthfully. Men like him were rare in the circles she ran in. Men like him were rare, period. He was a novelty, but she hadn’t realized she had let him know she thought of him as such.

He went on in a voice that could have melted butter, which was exactly what she felt like. “You didn’t take your returned, unopened letters as a no, so you thought you’d come down here and sweet-talk a dumb hick into letting you interview his father. You thought I’d dissolve like mush when I got a look at your golden eyes and your creamy skin and your silky hair and your sexy body, didn’t you?”

“No!” she cried softly, earnestly. He wasn’t being fair. She recognized the insincerity of his embrace, yet she yearned for a closer one. Even as he mocked her, she craved his touch.

“And the more I insulted you, the more curious you became, until I was getting to you real bad. Do you think I didn’t know you were watching me today? Did you see anything you didn’t like?”

Thankfully, mercifully, her temper flared and she was given a chance to save herself. “You conceited—”

“Brace yourself, Ms. Malone. I’m about to satisfy your curiosity. Among other things.”

Using his size to overpower her, he walked them backward until once again her back was against the cypress tree’s trunk. Deftly, boldly, he unbuttoned the first button of her blouse. Then the second.

She stared directly into his eyes, her chin raised and pointed with disdain. She only hoped he couldn’t feel her treacherous heartbeat. “I’m not going to dignify this by fighting or struggling.”

“Fight or struggle if you like. You won’t stop me. And I don’t give a damn if it’s dignified or not.”

Then his mouth bore down on hers, and the battle was lost before it was ever joined. His lips were firm, but curiously soft as they slanted over hers. He moved them in such a way that hers opened involuntarily before she was aware of it.

For prolonged moments he hesitated, breathing into her mouth, making her ache with anticipation—never dread. Then his tongue glided over her bottom lip, the top one, slipped between them, coaxing her mouth to accept its skillful violation … He swept the interior triumphantly. But suddenly he lifted his head.

His eyes impaled her. His uneven breathing was an echo of hers. Two hearts beat together. He scanned her face. What was he searching for? She looked up at him with a silent plea. Then, as though directed by a master choreographer, his arms closed about her at the same time she locked her hands behind his neck.

When his mouth descended again, hers was open and waiting to receive it. This kiss was no longer motivated by a challenge, but by a mutual hunger that threatened to destroy them should they not appease it. His tongue sampled each nuance of her mouth with a fervent desperation, as though she were some elusive dream that might vanish before he’d had his fill.

He tore his mouth free at last, and she collapsed against him. His lips wandered at random over her face, dropping brief kisses wherever they alit. Her fingers knotted in his hair, holding his head against her as he nuzzled her neck.

“Lyon,” she breathed when his hands came around her rib cage, the heels of them brushing the sides of her breasts. Moving slowly, his hands parted the unbuttoned blouse and covered her breasts with possessive warmth.

He squeezed her gently. Lifting her up, he tested the fullness and found it gratifying. The satin camisole was worn for modesty’s sake beneath the sheer blouse. But it provided no shelter from his seductive caresses, and her nipples responded firmly and proudly to the stroking of his thumbs.

His mouth was at her ear, lazily nipping the lobe with his teeth. “What do you know? I’ve found something about you that isn’t phony.”

If he had slapped her, she couldn’t be more stunned. She grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands away from her, shoving him backward with surprising strength. “Is that all this was to you? An experiment?!” she shouted.

“Wasn’t that all it was to you?” he asked with deliberate, mocking indifference.

“God, you’re disgusting.” She stumbled past him, frantically adjusting her clothing in the night that had suddenly gone dark and cold. She was yanked around by his painful grip on her upper arm. Every inch of his tall body radiated fury.

“Me? I didn’t invade anyone’s home, looking for

secrets and skeletons in the closet.”

“I—”

“My father may have been hoodwinked by you, but not me, sister. I know your type—”

“Stop saying that,” she screamed. “I’m not a type. Can’t you get that through that thick head of yours? I came here to do an interview with your father. I know he’s ill. I’m sensitive to that, but that’s all the more reason I want to remind the American people about him, because he may not be around forever. Why you indicted, convicted, and were ready to hang me before you even met me, I don’t know. But I’m here. And I’ll do my job in spite of you. With or without your cooperation.” She could feel scalding tears clogging her throat and flooding her eyes and was only glad that the darkness obscured them from him. “Finally, don’t touch me again.” She flung off his hand that was like a manacle around her arm.

“You can bet on it,” he said bitingly. “One kiss in the dark doesn’t make you a woman, Ms. Malone. You’re ambitious, shrewd, headstrong. You’re just an imitation of a man living in a female body, without any of the softness or gentleness or kindness that should characterize your sex.”

His words stung. For years she had felt just like the shell he’d described. She protested vehemently. “I’m not. I’m not.”

“You couldn’t prove it by me.”

“I don’t want to.” But she did, and that humiliating fact filled her mouth like brassy-tasting medicine as she stalked back toward the house.

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