Page 19 of Prime Time

“I overheard. You were out in the hallway, you know, and you weren’t speaking in whispers. I was on my way upstairs. Of course I heard you.”

My God. How much had he heard? If he’d heard her promising Les she’d work on the son for information—No, he wasn’t quizzing her about that. He wanted to know about her and Les. But why? If it weren’t so ridiculous, she’d think he was jealous. Actually it must only be male pride. She was sure few women had fled Lyon’s arms to go call another man and tell him she loved him. “A gentleman would have made his presence known.”

He laughed harshly. “I quit being a gentleman a long time ago. Well, I’m waiting. Tell me about this Les.”

Why didn’t she tell him it was none of his business and order him to take her back to the house? Because for some unnamed reason, it was important that he did not misconstrue her relationship with Les. She’d examine the why of that later, when he wasn’t looking at her with such sanctimonious outrage.

Composure would be her counterattack. She wouldn’t countenance his anger, merely show that she was tolerating it, much as a parent tolerates the temper tantrum of a willful child. “Les Trapper is the producer of my show. We’ve worked together for years, before, during, and after I was married. He’s a friend. As for my telling him I love him, I do. As a friend. He tells every woman he meets from high-school girls to the elderly lady who cleans our offices that he loves her. It means nothing. At no point have Les and I been lovers.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

Her composure snapped. “I don’t give a damn whether you do or not. You branded a scarlet letter on my breast the moment I introduced myself to you.” She wished she hadn’t referred to her breast. His eyes dropped significantly to that region of her torso. Undaunted, she went on. “Just because I’m not a homemaker, doesn’t mean that I have no morals, Mr. Ratliff.”

“All right, say you and this Les aren’t involved. Did you fill him in on all the delicious details of our walk to the river? Did you gloat with him over how you’d wormed your way into the house and within hours had everyone eating out of your hand?”

“No!” So it was only his pride that had been crushed. He didn’t really care if she had a romantic relationship with Les or not, only if the two of them had made a fool of him. “No,” she said softly, shaking her head as she dropped her eyes to stare at the hands she held linked tightly together in her lap.

Lyon gnawed the lining of his mouth. What was it about her that infuriated him so? Why did he give a damn who she talked to on the telephone or what she said? Yet it had wrenched his guts to hear her wishing another man sweet dreams when he knew his own would be haunted by her.

She looked so sad, so contrite. And it could all be a role she was playing. He didn’t know if he wanted to strangle her or kiss her. Her mouth promised sweet relief from the bitterness that he tasted each minute of the day. Her breasts intimated surcease from the loneliness he lived with. Her body held the energy that would bring to life what had been dead in him for years.

He had found release for his physical appetites with no small number of compliant females, but each of these interludes had left him feeling empty and tainted. There had been only momentary satisfaction. What he wanted was intimacy with a woman that fully engaged all of the man he was, not just a physical conjunction that gave only fleeting pleasure.

He looked at her again and was surprised to see a tear rolling down her cheek. She looked up at the same time. No, her eyes were dry. That crystal wasn’t a tear. It was a raindrop.

“We’d better get back,” he said gruffly. “It’s starting to rain.”

That was an understatement. No sooner had he started the Jeep, than they were deluged by the cloudburst. The rain came down in blinding sheets. “Hold on,” he shouted and spun the Jeep around in the opposite direction from the house. He drove pell-mell over the uneven road. His hat was ripped from his head and went sailing off. Andy held on for dear life, the wind tearing at her hair and the rain pelting her face and arms.

He was heading straight for what looked to her like a solid wall of rock. As the cliff rushed toward them she saw the indentation. Lyon pumped the brake, and the Jeep slowed to a crawl that carried it through the mouth of the shallow cave. It was gloomy on the inside, but not ominous. The gloominess was due mostly to the darkness of the sky outside.

Lyon cut the motor, and they were plunged into a heavy silence, broken only by the pounding of the torrent just beyond the entrance of the cave and the slow drip of raindrops off the jeep onto the pebble-floor of the cave.

“Are you all right?” he asked at last.

She was shivering from the cold cloth of her knit top, now clinging damply to her body. From anxiety. From anticipation. “Yes.” Her teeth were chattering. Her nipples contracted against the cool air and wet fabric that covered them.

Lyon noticed. He dragged his eyes away. His gaze ricocheted off the walls, ceiling, and floor of the cave, the hood of the car, the back seat, before they came back to her face, which was pale and tense.

He followed the path of a raindrop that rolled from her hairline down her temple, over her cheekbone, and along her jaw until it made a right turn to cling precariously to the tip of her chin. Entirely unplanned, he watched as his index finger reached out and caught it, then withdrew hastily.

Andy sat transfixed.

Lyon turned his head away from her and stared at the rock wall of the cave. His fist lightly thumped his thigh, the only outlet he allowed his inner turmoil. He was like a man holding onto his last few strands of conscience and control, and the knot was slipping.

Then in one swift motion he turned back to her, leaned across the dashboard, and cradled her jaw between his work-roughened palms.

Tilting her head up and back, he raked his thumb along her lower lip. “Please don’t be a lie. Please don’t be.”

His mouth was hot and avid on hers, pushing her lips apart and thrusting his tongue inside. It sank deeply into the warm hollow of her mouth with a purpose so transparent that a groan issued from deep in his chest. Her hands came up to clasp either side of his face, holding his mouth to hers while she met the kiss with heedless fervor.

Finesse and gentleness were forgotten. This was a kiss governed by need, ruled by passion, unplanned, undeniable, and unrestrained—a tidal wave of desire engulfing them both and sweeping them along in a mindless current, a wildfire burning out of control.

They drank of each other thirstily. His tongue teased along the roof of her mouth, her teeth. He compared textures, tasted her, relished what he tasted. The rain had made her skin moist and fragrant with her scent. He abandoned her mouth to bury his face between her throat and chest to breathe and capture it all.

His hands stroked her arms. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she sighed. “No.” While one hand tugged gently at his earlobe the other was sliding up and down contours of his muscled back.

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