Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings by Heather Graham Page B

the land. It was my husband’s.”
    She was lying—or at least, she wasn’t telling him everything, Blade thought. “One month,” he said. “Then you’re on your own.”
    â€œI’ll pay you well—”
    â€œDamned right,” he said very softly. “Here’s the deal. You get me. And, Mrs. Dylan, I get you.”
    â€œYou’ve had—”
    â€œA taste,” he murmured, and bent down. Slowly, slowly he captured her lips. Teased them, played with them. He waited for her mouth to part, to accept his sensual invasion, to return the touch, sweet motion by sweet motion. …
    Her arms wound around him, and he made love to her again.
    So slowly. So sensually, teaching, exploring, discovering. Touching, laving, still tasting, whispering, having.… Becoming one with her. Bronze flesh against ivory, slick, fluid. Hungry. Creating a storm, a sweet tempest, bringing her with him until she writhed so erotically beneath him.
    And when he finished, he captured her lips to keep silent the cry he had wrung from her being. She lay beside him, dazed, panting, flushed. Then she turned away.
    â€œNo!” she whispered.
    â€œA month,” he reminded her. His arms around her then, he pulled her to him gently. She was so warm, silken still. It seemed just as sweet to hold her. And she did not pull away. She paid her debts—
    And kept her bargains, so it seemed.
    Golden strands of hair softly entangled him. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he had done. A month. Had he cast them both into the fiery pits of hell …? Or the sweetest heights of heaven?

Chapter Six
    J essica woke early, as she was accustomed to doing, yet it seemed that her eyelids were heavy, that it was hard to open them. Her lashes fluttered. The first thing she saw was his hand. Large, powerful, long-fingered, bronzed, nails clipped, not manicured, but clean. It lay around her waist, holding her close against his body.
    She closed her eyes tightly again, recalling the night, assuring herself that she must be absolutely horrible, yet not feeling that she was in the least. She had to get to the land, she reminded herself. She was determined to get to the land, and maybe she had been willing to pay almost any price to get there.
    But … this price hadn’t quite occurred to her until she had first seen McKenna. And no matter what she tried to tell herself, a certain fire had stirred and burned deep within her from that moment. He was beyond a doubt the most intriguing man she had ever seen. He was perhaps an inch or two over six feet, lithe, graceful, silent, his every movement one of perfect ease—startling in a man with such broad shoulders, such fine, taut muscle structure, she thought. He was straight as oak and hard as stone, his face something handsomely chiseled from granite. His sleek, thick, pitch-black hair and ebony eyes were a striking giveaway to his Indian heritage, while the hard planes of his face somehow combined white and Indian characteristics into a visage that was arresting, strikingly handsome, and still so very rugged. He had fascinated her from the first seconds she had seen him. When she heard him speak, she felt tremors steal down her spine. When he looked directly at her, she felt fire seep into her bones.
    She’d never felt anything quite like it before in her life. Ever. She’d been in love, or, rather, she had loved, and perhaps there was a difference. Charlie had been a part of her life forever. She had known him so very well. It was circumstance that had come between them, war that had split them apart.
    And yet … As much as she had loved Charlie, as much as she was here on his behalf, she had never begun to feel for Charlie what she did for this man.
    A hard throbbing suddenly began within her heart. Well, she had won. She had lost … and then won. He’d told her that he’d come with her for a month. That was all