Snowed by Pamela Burford Page B

She must have been very beautiful to have been a model. What could she have done to so blister her husband’s memory of her?
    And did he despise his father, too? Was that why he had no pictures of him in his home? She recalled what Douglas had said, that the senior Bradburn had been “real rough” on his wife and sons. Leah couldn’t help but wonder how rough.
    He twisted a little so he could see her left cheek. His warm breath fanned her face. With infinite tenderness he brushed his fingertips over the bruise and followed with his lips
—
a natural gesture, spontaneous and devoid of cunning. He repeated the kiss, his mouth firmer this time.
    In her half-aware state of languid contentment, she allowed him to turn her face, to brush his lips over hers. No alarms went off at that sweet contact. She only knew, from somewhere deep in her soul, that this was where she was meant to be, right here, right now. It wasn’t possible that something that felt this right could be tainted.
    He shifted, fitting her more closely into his embrace. His mouth became firmer, more demanding, and she felt the tip of his tongue on her closed lips. “Leah...open for me...” he murmured.
    She obeyed, parting her lips slightly under the pressure of his, drawing in an unsteady breath as the tip of his tongue slid between her lips. A trembling thrill coursed through her as he tasted her, opened her mouth to his. His tongue entered and retreated, each time plunging deeper, until she was left weak and pliant.
    Leah had dated men who’d tried to kiss her this way, but their efforts could not compare. Never had she felt anything like this delirious pleasure. Her response was spontaneous, eager. Hungrily she returned his kiss, tasted him in turn, letting him teach her, guide her. He pulled her nearer still. One strong arm circled her back in a possessive grip; the fingers of his other hand splayed in her hair.
    A warning voice intruded from somewhere deep inside.
    Don’t.
    With an effort she wrenched her mouth from his. “James...” It was a breathless whisper.
    He pressed kisses to her temple, her cheekbone, her throat. Abruptly he yanked at the neckline of her oversize sweater, pulling it down to expose her shoulder. She heard herself moan as his lips traced the line of her collarbone.
    Don’t. This is wrong.
    No,
she thought, clutching him, arching into him.
No, this can’t be wrong.
    His thumb stroked the side of her breast through the downy cashmere sweater. The caress sent an electric current of desire shooting deep and low within her, to the darkest secret recesses of her body. She whimpered with need as his fingers closed around her breast, molding its softness, testing its contours, circling the aching peak.
    Wrong, Leah...this is wrong...
    “Leah...” He tilted her head back. His teeth lightly grazed her jaw, followed the curve down her throat. All sensation became his lips and teeth and fiery tongue, as if he would consume her.
    “Leah, stay with me tonight.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. His fingertips plucked at the tight bud of her nipple through the sweater, causing her breath to catch.
    She trembled.
Wrong...
    “James...”
    “Stay with me, Leah. Let me love you tonight.”
    This can never be. Never.
    Suddenly his hand was under her loose sweater, gliding upward over her rib cage to capture her breast. She gasped at the intensity of sensation, bowing into his heated touch.
    He started to lift her sweater, and it took more strength than she knew she possessed to make herself pull away from him. “Oh, James...I can’t,” she whispered.
    “Don’t say you can’t, Leah.” He seized her hands. “There’s no one here but us. It’s just us.”
    She wanted to say,
You’re wrong, James. It’s not just us. It’s you and me and James Senior and a young girl named Annie. And there can never be an us. It’s unthinkable by anyone’s standards.
    But all she could utter was, “No.”
    “There’s someone back home.” He