Barbara Dunlop - A Cowboy in Manhattan

Her eyes were wide, ice-blue with fear. “What if they’re angry?”

“They’re thirsty,” he assured her.

The herd appeared on the rise, their hooves thundering, the ground shaking. Katrina squealed and threw herself against his chest.

“See? They’re turning,” he told her.

Exactly as he’d expected, they curved around the knoll, taking the downhill route toward the lake. The dozen sleek brown, black and white bodies moved off into the distance. The sound diminished, and the ground vibrations disappeared.

Reed noticed Katrina was shaking.

“Hey.” He smoothed back her hair. “Big-city princess, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

“Then I’m embarrassed.”

“Okay, that’s a valid emotion.”

She socked him in the bicep with the flat of her fist. “I’m not used to horses.”

“No kidding.”

Now that she’d calmed down, he allowed himself to focus on the feel of her in his arms. She was softly curved, perfectly proportioned. The top of her head only came to his chin, but she was looking up, and if he dipped his head, tipped it on an angle, his lips would be on hers.

His hand convulsed against the small of her back. Her hips pressed against the V of his thighs. Her hands were warm where they rested against his back. And a surge of desire crested in his veins.

His gaze met hers, opaque and darkened to midnight-blue. The world stilled and paused for breath around them, the birds going silent, the wind going still; even the sound of the brook was muffled in the thickening air. His free hand rose to cup her cheek, sliding into her hairline as he dipped his head. Her sweet breath mingled with his.

“Tell me no,” he rasped. Nothing short of her genuine protest would stop him this time.

But she stayed silent, stayed pressed against him, her lips slightly parted.

He cursed under his breath and crossed those final inches that brought his lips flush against hers. The burst of passion was instantaneous, igniting every fiber of his body to a roaring need. Her lips were full, tender and hot, and they tasted like summer nectar.

He urged them apart, delving deep with his tongue, his fingers tangling in her hair, his other arm wrapping fully around her waist, pressing her tight against his intense desire.

His kiss was too hard. His hold was too tight. He lifted her easily off the ground, even as a small speck of sanity that was struggling deep inside his brain ordered him to slow it down, to let her go, to back off.

But she moaned against his mouth, the vibration setting off another chain reaction of passion. Her hands fisted into his sweat-dampened shirt, while the softness of her breasts burned an imprint into his chest.

A horse whinnied in the distance, and the sound of the brook flowed into his ears. Birds came back to life, while the breeze picked up, cooling his overheated skin.

With steely determination, he forced himself to break the kiss. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, still drinking in the feel of her soft curves.

“I’m not,” she gasped.

His body convulsed. “Don’t say that.”

“Okay.” A pause. “I won’t.”

He sucked in a couple of deep, deep breaths, forcing his hand to fall away from her cheek. Then he regretfully touched his forehead to hers. “I was out of line.”

“Why are you blaming yourself?” Her breathing was as deep as his. “There are two of us here.”

“I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

She drew slowly back. Wisps of blond hair had worked free from her ponytail. Her lips were swollen red, cheeks flushed, eyes bedroom-soft with a sensual message. “In some circumstances, being a gentlemen is overrated.”

Reed groaned his frustration. “You’re killing me, Katrina.”

“Not exactly what I was going for.”

“You want me to kiss you again?” he demanded, knowing he couldn’t take much more of her flirtatious teasing.

“You want to kiss me again, cowboy?”

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”

They stared at each other in charged silence.

“But I won’t,” he determined, gritting his teeth.

He wouldn’t, because if he kissed her again, he knew he wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t matter that the bedroom of his future house was nothing but a few stakes in the ground-he’d make passionate love to her, right here in the thick grass of the meadow. And then he’d have to build a different house, in a different location, because she’d be all he ever remembered here.

Katrina wasn’t completely without experience when it came to men.

Okay, so she was mostly without experience when it came to men. But it wasn’t her fault. She’d gone to an all-girls school until she was eighteen, graduating straight into the Liberty Ballet company. Until graduation, she’d been surrounded by girls and the few male dancers who’d participated in performances. The male dancers were nice guys, many of them fun and funny, but none of them interested her romantically.

She’d dated a little in the past year, mostly men she’d met at fundraisers or parties connected to the dance company, but nothing had ever turned into a relationship.

And then there was Quentin. But she sure wasn’t counting that. Reed’s kiss, on the other hand, she would definitely count. Quentin was a member of Liberty Ballet’s board of directors. Close to twenty years older than Katrina, he’d been dogging her since she’d become a principal dancer. Frustrated by her lack of uptake on his intense flirting, he’d finally cornered her in his office two weeks ago, forced a slobbery kiss on her mouth and baldly propositioned her. When she’d broken away, firmly telling him she wasn’t interested, he’d grown angry and threatened to destroy her career.

She didn’t know how or if he’d be able to make good on that threat. But he certainly knew the movers and shakers of the ballet world.

She ran a brush through her wet hair, gazing into the dresser mirror in the Terrells’ guest room. Odd, the differences between Quentin and Reed. Quentin was urbane, educated, fastidious and debonair. Reed was raw, passionate, assertive and unruly. But there was no contest over who she’d trust.

Her fingertips went reflexively to her lips. She could swear they were still tingling from Reed’s kiss this afternoon. He’d been the one to call a halt. He’d broken away and given them both a moment of sanity. If he hadn’t done that, she was sure she would have lost her virginity to a rugged cowboy right there in the middle of a Lyndon Valley meadow.

She shook her head, even as her smile and the warm glow remained. Like any woman, she’d fantasized about her first time making love. It had always involved a posh hotel suite, and a man who’d laid his bow tie and tux over a French provincial armchair before joining her in a lacy, canopied bed. Lyndon Valley, blue jeans, an imperfect nose and a beard-rough chin weren’t even on her radar.

“Katrina?” Mandy rapped lightly on the door.

“Come in,” Katrina called, determinedly banishing thoughts of Reed and tightening the sash of her satin robe.

The door opened. Like Katrina, Mandy had showered recently. Her damp chestnut hair was combed back in a ponytail, and she’d pulled on a hunter-green T-shirt over a pair of beige cargo pants.

“How’re you doing?” Mandy opened, letting the door swing closed behind her, getting comfortable on the corner of the bed and curling her bare feet beneath her. “Ankle holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Katrina answered. “It’s doing okay.”

She really was fine, she realized. Quentin was far away and suddenly easy to push from her thoughts. He’d been obliterated by Reed. She felt buoyant and upbeat from all that fresh air. Her ankle had survived the walk with surprising strength. It felt a whole lot better than it had yesterday.