Page 52 of Whispers

“This could be trouble,” he said, as he toyed with the zipper of her shorts.

“For you?”

“For you.”

“Oh.” She kissed him with the eager anticipation of a virgin flirting with her first real attempt at lovemaking.

“There’s a point where I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t stop. Ever—”

“Oh, Randa.” He kissed her again, his lips demanding, his fingers touching her abdomen, and then as suddenly as he’d pulled her to him, he pushed her away. “No,” he growled to himself. “No, no no. This is no good.”

“Wh-what? Of course it’s good.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He shook his head and ran stiff, frustrated fingers through his hair. “You and I—we’re worlds apart, Miranda, and there’s nothing, not one damned thing, we can do about it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” he said, squinting fiercely at the horizon.

She’d refused to be put off and had called him boldly, brazenly, becoming one of those girls she detested, the ones who chased after boys. And it had worked. He’d agreed to keep seeing her, but only on the condition that they keep their relationship a secret.

“I don’t want to deal with all the fallout and shit that might come down if your old man finds out,” he’d said when they were alone by the stream. “Let him have a coronary over Taggert and your sister, but keep my name out of it.”

“Why?”

“It’s just too damned complicated, okay? Trust me on this one.”

And she had. No one knew that they were seeing each other, their meetings were secret rendezvous that added to the mystique and romance of it all. As she drove to the cottage on the north side of the property where they’d agreed to meet, she knew that they would probably make love. They’d come close before, but he’d always held back, and she’d begun to trust him with her heart. Tonight, with a spattering of stars flung over the dark heavens, she expected that they might not be able to restrain themselves, and, damn it, she didn’t care.

She turned into the overgrown lane that led to the cottage and heard the sound of dry weeds scrape the underside of her car. Grass as tall as the windows of the Camaro waved in the wind and ancient, untended roses gave off their sweet fragrance as they tangled in long vines along with the berries that grew wild in this part of Oregon.

No one used the cottage any longer. It had been built before the lodge, around the turn of the century, and had been long forgotten. Berry vines climbed over the porch rails, several bricks had fallen from the chimney, but inside it was warm and dry and tonight, though the temperature was hovering near sixty-five, a fire glowed through the windows.

Hunter was waiting.

Miranda’s heart knocked wildly as she hurried up the front steps and pressed on the door.

“You’re late.” His voice surprised her for she hadn’t heard him on the porch. She jumped, startled, then felt his strong arms wrap possessively around her.

“You’re early.”

“Couldn’t wait.”

“No?” She laughed as he swept her up into his arms and kicked open the door. Like a groom carrying his new bride over the threshold, he kissed her as he walked inside. Her head swam as he laid her on an old iron bed covered with quilts and pillows that he’d brought. The fire crackled in the grate, mossy logs being devoured by eager flames, and Miranda looked up at the man she’d come to love.

Never predictable, he could be cruel one minute, kind the next. He’d shown her how to shoot a bow and arrow, how to make a stone skip on the surface of the water, confided that boys at fourteen would rather eat than do anything and at sixteen wanted to screw anything that moved. He didn’t suffer fools and refused to date her openly. “No reason to get tongues wagging,” he’d said. “Believe me, you don’t want to be the topic of conversation.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she’d argued, but he’d hear none of it, and the argument was their one source of friction.

Now, as she lay in his arms, staring up at his strong jaw and eyes dark with passion, she wondered if she’d marry him someday. For the first time she saw beyond their stations in life—the privileged daughter of a millionaire and the poor stepson of the caretaker. What did it matter?

He kissed her and her blood raced. The old mattress sagged. Miranda wrapped her arms around his neck as he began to stroke her, touch her, cause her skin to come to life. Never had she felt so alive, so wanted.

Desire uncoiled deep inside her, stretching and yawning, clawing her gently in the deepest, most feminine part of her body.

“Hunter,” Miranda whispered, her voice a rasp, her blood hot and wild. He was kissing her, lowering her bra strap, touching his wet tongue to skin that had never seen the light of day. The stubble of his beard was rough, his breath hot, his flesh, like hers, on fire.