MacKenzie's Woman Read online

  “And you do?” She decided that since he didn’t seem in any hurry to release her hand, she may as well stop tugging on it. There was, after all, no point in antagonizing the man who seemed to possess the only spare bed in the village.

  When another soft breath soothed the injury like a gentle summer zephyr across her flesh, K.J. wondered when she’d become such a liar. The only reason she wasn’t fighting Alec holding her hand was because it felt so good. So right.

  “I may not know the jungle vegetation as well as Rafael. But I do know enough to get by.”

  Her hands were just as he’d remembered them. Slender, competent and unadorned with either colored lacquer or jewelry. He thought about the slender gold ring he still carried with him, remembered finding it atop the note on his pillow, and although that memory continued to irk, the vivid recollection of exactly how these soft hands had felt on his heated flesh steamrolled over the less appealing ones.

  As they’d left the cantina, Alec had promised himself that he wouldn’t touch her until she’d gotten some rest. That he wouldn’t taste her until tomorrow, after the opening ceremony that was part actual tribal ritual, part choreography.

  But as he touched his thumb to the silky skin at the inside of her wrist, watched the awareness rise in Kate’s eyes and felt her pulse jump, Alec realized that some resolutions were doomed from the start.

  7

  K.J. STARED UP INTO the gray eyes that had turned stormy with masculine intent, and tried to tell herself that she would have backed away if she hadn’t already learned it was dangerous not to look where you were going in this verdant land.

  “Alec . . .” The protest hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite make herself say it.

  “I like it when you say my name.” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing each fingertip in turn, causing her pulse to skip a beat, then begin hammering in her veins. “It reminds me of all the ways you said it that night.” He turned her wrist and treated it to a kiss that caused the breath to clog in her lungs.

  Assuring herself that the unrelenting humidity was the only thing affecting her breathing, K.J. tried again. “Alec—”

  “Soft, like that,” he said approvingly, forestalling her attempted protest. “In the beginning, it was like a promise.” His free hand slipped into the waistband of her slacks, drawing her closer. “A prayer.”

  “Dammit, Alec—” She managed to get a bit more heat into her tone this time.

  “That’s exactly what you said when you complained that I was taking things too slow.”

  His long, wickedly clever fingers had inched between the sodden linen trousers and the hot, damp skin of her stomach. For his own pleasure—and ultimately hers, Alec assured himself—he inched his hand even lower.

  “But I wanted our wedding night to be something we’d both remember for the rest of our lives.” His caressing touch easily breached her panties, which were, like their owner, an intriguing contrast—practical cotton woven into a sexy, low-cut, barely there bikini.

  He skimmed a hot path though those silken curls he remembered being the color of flame. She was trembling now, and rather than pushing him away, her free hand, the one that wasn’t still captured in his, was clutching at his shoulder.

  “If I’d known it was going to be nearly twelve long months before we’d have an encore, I would have just tied you to the bed with those sexy stockings you were wearing.”

  He could still remember the first time he’d taken her, wearing only those lace-topped stockings and her gleaming new wedding ring.

  Realizing that she’d lost the opportunity to back away, and afraid that she was no longer capable of standing on her own, K.J. had no choice but to cling to Alec’s broad shoulder.

  “Stockings are more economical than panty hose,” she managed to answer with a moan as she felt a roughened fingertip part the unbearably sensitive folds at the juncture of her thighs. “If one leg runs...”

  Afraid she’d fall to the jungle floor, which undoubtedly wasn’t quite the lush green carpet it appeared to be, K.J. pulled her other hand loose from his and held on to him for dear life. “You don’t lose both...oh!” She gasped as that treacherous finger slipped inside her tight channel.

  She could protest the reality of their marriage all she wanted, but her body damn well couldn’t lie, Alec thought with satisfaction as it clutched at his finger like a greedy fist. She was hot and wet and ready.

  “You were wet that night, too,” he said, as a second finger slipped past those slick lower lips. “Just like now.”

  “It’s the heat,” she lied. “I’m wet all over.”

  “And hot.”

  He touched his mouth to the soft hollow in her throat, where her pulse fluttered as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. When he skimmed the tip of his tongue along her throat, gathering up the beaded moisture, a soft sound that was part sigh, part whimper escaped her lips. Lips he still hadn’t tasted, Alec reminded himself.

  “You can’t deny that some of this heat is for me, Kate.”

  She wished he’d stop calling her that name that brought back so many sensual memories. Wished he’d stop touching her. Hoped he’d never stop.

  “No.” Her hips were moving instinctively against his intimate touch. “Of course I can’t.” Her breath had turned weak and shallow. “But . . . oh, God,” she moaned, abandoning another intended protest as those wicked fingers delved deeper.

  “We’re good together, Kate.” He gave up nibbling at her earlobe and seductively rubbed his mouth against hers. “We were that night.” His lips plucked at hers. “And we’re still good.”

  She murmured something that might have been a denial, were it not for the way one of her legs was now wrapping around his.

  On the verge of exploding, and knowing that to press her back against a tree or drag her down onto the ground that was teeming with all sorts of unsavory insect life would be the height of irresponsibility, Alec reluctantly decided that he had no choice but to end this now. Before it was too late.

  “Better than good,” he said, as he stroked the roughened pad of his thumb against the full, hard nub hidden in the folds of her sex. “Let go, sweetheart. Like you did that night.”

  K.J. couldn’t help it. When she felt herself shattering, her breathless cry echoed through the jungle, scattering colorful birds from their branches overhead and earning chattering scolds from hidden monkeys. When she would have sunk to her knees, Alec pulled her tight against him, holding her up until the tremors finally ceased.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” she gasped, when she could speak again.

  “I can.” He smiled down at her, with his lips and his eyes. “You were always as hot as a firecracker on the Fourth of July, Mrs. Mackenzie.” He reluctantly retrieved his hand and zipped up the slacks he’d unfastened to give him more maneuvering room. “And since you claim to have been celibate these past months, you were definitely ready for liftoff.”

  “You have such a way with words,” she muttered. She finally managed to back away. Not very far, but enough to break the hot and, heaven help her, all too enticing contact.

  Beneath the worn jeans, he was obviously aroused. When she found herself wanting to drop to her knees and press her lips against that hard male bulge, K.J. fought even harder for control. This was, after all, a war of wills. A war she was determined to win.

  “There are times I find it hard to believe you’re actually a writer.” She was proud when her voice had regained a bit of its usual strength.

  “I explained that the first night. I’m a treasure hunter first. A writer second.”

  K.J. decided that this definitely wasn’t the time to admit that somehow, while she’d been indulging in sexy daydreams about going upstairs to bed with this man, she’d missed that salient declaration.

  “You’re also the kind of man who’d be described in a historical romance as a rogue. Or a rake.” Exactly the kind of man Helen Campbell would have barred the door against i
f he’d dared come calling for her granddaughter.

  “I suppose that’s true enough.” He snagged her waistband again and dragged her to him for another hard, hot kiss that left her reeling. “But I don’t recall you complaining.”

  Because he was holding her so closely, K.J. had to tilt her head back to meet his challenging gaze. “Perhaps that’s because you’ve never given me the opportunity.”

  “Tell me that you really wanted me to stop and I’ll apologize for what we just did and promise never to touch you again. Unless you ask.”

  “I’m not certain that’s a good idea,” she admitted reluctantly. “Since I seem to lose my head whenever you get within kissing distance.” But not her heart, K.J. vowed. This time she was going to keep firm control over that vital organ.

  He chuckled and skimmed a finger along the seam of her now-frowning lips. “Believe me, sweetheart, I know the feeling. All too well.” He lowered his head and kissed her again, the light touch of his mouth against hers no less stimulating than his earlier harsher kiss.

  “So, to keep us both honest, if you want me to lay a hand on your hot, lissome body, Mrs. Mackenzie, you’ll have to beg.”

  “I’ve never begged for anything in my life.”

  For discretion’s sake, Alec decided not to remind her of the way she’d done exactly that sometime just before dawn all those months ago.

  “Well then...” He skimmed a finger down the slope of her nose. “You shouldn’t have anything to worry about, should you?”

  “No.” She shouldn’t, K.J. told herself, then wished she could actually believe her pitiful attempt at self-assurance. The regretful truth of the matter was that she didn’t seem to have any restraint when it came to making love with this man. “Not at all.”

  That settled, at least for now, they continued on. They’d gone less than ten paces when Alec, who was leading the way, flashed her a quick grin over his shoulder.

  “And by the way,” he said, “when it comes to you, I don’t seem to have a great deal of Highland pride in my veins. Which means that anytime you’re in the mood, Mrs. Mackenzie, I’ll be more than happy to beg.”

  Refusing to respond to that provocative declaration, K.J. wished Alec would stop calling her Mrs. Mackenzie. She also wished that if he was going to walk in front of her this way, he hadn’t chosen to wear that particular pair of jeans.

  When she found herself wanting to pounce on him, K.J. worried that if Alec stuck to his pledge not to touch her again, begging on her part might be inevitable.

  His bamboo hut, with its tin roof, turned out to be much the same as the majority of the ones they’d passed. Except for one thing. Even as exhausted as she was, K.J. couldn’t help smiling at the small round holes that had been dug in the cleared ground.

  “Don’t tell me,” she murmured. “You’ve actually built a golf course.”

  “Not for the tourists. This is just for Rafael and me. We’re not ready to have the Amazon Open,” Alec allowed, returning her smile with a quick, dazzling grin of his own. “And the rough’s a bit more challenging than Saint Andrews, but for what it is, it’s not that bad.”

  “I know all about the Scots’ passion for golf.” Her father had certainly been addicted. “But don’t you think this is carrying things a bit far?”

  “Not really. Some putting practice at the end of the day helps clear my head. And if you want to discuss Scots’ passions, believe me, Kate, golf definitely isn’t at the top of my list.”

  He was looking at her that way again. That warm way that turned his storm gray eyes to pewter and made her unruly heart turn somersaults.

  “You can’t keep talking this way to me,” she complained.

  “Ah, but I’m no’ the one who brought up a Scotsman’s passions,” he reminded her with an exaggerated burr as he opened the bamboo door.

  “I happen to know you were born in Montana.” At least she remembered that much.

  “A Scot’s a Scot wherever he’s born,” Alec argued. “You of all people should know that clan roots have a lot more to do with blood than geography. And believe me, darlin’, any Scotsman worth his salt has a passion for wars, pipes, golf and bonny lassies running deep in his bones.” He winked. “And not necessarily in that order.”

  The small house seemed to be a single room. It had no square corners, which gave it the illusion of space. As did the high, tin ceiling. The room had been divided into various areas. The small, compact kitchen boasted a propane camp stove, a metal pan she assumed was used for washing dishes, a rustic table and two chairs that had been handcrafted from various woods.

  He’d set up an office in another portion of the room. A laptop computer and camera equipment filled the shelves; maps and charts and graphs had been spread over a makeshift desk. Across from that, in what she took to be the bedroom, a large hemp hammock draped in gauzy mosquito netting hung from a ceiling beam. Someone, she assumed Raul, the boatman, had brought her bags to the hut and left them beside the hammock, next to a small bamboo chest.

  Tacked to the wall was a group of strikingly familiar photographs. “I can’t believe this.”

  “I told you that your father’s photographs were particular favorites of mine.”

  “I thought you were lying.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not such a bad pickup line.”

  “I’ve never resorted to pickup lines.” He left unstated the fact that he certainly hadn’t needed one that night. “Besides, I’ve never lied to you, Kate.”

  Her faint smile took the challenge out of the suspicious look she shot him. “How about the headhunters? ”

  “That may have been a bit of an embellishment,” he allowed. “However, in my defense, you never really know what you’re going to run across in the depths of this jungle. And for the record, I’ve never lied about my feelings for you.”

  “I believe you.” She stopped in front of a particular favorite, a dazzling display of bright colors, with elephants draped in gilt tapestries, women swathed in rainbow silk saris, men in sorbet turbans. “I remember when that was taken,” she said with some surprise. “It was at the Pushkar Fair. I was six and we spent two months in India.” She smiled at the memory. “It’s an amazing place. I loved it.”

  “It’s definitely one of the most complex, colorful, dense, spellbinding cultures on the planet,” he agreed.

  She glanced over at him. “You’ve been there?”

  “Yeah. And had a great time. It’s definitely not for control freaks, though. There’s no shallow end of the pool there. You have to take the full body-and-soul plunge.”

  “Dad said you had to get into a ’go with the flow of the Ganges’ mindset.” Her smile widened at the memory, even as her eyes misted.

  “Phantasmagoria.” Alec’s answering smile was warm and friendly, lacking its usual sexual edge. “The Indian suspension of intellectual control.”

  Finding it surprising that they’d have anything in common other than sex, K.J. moved on to the next photograph, where George Campbell had captured a fly fisherman casting a line in an icy winter stream. The starkness of the black, leafless trees and the heavy, wet falling snow actually made her shiver, despite the near-suffocating heat.

  “Well, I can certainly see why you have that one up in here,” she said.

  “It reminds me of Montana.”

  “It was.” It had also been six months before her parents had died, she recalled all too well.

  “And, yeah, it works pretty well as mental air-conditioning, too. Your father had a genius at plunking viewers right down into the scene.”

  “He loved his work,” she murmured.

  “It shows.” Alec paused a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “It shows in your work, as well.”

  The fact that he’d actually bought two of her photographs both surprised and pleased K.J. “You didn’t have these when we met,” she murmured, looking at the shot she’d taken of a father and son flying a color
ful dragon kite on a summer’s day at the shore in Atlantic City. Beside it was the companion photograph, a close-up of the man’s larger, darker hand atop his son’s as they held on to the white cord.

  “No. I went looking for something you’d done afterward. I bought more, but it’s a little difficult to carry them all around with me at the same time. And I was concerned about damage from the humidity once we got into the rainy season.”

  The man was providing one surprise after another. “What other ones did you buy?”

  “The old man’s dog herding the sheep.” She’d taken that on a rainy Saturday in Pennsylvania. “The dynamite head-on shot of the jockeys driving their horses to the finish line.” Three wonderfully productive days at Saratoga.

  “The little girl in the kimono pouring tea for an old woman.” That shot had been taken at Japan House, the headquarters of the Japan Society, near the U.N. The woman—the child’s grandmother—had apparently spent months instructing the little girl in the ancient tea ceremony.

  “With an eye like yours, I’m amazed you’re wasting your talent editing romance books.”

  “Very popular books,” she reminded him stiffly. ”And I don’t consider it a waste of talent. A great many people—including me—receive pleasure from those novels. Instead of reading about ourselves as men see us, romance novels reflect women’s hopes, beliefs and values. I’m proud of my part in their creation.”

  “Okay, I stand corrected. Perhaps it isn’t a waste. And I have no doubt that you’re a terrific editor, but special talent like your father’s and yours is a twoedged sword, Kate. You have a responsibility to share your vision of the world.”

  “I also have a responsibility to myself to eat. When my father was getting started, my mother’s salary at the publishing house allowed him to buy the film and cameras he needed to do his best work. And paid for his travel, in the beginning.”