Wildstar

His glib, suggestive remark made color rise to her cheeks, and when she gave him a sharp glance, she found a bold and blatant mischievousness gleaming in his eyes.

"I am not at all sleepy," Jess said, trying to sound un­concerned but only managing to sound stiff and formal. It was, she knew, the result of her training at Miss Grater's Academy in Denver, where she'd had all the social graces and refined manners of a lady drummed into her head. Her speech often became more polished when she felt vulnerable—like she was feeling just now.

Trying to ignore the handsome devil who was making her feel that way, Jess turned away. For the next half hour, she wandered around the small hut, straightening the shelves that were already neat as a pin, closing the ledger that Riley must have been working on that morning when he was shot, generally pacing the floor with a restlessness that only seemed to grow stronger the longer she kept at it. With each pass, she sidestepped the large stain that viv­idly reminded her of how close she'd come to losing her father. She knew she ought to try to clean that dark blotch of dried blood off the wooden planks, yet she couldn't bring herself to touch it; simply looking at it brought back all the horror of that morning.

Devlin watched her every movement, the soft sway of her hips beneath her skirts, the delicious curve of her breasts, the slender, work-reddened hands. . . . Seeing the condition of her hands aroused a tender urge inside him, in addition to the natural male feelings of lust that were flar­ing through his senses at the sight of a beautiful woman expending all that pent-up energy on walking the floor. He could think of a dozen ways for her to channel that energy, most of them in bed. Tenderness for a woman was not a usual emotion for him, but with this woman he felt protec­tive as well as possessive.

His mouth twisted wryly at the thought. He'd never known a woman who needed protection less, or possession more. Miss Jessica Sommers needed a man to show her how to relax, how to enjoy life, how to let her glorious hair down. And he wished he could be that man, the one to set her free.

/> I want you, lady, he thought, surprised at the depth of his hunger. Oh yes, I want you.

Devlin shook his head, trying to remember the last time merely thinking about a woman in his bed had caused such a strong reaction. He wanted Jessica in the most elemental way possible, groin-ache elemental. But she wasn't a woman he could bed and leave alone. She was almost cer­tainly a virgin, one who wouldn't know the first thing about how to protect herself from unwanted pregnancies, one who probably didn't even know much about men. And while life in the West had roughened him around the edges, he was still enough of a gentleman to draw the line at seducing virgins.

"You really should get some sleep," he said finally. "Af­ter the day you've had, you must be on your last legs."

"I told you, I'm not sleepy."

"Well, then, at least sit down. You're making me jumpy."

She gave him a long look, but didn't respond.

"See that chair. Miss Jess? Go sit down there. Now. Be­fore," Devlin threatened amicably, "I have to go to the trouble of carrying you there."

Jessica had the distinct impression he meant what he said. He was giving her one of those charming smiles that could melt rock, but he'd spoken with the cool assurance of a man who inevitably got his way.

"I am a bit tired," she admitted, preferring to give in graciously rather than press the issue. Crossing to the chair, she sank down and folded her hands on the table. "I'm not usually this fidgety."

"You have good reason to be."

"Next time I come up here," she said after another min­ute, "I'm going to scrub that bloodstain out."

"Quit thinking about it."

"I can't."

In answer she heard the scrape of Devlin's chair. Quiz­zically, she watched him rise and lay the rifle on the table. Jess tensed as he moved around behind her, and nearly jumped when she felt his fingers gently squeeze her shoul­ders.

"Hold still. I'm just going to give you a shoulder rub. You're as taut as a bowstring."

"I don't . . . need . . . a . . ."

She ought to complete the protest, Jess knew, but the magical feeling of Devlin's hands made the words die on her lips. The slow, gentle stroking of his fingers was com­pelling and soothing and entirely irresistible. He had no right showing her such kindness, now, when she was at her most vulnerable, but she didn't want him to stop.

She could feel the tension and aches draining away as he massaged the tight, weary muscles of her shoulders and neck, molding his long male fingers in a languid motion that was warm and rhythmic and sensual. She had no de­fenses against such gentleness, such tenderness. Closing her eyes, Jess gave a deep sigh. No one had ever taken care of her like this.

"You should relax more," Devlin said softly after a mo­ment. "Not work so hard."

"I can't," she murmured. "I have too many things that need doing."

He smiled faintly at the conviction in her tone. She'd probably spent a lifetime denying her own needs, a life­time of self-sacrifice, doing for others. He let his stroking hands move lower, along her spine, in an intimate caress. In response, Jessica arched her back, while a soft groan was dredged from deep in her throat.

Devlin felt a sharp, insistent sting of desire at the primal sound. He wanted to have her groaning for him as she wrapped her long legs around his waist, as she bucked wildly beneath him in the throes of passion, as she melted in his arms. His fingers tightened involuntarily at the im­age of this woman melting for him.

Jess, dazed by his sensual touch, did feel like she was melting. The seductive promise in his fingertips, his palms, the heels of his hands, no longer resembled the im­personal, soothing magic of his initial touch. This was skilled and expertly arousing. She shivered with each stroke of his fingers.

Somewhere in a dim corner of her mind a small voice was shouting a warning at her, but she couldn't heed it. Helplessly, she let her head fall back.

Standing above her, Devlin had an intimate view of the lush swell of her breasts bound repressively by the dark fabric of her bodice. His hands ached to reach around and caress her there, yet he knew that territory of her body was off-limits.