Something Borrowed (Jordan-Alexander Family 3)

But Maddy had other ideas. "No!" She grabbed hold of Judah's nightshirt and tried to pull it out of Mary's grasp. "Zhudah, nightshirt!"

"No, Madeline," Mary said firmly. "It's too early in the day for Judah to be wearing his nightshirt." She tried to reason with an unreasonable two-and-a-half-year-old.

"No!" Madeline argued, still tugging on the garment.

It appeared Maddy was one of those children who demanded explanations

for every decision contrary to her own. "Lee… Papa… is sleeping now, too, and I'll bet he isn't wearing a nightshirt."

Maddy looked up at Mary and Mary could almost visualize the little wheels turning in Maddy's brain.

"Go see," Maddy said, as she suddenly let go of her end of Judah's nightshirt, grabbed her doll, and ran out of the room.

Realizing what Maddy intended, Mary tried to stop her. "Maddy, wait!"

But Maddy was already opening and closing doors down the hall.

Mary hurried after her. "Maddy!" Mary didn't know if Lee slept in a nightshirt or not, but she was willing to bet money that, as tired as he had been, Lee was sprawled, fully clothed, on top of the covers, across the nearest bed.

She came to an abrupt halt in the doorway of what had to be the master bedroom suite. It was a good thing she hadn't bet money because she would have lost it. Lee had been exhausted when he stumbled upstairs to sleep, but he had taken the time to see to his comfort. He wasn't sprawled atop the covers, but laying face-down between the sheets of an enormous polished brass bed. The bedspread and quilts had been pushed to the foot of the bed and bunched against the footboard. Lee had his right arm curled around a feather pillow and a white sheet draped over his hips.

* * *

Chapter Twelve

She was right about the nightshirt.

He wasn't wearing one, or anything else. His broad back, baked a golden color by the sun, was bare. And Mary wanted to reach out and touch him—to place her palm against his shoulder to see if his skin was as smooth and as warm as it looked.

She glanced around the room. Lee's shirt and pants hung over the brass footboard and his gunbelt was looped over the brass bedpost, while his hat crowned the top of it. His tall black leather boots lay in a heap on the floor beside the footboard as if he had sat on the side of the bed to tug them off, then tossed his boots aside.

Lee lay in the center of the bed. The thin cotton sheet draped across his lean hips and over his firm buttocks was the only thing covering him and the white fabric drew her gaze the way a magnet drew iron filings. Lying there, he seemed younger than his thirty-three years. His hair was tousled in sleep, his jaw shimmering with a two-day growth of beard, and his thick eyelashes fanned against his face. But there was nothing boyish about him. The tiny wrinkles marking the corners of his eyes, the powerful muscles of his shoulders and back, and the puckers and ridges of long-healed scars proclaimed him fully grown. Lee Kincaid was a gloriously healthy man in the prime of his life, and although it seemed to Mary that sleep should have given him a harmless appearance, the opposite was true. He looked dangerous instead. More dangerous and irresistible than she'd ever imagined.

Mary bit her bottom lip and clenched her fists to keep from giving in to her almost overwhelming desires. Heat rushed to her face. Her lips ached to be kissed and her body begged to be touched. Mary wanted to throw off her clothes and climb into bed beside Lee—to watch him open his eyes, to see those gray eyes darken with desire to an even deeper shade. She wanted to feel him run his hands over her. All at once, she understood how Faith and Tessa felt when they looked at their husbands. Now she recognized the urgency—the desire—the need to be with a man. And not just any man, but her husband, the man she desired. The man she loved.

Loved? Mary shook her head, trying to push the unbidden, unwanted thought aside. Not love. She couldn't be in love with Lee Kincaid. She was an intelligent, practical, levelheaded schoolteacher. And he was a carefree rogue. She couldn't be foolish enough to fall in love with him. It was desire, she told herself. Desire, pure and simple. Lust, healthy animal lust. That's what she felt for Lee Kincaid. But if that were true, she asked herself, why hadn't she desired other men, handsomer men, nicer, more suitable men? Why hadn't she wanted Pelham Cosgrove? Mary actually began to quake. When had she taken the tumble? When had she fallen in love with her husband?

"Come on,'" she whispered urgently to Maddy, intercepting the little girl as Maddy approached the bed. "Let's go before we wake Papa."

"No!"

"Maddy, you can see Papa's not wearing a nightshirt. Now, come along." Mary looked down at the watch pinned to her blouse. "It's time for your nap."

"Nap with Poppy." Maddy decided. She tossed her doll onto the bed beside Lee and pulled against Mary's restraining hand.

"No," Mary whispered. "Papa's not dressed for company," she explained. "He needs to be alone. And little girls like you…"

"Big girl," Maddy corrected. "Mine big girl."

Mary smiled. "All right," she said, careful to keep her voice low. "You're a big girl. And big girls like you sleep in their own beds. They don't sleep in the bed with their mamas and their papas. Right?" Mary waited for Maddy to agree or disagree with her explanation.

Maddy was quiet.

"Okay," Mary said, finally, when it appeared Maddy wasn't going to answer one way or another. "Show me your room."

"Mama," Maddy said reaching toward the bed, puckering up to cry.

"Ssh, angel, I'll get your doll," Mary promised. Although a part of her wanted Lee to wake up, open his eyes, and invite her to join him in the big cozy brass bed, Mary didn't want Lee to wake up to the sound of Madeline's crying. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Mary tiptoed to the bed and bent to retrieve Maddy's doll.