Boundary Lines Page 4

  What was she doing to him? Aaron tried to pull himself back and found his hands were trapped in the thick softness of her hair. He tried to think and found his senses swimming with the scent of her. And the taste . . . A low sound started in his throat as he ravaged her mouth. How could he have known she’d taste like this? Seductive, pungent, alluring. Her flavor held all the lushness her body lacked, and the combination was devastating. He wondered how he’d ever lived without it. With that thought came the knowledge that he was getting in much too deep much too fast.

  Aaron drew away carefully because the hands on her shoulders weren’t as steady as he’d have liked.

  Jillian started to sway and caught herself. Good God, what was she doing? What had she done? As the breath rushed swiftly and unevenly through her lips, she stared up at him. Those dark, wicked looks and clever mouth . . . She’d forgotten. She’d forgotten who she was, and who he was. Forgotten everything but that heady feeling of freedom and heat. He’d use that against her, she thought grimly. If she let him. But something had happened when—

  Don’t think now! she ordered herself. Just get him out of here before you make a complete fool of yourself. Very carefully, Jillian brushed Aaron’s hands from her shoulders. Tilting her chin, she prayed her voice would be steady.

  “Well, Murdock, you’ve had your fun. Now clear out.”

  Fun? he thought, staring at her. Whatever had happened it didn’t have anything to do with fun. The room was tilting a bit, like it had when he’d downed his first six-pack of beer a hundred years before. That hadn’t been much fun either, but it’d been a hell of an experience. And he’d paid for it the next day. He supposed he’d pay for this one as well.

  He wouldn’t apologize, he told himself as he forced himself to relax. Damned if he would, but he would back off while he still could. Casually he bent down to pick up the hat that had fallen off when her fingers had combed through his hair. He took his time putting it on.

  “You’re right, Jillian,” he said mildly—when he could. “A man would have a hard time resisting a woman like you.” He grinned at her and tipped his hat. “But I’ll do my best.”

  “See that you do, Murdock!” she called out after him, then hugged herself because she’d begun to tremble.

  Even after his footsteps died away, she waited five full minutes before leaving the barn. When Jillian stepped outside, the ranch yard was dark and quiet. She thought she could just hear the murmur of a television or radio from the bunkhouse. There were a few lights farther down the road where her grandfather had built quarters for the married hands. She stopped and listened, but couldn’t hear the engine of whatever vehicle Aaron had used to drive from his ranch to hers.

  Long gone, she thought, and turned on her heel to stride to the house. It was a two-story stone-and-wood structure. All native Montana material. The rambling building had been constructed on the site of the original homestead. Her grandfather had been fond of bragging that he’d been born in a house that would have fit into the kitchen of this one. Jillian entered by the front door, which was still never locked.

  She’d always loved the space, and the clever use of wood and tile and stone that made up the living area. You could roast one of Utopia’s steers in the fireplace. Her grandmother’s ivory lace curtains still hung at the windows. Jillian often wished she’d known her. All she knew was that she’d been an Irishwoman with dainty looks and a strong back. Jillian had inherited her coloring and, from her grandfather’s accounting, her temper. And perhaps, Jillian thought wryly as she climbed the stairs, her back.

  God, she wished she had a woman to talk to. Halfway up the stairs she paused and pressed her fingers to her temple. Where did that come from? she wondered. As far back as she could remember, she’d never sought out the company of women. So few of them were interested in the same things she was. And, when there was no niggling sexual problem to overcome, she found men easier to deal with.

  But now, with the house so empty around her, with her blood still churning, she wished for a woman who might understand the war going on inside her. Her mother? With a quiet laugh, Jillian pushed open the door to her bedroom. If she called her mother and said she was burning up with desire and had no place to put it, the gentle doctor’s wife would blush crimson and stammer out a recommendation for a good book on the subject.

  No, as fond as she was of her mother, she wasn’t a woman who would understand—well, cravings, Jillian admitted, stripping out of her work shirt. If she was going to be honest, that’s what she’d felt in Aaron’s arms. Perhaps it was all she was capable of feeling. Frowning, she dropped her jeans into a heap on top of her work shirt and walked naked to the bath.

  She should probably be grateful she’d felt that. With a jerk of the wrist, she turned the hot water on full, then added a trickle of cold. She’d felt nothing at all for any man in years. Five years, Jillian admitted and dumped in bath salts with a lavish hand. With an expert twist and a couple of pins, she secured her hair to the top of her head.

  It was a good thing she remembered Kevin and that very brief, very unhappy affair. Did one night in bed equal an affair? she wondered ruefully, then lowered herself into the steaming water. Whatever you called it, it had been a fiasco. That’s what she had to remember. She’d been so young. Jillian could almost—almost—think of it with amusement now.

  The young, dewy-eyed virgin, the smooth, charming intern with eyes as clear as a lake. He hadn’t talked her into bed, hadn’t pressured her. No, Jillian had to admit that she’d wanted to go with him. And he’d been gentle and sweet with her. It had simply been that the words I love you had meant two different things to each of them. To Jillian, they’d been a pledge. To him, they’d been a phrase.

  She’d learned the hard way that making love didn’t equal love or commitment or marriage. He’d laughed at her, perhaps not unkindly, when she’d naively talked of their future together. He hadn’t wanted a wife, or even a partner, but a companion willing to share his bed from time to time. His casualness had devastated her.

  She’d been willing to mold herself into whatever he’d wanted—a tidy, socially wise doctor’s wife like her mother; a clever, dedicated housewife; an organized marriage partner who could juggle career and family. It had taken her months before she’d realized that she’d made a fool of herself over him, taking every compliment or sweet word literally, because that’s what she’d wanted to hear. It had taken more time and several thousand miles of distance before she’d been able to admit that he’d done her a favor.

  Not only had he saved her from trying to force her personality into a mold that would never have fit, but he’d given her a solid view of the male species. They weren’t to be trusted on a personal level. Once you gave them your love, the power to hurt you, you were lost, ready to do anything to please them even at the loss of self.

  When she was young, she’d tried to please her father that way and had failed because she was too like her grandfather. The only man she’d ever loved who’d accepted her for what she was had been Clay Baron. And he was gone.

  Jillian lay back, closed her eyes, and let the hot water steam away her fatigue. Aaron Murdock wasn’t looking for a partner and neither was she. What had happened between them in the barn was a mistake that wouldn’t be repeated. He might be looking for a lover, but she wasn’t.

  Jillian Baron was on her own, and that’s the way she liked it.

  Chapter Three

  He wondered if she would come. Aaron drove back from a line camp on a road that had once been fit only for horses or mules. It wasn’t in much better shape now. The Jeep bucked along much like a bad-tempered bronc might, dipping into ruts, bounding over rocks. He rather liked it. Just as he’d enjoyed the early morning visit with five of his men at the line camp. If he could spare the time, he would appreciate a few days at one of the camps in unabashedly male company. Hard, sweaty work during the day, a few beers and a poker game at night. Riding herd far enough from the ranch so that you coul
d forget there was civilization anywhere. Yes, he’d enjoy that, but . . .

  He appreciated the conservative, traditional ways of his father—particularly when they were mixed with his own experimental ideas. The men would still rope and flank cattle in the open pasture, but two tractors dragging a cable would clear off more brush in a day than axmen could in a month. And a plane . . .

  With a wry smile Aaron remembered how he’d fought six years before for the plane his father had considered a foolish luxury. He’d ended up paying for it himself and flying it himself. His father had never admitted that the plane had become indispensable. That didn’t matter to Aaron, as long as it was used. He had no desire to push the cowboy out of existence, just to make him sweat a little less.

  Downshifting for the decline, he let the Jeep bump its way down the hill. The differences with his father that had come to a head five years before had eased, but not vanished. Aaron knew he’d have to fight for every change, every improvement, every deviation. And he’d win. Paul Murdock might be stubborn, but he wasn’t stupid. And he was sick. In six months . . .

  Aaron rammed the Jeep back into fourth. He didn’t like to dwell on the battle his father was losing. A battle Aaron could do nothing about. Helplessness was something Aaron wasn’t accustomed to. He was too much like his father. Perhaps that’s why they spent most of their time arguing.

  He pushed his father and mortality out of his mind and thought of Jillian. There was life, and youth, and vitality.

  Would she come? Grinning, Aaron sped past a pasture covered with mesquite grass. Damn right she would. She’d come if for no other reason than to prove to him that she couldn’t be intimidated. She’d throw her chin up and give him one of those cool go-to-hell looks. No wonder he wanted her so badly it caused an ache in the pit of his belly. The ache had burned like fire when he’d kissed her.

  There hadn’t been a female who’d made him come so close to stammering since Emma Lou Swanson had initiated him into life’s pleasures in the hayloft. It was one thing for a teenager to lose the power of speech and reason with soft arms around him, and quite another for it to happen to a grown man who’d made a study of the delights and frustrations of women. Aaron couldn’t quite account for it, but he knew he was going to have to have more. Soon.

  She was a typical Baron, he decided. Hotheaded, stubborn, opinionated. Aaron grinned again. He figured the main reason the Barons and Murdocks had never gotten on was that they’d been too much alike. She wasn’t going to have an easy time taking over the ranch, but he didn’t doubt she’d do it. He didn’t doubt he was going to enjoy watching her. Almost as much as he was going to enjoy bedding her.

  Whistling between his teeth, Aaron braked in front of the ranch house. Over near the cattle barn a dog was barking halfheartedly. Someone was playing a radio by the feed lot—a slow, twangy country lament. There were asters popping up in the flower bed and not a weed in sight. As he climbed out of the Jeep he heard the porch door open and glanced over. His mother walked out, lips curved, eyes weary.

  She was so beautiful—he’d never gotten used to it. Very small, very slender, Karen Murdock walked with the gliding step of a runway model. She was twenty-two years younger than her husband, and neither the cold winters nor the bright sun of Montana had dimmed the luster of her skin. His sister had those looks, Aaron mused, the classic blond beauty that went on and on with the years. Karen wore slimming slacks, a rose-colored blouse, with her hair loosely coiled at the neck. She could’ve walked into the Beverly Wilshire without changing a stitch. If the need had arisen, she could’ve saddled up a horse and ridden out to string wire.

  “Everything all right?” she asked him, holding out a hand.

  “Fine. They’ve rounded up the strays we were losing through the south fence.” Studying her face, Aaron took her hand. “You look tired.”

  “No.” She squeezed his fingers as much for support as reassurance. “Your father didn’t sleep well last night. You didn’t come by to see him.”

  “That wouldn’t’ve made him sleep any better.”

  “Arguing with you is about all the entertainment he has these days.”

  Aaron grinned because she wanted him to. “I’ll come in later and tell him about the five hundred acres of mesquite I want to clear.”

  Karen laughed and put her hands on her son’s shoulders. With her standing on the porch and him on the ground, their eyes were level. “You’re good for him, Aaron. No, don’t raise your brow at me,” she told him mildly.

  “When I saw him yesterday morning, he told me to go to the devil.”

  “Exactly.” Her fingers kneaded absently at his shoulders. “I tend to pamper him, even though I shouldn’t. He needs you around to make him angry enough to live a bit longer. He knows you’re right—that you’ve been right all along. He’s proud of you.”

  “You don’t have to explain him to me.” The steel had crept into his voice before he could prevent it. “I know him well enough.”

  “Almost well enough,” Karen murmured, laying her cheek against Aaron’s.

  When Jillian drove into the ranch yard, she saw Aaron with his arms around a slim, elegant blonde. The surge of jealousy stunned, then infuriated her. He was a man after all, she reminded herself, gripping the steering wheel tightly for a moment. It was so easy for a man to enjoy quick passion in a horse stall one evening, then a sweet embrace in the sunshine the next day. True emotion never entered into it. Why should it? she thought, setting her teeth. She braked sharply beside Aaron’s Jeep.

  He turned, and while she had the disadvantage of the sun in her eyes, she met his amused look with ice. Not for a moment would she give him the satisfaction of knowing she’d spent a restless, dream-disturbed night. Jillian stepped out of her aging compact and managed not to slam the door.

  “Murdock,” she said curtly.

  “Good morning, Jillian.” He gave her a bland smile with something sharper hovering in his eyes.

  She walked to him, since he didn’t seem inclined to drop the blonde’s hand and come to her. “I’ve come to see your stud.”

  “We talked about manners last night, didn’t we?” His grin only widened when she glared at him. “I don’t think you two have met.”

  “No, indeed.” Karen came down the porch steps, amused by the gleam in her son’s eye, and the fire in the woman’s. “You must be Jillian Baron. I’m Karen Murdock, Aaron’s mother.”

  As her mouth fell open Jillian turned to look at Mrs. Murdock. Soft, elegant, beautiful. “Mother?” she repeated before she could stop herself.

  Karen laughed, and rested a hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “I think I’ve just been given a wonderful compliment.”

  He grinned down at her. “Or I have.”

  Laughing again, she turned back to Jillian. Karen filed away her quick assessment. “I’ll leave you two to go about your business. Please, stop in for coffee before you go if you’ve time, Jillian. I have so little opportunity these days to talk with another woman.”

  “Yes, ah—thank you.” With her brows drawn together, Jillian watched her go back through the porch door.

  “I don’t think you’re often at a loss for words,” Aaron commented.

  “No.” With a little shake of her head she looked up at him. “Your mother’s beautiful.”

  “Surprised?”

  “No. That is, I’d heard she was lovely, but . . .” Jillian shrugged and wished he’d stop looking down at her with that infernal smile on his face. “You don’t look a thing like her.”

  Aaron swung his arm around her shoulders as they turned away from the house. “You’re trying to charm me again, Jillian.”

  She had to bite down on her lip to keep the chuckle back. “I’ve better uses for my time.” Though the weight felt good, she plucked his arm away.

  “You smell of jasmine,” he said lazily. “Did you wear it for me?”

  Rather than dignify the question with an answer, Jillian stopped, tilted her chin, and gave him one
long icy look that only wavered when he began to laugh. With a careless flick he knocked the hat from her head, pulled her against him, and gave her a hard, thorough kiss. She felt her legs dissolve from the knees down.

  Though he released her before she’d even thought to demand it, Jillian gathered her wits quickly enough. “What the hell do you think—”

  “Sorry.” His eyes were laughing, but he held his hands up, palms out in a gesture of peace. “Lost my head. Something comes over me when you look at me as though you’d like to cut me into small pieces. Very small pieces,” he added as he took the hat from where it hung at her back and placed it back on her head.

  “Next time I won’t just look,” she said precisely, wheeling away toward the corral.

  Aaron fell into step beside her. “How’s the calf?”

  “He’s doing well. Vet’s coming by to check him over this afternoon, but he took the bottle again this morning.”

  “Was he sired by that new bull of yours?” When Jillian sent him a sharp look, Aaron smiled blandly. “Word gets around. As it happens, you snatched him up from under my nose. I was making arrangements to go to England to check him out for myself when I heard you’d bought him.”

  “Really?” It was news—and news she couldn’t help but be pleased to hear.

  “Thought that might make your day,” Aaron said mildly.

  “Nasty of me,” Jillian admitted as they came to the corral fence. Resting a foot on the lower rail, she smiled at him. “I’m not a nice person, Murdock.”

  He gave her an odd look and nodded. “Then we’ll deal well enough together. What’s the nickname your hands have dubbed that bull?”

  Her smile warmed so that the dimple flickered. He was going to have to find out what it felt like to put his lips just there. “The Terror’s the cleanest in polite company.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t think that was the one I heard. How many calves so far?”