Best Kept Secrets(82)

propelled him through this travesty of intimacy with a woman.



They rutted, probably more mindlessly and heartlessly than

some species of animals. The release should have been cleansing

and cathartic. It should have felt great. It didn't. It rarely

did anymore, certainly not recently.



"Shit," he muttered. He would probably go on sleeping

with her through their old age. It was convenient and uncomplicated.

Each knew what the other was able to give and

demanded nothing more. As far as Reede was concerned.



passion was based on need, not desire, and sure as hell not

on love.

He got off. So did she. She had often told him he was one

of the few men who could make her come. He wasn't particularly

flattered because that might be, and probably was,

a lie.

Disgusted, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. There

was a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, courtesy of the

house. The carefully rolled joints you had to pay for. He lit

one of the cigarettes, something he rarely did anymore, and

drew the tobacco deep into his lungs. He missed the postcoital

cigarettes more than any others, maybe because the tobacco

punished and polluted the body that continually betrayed him

with a healthy sex drive.

He poured himself a drink from the bottle on the

nightstand--that would be added to his bill, even if he did

f*ck the madam herself--and tossed it down in one swallow.

Rebeling, his esophagus contracted. His eyes teared. The

whiskey spread a slow, languid heat through his belly and

groin. He began to feel marginally better.

He lay back down and stared at the ceiling, wishing he

could sleep, but welcoming this coveted time of relaxation

when he wasn't called on to speak, move, or think.

His eyes closed. An image of a face, bathed in sunlight

and wreathed by loose, dark-auburn hair, was projected on

the backs of his eyelids. His cock, which should have been

limp with exhaustion, swelled and stretched with more pleasure

than it had felt earlier tonight.

Reede didn't whisk the image away, as he usually did.

This time he let it stay, evolve. The fantasy was welcomed

and indulged. He watched her blue eyes blink with surprise

at her own eroticism, watched her tongue nervously flick over

her lower lip.

He felt her against him, her heart beating in time with his,

her hair tangled in his fingers.

He tasted her mouth again, felt her tongue shyly flirting

with his.



He didn't realize that he made a low moan or that his penis

twitched reflexively. A drop of moisture pearled the tip.

Yearning pressed down on him suffocatingly.

"Reede!"

The door to the room was flung open and the madam rushed

back in, no longer looking cool and elegant.

"Reede," she repeated breathlessly.

"What the hell?" He swung his feet to the floor again and

stood up in one economical motion. He didn't think to be

embarrassed by his evident arousal. Something was desperately

wrong.

As long as he'd known her, he'd never seen her rattled,

but now, her eyes were wide with alarm. He was stepping

into his briefs before she even started speaking.

"They just called."

"Who?"

"Your office. There's an emergency."

"Where?" Already standing in jeans and an unbuttoned

shirt, he crammed his feet into his boots.

"The ranch."

He froze and swiveled his head toward her. "The Minton ranch?" She nodded. "What kind of emergency?"

"The deputy didn't say. Swear to God he didn't," she

added hurriedly when she could see that Reede was about to

question that.

"Personal or professional emergency?"

"I don't know, Reede. I got the impression that it's a

combination of both. He just said you're wanted out there

pronto. Is there anything I can do?"

"Call back and tell them I'm on my way." Grabbing his

coat and hat, he pushed her aside and ran into the hallway.

"Thanks."

"Let me know what happened," she called down to him,

leaning over the banister, watching his hasty descent.

"When I can." Seconds later he slammed the door behind

him, leaped over the porch rail, and hit the ground

running.



Alex was in a deep slumber, which was why she didn't

associate the knocking on her door with reality. Subconsciously,

she thought the racket was an extension of her

dream. A voice finally roused her.

"Get up and open the door."

Groggily, she sat up and reached for the switch to the

bedside lamp, which always seemed to elude her. When the

lamp came on, she blinked against the sudden light.

"Alex, dammit! Get op!"

The door was vibrating with each fall of his fist. "Reede?"