Give Me Tonight(78)

Then Caro's voice, softer, cajoling, as she spoke to May. "Mama, you know whatever you say against him will only make her more determined. It might be wiser to say nothing."

"Good old Caro," Addie whispered, grinning to herself. Why had so many of the friends she had once known complained about their older sisters?

She went outside and skipped down the steps like a child, suddenly lighthearted. Her heart seemed to ex­pand with gladness as she saw Ben. The moonlight cast silvery-blue highlights in his dark hair and illu­minated the long stretch of his legs as he sat in the doorway of the little building. One of his feet was propped on a step, the other resting on the ground, while the guitar was saddled on his bent knee.

He smiled as he saw her and continued picking out a melody, his eyes never leaving her slender form. Ad­die hooked her fingers into a handful of material on either side of her skirt and swished it with each step she took, feigning nonchalance.

Their gazes met as she came nearer, exchanging wordless promises.

"Do they know you're out here?" Ben asked, nodding toward the house.

"I told Mama and Caro I was taking a walk."

"That's all? You didn't mention me?"

"They knew I was coming out here to see you." Ben grinned. "Then it's a little coy to say you're just taking a walk, isn't it?"

She pretended to pout, turning to go back where she'd come from, pausing to throw him a glance over her shoulder. "If you don't want my company, just say so."

"I'd never say that, darlin"." He moved over a few' inches and indicated the space next to him with the neck of the guitar. "Have a seat."

"It's too narrow. I wouldn't be able to fit in there." His smile was devilish. "Give it a try."

Addie managed to squeeze next to him and fill the remaining space in the narrow doorway. "Oh, I can't even breathe—"

"I'm not complaining." He leaned over and slanted his mouth over hers. Her tongue met his, warmth against warmth, offering and tasting, until Ben's blood stirred with increasing vigor. He made a deeply ap­preciative sound before pulling his mouth away, mind­ful of the need to keep up appearances. Clumsily he reset his fingers on the strings and regarded the guitar as if he'd never seen it before.

"Did I used to know how to play one of these things?"

She chuckled and then nuzzled deeper into his neck, loving the scent of his skin. "Yes. Play something beautiful for me, Ben."

He bent his head to the guitar and obliged. The haunting melody she had heard so many nights while alone in her bed seemed to curl around them. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, her eyes half­closing with bliss. "That sounds so sad."

"Does it?" He continued playing, looking down at her thoughtfully. "It reminds me of you a little."

"I'm not sad."

"But not quite happy."

His perception was unnerving, and Addie couldn't deny it. She would be happy if she weren't afraid for Russell, and if there weren't such animosity between Sunrise and the Double Bar, and if her relationship with Ben wouldn't cause May such distress, and if her worries about her own past could be resolved . . . well, there was a list of such things to be taken care of.

"No, I'm not completely happy," she admitted. "Are you?"

"Sometimes."

She made a disgruntled face. "It's easier for men to be happy than women."

Ben laughed outright. "I've never heard that before. What makes you think it's easier for us?"

"You can do anything you want to do. And your needs are so simple. A good meal, an occasional night of drinking with the boys, a woman to share your bed, and you're in ecstasy."

"Hold on," he said, his eyes gleaming with wicked amusement as he set the guitar down and turned to face her, his hands coming to rest at her hips. They were surrounded by night music, the sound of the crickets and the rustling of the breeze through the hay. "There are a few points you've neglected."

"Oh? What do you need beyond the things I just mentioned?”

"A family, for one thing."

"Big or small?"

"Big, of course."

"Of course," she echoed wryly. "You wouldn't say that if you were the woman who had to bear the chil­dren."

"Probably not," he conceded, and smiled. "But speaking as a man, I like the idea of at least half a dozen."

It was difficult to picture him as a father. He was too well suited to the role of amorous bachelor. "Somehow I can't see you tolerating a house swarm­ing with children, a baby spitting up on your shirt and another tugging at your pants leg."

"I happen to like children."

"Even messy ones?"

"Didn't know there was another kind."

"How do you know you like them?" she demanded.

"I have a niece and nephew, and they—"

"That's only two," she said triumphantly. "Two's a lot dif-ferent than six."

"What are you getting at?"

"I'd just like to point out that you have no idea how much time, attention and worry half a dozen children would take."