Cinderella's Big Sky Groom by Christine Rimmer Page A

look at her tenderly.
    Then again, what if he didn’t? What if he looked at her as if he wished she wasn’t there?
    She recalled what he’d said last night.
    All I want from you is one night. I’m not looking for anything more than that.
    No. Better not wake him.
    Better…what?
    Get up. Get out of there. Just get up and get out.
    Willing him not to stir, she slid from the bed and rushed around on tiptoe, grabbing for her scattered clothes. Her dress, slip and bra lay across a chair, her panties and panty hose in a knot on the floor. And her shoes…
    Well, there was one of them, right by the bed. She snatched it up. The other was…where? She remembered. It was somewhere on the stairs.
    She fled across the hardwood floor, past the sitting area with its big leather chairs, over the beautiful kilim rugs. The door was open. They’d never bothered to pull it closed when they came back up the stairs from their visit to the kitchen—where the clock had struck eleven as he was feeding her a bite of ice cream.
    Memory stunned her again: the cold, creamy sweetness melting on her tongue. And then his kiss…
    No. It was not a time to think of kisses.
    It was morning now.
    And she had to go.
    She went through the door, rushed along the hall and paused at the top of the stairs to struggle awkwardly into her clothes. The panty hose were torn. And she didn’t want to waste time wiggling into them anyway. She dropped them on the floor as she yanked on her panties, put on her bra, her slip and the dress. She had to fight with the zipper a little, but she got it most of the way up. She grabbed the panty hose again, knowing she needn’t have bothered. They were ruined. But she simply couldn’t bear to just leave them there, for him to find.
    With the wad of panty hose in one hand and the shoe in the other, she ran down the stairs, looking wildly for that other shoe.
    Where was it? She distinctly recalled the moment it had dropped from her foot. It had to be here somewhere. She got all the way to the bottom and looked around on the floor there. Nothing. She turned andsprinted halfway up again. But no. It really wasn’t there.
    And what was that? A noise, from upstairs?
    Was he awake? Would he leave his room and find her here, running up and down the stairs, rumpled and frantic, looking for her silly shoe?
    Forget it. Just forget it.
    Forget it and get out.
    She dashed for the front hall and the closet there. Yanking open the door, she ripped her coat from the hanger, which banged around on the rod and then clattered to the floor. She tried to catch it—and then let it fall. So silly. What did it matter if she left a hanger on the floor?
    She shoved her arms into the sleeves of her coat, scooped up her purse and stuffed the panty hose inside it. The hanger wedged itself in the closet door when she tried to shut it.
    Fine. She left it open.
    She whirled, clutching her purse and her single shoe, and raced for the front door.
    The latch gave with a heavy click. He had never locked it. She pulled the door open, paused briefly to shut it behind her, and ran out into the cold autumn morning.
    The rough deck boards were icy under her naked soles. She tried to ignore the chill as she fled down the wide steps and onto the front drive, which was lined with tall, proud evergreens.
    The trees gave way to open land about halfway to the road. And the pavement ended, too. The rest of the driveway was hard-packed dirt. Dirt and sharp pebbles that dug into the tender skin of her soles.
    She kept running, the chill morning air rushinghard in and out of her lungs. She could see the two-lane road, Route 17, where the drive met it, not two hundred yards away.
    What would she do when she got there?
    Flag someone down?
    A stranger?
    No. She’d never have that kind of luck.
    The odds were that, if anyone did come along, she would know them. And they would know her. Some cowboy from one of the local ranches.