Mountain Man by Diana Palmer Page A

was disappointed. He was nowhere in sight. She said good-night to Mary and Gerald and went reluctantly to her room.
    She didn’t sleep. She lay awake staring at the ceiling for what seemed hours. Finally she got up and decided to make herself a cup of hot chocolate. Perhaps that would do the trick; she really couldn’t stay awake all night.
    Since the household was asleep, she didn’t stop to fumble through the closet for a robe. Besides, her long flannel pajamas were more than decent, with their pale-pink rose pattern. She looked very young without her makeup and barefoot, as she went down the long, dark staircase. She hoped the house didn’t have ghosts, she didn’t fancy meeting one.
    The kitchen light was on. She opened the door and paused, stopping dead at the sight of Winthropbending over the stove. He was wearing pajama bottoms, nice brown striped ones, but no top. His chest was … incredible. Broad and bronzed and thick with a wedge of hair that covered his rippling muscles.
    He turned, his dark hair tousled, and stared at her. “Looking for someone?” he asked.
    “For some hot chocolate,” she confessed. “I can’t sleep.”
    “I’m making some,” he said. “Come in and find some mugs.”
    She stared at herself. “I should get a robe …”
    “Why?” he asked, glancing at her. “You’re covered up in all the right places, and I’m hurting like hell. I’m not in any condition to lay you down on the kitchen table with evil intent.”
    She smothered a giggle, went in and closed the door behind her. “How savage sounding,” she mused as she searched the cupboard for cups. “Think of the splinters!”
    “A nice girl like you. Shame on you.” He took the hot chocolate off the stove and poured it into the mugs before he put the pan in the sink to soak. He was limping rather badly, and she grimaced as he sat down with a hard wince.
    “That’s my fault, isn’t it?” she asked gently. “I made you dance when you didn’t want to, and you hurt it because of me. I’m sorry.”
    “Nobody makes me do a damned thing,” he said curtly. He had two pills. He took them, swallowingthem down with a sip of the hot chocolate. “I could have walked away from you if I’d wanted to.”
    “But you didn’t.”
    He turned, his dark eyes holding hers. “I didn’t want to. I like holding you. The excuse isn’t particularly relevant.”
    Her face colored, and he smiled slowly.
    She lowered her eyes to her cup and lifted it quickly to her mouth. She sipped at it for a long time, her mind hungry with sweet longings, her eyes darting to his broad, bare chest and back to her cup. He was through with his chocolate, but he sat back, quiet and faintly threatening, and just looked at her until her body began to tremble.
    “Did you wonder what I looked like under my shirt, Nicky?” he asked with blatant seduction in his voice.
    Her lips parted on a husky sigh. She couldn’t quite meet that searching gaze. She clung to her empty mug as if it were a life jacket. The silence was suddenly too sweeping, the loneliness of the deserted room staggering in its implications. They were alone. And he wanted her.
    She felt him move before she saw him. He took the mug out of her hands and drew her up in front of him, holding her gently by her upper arms.
    “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he whispered. “Nothing at all.”
    He bent his head and she saw the shadow of his face, felt his chocolaty breath as his mouth brushedagainst hers. She relaxed then, because he was very slow and sure of himself. He wasn’t in any hurry, and the leisure of his movements stopped the panic inside her. She began to unwind, feeling the softness of his mouth along with its hardness, liking the delicate probing of his tongue just under her upper lip. Amazing, she thought, how sensitive her mouth was to that light touch.
    She lifted toward him a little, and heard his breath catch. She couldn’t know that he was on fire with need, that he