Phantom Waltz Page 6

  That explained why the customer service at The Works had been suffering lately. Her brother had taken over. Ryan knew firsthand how that went. It hadn’t been so long ago that his dad had retired. As for her brothers hovering, Ryan could easily picture himself doing the same thing. She did have a disability that made her more vulnerable than other women who lived alone.

  “What one hundred percent safe activities do you enjoy?” he asked.

  “I paint like a fiend.” She narrowed an eye. “Sit still long enough, and I may paint you.”

  He’d seen evidence of her artistic bent. Usually Ryan didn’t care for clutter, but Bethany had a flair for making it look nice. Her paintings and doodads, stamped with her sunny disposition, added warmth and charm to her surroundings.

  “What else do you enjoy?” he asked.

  “Tennis.”

  “Tennis?” he repeated incredulously.

  Her eyes danced. “I have one paraplegic friend so far in Crystal Falls. I met her at the ‘Y,’ a totally cool lady named Jenny Nelson. We roll around the court together three mornings a week. Mostly we serve to each other and miss. We get a lot of exercise, chasing the balls, and we have fun, ribbing each other about our completely deplorable lack of skill.” She thought a moment. “I also swim two evenings a week. I love to swim. It gives me an incredible sense of mobility. And occasionally when I visit my folks, I sneak next door to play basketball with the neighbor boys. They’re teenagers and think it’s totally cool, playing basketball with a crazy lady in a wheelchair.”

  “Basketball?” Ryan couldn’t imagine how she managed.

  “My chair’s self-propelled. I can press the controls with one hand and bounce the ball with the other. It took practice, but I’ve gotten pretty good. Good enough that I’ve won a few games.” She cast him a mischievous, sidelong glance. “I run over their toes. While they’re jumping around on one foot, I race to the hoop and do my wheelchair version of a slam dunk.” At his horrified look, she giggled and said, “All’s fair when you’re playing with a handicap.”

  “You’d never run over anyone’s toes on purpose, you little liar.”

  “I’m ruthless in competitive situations.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ryan doubted she had a ruthless bone in her whole body.

  She gazed at the tractor being hitched to the sled. “I’ve got ten dollars that says this one wins the competition.”

  Ryan grinned. “I’d hate to take your money. The winning tractor will be the one I’m sponsoring.”

  “Want to bet?”

  His grin broadened. “You’re on,” he agreed.

  When the mud pulls were over, he owed the lady ten dollars, which she accepted and stuffed in her pocket while grinning at him mischievously. “I did tell you I’m ruthless,” she said with a laugh.

  By evening’s end Ryan had decided he definitely wanted to see Bethany again, as friends if nothing more. Big problem. She apparently liked him and seemed to enjoy his company, but he could tell that she still felt uneasy around him. He’d tried to keep the mood light to help her relax, but there’d been moments when the chemistry between them had taken over, turning a casual glance into a long searching look, a quick touch into a lingering caress. Each time, she’d grown quiet and tense.

  What if he asked her out and she said no?

  After he parked the Dodge in her driveway beside her gray van, he said, “I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed anyone’s company so much.”

  She sat with her arms hugging her waist. In the moonlight slanting through the windshield, he could see a dark splotch on her jacket from the hot dog mishap. “Thank you for inviting me. I had a fantastic time.”

  Ryan curled his hands over the steering wheel, his grip tightening as tension coiled inside him. Usually after a date, he said, “Hey, this was fun. I’ll call you, all right?” And that was it. He couldn’t be that casual with Bethany.

  He started to speak, then stopped and coughed. Great start. “I, um—” He looked into those big, luminous eyes, and his brain went blank. Damn, What was it about this girl that made him bungle everything? He never got nervous or tongue-tied. And he sure as hell never got in a sweat.

  “I’d really like to see you again, Bethany,” he heard himself say and then immediately wanted to kick himself for sounding so—God, what was the word?—stupid, he’d sounded stupid.

  In the moonlight her eyelashes cast elongated, spiked shadows onto her cheeks. “That would be nice. Give me a call sometime, and if our schedules jive, I’d love it.”

  Watching the fleeting expressions that crossed her face, Ryan realized she thought he was just being polite. An awful, sick feeling twisted through his stomach. “I’ll do that,” he assured her.

  When he had her comfortably resettled in her wheelchair in the entryway, he told himself not to complicate matters by kissing her good night. Only there was that sweet mouth, calling to him, and he couldn’t resist just one taste. She gave a startled leap when he hooked a finger under her chin. Her eyes went wide when he lifted her face. He searched her gaze for a long moment, trying to read her expression. She looked more surprised than actually afraid. That was a good sign. Right?

  He had a feeling she hadn’t been kissed in a good long while, a suspicion that was proved correct when their mouths connected. She was so tense and uncertain of how to hold her head that her nose bumped the underside of his. She also had her lips pressed tightly together. With a determined exploration of his tongue, he discovered that her teeth were clenched shut as well.

  He drew back, arched his brows, and said, “You straining out bugs?”

  “What?”

  He immediately wanted to call back the words. She obviously wasn’t in the habit of doing this, and making wise cracks wasn’t the right tack. He didn’t want to embarrass her.

  Feeling unaccountably nervous himself, he nudged his hat back and crouched in front of her chair. She watched him as if he were a strange insect she feared might bite. He rubbed his jaw, swallowed, and met her gaze. He tried to remind himself that he kissed other women all the time and thought nothing of it, that he was so well practiced in the art, he could damn near do it in his sleep. Somehow that didn’t help. She wasn’t another woman, and it was suddenly extremely important to do this right. Perfectly right.

  She was too sweet to give her anything less.

  “Been awhile, has it?” he asked softly.

  She laughed and rolled her eyes, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. “Eight years.”

  “Eight years?” he repeated.

  “Isn’t that pathetic?” She pushed nervously at her hair, took a deep breath, and then met his gaze again. “Maybe we could just skip this part.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Not on your life. I’ve been burning to kiss you all evening.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “I seriously doubt that you—”

  He cut her short by grasping her chin. She was so damned beautiful. He knew she thought that all he saw was the wheelchair, but he was far more aware of the woman in it. The front of her jacket lay open, teasing him with glimpses of her figure, the shape of her small but full breasts showcased in the V. Her scent, a simple blend of soap, shampoo, talc, and feminine sweetness, worked on his senses like an intoxicant.

  As had happened earlier in the stable, he wanted her, and his thoughts veered off track, making him yearn to peel away the parka and explore the woman hidden underneath it. He didn’t know what it was about her. Something. He’d felt it the first time he saw her, been unable to chase her from his thoughts all week, and now the feeling had grabbed him by the throat.

  He moved in, determined to show her just how hotly he burned. Taking control in a way he never found necessary with other women, he tipped her face to an accommodating angle. When her mouth remained closed, he applied gentle pressure to force it open.

  Her lips trembled beneath his—a shy, startled, uncertain surrender, her lungs grabbing convulsively for breath. He shared his own, angling his head to deepe
n the kiss, dipping into the recesses of her mouth for a taste. Sweet. That one word kept circling in his mind. Wonderfully, incredibly sweet. He felt the jolt clear to his boot heels.

  Damn. Was he saying good night or hello? He no longer knew or cared. She had the most fantastic, intoxicating little mouth, and her shyness only prodded him, making him want to delve deeper, to taste every honeyed recess. Silk on silk. He brushed his lips lightly over hers, nibbling, coaxing with flicks of his tongue, urging her to relax.

  Finally she sighed raggedly, and her breathing changed, the intakes shallow and urgent. He felt her slender fingers grasp the front of his shirt. She sank against him, no longer counting on the chair to support all her weight. She was a welcome burden—a soft, delicate burden that seared his skin at every pressure point. Oh, God. He couldn’t believe this, had never experienced anything like it.

  He slipped an arm around her, drawing her even closer. All that prevented him from lifting her out of the chair was a purely instinctive reluctance to rush her. Her lips went malleable beneath his. Her mouth opened for him. Her tongue engaged with his in a shy, hesitant dance of touch and retreat. Ryan’s head swam.

  She moaned, the sound a hushed throb of pleasure at the base of her throat that inflamed him. He moved his hand from her chin to curl it over the back of her head. He needed to be in complete control—to orchestrate her movements, to thrust more deeply, male into female, the urge as old as mankind and so primal, so compelling he was powerless to restrain it. His. He wanted to possess her. Learn the feel of her. Lay claim.

  His thoughts swirling in a molten eddy, he barely realized what he was doing when he slipped his left hand beneath the parka and settled his palm at her waist. Softness. He explored the shape of her, gently probing the thrust of her hipbone through the denim of her jeans. Then he skimmed his fingers upward over her blouse, tracing the line of each fragile rib. She jerked with every pass of his fingertips, her breath catching and becoming a mewling sound in her throat, the soft cries telling him she was as lost to the sensations as he was. One fine-boned hand slipped into his hair, made a fist, clinging to him, the urgency in her transmitting itself to him through every pore of her skin.

  Ryan ran out of ribs to trace. His fingertips nudged the underside of her breast, the swollen heat and softness calling to his hand. He imagined the generous softness of her cupped in his palm, knew it belonged there and that the weight of her would feel right, absolutely right, filling the emptiness in him that suddenly clawed at his guts. Bethany.

  Only by supreme force of will did he resist the temptation. Anchoring his palm on her side, he allowed only his fingertips to touch the beginning swell of her breast—light, coaxing glides that made him yearn to do more. She moaned into his mouth and pressed closer, the invitation explicit, her nipple thrusting forward until he felt the hardened tip graze his shirt, tracing lines over his skin like a red-hot pointer.

  With each pass, a jolt went through her, making her slender body jerk. Oh, God, she ached to be touched there. He wanted to take over, to do it for her and do it right, to give her what she so obviously needed. Only when he started to move his hand higher, warning bells went off. He didn’t know why, couldn’t think clearly enough to examine his reasons for holding back. It would only be a touch, after all, and through the layers of her blouse and bra, which didn’t constitute a daring intimacy.

  But, no … Not now, not yet. He remembered in a flash how this had begun, with her mouth closed against him. In years and life experience, she was a grown woman and a fair mark, but when it came to sex, she was obviously a novice, and he should take it slow.

  Ryan knew his limits. One more pass of that throbbing nipple over his shirt, and he was going to lose it. He tried to end the kiss, drawing back marginally. Her hot, eager mouth clung to his, the still shy and inexperienced forays of her tongue gliding lightly over his bottom lip. His guts clenched. He reached up to grasp her face between his hands and forced their mouths apart.

  Gazes locked, they stared at each other, both of them breathing raggedly, the reality of how they both felt and what they might have done—what both of them still wanted to do—rising around them like an electrical field. Her eyes were cloudy and confused, the pupils large and liquid black. Looking into those eyes, he knew the exact instant when awareness began to return to her.

  Her first reaction, which he also read in her eyes, was shock, quickly followed by dismay that brought an embarrassed flush to her cheeks.

  “Wow,” he whispered, bending to kiss the tip of her nose, a tender smile playing over his lips as he tried to bring her down gently. She was such an enigma, an intriguing blend of maturity and inexperience. Kissing her had aroused him yet made him feel protective of her as well, forcing him to slow down when what he really yearned to do was speed forward. “That was—something else.”

  She made an odd sound in her throat. He curled his hands over her shoulders to prevent her from falling because she’d leaned so far forward in the chair. Holding her breath, she stared at him. His own breathing was ragged. He could see the pulse at the base of her throat, a telltale sign that she was as aroused as he was.

  She gulped for breath, sat back in her chair, and said in a strained voice, “I think you’d better go now, Ryan.” Hugging her waist, she gazed at him with accusing eyes. “Thank you for a wonderful evening. I’ll never forget it.”

  Just like that, he was supposed to leave? After what had occurred between them? He’d never felt like this. Never. There was something very special at work here. Something he’d never even imagined might be possible. How could he turn away from that, no questions asked, and simply walk out?

  He rocked back on one boot heel. Still crouched at her eye level, he stared hard into those beautiful, expressive eyes. She was angry, her polite thank-you only a smoke screen. She had enjoyed the kiss, no question there, so he knew that wasn’t the problem. He’d lost it for a second, but nothing had happened, so that couldn’t be it, either.

  “Bethany, I—”

  She shook her head and held up a silencing hand. “Don’t say anything. Just go. Please.”

  He pushed to his feet. No mistake. That was definitely anger in her eyes. Over the years, he’d made his share of mistakes with women and been on the receiving end of their anger a few times, but he usually knew what he’d done, at least.

  “Honey, I’m—”

  “Just go,” she whispered, her tone fierce. “I mean it, Ryan. I want you to leave. Now.”

  He went. What else could he do?

  Once in his truck, he sat in the darkness with his forehead resting on the steering wheel. Just go. Oh, God. She was royally pissed, and he hadn’t a clue why. Granted, he’d gotten a little carried away, but he’d stopped. You couldn’t hang a guy for thinking about it.

  He lifted his head and dragged in a steadying breath. Whew. The suddenness of it was what had gotten him in trouble. He’d started out trying to refresh her memory on the fine art of kissing, and the next thing he knew, she had been teaching him a few things—like how it felt to lose his head over a woman.

  Badly shaken, Ryan drove home, lecturing himself the entire way. He needed to think and be damned sure what his intentions were before he took this an inch farther. A girl like Bethany couldn’t be tried on for size and then tossed aside if there was a pinch.

  Bethany ripped off her parka and threw it with all her strength. The zipper tab hit the wall with such force that the sound reverberated like a rifle shot. She covered her face with her hands, her chest aching with stifled sobs, her stomach lurching. Oh, God. Never had she been so humiliated.

  Thinking back over the kiss, she remembered how he’d tried to pull away and how she’d clung to him, begging for more with her mouth and body. She had never felt like that before, had never even allowed herself to get in a situation where she might feel like that. Why put herself through the unnecessary heartache? According to the specialist in Portland, she shouldn’t try to have children, and chan
ces were, she’d be unable to enjoy sex. There was also the inescapable fact that most men took one look at her wheelchair and ran in the other direction. Why explore that side of her nature, why open up all those feelings and be forced to deal with them, when she knew they’d probably never have an outlet?

  Now, without half trying, Ryan Kendrick had jerked the lid off the Pandora’s box of her sexual awareness, making her want things she could never have. No, want wasn’t the word. He’d made her ache, damn him, leaving her aware of needs and yearnings she’d tried to ignore or pretend didn’t exist.

  She rubbed furiously at her mouth, trying to get the taste of him off her lips. It clung tenaciously, a bitter reminder of how she’d behaved, moaning and trembling and throwing herself at him. She still trembled with yearning. The feeling had hit her like a bulldozer, obliterating her sense of self, sweeping aside her pride.

  Never again … never. If he hadn’t pulled away, putting a stop to the madness, there was no telling what might have occurred. He might even have done her the ultimate kindness and made love to her, not because he really wanted to, not because he’d been planning to, but because he felt sorry for her. The poor paraplegic who never got any, so needy that just a kiss had her panting for it. What was a guy to do but give her what she wanted?

  Tears stung her eyes. Her face twisted as she fought not to shed them. Just the thought that it could have gone that far made her feel sick. This was exactly why she’d always avoided this kind of situation. Given that she wasn’t even sure she was functional in that way, what was the point? She’d only end up getting hurt. Sex was the number one priority for most men, barring all. Her boyfriend Paul had taught her that lesson well, and if she allowed herself to start hoping otherwise, she deserved whatever she got.

  She wiped her cheeks. Eight years ago, she’d sworn that no man would ever have the power to make her cry again, and now just look at her. Well, she’d never cry over one again, mark her words. The next time a man—any man—asked her out on a date, her answer would be an unequivocal no.