JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER Read online

  She reared and bucked, her back arching, her limbs quivering. He gave her pleasure, she thought. Pure primal pleasure. And wicked desire. She lay naked, her silk hose still in place—the naughty fixation of his fantasy.

  They rolled over the bed, again and again, their hands hot and greedy on each other's skin. All the wrongful anger, the old hurts, the past aches gushed into a geyser of passion. Patricia could feel it rising in her blood, threatening to burst.

  He sucked her nipples, licked and nibbled while she fisted his hair, then pulled his face back up to hers. They kissed, the kiss of lovers—man and woman on the brink of sexual ecstasy. He slipped on protection, then rose above her.

  Yes, this was need, she thought, as he lifted her hips and pushed himself deep inside her. She grabbed hold of the wood, clutched the post while he stroked harder, filling her completely.

  "Give me more, Tricia," he said, his hair dipping over his forehead, sweat glistening his skin. "More."

  She gave him her release, her wild, soul-shattering orgasm. And when she went slack in his arms, he gave her his.

  * * *

  A week later Jesse and Patricia relaxed in Jesse's backyard on a stretch of grass that framed the abundant herb garden. Patricia decided she preferred Jesse's house to her own. She could feel the warmth, the care, the history that dwelled there. She supposed it would always be referred to as the old Garrett farm. The Garretts were the original owners, the nineteenth-century family who had first worked the land. They'd be proud of Jesse, she thought, pleased with his connection to their soil.

  "Have I told you how great you look in jeans?" he asked, slanting her a smile.

  She Laughed. "Yes, but you can tell me again." Her denims actually felt good, the prewashed fabric smooth but rugged. Jesse had insisted that they recline directly on the freshly mowed lawn rather than "fuss with a blanket." Apparently he thought grass stains suited a pair of Levi's, broke them in correctly.

  He leaned over and kissed her. "You look great," he said again. "Sexy."

  Sexy. She supposed she did, at least to a man like Jesse. A woman in a trim-fitting blouse, jeans and Western boots fit the environment. And the environment had its own brand of sex appeal: a carpet of grass and flowering plants beneath a clear blue sky.

  Patricia reached into a canvas bag and removed a leather-bound photo album. "I made this for you."

  "Pictures?" He opened the cover and gazed at the first photograph. Immediately a smile lit his face. "This is Dillon, isn't it?"

  She nodded. "It was taken at the hospital soon after he was born." Patricia had collected photos from some of her other albums and placed them in this one, hoping to present Jesse with a treasured gift. "He had lots of hair, didn't he?"

  Jesse looked up. "He was beautiful. I wish I'd been there."

  Her eyes misted. Crying, for some reason, came easier now. "I know. I'm sorry."

  He leaned against her shoulder and turned the page. "Me, too."

  "First birthday party," Patricia pointed out. "We let him dive into the cake. Well, actually we had two cakes. One for the guests and one for Dillon." "We" meant herself and her father, but she'd decided to omit his name. Her dad was still a subject of rage with Jesse. Patricia sighed. Deep down her goal was to bring the two men together, convince them to embrace the present, release the bitterness of the past.

  She brushed Jesse's shoulder and continued to narrate events in Dillon's life, pleased with Jesse's laughter, his easy smile. She had even included photos of herself, the young woman he had loved. Knowing that he had once loved her made their budding friendship seem right somehow. It also made the nights they spent in each other's arms feel right, too. Lovemaking—wild, wicked sex with roving hands and whispered fantasies. She couldn't get enough.

  Patricia caught her breath as Jesse turned his face toward hers. He was beautiful. A male animal in his prime.

  "Did you take pictures when you were pregnant?" he asked.

  She wrinkled her nose. "Yes, but I looked awful." Her father was a camera buff, a shutterbug. He snapped pictures at every turn. The Boyd mansion was filled with framed photographs.

  Jesse tapped her nose. "I'll bet you looked gorgeous. All legs and tummy."

  "I couldn't see my feet toward the end. I was huge."

  "I want one of those pictures."

  Oh, Lord. She glanced away. "You're kidding, right?"

  He lifted her chin, bringing her eyes to his. "Why are you so uncomfortable about your pregnancy?"

  She struggled to hold his gaze. "I gained so much weight—"

  He interrupted gently. "That's what pregnant women are supposed to do. It's natural and healthy." He skimmed his fingers over her cheek, then slid them through her hair. "I know it's more than that, Tricia."

  "I missed you," she admitted quietly. "It was such a difficult time, carrying your baby and not having you there. I know it was my choice, but it was still hard." She reached into the grass, hoping to draw strength from the land. "This community pretty much ostracized me." She looked around, remembering Jesse's home was in Hatcher. "Well, not this community. The one I live in, the proper citizens of Arrow Hill."

  Her father had been her saving grace, but she decided to keep that thought private, at least for now. "Society girls in Arrow Hill aren't supposed to have illegitimate babies." She imagined there had been a few secret abortions, parents scurrying their daughters off to the city, places where no one knew their prestigious names. Her father had never suggested such a thing, not once. He'd stood beside her, insisting she hold her head high. It was, after all, his grandchild she carried—a Boyd. Needless to say, her decision to give Dillon Jesse's last name had devastated her father.

  "I would have married you, Tricia."

  "I know." But her father would have ruined Jesse's future, something that would have probably destroyed their marriage in time. Young marriages often failed, even without the stress of disapproving in-laws. "It's over now. I got through it, and no one treats Dillon badly. He's well accepted." And those who didn't approve of her son's birthright knew enough to keep their opinions to themselves. Patricia wouldn't stand for Dillon being the subject of hurtful gossip.

  "I still want a picture." Jesse linked his fingers through hers. "I want to be a part of your pregnancy somehow. Imagine being there. See how you looked."

  She brought their joined hands to her lips and kissed his knuckles. "You're a special man, Jesse Hawk."

  "And we made a special child." He turned his attention back to the photo album and studied Dillon's kindergarten picture. "A very special child."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

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  The following Saturday Jesse answered his door, Cochise at his side.

  "Hi, Dad."

  "Hey, there." He reached out and squeezed his son's shoulder.

  Dillon smiled and stepped into the house, then patted the dog's head. "Mom will be coming in a minute. She's fixing her lipstick. I'm gonna go say hi to Barney, okay?"

  "Sure." Jesse remained at the doorway and waited for Tricia, amused by her decision to "fix" her lipstick. He'd only end up kissing most of it off, anyway. They didn't maul each other in front of Dillon, but they nuzzled and kissed, natural forms of affection that appeared to please the boy.

  Tricia stepped onto the graveled driveway, and Jesse frowned. Instead of jeans and boots, she wore a tailored suit, her hips swaying under a slim-fitting skirt, shapely legs ending in a pair of low-heeled pumps. Why the professional attire? Today was family day: Dillon's fifth horseback riding lesson, fresh-squeezed lemonade, a picnic lunch on the grass.

  She made her way up the porch steps, a perfectly coiffed woman. "Hello," she said, before pecking his frown with a chaste kiss.

  Jesse's lips moved into a smile, the scent of jasmine enticing him like a floral cloud. He opened his mouth and guided her into a deeper kiss. She raised her arms and circled his neck while he slid his hands down the curve of her spine. He couldn't get enough of Tric
ia Boyd. Not nearly enough, he thought, as she teased him with her tongue.

  She leaned back, then dabbed at his chin, removing what he assumed was a smear of her freshly applied lipstick. "I'm sorry. I can't stay," she said. "Last-minute meeting. One of those things that can't be helped."

  He furrowed his brow. "What about Dillon?" He enjoyed these casual days with his son, longed for them.

  "Don't worry. He's staying."

  Jesse's pulse quickened. "By himself?"

  She nodded, her voice quiet. "He's the one who suggested it when I told him about my meeting."

  Jesse tried to contain his excitement in case Dillon walked onto the porch. He didn't want to come on too strong and scare the boy away. This would be their first solitary visit, their first father-son experience without Tricia present. A bonding Jesse desperately needed.

  Tricia left five minutes later, her luxury car spitting gravel beneath its tires as it rounded the driveway in one sleek turn. Both Jesse and Dillon stood on the porch and watched her go.

  "How about a walk?" Jesse asked, before the moment turned awkward. Suddenly Dillon looked lost—like a kid on the first day at a new school. Jesse understood the feeling. Fear edged his excitement, the kind of fear that came with being an inexperienced parent.

  "Can Cochise come?"

  "Sure." Jesse knew the dog would ease Dillon. And himself as well. Cochise had become their shared companion, much like the medicine bag Dillon wore.

  Hopefully they'd be able to walk off their anxiety, Jesse thought, as they headed toward the back of the property. Dillon's lesson would go easier once they became accustomed to being alone. Although Dillon was a natural horseman, he rode the corral fence with a distracted eye, often searching for Tricia's approval. Jesse sensed the boy suffered from a mixture of sorrow and guilt over his grandfather's aversion to horses and assumed Dillon felt like less of a traitor whenever he spotted his mother's smile.

  "Let's walk through the garden," Jesse suggested, refusing to allow Raymond Boyd to intrude on this beautiful summer day.

  They cut across the grass and laughed as Cochise forgot his manners and loped ahead of them. Although Cochise wouldn't dream of digging up all of Jesse's hard work, the dog had no qualms about sniffing his way through the plants.

  As soon as they entered the garden, Dillon knelt to touch a sprig of parsley. "Mom told me that you're going to build a greenhouse before winter comes."

  "Yeah. I've always wanted one." Jesse inhaled the herbal scents, the sweet earthly aroma. "But this is the first land I've ever owned." He knelt beside Dillon as the boy fingered another plant. "That's chicory. It'll bear flowers until the fall."

  "A medicine man taught you all this stuff, huh?"

  Jesse nodded. "His name was Tall Bear. I met him when I was fifteen. The lady who was my foster mother at the time had scheduled a spiritual healing with him, and she invited me to go along." It had been the first moment in his life that he'd actually felt like a part of something truly important.

  Dillon settled onto a stepping stone. "Was Tall Bear nice?"

  "Yeah, but he was powerful, too." Tall Bear had knowing eyes, Jesse thought. Ebony eyes that could see into a person's soul. "He was gentle but strong. Everything a healer should be."

  Dillon drew his knees up. "He died, didn't he? You're talking about him like he's gone."

  Jesse felt a familiar sting behind his eyes. He missed his mentor, missed the man's gentle guidance. "He died during my first year at college." A lonely time, a time of sadness and growth. He had mourned Tall Bear the way he had mourned Tricia, aching and alone, praying for the strength to go on without them.

  Dillon got to his feet, so Jesse rose from his knees. They walked through the garden in silence for a while, breathing soothing aromas, taking in the sights and sounds of Mother Earth. Tall Bear would have liked Dillon, Jesse thought.

  When the boy's grumbling stomach interrupted the quiet, Jesse chuckled. "How about some grub before we saddle Hunter?"

  Dillon grinned and patted his misbehaving belly. "That's okay by me."

  They turned in the direction of the house, Cochise taking his place beside them. "Fiona made those cookies you like. She left them with me yesterday." When Dillon didn't respond, Jesse glanced over at his son and noticed the child's smile had faded. "You don't have to eat them right now. You can take them home if you want, share them with your mom."

  "Is Fiona poor, Dad?"

  Since the question caught him off guard, Jesse stopped walking, halting Dillon and the rottweiler as well. "She can afford to bake cookies for you, son."

  "Yeah, but she lives in the trailer park. My friend said that it was really yucky there."

  Yucky. The description stung. Jesse's parents had lived in that trailer park. Hell, he'd lived there for the first two years of his life. And he'd return to that "yucky" place if it would bring his parents back. He'd take poor over the loss of a family any day.

  "It's a little run-down," he said, drawing a deep, steady breath. "But it's not the people's fault who live there. The man who owns the park doesn't take good care of it. He doesn't fix things when they're broken."

  Dillon cocked his head. "Too bad it's not for sale. If it was, I'd ask my grandpa to buy it. My grandpa would fix that place up."

  Jesse bit back his resentment and reached out to hug Dillon instead. He held the boy tight against him, felt his eyes water as the child returned the embrace. Would they always have Raymond Boyd between them? Would Dillon continue to see his grandfather in a false light? The man who had threatened to destroy Jesse's future, the evil mogul who had taken Tricia away?

  "Would you feel better about Fiona baking cookies for you if I gave her a raise?"

  The child gazed up at him and nodded, and Jesse's heart constricted.

  Raymond Boyd didn't deserve Dillon Hawk. Not one bit.

  * * *

  Later that evening Tricia stood at Jesse's door, moonlight shimmering behind her. "Dillon's spending the night with a friend," she said. "So I thought maybe I could, too."

  Jesse blinked. She could have been a goddess, a forest nymph with long bare legs and a siren's smile. A mythological maiden who had just invited herself to share his bed. What a fantasy. He had the sudden urge to take her where she stood, on his ancient porch with the moon and the stars peeking down from the sky. He could all but feel her mouth on his, hear the mewling sound that would purr from her throat.

  "Jesse, can I come in?"

  Incense burned in a clay pot, a CD played on his stereo—native music, drums, ancient chants—scents and songs from the earth. Primal elements to make love by.

  "Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure." He grinned a little sheepishly and stepped away from the door.

  She glided into his living room, an alluring creature with rubies winking at her ears. She lifted a velvet bag, an embroidered satchel a nymph might carry. "I came prepared," she said. "You know, pajamas, toothbrush, a change of clothes." She placed the bag on his coffee table. "So, can I stay? Or are you going to send me home?"

  "Very funny." He lifted his hand to her breast and skimmed one of her nipples; it peaked at his touch. "You're not wearing a bra." He grazed her other nipple and watched it bloom.

  She made that sexy little mewling sound, and he shivered. "That's not all I'm not wearing."

  He stepped back to look. Really look. Feast his eyes and drink her in. The dress could have been a slip, a designer's dream of antique lace and new silk, the color of fresh cream. And beneath the fabric, he saw a hint of female nakedness.

  Arousal hissed in his breath.

  She moistened her lips, then scanned the length of his body. "I'm here to collect on my rain check."

  Her blatant stare made him feel nearly as bare as she, his skin freshly showered, a pair of sweatpants riding below the waistband of his briefs. He swallowed. "Rain check?"

  She moved closer, the glow from an amber lamp illuminating the tips of her breasts, the shadow of curls between her legs. "Don't you rem
ember, Jesse?" She stepped closer still, close enough to graze his cheek with hers. "I'm going to do to you what you did to me." She pressed her mouth to his ear and nibbled. "After all, you are the one who taught me how."

  Seduction. The word pounded in his head, his chest, his groin. "You're seducing me," he said, as scented smoke rose and curled in the air.

  Suddenly he felt inexperienced as hell, all hot and nervous and excited. Ready to explode. Tricia was the only woman he had ever allowed to touch him with that degree of intimacy. Twelve years, he thought, as she toyed with the waistband on his briefs. Twelve years of missing the feel of her mouth, the silk of her hair against his thighs.

  She untied the drawstring on his sweats and pushed them down, then knelt to remove his shorts. He watched and waited, barely able to breathe. She stood, stepped back and slipped off her dress, let it pool at her feet. They were both naked, and he couldn't move, couldn't take what he wanted.

  This was her seduction. Her bad-girl fantasy.

  She kissed his neck, pressed her lips to a throbbing vein. He closed his eyes and let the carnal sensation drift over him, the vibration of pulse against pulse, woman against man.

  She ran her hands over his chest, traced the pattern of hair, took one flat nipple into her mouth and sucked. Jesse opened his eyes, aroused by the scrape of teeth against his other nipple. Wild Tricia. Wicked and sweet.

  "You're so beautiful," he said. She looked vibrant in the dim light, bloodred gems glinting at her ears.

  She smiled and dropped to her knees, gazed up at him and nipped his belly. The muscles in his stomach jumped, anticipating her next move. He slid his fingers into her hair.

  Waiting. Wanting.

  She loved him thoroughly. With her hands, her tongue, her mouth. He watched as she took him shaft to tip. Over and over. Teasing, tasting.

  Faster. Deeper.

  He fisted her hair as a low growl rumbled in his chest. Pressure built upon need. A soul-shattering ache, an uncontrollable throb—hunger too close to the edge.

  He rasped her name and yanked her to her feet, covered her mouth with his and fed. Fed while he pushed her against the wall, knocked into a shelf and sent a collection of baskets tumbling.