Cooking Up Trouble Page 25

  “I wanted to hear you say yes, Heather,” Philippe elucidated in a husky voice. “I wanted to hear you say yes to my proposal.”

  Ah. That cleared it all up. And, while she hadn’t actually accepted his proposal, but rather his proposition, Heather understood. Proposal. Proposition. Whatever. This was heaven.

  “After tonight, you won’t be able to refuse me,” Philippe went on.

  Little did he know. Heather could do as she damned well pleased. She always had, much to her mother’s dismay.

  However, in this instance, she did believe Philippe was right. If this is what marital intimacy entailed, she would be very happy to be married to him. Not to anyone else. Just to Philippe. She couldn’t even imagine another man doing these things to her. Not if he expected to live, anyway. But Philippe . . . Well, Philippe was special.

  She said, “Oh, my.”

  “Feels good, does it?”

  “Oh, my, yes.”

  “Good.” He laid her back gently and maneuvered the nightgown the rest of the way down her legs and off of her body. He tossed it aside. “I’ll get you some more appropriate night wear soon, sweet.” His lips kissed a path to her other breast and murmured, “Or perhaps I won’t. This is much more enticing.”

  Yes indeedy. It sure was. Heather arched her back, thrusting her right breast into Philippe’s mouth. Fortunately, he knew what to do with it, and Heather worried that she might shriek or do something else to embarrass herself if he kept it up. What he was doing to her felt so good.

  His lips moved from her breast, much to her displeasure. She almost uttered a protest, but didn’t, which was all right, since what he did next was every bit as luxuriously thrilling as what he’d been doing. Heather hadn’t realized how sensitive the flesh around her breasts was until Philippe taught her. She delighted in the lesson.

  When his lips feathered down her body, she gasped and dug her fingers into his hair. She could feel him chuckle as his tongue slid around her belly button and finally dove into it. Her hips lifted involuntarily, and she uttered a small scream when his hand covered the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

  Good Lord, was he supposed to be doing that? “Ahhh,” she moaned when his middle finger sought and found the most sensitive nub on her body, and guessed that answered her question.

  “You’re so beautiful, Heather. So damned beautiful.” His words spread out with his breath, warm and delicious, on her lower belly.

  She appreciated his assessment of her relative loveliness, but couldn’t thank him at the moment. There was too much need and too much sensation rioting inside her.

  Mercy, mercy, mercy, was he kissing her even lower? Heather jammed a fist into her mouth to keep from crying out when she felt his tongue take over from where his fingers had been playing. Good Lord in heaven, what was he doing to her?

  Pressure, pleasure. Pleasure, pressure. The feelings became so intense that Heather discovered her body going rigid with anticipation. All at once, the dam burst, and she hurtled over the edge of pleasure and pressure into an ecstasy of carnal delight.

  Thank heavens she’d already covered her mouth or she’d have roused the household with her scream of pleasure.

  She had no idea how long she writhed in satisfaction, or how long Philippe had been murmuring to her when she finally came to her senses.

  “Beautiful. Beautiful.”

  The words slithered around in her mushy brain for several seconds before she understood they came from Philippe, and that he’d been watching her. She supposed she should be embarrassed, but she wasn’t.

  Feeling exhausted and absolutely fulfilled, she sat up suddenly and reached for Philippe. He let her pull him up so that she could kiss him madly. Sweet heaven above, but she loved him! She kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, and hardly realized what was happening when he positioned himself above her and guided his enormous sex to her still-sensitive passage.

  When she’d first seen it, she’d been a little alarmed because it seemed awfully big to fit down there. She had no qualms anymore.

  Sure enough, when Philippe engaged her in a long, deep, thrilling kiss, and she felt him there, at the opening of her passage, she didn’t even think about it, but thrust her hips upward to receive him. With a groan, he plunged home.

  Heather’s eyes, which had been closed as she thoroughly enjoyed her first sexual experience, popped open. She found Philippe gazing tenderly down at her, an expression of concern on his handsome face.

  “Did that hurt, darling?”

  Darling. Oh, wasn’t that sweet?

  However, it did hurt. A little. Before she answered, Heather tested the sensations going on within her.

  Actually, it wasn’t so much pain as a feeling of fullness, of having something unusual happening to her. Which it was. She moved her hips a little, tentatively.

  Philippe uttered a small grunt of pleasure, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Be careful,” he whispered. “I’m about to explode.”

  Now what, Heather wondered, did he mean by that? It sounded rather exciting. She decided it didn’t hurt after all and said so. “No, Philippe. You’re not hurting me.”

  He let out a breath of relief, as if he’d been hoping to hear her say so. Then he started moving—really moving—inside of her, and Heather got so caught up in the activity that she forgot all about the newness of it all, the possibility of pain, and the unconventionality of her, an unmarried woman, making love with an unmarried man. The pressure and pleasure started building again, shocking her, and it wasn’t long before she was carried away entirely and achieved a second shattering release.

  Afterwards, she decided it was a very good thing that Philippe had taken that moment to kiss her deeply, or she’d have screamed for sure, and probably scared the cows outside into another stampede. Shortly after her second amazing climax, Philippe roared like a lion, bucked hard, and achieved his own release.

  Panting heavily, he lowered himself onto her, slid to one side—presumably so he wouldn’t squish her with his weight, although Heather would have welcomed it on top of her—and held her tightly. She was glad to note that he seemed as depleted by the experience as she. Although she hadn’t considered it beforehand, Philippe probably had a lot of experience doing this sort of thing, and she might well have disappointed him. She didn’t think she had, to judge by his present state.

  After a moment, he lifted his hand and brushed her hair back from her damp forehead. “You’re wonderful, Heather. You’ll marry me now. You’ll have to.”

  She would? She did? Hmmm. Heather wasn’t sure about the “have-to’s” inherent in this situation—but she was going to marry him. He was too wonderful to let slip away. She snuggled against him. “All right, Philippe. I’d love to marry you.”

  He hugged her hard. “Good.”

  Speaking of love . . . Heather frowned into the darkness. She was happy, to be sure. And she was pleased that Philippe wanted to marry her. But he hadn’t said a single, solitary word about love. Unless she’d been so engrossed she’d missed it.

  But no. She was sure she’d have remembered that. She sighed heavily. It was no matter. Life in the territory was too uncertain a prospect to make it prudent for a woman to hold out for everything, she reckoned. If she lived, say, back in New York City or some other place where life wasn’t so precarious, she’d probably have held out for a declaration of love. In the territory, folks had more common sense than that.

  After all, what did love have to do with anything? What mattered was stability, strength, and honor. Money helped a good deal. And Philippe had all of those attributes. And, what’s more, he obviously desired her. That was a good start. It was a whole lot better than many folks started with.

  Heather couldn’t figure out why she still felt a tiny bit bleak in her heart of hearts after she’d cleared up all of those points in her mind.

  * * *

  “Ha! I knew you couldn’t hold out against a rich man’s wiles.”

  Heather s
cowled at D.A. Bologh, who was whipping up a breakfast soufflé, replete with bacon, cheese, and mushrooms. Heather wished he’d stop using those dratted mushrooms. She was afraid Philippe would ask her where they’d come from again, and she’d have to tell him she didn’t know because D.A. Bologh did all the cooking, and he’d think she was crazy. Again.

  At least she knew what a soufflé was now. When she’d first started this job, she wouldn’t have known a soufflé from an outhouse. She’d read about soufflés in several cookbooks by this time; she might even be able to make one by this time if she tried hard enough, although she wouldn’t try it unless forced to do so for fear she’d bump the stove or underbeat the eggs or something and make it fall.

  “That’s not nice. And it isn’t true, either. I don’t care if he’s rich or not. I’d never marry a man for his money. I think Philippe a wonderful man. Why, just look at what he’s done for the town of Fort Summers!” She spread her arms wide and felt a little silly—but it was the truth. Philippe never advertised his good acts, but he’d helped more people than anyone else in town ever had. Why, he was almost like Fort Summers’ own personal Saint Nicholas.

  D.A. snorted, which didn’t do much to keep Heather’s mood cheerful. She’d been as near to floating as made no mind after her night with Philippe. She’d never felt so perfectly feminine and beautiful and wanted and desired in her life. The feeling had lasted through the night, into the morning, and even a little while beyond Philippe’s good-morning kiss and sweet questions regarding the state of her health.

  Then he’d left for work, and Heather had returned to reality with a thump. A painful thump. Muscles she hadn’t realized she possessed were aching this morning.

  Nevertheless, she wasn’t on a honeymoon or anything, and she had work to do. Not to mention a brother in less-than-dire, but still extreme, need. Her first duty, therefore, after washing up and tidying and trying to make herself appear as if she hadn’t been making delicious love to Philippe all night, was to visit Jimmy’s room. He was sitting up in bed, playing cards with the Mike Mulligan.

  Both males had smiled at her. She’d asked about Jimmy’s health, been reassured, and had told her brother she’d bring up a breakfast tray for the both of them as soon as she could.

  Jimmy had looked skeptical. “Are you gonna cook it?”

  Heather felt her lips pinch up and tried to relax them. “I’m regarded as a fine cook these days, Jimmy Mahaffey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop looking at me like that!” Heather cried. “You look horrible enough with all those scratches and bruises, without adding that look to the mix.”

  Mike had laughed. Jimmy had huffed crossly. Heather had absconded to the kitchen, her mood somewhat mangled. And now here was D.A. Bologh, killing it off.

  “This isn’t fair,” she muttered as she flipped ham slices, which she’d fried herself, and hadn’t burned—miracle of miracles—onto a platter for Jimmy. Her brother adored fried ham for breakfast. “I was feeling wonderful until you and Jimmy and Mike started in on me.”

  D.A.’s laugh sounded as mean and cynical as it ever did. “It’s because you’re living a lie, and you know it, sweetheart. You’re going to marry the man, and he doesn’t have any idea what he’s getting.”

  Recalling the night she’d just spent in Philippe’s arms, Heather said, “Yes, he does!” She slammed her hand on the table so hard, the platter jumped and a piece of ham skittered off onto the table. She picked it up in her fingers—a breach of etiquette her mother, not to mention Mrs. Van der Linden, would deplore—and slapped it irritably back where it belonged.

  “Like hell,” D.A. said, smirking.

  “He does! I told him all about you.”

  D.A.’s head swiveled, one of his eyebrows lifted, and he sneered at her. “Ah, yes, I recall that night of your confession. And I suppose he believed every word of it.”

  Glowering, Heather muttered, “No. He didn’t.”

  “I thought not.”

  “But I told him.”

  “You’re just trying to make yourself feel better. You know he thinks you’re the one who’s been doing the cooking.”

  She sighed heavily. “I know.”

  D.A. slipped the soufflé into the oven, turned, leaned back against the stove—which must be blazing hot—crossed his arms over his chest, and grinned at her. “I think it’s about time for a reckoning, Heather Mahaffey, you sweet little thing, you.”

  She eyed him uneasily as she stuck a soft-cooked egg into a pretty porcelain eggcup. Jimmy would think that was swell, never having seen an eggcup before. “What do you mean? What kind of reckoning?”

  “I think it’s about time for you to pay up.”

  Heather’s heart skidded and fell sickeningly. She swallowed. Her throat closed up on her, and she couldn’t ask.

  D.A. evidently didn’t expect her to. “I’ve been doing your job for over a month now, dearie. And quite well, too, if I do say so myself.”

  She nodded because it was true.

  “But, as you know, we made a bargain before I started working here. And it’s just about time for you to pay the piper. So to speak.” His grin broadened. For the first time, Heather noticed that his teeth were kind of sharp, like the canines of a dog, although not quite so pointy. They gave him a truly evil appearance, and she wished he’d stop smiling.

  D.A. tapped those pointy teeth with his forefinger. “What do you say, sweetie pie? Don’t you think it’s time you started paying? For services rendered, you know.”

  Heather’s spunk returned like a cyclone. Her spine stiffened, her heart lifted, her throat loosened up, and so did her tongue. Her voice was quite vinegary when she snapped, “I have no idea what we bargained for, because you never told me, don’t forget. Perhaps I’ll believe the price is too high.” That was good; she wished she’d considered such an option before. She sniffed disdainfully to add emphasis to her words.

  D.A. didn’t like them at all. His grin vanished. “You’ll pay,” he snarled. “You have to because you said you would.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “But I didn’t say what I’d pay. It’s not fair to expect a person to pay unless she knows what the price is ahead of time.”

  “You didn’t care about the blasted price before you said yes.”

  She huffed, irked at having the truth used against her. “I know. And it was foolish of me to make a bargain when I didn’t know what I was bargaining with.” A little less sure of herself and afraid of his answer, she asked, “Um, what exactly were you expecting in return for your services, D.A.?”

  He eyed her keenly for a moment, and his grin slowly returned. Heather’s skin crawled when she saw it. “You.”

  She blinked at him. “Um, I beg your pardon?”

  He pointed at her with a long, sharp finger, tipped by a long, sharp fingernail. “You heard me, Heather. You.”

  She pointed at her chest. “Me?”

  “You.”

  She squinted at him. “Um, I don’t think I understand.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. You might not have known it at the time, but you bargained your sweet little self with me when you begged me to cook for you.”

  Heather’s hand dropped to her side. She stared at D.A., unbelieving, for a couple of seconds. Then, as the full meaning of his statement curled through her, making her insides ice up as it did so, she shook her head. “No.” She sucked in air. “Oh, no. That’s not fair, D.A. Bologh.”

  He shrugged insolently. “We aren’t talking fair here, Heather my love. We’re talking a bargain.”

  She shook her head hard. “Oh, no, we aren’t! If I’d known what you wanted, I’d never have made a deal with you!”

  Another shrug made her want to run him through with a cooking fork. “So what? You did make the deal.”

  Heather planted her fists on her hips. “That’s not fair! If I’d known what you were bargaining for, I’d have told you to go right straight to perdition, and you know it!”

 
; “A likely story, however apt.” D.A.’s sneer was terrifying to behold. It was a sneer that was calculated to wither Heather’s heart.

  She knew it, and used her fear to embolden her, sensing that there was more at stake here than her physical body. She leaned toward D.A., allowing her rage to propel her words. “You’re a lying, cheating, sneaking skunk, D.A. Bologh! You know good and well that you can’t expect a person to agree to something unless you tell them what it is they’re agreeing to before they agree to it!”

  “Bah. You’re just a sore loser.”

  D.A.’s scorn was tempered slightly when the two of them heard the wind, low and menacing, outside the window. A rumble of thunder reached their ears, sounding as if it came from very far away. Heather was surprised to see him cringe and glance behind him, as if searching for the source of that thunder. She used his moment of discomposure to further her point. Shaking her finger right under his nose, she said, “I’m not a sore loser! If you’d told me what you wanted in exchange for cooking for me, I’d never have agreed to it, and you know it as well as I do! I might be a stinking cook, but I’m not an idiot. And I’m not a whore! I’d rather be roasted over hot coals with the fall chili peppers than give myself to you!”

  “How appropriate,” D.A. said, although his sneer had faded some. Another rumble of thunder, closer this time, made him jerk his shoulders. The wind had commenced howling like a soul in torment outside the window.

  Heather’s brow furrowed. What was the matter with the man? He surely wasn’t afraid of thunder, was he? She couldn’t imagine D.A. Bologh being afraid of anything.

  Through the kitchen window, she saw a flash of lightning in the distance. Strange weather they were having. Fort Summers never experienced thunder and lightning in the morning. She didn’t let the oddity of New Mexico weather thwart her. This was too important.

  “Don’t you bandy words with me, you louse,” she shouted. “You know very well that you cheated! Cheaters never prosper!” It was trite, but Heather couldn’t think of anything more brilliant at the moment.