Man of Her Dreams Read online

  “Well, hell,” he muttered.

  “One of yours?” Maggie asked, pulling Killer to a halt beside Ry’s horse.

  “He is now.”

  Ry dismounted. Handing Maggie his reins, he approached the little mutt with his eye on the dog’s wounded left front paw. The dog dropped its ears and whined pathetically as Ry squatted down in front of it. The animal was in terrible health, thin and dull-eyed. Ry shook his head. “You aren’t nothing more than a scrap of hair and some bones, are you?”

  “Do you think somebody left him off?” Maggie asked as she watched him carefully examine the dog’s paw. She knew it wasn’t at all unusual for people to leave unwanted pets at the end of the Quaid Farm driveway. One of the few things that was well known about Ry was that he never turned away an animal in need of his help. His farm buildings were populated with dogs and cats he had nursed back to health. He made an effort to find homes for the animals, but many ended up staying on. Katie had told her once his feed bill was horrendous.

  “Hard to say. He’s not wearing a collar, but he doesn’t seem wild.” Anger bumped his blood pressure up a notch. “Gosh almighty, people who don’t take care of an animal any better than this ought to be strung up.”

  Maggie’s heart ached with love at the gentle way Ry handled the frightened dog. He picked it up and carried it in the crook of one strong arm, talking to it in a soothing tone of voice. She was dead-on right about Rylan Quaid; there was a man full of tenderness under that cactus hide of his. If she was half as successful in bringing it out as this little dog was, she would consider her plan a major triumph.

  She could see it now, playing out on the stage of her imagination: the look in his eyes as he realized she was the one person who could see the tenderness and sensitivity inside him. Their gazes would meet, silent understanding binding them together, soul to soul. Then he’d whisper her name and say—

  “Y’all don’t have a dog out at Poplar Grove, do you?” Ry shifted the terrier on his arm as they rode up the long tree-lined drive toward the stables.

  “Hmm? What?” Maggie dragged her attention away from her dreams and pulled her gaze off the patchwork of pastures squared off by dark plank fences to focus on Ry.

  “I said, I’m glad you volunteered to adopt this dog and take it home to Poplar Grove.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Oh, no, no, no. No dogs at Poplar Grove. Don’t try to foist that little fleabag off on me, Rylan. I have Miss Emma and Mrs. Claiborne to consider.”

  “I bet they’d love a dog. Junior here is the perfect size for them.”

  “Rylan,” she said sternly. Plan or no plan, she was going to have to put her foot down. “You cannot turn a dog loose in a house full of museum-quality antiques. Imagine the damage he could do.”

  Ry looked from the dog to Maggie. “I ask you, Mary Margaret, is this the face of a dog who would wreak havoc?”

  Floppy ears perked up above woeful brown eyes as the dog gazed at Maggie. He had the potential to be adorable. It was impossible to say anything mean to his face.

  “Must have taken acting lessons from Benji,” she muttered.

  “A friend would take this animal off my hands,” Ry said with a meaningful lift of his dark eyebrows.

  So he was going to play dirty, was he? Maggie’s ripe little mouth pinched into an annoyed frown. Darn him, he’d outfoxed her. Now she was going to be stuck with that mangy mutt. “Not until he’s had a flea bath and is in decent health, friend.” She ground the word between her teeth like grist in a mill. “The way he looks now, he’d scare off the tourists.”

  “I’ll get him fixed up right as rain. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Don’t look so smug, sugar,” she warned, taking one hand off the reins long enough to shake a finger at him and his self-satisfied smile. “You owe me for this, and I will collect.”

  “Collection time,” she muttered to herself on a long, heartfelt groan as her numb feet hit the floor of the stable. She leaned heavily against Killer, her cheek pressed to the smooth leather of the saddle flap. Ry hadn’t bothered to help her down off the horse, so she had managed the task herself, deciding it was probably a lot like rappelling down the side of a mountain.

  The ride had barely ended and already she felt as if someone had flogged her from head to foot with the narrow edge of a yardstick. The silver lining to this black cloud of pain was the payment she planned to extract from Rylan: a long, slow rubdown by a pair of big, strong hands.

  “You’re a genius, Mary Margaret,” she whispered to herself. But when she turned to tell Ry of her magnificent and wonderfully devious plan, he was preoccupied with the dog.

  “Marlin will see to the horses,” he said, leaving his mount with the groom. He turned and headed for the room where the medical supplies were kept, stepping around a three-legged black lab and over a beagle. The terrier was still slung over his arm and seemed to be enjoying the ride. His ears perked in interest as he panted happily.

  Maggie followed, only temporarily thwarted by Rylan’s disinterest. It took all her concentration to put one foot in front of the other. The muscles of her calves seemed elongated and uncontrollable. Her lower back was cramping, and her bottom hadn’t been as sore since the time her daddy had spanked her for calling her sister Lisa Jane a poop-head during church. Wincing, she sank gratefully onto the nearest chair and watched while Ry collected the supplies he needed from the orderly, well-stocked medicine cabinet.

  She watched him work with quiet efficiency, carefully cleaning the dog’s wounded paw, applying medication and a neat white bandage, all the while mumbling to the dog affectionately. The little dog sat whimpering, but never tried to get away, obviously trusting Ry.

  “You’re very good at that,” Maggie said.

  He shrugged the compliment off. “It cuts down on my vet bill if I can handle minor problems myself.”

  His modesty touched a sweet spot in her heart. Katie had told her that Ry had never given up studying veterinary medicine, even though their father’s death had prevented him from finishing his schooling. He obviously had a talent for it. She wondered if he ever wished things had worked out differently. Would he tell her if she asked? She doubted it. It was too soon. But he would open up to her eventually. She promised herself he would.

  When he finished with the dog, Ry put the terrier in a roomy wire cage with food and water, then went to wash his hands at the utility sink. “He’ll stay in there until we get him fed up a bit. That way he doesn’t have to compete with the others at feeding time, and he won’t run off his calories. I reckon he’ll mostly eat and sleep for a few days anyway. I’ll let you know when he’s ready to go home with you.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Maggie muttered. What had she gotten herself into? Miss Emma was flexible; she’d probably go for a dog. Mrs. Claiborne, on the other hand, was something of a starched skirt. At any rate, she didn’t have to think about it for the moment.

  “I’m starved,” Ry announced. His stomach grumbled loudly to accent the statement. “Let’s go up to the house and get something to eat.”

  “All right,” Maggie said, but she didn’t move.

  Ry turned with his hand on the doorknob. “Come on, Mary Margaret, before I keel over from starvation.”

  It had probably been all of two hours since his last meal, she thought crossly. She looked up at him with a pained smile. “I’d love to, sugar. There’s one minor problem, however.”

  “What’s that?”

  She gave a little shrug that set off explosions of pain in her shoulders. “I can’t get out of this chair. My muscles are all frozen.”

  “Jeepers cripes.” Rylan muttered under his breath. He moved to stand in front of Maggie, bent down, slid his hands under her arms, and lifted her off the chair.

  Slowly she straightened out her cramped legs until her feet touched the floor. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Ry said, threads of hoarseness running through his voice. His palms were press
ed against the sides of her full breasts. With a twist of the wrist he could have filled his hands with ripe, womanly softness. His mouth went dry. Lord, he wanted this woman. In another minute his desire was going to be obvious to anyone who glanced at the front of his breeches.

  He forced himself to step back, trying to detach himself physically and emotionally. He even managed to sound practical when he said, “When you get home, you’ll have to give yourself a rubdown with good strong liniment.”

  “You’ve got it half right, darlin’,” Maggie said, giving him a slow, devious smile. “I’m going to get a rubdown.” She tapped a forefinger against his breastbone. “And you’re going to give it to me.”

  Ry felt his stomach drop down to his knees. Immediately his mind conjured up images of black satin sheets and love lotions, candles burning and Maggie stretched out naked, waiting for his hands to glide over her creamy flesh.

  “Me?” he asked weakly, barely able to hear himself for the blood roaring in his ears.

  She glanced meaningfully from Rylan to the dog, then back to Rylan. “You owe me one, friend.”

  “Lord, what is that awful smell?” Maggie asked, her face twisted into a grimace. She was stretched out on her belly across the white chenille spread on Ry’s bed, a king-size blue towel wrapped around her.

  She had insisted on a long, hot shower before her massage, thinking that would give Ry plenty of time to get himself worked up. She hadn’t missed the desire in his eyes when they’d stood inches apart in the stable dispensary. He wanted her, she could see it. Why he was holding himself in check was beyond her, but his celibacy, where she was concerned, was at an end.

  The plan was perfect. By the time he rubbed all the knots out of her muscles, she would be in the mood for love, and she would have full use of her body back. Ry would be aroused from running his hands over her naked skin. But the aroma wafting from the brown bottle Ry held told her there was one thing she hadn’t foreseen.

  “It’s liniment,” he said, biting the words off. Damn her, he thought, trying to fight the fire in his loins with anger. He looked furious, but there was something much warmer in his eyes as his gaze traveled down beyond her towel to her nicely rounded legs and dainty feet.

  “It smells like the stuff you use on the horses.”

  “It is.”

  She lifted a delicately arched brow. “The same?”

  “Diluted.”

  Maggie bit back a giggle. Ry didn’t like the corner she had so neatly backed him into. The ornerier he got, the shorter his sentences, the darker his scowl. Ominous was a pale word for the look he was wearing now. Well, tough, she thought. She wasn’t exactly pleased with his counterstrategy either, but if she had to make love with him smelling like a show jumper, then so be it.

  Ry sat down on the bed with his back to Maggie, careful not to let his hip brush against her. When he leaned over to lift one of her feet, she rolled into him—and his hip wasn’t the only thing she came in contact with.

  “Dammit, Mary Margaret.” He managed to speak with his jaw clenched.

  Maggie gasped at the feel of his manhood, rock-solid, against her hip. A thrill of anticipation shot through her, settling low in her belly in a tight aching knot. She had to force the air back out of her lungs. “I can’t help it if you sink the mattress like a ton of bricks.”

  Swearing under his breath, Ry scooted nearer the edge of the bed until he was darn near falling off. He poured a dollop of the foul-smelling liniment into his palm and began working on Maggie from the feet up, telling himself it wasn’t any different from rubbing down one of his hunters.

  The hell it wasn’t.

  His fingers worked over the arch of her foot, up to her ankle, and on to her shapely calf. Her skin was as soft as satin, warm to the touch. As his imagination told him what it would feel like to have her legs wrapped around him, the massage gradually changed from therapeutic to sensual. The movements of his hands slowed from vigorous rubbing to languid caressing.

  Lord, it turned him on to see her stretched out on his bed! Heat poured over him in a shower of pinpricks down his back. What sweet heaven it would be to have her there every night, to take her in his arms, and spend hours loving her.

  Loving her.

  Denial and desire clashed inside him. Ry shook himself out of the fantasy. His fingers dug into the backs of her thighs.

  “Ouch!” Maggie complained, tensing at the pain. “Will you watch it? That leg isn’t going to win any prizes jumping fences, but I’m rather fond of it, myself.”

  “Sorry.” He abandoned her thigh for her other foot, stalling. The longer it took him to get to her softer parts, the more in control he would be by the time he got there. At least that was what he tried to tell himself. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Maggie as a giant lump of bread dough—something without personality, without sex appeal.

  Maggie began to relax as Ry’s fingers worked magic on her stiff, sore muscles. Drowsy, she let her gaze wander the bedroom. It was a comfortable room furnished with lovely old cherrywood pieces. The walls were a soft blue, and the area rug covering part of the wood floor was deep royal blue. The grouping of prints on one wall was obviously Katie’s work; Maggie recognized her partner’s decorating touch instantly. Everything else within her range of vision was pure Rylan.

  Basic male grooming tools were arranged neatly on his dresser. On the nightstand was a wineglass, a horse magazine, and a dog-eared copy of Ulysses. He was full of contradictions, her Rylan.

  Her Rylan. That sounded almost as nice as his massage felt. She closed her eyes and sighed. Heavenly. Inch by inch he was relieving her pain. The tension was seeping out of her body, her muscles forgetting all about Killer as they relaxed. As Ry began slowly working his way up her thigh, she let herself picture what was going to happen later on.

  Ry would start rubbing her shoulders, then she would turn over and he would loosen the towel. His stormy eyes would darken with desire, and he would lean over and kiss her. His hand would glide up over her hip, her waist, to her breast. She would help him out of his clothes, and he would stretch out on the bed with her and take her in his arms. His hard, muscular body would press her down into the mattress. It would happen the same way it did in the romance novels she read voraciously. It would be just the way she’d dreamed it a hundred and fifty thousand times. It would be, she sighed again…wonderful…

  Ry shifted positions and stared down at Maggie. She lay with her arms stretched out wide, her face turned away from him. Her shoulders beckoned, bare, lovely. Beneath the thick blue terry towel she wore, her supple back awaited his touch. He knew without being able to see it that it tapered sharply to a tiny waist that flared into womanly hips. A hundred years ago someone would have painted a reclining nude of her and hung it above the bar in the local saloon. Maggie didn’t have a fashionable figure, but it certainly appealed to him.

  In fact, it was appealing to him more and more. He slid his palms along her shoulders and began kneading the tender flesh, remembering vividly the way her breasts had felt. He wanted to do more than remember. All he had to do was turn her over. He wanted to. He wanted to see her breasts, touch them, taste them. He wanted to know what color her nipples were, what size they were, how sensitive they were.

  He wanted her, period. She wanted him too. A man didn’t miss the kind of signals Maggie had been sending out. He was denying them both because he thought he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back once he touched her. That was probably ridiculous. The rationalization began in his head, growing louder in direct proportion to the intensity of the ache in his lower body.

  It wasn’t as if he were a randy teenager. He was a grown man, an experienced man. Certainly he would be able to shut out the fact that just looking at Maggie turned him half wild.

  He slid one hand down her back to the bottom edge of the towel and slipped it beneath, groaning deep in his throat at the feel of her soft, rounded bottom.

  “Maggie,” he whispered, bending o
ver her. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, the scent of shampoo penetrating the scent of the liniment he’d rubbed into her muscles. “Maggie.”

  He expected her to roll toward him, a feline smile gracing her mouth as she lifted the lids on those magnificent brown eyes of hers. Maybe she would open the towel herself, or watch while he did, then put her arms around him and pull him down.

  She didn’t move an inch.

  He murmured her name again, anticipation pulling his nerves as tight as a bowstring. Was she nervous? Maybe she was having second thoughts. Maybe she’d decided she couldn’t make love with a big idiot farmer who had rubbed horse liniment over her when the situation had clearly called for something exotic like passion-fruit oil.

  Ry stared down at her for a long moment. His senses honed razor sharp by sexual tension, he was acutely aware of the different shades of red in her glossy, tousled hair, of the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips, of the soft, unmistakable sound of her snoring.

  Snoring?

  Ry leaned over further to get a good look at her face. Dark lashes curved against her cheek. Her soft lips were slightly parted. She was sound asleep. The horseback ride had exhausted her, and the massage had relaxed her. He’d finally decided to make love to her, and she was unconscious.

  “Well, hell.”

  FOUR

  “WHAT ON EARTH is that awful smell?” Mrs. Claiborne sat at the head of the dining table, her fork hovering over a plate of scrambled eggs, her slim nose wrinkled in distaste. She brought her other hand up to smooth the lace collar of her dress, as if the odor might somehow disturb the delicate fabric.

  Maggie stopped in the act of pulling a chair back from the table. The half bottle of perfume had obviously been a wasted effort. Now she simultaneously cursed Rylan Quaid and scanned her brain for an answer to Mrs. Claiborne’s question that would gracefully and quickly put an end to the subject.