Lacy

Ben grimaced, remembering how he’d brought about that disastrous marriage. He hadn’t meant to force them into a corner; it had all been a big joke. But it wasn’t funny the next morning when they were let out. Lacy had been white as a sheet and crying, something the spunky girl had never done in front of him before. Of course, the look on Cole’s face had been enough to reduce a strong man to tears—utterly ferocious. Ben had gone to visit an aunt in Houston the same day, to get out of Cole’s way while he cooled off. And by the time he came back, Cole and Lacy were married.

He’d wanted Lacy for himself. She was so lovely, so cultured. While Coleman had been way during the war, Ben had been Lacy’s shadow. Then when Coleman had come home again, the older man had been so cold and remote that no one could approach him except Turk. He’d actually backed away from Lacy when she’d gone running, with her heart in her eyes, to welcome him home from France after armistice was declared. He knew he’d never forget the way Lacy had looked, or how she’d reacted to Cole’s distance during the months and years that followed. She’d been talking of leaving the ranch, for the first time, when Ben had hit on his practical joke. He’d asked Lacy to marry him, in desperation, and she’d refused with such gentleness.

It had almost killed him to know, finally, that she’d only felt affection for him, and that had rankled. Like Katy, Ben was used to getting his own way, especially with women. He sighed, thinking about the girls he’d been out with in San Antonio. He sometimes felt certain that he knew more about women even than Cole did. Cole seemed remarkably repressed; he always walked off when Ben and Turk started talking about their conquests. Especially since the war.

Turk was a rounder, he thought. The ace pilot had been his hero for a long time. Cole was too hard an act to follow. Turk was more human. Ben admired his success with women, his cool, easy manner. Turk was high-tempered, too, like Cole, but he was a little more forgiving and less rigid in his attitudes. Ben wondered how Cole got along with Lacy when the lights went out. He thought that might have been why Lacy left him in the first place. They’d had separate rooms, and Ben suspected, as did the others in the family, that the marriage had never been consummated. That would hurt a woman like Lacy, to have everyone think her own husband considered her undesirable. She’d stayed in San Antonio eight months, and there had been a man hanging around her, from what Katy said. But for Lacy to come home with Cole, the man must not have meant much to her. Lacy probably still loved Cole, despite everything. Looking back, he couldn’t remember a time when Lacy hadn’t looked at the older man with her heart in her sad eyes. But Ben hadn’t noticed—not until he’d played his infamous practical joke and forced Lacy into the anguish of a loveless marriage. He sometimes felt very guilty about that.

His mind went back to meeting them at the siding, to little Faye Cameron’s sudden appearance. She was a cute thing, that blond tomboy, but hardly the kind of woman he needed. Writers, he decided, were loners. They couldn’t be restricted to just one woman. They needed lots of women.

Of course, there was Jessica Bradley, the daughter of the new periodical’s publisher. She was a dish. Very dark, with creamy skin, and a very kissable mouth, and a body he was aching to get his hands on. Now there was a sophisticated little doll. He began to whistle as he thought about her and increased his speed. Poor little Faye would just have to set her sights a little lower. A rancher’s daughter needed a cattleman, anyway, not a famous writer.

The Bradleys were waiting for him when he got to the elegant residence near the Alamo. Randolph Bradley was tall and silver-haired, with a neatly clipped mustache and very blue eyes. His daughter apparently took after her mother, whose portrait hung above the elegant mantle in the Victorian living room.

“Mama is in Europe, of course,” Jessica informed him as they sipped champagne cocktails before being served dinner in the spacious dining room. She moved closer to him, drowning him in exquisite scent. “She detests the frontier. It’s nothing like New York. But Papa insisted that we come here to take over this territorial publication.”

“Papa knows a good business venture when he sees one,” Bradley said haughtily. He looked down his nose at her and made a face. “This little publication is going to become a force in Western journalism, you wait and see, daughter. Now, Whitehall, tell me about yourself. Your people are in cattle ranching, I understand.”

Ben felt uncomfortable. “Why, yes,” he replied, with a faint smile, trying to sound as confident and urbane as his host. “My brother handles that end of it, of course. I’m more into the—uh…financial side of things.” Thank God Cole wasn’t here to hear him or he’d be into something else—like Cole’s fist!

“Good man. Nasty things, cattle,” the older man said, lifting his glass. “We’re going to make you into the reporter of the century. Scandal, crime, tragedy—We’ll make a fortune! Here’s to profit, son.”

Ben lifted his own glass. Waterford crystal, he recognized. Very nice. The bit about scandal, crime, and tragedy had gone right over his head. “Here’s to profit!”

It was a wonderful evening. Old man Bradley went out of his way to be courteous, and Jessica’s dark eyes made Ben into a nervous wreck with their frank sensuality. He was never aware of what he ate, but he was thankful for his mother’s insistence on proper table manners. At least he didn’t embarrass himself by not knowing which fork to use.

“Well,” Bradley said when they’d finished dessert and were sipping glasses of brandy in the living room, “I must get my rest. Bed at eight every evening, you know, son. It keeps the body fit.”

“Yes, of course,” Ben said falteringly, rising to his feet awkwardly. “I must be getting back home…”

“That long drive at this time of night? Don’t be absurd!” Bradley scoffed. “You’ll stay with us. Can’t have my star reporter on the road in the middle of the night. I need you, my boy. Your connections in San Antonio will be invaluable to me…to us! Advertising counts, you know, and a locally known name sells ads. Good business. Sleep well, my boy. Good night, my dear,” he told Jessica, bending to kiss her cheek warmly.

“Good night, Daddy,” Jessica said demurely. “I’ll show our guest to his room. An early night won’t hurt any of us.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Bradley chuckled as he climbed the winding staircase.

“Come along, Bennett,” Jessica told Ben. She put her glass down and took his hand in hers.

She was wearing a filmy blue creation, very lacy and clinging, and Ben’s heart actually hurt him with its wild pounding. She was the most sophisticated woman he’d ever known. His age exactly, but she was much more worldly than he was. And so sexy!

As she opened the door to a room in the wing across from where her father had vanished, he expected her to bid him good night. But she came in with him…and locked the door behind her.

“Now,” she whispered huskily, “I can do what I’ve waited all night for.”

“And what is that?” he asked, drinking in the scent of her.

“This,” she murmured, drawing his head down to hers.

God, could she kiss! He felt his toes curling at the first impact of her soft, moist lips. Her tongue went quickly into his mouth, thrusting, teasing. He reached for her, all restraint gone at the intimacy of her hips pushing urgently against his. She was no virgin. Not this little number!

Seconds later, she led him to the bed, but she moved back when he reached for her.

“Not yet, little Ben.” She laughed softly. She backed away, smoothing the dress down her body, her dark eyes sultry and triumphant as she saw the desire in his.

She peeled the buttons from their buttonholes with slender, deft fingers, and let him watch as she peeled the bodice down and stepped out of the dress, standing only in her pale lilac chemise and hose. Holding his eyes, she toyed with the thin straps, easing them slowly down her arms, her lips parted, her tongue touching her teeth.

Ben sat rigidly on the white coverlet, astonished at her lack of embarrassment. She tugged the chemise away from her small, taut breasts and let it fall. Standing in her knickers and garter belt and hose, she kicked the chemise across the polished wood floor and lifted her arms to remove the hairpins and loosen her long, dark hair.

Her back arched as she moved toward him. “How do you like me, little Ben?” she whispered. “Hmm?”

“God, you’re…lovely!” he choked.

“Then don’t sit there, lovey dove…Show Jessica you like her,” she whispered, lifting his hands.

She put them on her firm breasts, his palms hard against the taut, dark nipples, and watched with glittery, excited eyes as he caressed them.

“Come on, honey. Don’t be slow,” she teased, drawing his hands down to her knickers and garter belt.

He removed them with trembling hands, his heart pounding as he eased them off and peeled down her silky hose. She laughed a little wildly, sliding back onto the coverlet, glorious in her pink nudity, moving sensuously on the bed under his intense stare.