“Maybe.”
As she pulled the shirt closed in front of her one-handed, he tugged at the jeans she still held against her. “Hey, I’m not sure I want to give those up,” she said.
He disarmed her by skimming one palm down her thigh to the edge of the shirttail, where he let his fingertips play over her skin. “I like seeing your legs bare and knowing what else is bare under there.”
Little circles of sensation rippled out from his touch. She loosened her hold on the jeans, and he whisked them out of her hand. She needed to remember those athlete’s reflexes of his. As she buttoned the shirt, she felt a thrill at the knowledge that the soft cotton now brushing her naked body had also touched his. She wished she could keep it to wear when tonight was just a memory.
She looked up to find his gaze following the path of her fingers down the front of the shirt. He reached out to flick a button free so her cleavage was fully exposed. “Much better,” he said, his eyes burning even bluer.
“For whom?”
He traced a line from the hollow of her throat down between her breasts, making her nipples harden. “I’d say for both of us.”
She said with only a slight hitch in her voice, “I’d like to see your place first.”
“First?” His drawl thickened. “What were you thinking would come second?”
She did her best to look provocative, not something she attempted often. “Both of us.”
“If you talk like that, you’re going to get the speed tour.” He laced his fingers with hers and pulled her toward a doorway across the foyer.
“Just a minute.” She planted her boots. “Can you tell me about these photos? Are they from Texas?”
Pleasure overlaid the arousal in his expression. “They’re by a Swiss photographer named Hannes Schmid.”
“It’s ironic that a European would make such great cowboy pictures.”
“Not really,” he said, his gaze on the silhouette of a cowboy herding horses through dust-laden sunlight. “The Europeans I’ve met buy into the whole myth of the American West even more than Americans do.”
She remembered an elderly Englishman who had visited friends in the Pinnacle. He had asked her to arrange a day trip to Montana to see an Indian reservation. When she explained the distance involved, he’d been hugely disappointed. Pulling Luke over to the photograph she’d been admiring earlier, she watched his face as she said, “This one made me think of you and your brother.”
His lips tightened. She’d expected the anger, but under it lay a profound well of pain. “I tried to call him. He didn’t pick up.”
“Because he’s embarrassed about last night.” She flexed her fingers against his in comfort.
“Or he’s sulking.” His voice was flat.
“Did you choose this photo because of Trevor?”
He made a gesture of uncharacteristic uncertainty with his free hand. “The decorator gave me a bunch of choices, and I marked the ones I liked.”
So it might have been subconscious.
He stared at it. “One cowboy looks older, tougher. Tired.”
“Yet he seems to be both leading and protecting the other one.”
Luke shrugged. “Could be.”
Miranda reached up and turned his face toward her. “Your brother will figure out how much he would lose if he stays away. And I don’t mean luxury boxes and fancy parties. I mean you. It’s a precious thing, the love of a brother.”
“When you say it, I almost believe it.” He turned his head to kiss her palm before he took her hand in his. “But Trevor resents me for reasons I can’t change.”
Luke looked around the foyer with the high-priced art photos hanging on the custom-papered walls. “I didn’t go after all this. I just put my head down and worked like a dog at football. I didn’t think about how it would affect my family. My friends.” He turned his gaze back to her. “My lovers.”
“No one believes that success comes with a price. Until it’s time to pay.” Orin was exacting payment from her now.
“Most people think I’m whining.” His face was somber. “Or faking it so I’ll look like a regular guy.”
She decided to lighten the mood. “I’m afraid you’ll never look like a regular guy. It’s just not in your genes.”
That brought light back into his eyes. “I thought I looked good in my jeans.”
“You look even better out of them.”
“Lady, you just delayed your tour by an hour or so.” He snaked his arm around her waist and hustled her into a huge living room that had one full wall made of glass. She had a quick glimpse of the lights of the Verrazano Bridge before Luke pressed her down on a room-filling sectional sofa covered in butter-soft tan leather. It reminded her of a well-worn saddle.
He took off his hat and knelt in front of her. “Sweetheart, I want to taste you. You good with that?”
His words sent a rush of desire prickling over her skin. It amazed her that he always asked permission. He never assumed that she wanted the same thing he did, and he never used the strength of his body or the steel of his will to compel her.
She looked into his eyes, now on the same level as hers, and marveled at the change from ice to fire. She leaned forward to comb her fingers through his hair, slightly mussed from the Stetson, and let them drift down to his shoulders. As she traced his muscles with her fingertips, she caught the intake of his breath. “I won’t say no to a hungry man,” she said, leaning forward to brush her lips against his.