 
## ROMANCE ON THE RANCH

By

RUTH BAILEY
Copyright 2017 Ruth Bailey

Published by Carla Davis at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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# Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

# Chapter One

My heart is racing so hard I'm half certain it will rip itself apart. The blood pulsing through my head, which should be making it easier to think, is actually making it infinitely harder. What the hell am I going to do? What the hell am I doing? Finding myself on the bustling New York street, I try not to think about the condo I've just run down from. I try not to think about the man I left there. However, those things are all I can think of. Those images are lodged in my mind and they refuse to be shaken.

Breath moving in and out in short, sharp bursts, I glance about me. Even at this hour of the night, the streets are busy. But thankfully, the steady stream of people passing by me are too wrapped up in their own lives to notice my wild-eyed, fearful face. Where am I going to go? Maybe I should go to the police? No, that's craziness. What would I tell them? And what if they didn't believe me anyway? Why would they believe me? There's a good chance they won't. I can't take that risk. That means I can't just stay here and wait to be found, either.

Forcing my eyes shut, I try to calm my panicked, raging brain. The chaotic questions it's bombarding me with are not helping me form a plan, they're just heightening my state of useless fear. Deliberately slowing my breathing, I count slowly, shutting out the noise of traffic, footsteps, and voices. I need to think carefully. Rationally. Clearly.

Of its own volition, my hand slipped into the pocket of my coat. Fingers curling around my cell phone, I realize that's a problem. It can be traced. When they come looking for me, because they will come, that will be their first method of tracking me. I've seen enough CSI to know that. At one time, I was obsessed with the show. Now, maybe, just maybe, that fixation will prevent me from getting caught.

My other hand slides into the opposite pocket and my thumb flicks over the edges of the bills bundled up inside it. Upstairs, I must have been slightly more clear-headed than I am now, although I can't remember much of anything. It's all a blur. I certainly hadn't been thinking when I'd gone into my husband's study and taken a thick roll of cash he kept in the top drawer of his desk. But thank God I'd been able to function on instinct, because I will need that money. I can't risk using my credit cards, and I can't use an ATM. Untraceable cash is my only means of escape.

But in order to escape at all, I have to move.

Compelling my feet forward, I tug my phone free and flick off the back cover with fingers trembling too fiercely to make the job an easy one. Clumsily levering the battery out, I curse under my breath when it cracks my thumbnail. Well, it's not _my_ thumbnail. It's one of the false, bright red nails my husband insists I wear. I don't pay for them, of course. I don't pay for anything. So, technically, their _his_ nails. Suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, and wondering why I hadn't realized before that that's one of the many ways he exercised ownership over me, I want to rip each of the ten nails off. However, that's a minor concern right now. I can solve the sickening sense that I was bought and paid for once I'm safe.

Passing a trash can, I stop and hurl the cell's battery in before wedging my chipped thumbnail under the SIM card. Easing the little bit of plastic and circuit board free, I toss the rest of the phone into the trash and move again. I'm not entirely sure where I'm heading, but movement feels good, it feels right.

The irony of that is not lost on me. I should have been moving long ago. I should have started moving the moment I met him – I should have been running in the opposite direction, and I shouldn't have stopped until I was out of his reach. The stupid part about it all is that part of me knew that all those years ago. A small voice told me it wasn't right that he wanted to control where I went and what I wore. Yet, I ignored my gut and chose to believe instead that he loved me.

Lifting the SIM to my mouth, I use my teeth to tear it in two before tossing it casually on the sidewalk. No one notices. No one notices anything here. With one small hurdle jumped, I begin to consider my next move, but I know I have to take this in baby steps, otherwise, if I'm not thinking things through properly, I could make a horrible mistake. Ha! _Another_ horrible mistake.

For the most fleeting of seconds, I think about getting out of the country. Somewhere without an extradition treaty with the US: Morocco, Ukraine...there's something almost exciting and romantic about the idea of exiling myself in the Maldives. But this is not some cheap novel's fantasy. This is real life. And there is nothing romantic about where I've come from or where I'm going – even though I don't know where I'm going. What I do know is leaving the country is a bad idea. Using my passport would lead the cops right to me. I need to lie low until the initial search has blown over. Listen to me, 'lie low'...I'm not Bonnie Parker.

I do need to, though. I need to find somewhere quiet, where I can just wait for the fuss to die down. Once it has, I can get on a plane and leave all of it behind. Everything. The memory of this horrific night, and the countless awful days and nights that came before it.

Okay, so what are my choices? Getting a cab is risky, too much chance the driver will remember me and be able to tell the police where I went. Subway is good, busy enough for me to travel completely unnoticed. But how far will that take me? Nowhere near far enough. I don't just need to get out of the city. I want to get out of the state. I want to get clear across the country.

Well, the best, if not only, option is a bus. And, fortunately, I'm not far from a depot. But where should I head? Halting the new stream of questions, I remind myself to take it one step at a time. Small steps. Manageable steps. Get to the depot, and worry about the rest from there.

My feet moving quickly, I adjust the strap of the bag on my shoulder. That's something else I don't have a clear memory of doing: hurriedly packing some clothes. A few sets of underwear, and some casual stuff that I very rarely wear. Throughout my marriage, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I've been 'permitted' to wear jeans. Appearances are important to Michael. And, to his mind, a woman should always be dressed to impress. Of course, those designer dresses, skirts and silk blouses aren't going to be of much use to me now. They'll be even less use to me in prison.

A man plows straight into my shoulder as I arrive at the bus depot. He doesn't bother to say anything, nor does he even look around to see who he bulldozed out of his way. Strangely perhaps, I'm grateful for the rudeness. At least that way, I can be sure he didn't get a look at my face. When the 'wanted' posters go up...do the cops still use 'wanted' posters? Anyway, if they do, the man with broad, impolite shoulders won't find himself thinking about the woman he nearly knocked over.

Keeping my own head tipped downward, I shuffle to the ticket desk. Hovering in front of it, though, I'm forced to lift my face. Quickly, I scan the screens that display the timetables. There are really only two considerations. First, how far away can I get? Second, how quickly can I go? I don't want to hang around here any longer than necessary.

My heart still thudding against my ribs, although now partly due to the quick strides I'd been using to get here, I blink. In ten minutes, a bus will be leaving for Haswell, Colorado. I've never been that far west. In fact, I've been barely further than Newark. Colorado seems like a good place to go though. It's quite vast, a lot of open spaces. Plenty of places for someone to hide. Plenty of places for someone like _me_ to hide.

The journey is going to take more than twenty-four hours, and that troubles me, because it means being confined in the bus almost that entire time. But at least on a bus, there are opportunities to get off. If I don't make it all the way to Haswell, I can still get out of the city. And getting out of the city is, at this moment, my main priority.

Stepping to the desk, I blow at the bangs that are almost in my eyes, but the humidity of the evening, coupled with my panic and the exertion of my strides, has left my forehead clammy and the blonde hair sticks to it. Blonde hair; something else that's not mine. Another part of me that's been changed at my husband's request, and another part of me that he paid for.

As I quietly ask for a one-way ticket, and pull a few of the bills from my pocket, I realize he's also buying my freedom. And that will be one of the last things he ever pays for. If the situation were different, that might feel good. But, as it is, I just feel nauseous.

I try not to let it show. I try not to look shifty. Instead, I force a polite smile for the middle-aged woman behind the desk. As it turns out, she's not giving me a great deal of her attention. I can hear sounds from the small TV beneath the counter, and her eyes must be fixed on its screen. Pushing the ticket across the desk, which is tacky with spilled drinks and sweaty fingers, she doesn't even look up. "Have a good trip." The words are mumbled, and wholly insincere – obviously part of the 'script' she's been told to stick to. Her disinterest is just fine by me.

Blending in with the few others there, I grab a couple of magazines and some of my favorite candy bars, but deep down I know I won't be able to distract myself with them, or anything else for that matter. My focus flits to the candy bars, and I'm reminded that it's been a long time since I ate. But my stomach isn't in the least bit interested in having anything put into it.

As an elderly woman gets closer and picks up a newspaper, I back away. What will be on the front pages tomorrow? Will there be a picture of me? No. I'm just being paranoid now. The police will come looking, of that there's little question. But it's not going to make national news. It won't...will it?

Nervousness burning a hole in my empty stomach, I wander aimlessly until we're finally allowed to board the bus. I make my way to the back, and I'm about to stow my bag in the overhead compartment, but quickly change my mind. If I do need to get off in a hurry, it'll make things quicker if I don't have to fumble. So sliding into the seat by the window, I dump the bag on the seat next to me. By the looks of things, the vehicle won't be overcrowded and no-one's going to bother me to move it. In fact, there are only half a dozen other passengers. That's worrying, as it makes me noticeable.

Leaning back, I try to calm that concern. After all, I've paid in cash. And, given the lifestyle I'm used to, catching a bus doesn't seem the most likely thing for me to be doing. Why would anyone be looking for me here? No, surely, they'll go to the airports; the private landing strips; the cab companies; maybe the ferries – but a bus? Who would think to look for the wife of Michael Wiedlin on a bus? Actually, now that I think of it, I haven't been on a bus since school.

As the heavy engine starts, causing a rumble that moves through the whole vehicle and vibrates the seat I'm sitting in, I set my eyes on the window. It's going to be a long trip. Much longer than the day it'll take to get to Colorado. My earlier burst of adrenaline, the one that had seen me gather my things from the condo in a more cool-headed way than I had a right to, is fading. Exhaustion is beginning to hit, but I'm still too scared to let my eyes droop closed.

Peering down at my red nails, I tease at the broken thumbnail, eventually ripping the entire thing off. Then, systematically, I remove the others, leaving my own chewed and sticky nails beneath. The weight on my left hand suddenly seeming very heavy, I twirl the joined engagement and wedding rings. Then, with a quick tug, I pull them off. For a moment, I just hold them in my palm. Wanting to get them as far away from me as possible, I think about tossing them out of the window. Instead, I stuff them into one of the zipped pockets of my bag.

Whatever else happens, I'm definitely not a married woman anymore.

# Chapter Two

I stayed awake for hours, but, eventually, sleep must have had it's way with me, because as my eyelids flutter open again, the bus is stopped. The man in the seat three rows in front of me is getting his case out of the overhead closet. Blinking, I toss my focus outside and notice that it's incredibly dark. Barely any lights on the street make the place look pitch black compared with any time of the night in New York.

"Excuse me?" I mumble, my voice hoarse.

The man who's setting his case on the floor, twists toward me. "Do you want help getting yours down?"

"Oh, no, thank you." Perhaps if I weren't so sleep-fogged, I'd think better of talking to him at all. But I'm beginning to realize that, realistically, I can't keep avoiding all contact with absolutely everybody. For one thing, I need an important question answered. "Are we in Haswell?" And for another, I'm going to have to find somewhere to spend the night

The man, who's in his fifties with weathered skin and salt and pepper hair, smiles. "That we are."

Rubbing the heel of my hand across my still weary eyelids, I force myself to get up. Unwilling, my feet trip over each other and I grip the seat in front to stop myself tumbling on my face.

"You okay there?"

"I'm fine," I reply, lifting my face to him and giving him a small smile. "Legs just don't want to do anything."

Chuckling, he scoops up his case and takes the few steps closer. "Ah, they'll be all right once you get 'em moving." As he reaches out a hand to steady me, I reflexively draw back. "Sorry," he grumbles, seeming offended by my quick effort to get away from him.

It wasn't him. But I couldn't explain that. "I'm sorry," I reply. "I'm just...I'm still half asleep." That is part of the reason I flinched when he tried to touch me, but it's not quite the whole story.

Thankfully though, he seems to accept it as excuse enough. Placing his hands in his pockets, he smiles again. "That's alright. So, you got somewhere to stay?"

"Yes," I lie quickly and proficiently. Turning back to the seat, I pick up my bag and slip it onto my shoulder. "Yes, but I'm just passing through." That's true, or at least, I want it to be. I don't know where I'm going to go from here, and I don't know how I'm going to make the next phase of the journey, but a next phase there will have to be. For now, though, and maybe for a few days, middle-of-nowhere Colorado is a pretty good place to hide out. I think. I hope.

"Okay," he replies, nodding. "Well, I'm in the farm just a ways up there." Pointing out the rear window, he gestures into the dark. "If you need anything, you just come on by."

"Friendly town?" I ask, trying to make the question sound more casual than it is. 'Friendly town' meant nosy town. That was something I hadn't really thought through. People talked in small towns. Everybody knew everybody in small towns. And if they started to talk about the strange woman, who looked horribly out of place, two and two might begin to make four.

"Oh, well some people are, some people aren't." He shrugs. "Same as anyplace, I guess."

"Well..." I murmur, desperate to get away from him even though I have no idea where I'm going. It occurs to me for a moment that I could take the seemingly kind stranger up on his offer of help. But I've already told him that I have a place to stay, it'll seem odd if I change my mind now. Besides, there's something about him. I can't quite put my finger on it; something in his eyes or the shape of his face that reminds me of Michael. "I better make a move," I quickly add, shuffling past him. "It was nice to meet you."

"You too," he calls after me as I make my way to the front of the bus and climb gratefully down.

Well, I'm in the middle of nowhere alright. There's vastness everywhere. In a way, that feels good, it feels like freedom. But there's a kind of agoraphobic sensation. In all this open space, there are few places to hide. Both sides of the road are graced with a few buildings, each has land either side of it. None are more than two-stories. The road itself, meanwhile, is completely quiet. As I peer skyward, I'm dazzled by how many stars I can see and how bright they appear. Would the sky in New York really look the same if it weren't for the constant bright lights?

For a while, I allow myself to soak up that beautiful sky, like a child seeing snow for the first time. However, as the reality of my situation catches up with me, I drag my fascinated gaze down. What now? I've shunned the only offer of help I'm likely to get. Even if I find a hotel, they might ask to see ID; and some places only accept credit cards. What is clear, as the man gets off the bus and calls "Goodnight!", is I can't just stay here. Sticking out like a sore thumb, I'm asking for trouble.

I wave back at him and start to walk, deliberately choosing the opposite direction to the one he's going in. But I have no clue where I'm heading.

It's not as humid here as it is back in New York; instead it's a dry heat. In the silence, and the fact there is silence is another source of wonder to a girl who's spent her entire life in a city, there's the occasional buzzing of insects and what I think might be the sound of frogs or toads...but I don't claim to be an expert in animal noises, it could be anything.

Still, I keep walking. As I leave the little Mom and Pop stores, and the few sparsely spaced houses behind and begin to walk into a middle of nowhere within the middle of nowhere, I grow uneasy. And it's not just strange men I need to fear. I have no clue what kind of wild animals are around here, coyotes maybe? And, of course, I'm walking to....I don't know. As I wander further and further away from civilization, such as it was back there, I might never find myself near it again.

Eventually, I see a light a few yards away on my left. I pause, and glance behind me, figuring I've come too far to go back. I'm sure I have no choice. Nevertheless, it's not without misgivings that I leave the road and walk along a dusty track. The nearer I come to it, I realize the light that's drawing me out of the blanket of darkness is coming from a sort of farmhouse. Although it's a large one, not the painted wooden kind of structure I'd expect in a place like this.

That does nothing to ease the nerves swirling in my stomach, though. What if this is Norman Bates' house? Truthfully, though, I'm not as frightened as I should be. I suppose that has a lot to do with everything that's happened in the last thirty hours, and everything that's still to come. There's so much to be scared of that being killed by a maniac, who might go on to make a dress out of my skin, is suddenly and alarmingly low on my list of worries.

Stepping up a short wooden stoop, my feet clump in a way that's deafening to my ears, but I'm aware that the sound is distorted to me. Knowing that doesn't stop me from tiptoeing the last few feet, which in itself is stupid. I'm about to disturb the family inside by knocking on their door. Sneaking up on them; isn't doing them or me any favors.

Drawing in a slow breath, I hold it as I lift my hand and wrap my knuckles against the semi-circle of clear glass on the upper third of the door. It's a hesitant, light knock. And I have a strong feeling no-one will hear it. However, I'm proven wrong as movement inside creates shadows on the glass. And then, while I'm still holding the breath that's starting to tighten my lungs, the door swings inward.

A man in his early thirties comes into view. He's wearing a well-worn pair of jeans that are so thin at the knees they're on the verge of fraying. His shirt is a red and black plaid, which is rolled up to his elbows. His short hair is raven, and is a little scruffy around his ears, as though it's due for a trim. Dark brown eyes take me in slowly, and then he begins to smile gently.

"Hi there."

"Um...hello."

I feel like a fish out of water. I'm still in the clothes I ran from the condo in; a camel colored pencil skirt and a peach blouse. I'm sweaty, my hair probably looks a frizzy mess. If Dorothy had been whisked from the city into the country, I imagine she'd look a little as I do right now.

He's certainly looking at me with barely masked amusement. "Has something happened? Car break down?"

"No," I reply, shaking my head and kicking myself for not thinking of a story before I knocked on the damn door. "No, I just arrived here on the bus." No story needed there, just the truth, but that was where the truth would have to stop. "Uh...I'm passing through, and I...Well, I know this must seem like a huge imposition, but do you think I could bother you for somewhere to stay for the night?"

"I-"

I didn't let him get any further. "I would pay you of course."

Resting his palm high on the door, he leans into it, eventually resting the side of his head against the back of his hand. "I don't want your money, Miss."

"Well, then is there something else I can do for you?" Quickly realizing that might be misconstrued, I add, "I'd be quite happy to do some work on the farm."

"It's actually a ranch." He's smiling, but beyond that, it's hard to tell what's going on behind those eyes so dark they look black pools of oblivion threatening to pull me in. "And, it's very kind of you to offer, but I'm full-handed."

"Oh."

"You're more than welcome to stay here anyway."

"Oh," I repeat, surprise rather than disappointment coloring my voice this time. "Oh, well, that's....That's immensely....That's very good of you."

Chuckling, he lifts his face off his hand and cocks his head backward. "Come on in."

I know that he's good looks mean nothing. After all, Norman Bates himself had a pretty face. I'm not fooled into thinking that a pleasant smile means I'm safe. On the contrary, in a way, I'm more wary now I know the owner of the house is a young, attractive man. "Are...are you sure your wife won't mind?"

"I'm not married," he replies stepping back and holding the door open wide in welcome.

My choices slimmer than Michael's personal assistant, who I knew had tended to more than just his professional needs, I thank the man again as I step across the threshold.

"I'm Leo by the way," he says brightly offering me his hand.

For a split second, I simply glance down at it, unsure whether to take it or not. It's that stupid fear that gripped me on the bus again. Swallowing it as quickly as I can, I press my palm to his. "I'm Portia." It tumbles out before I have the chance to second-guess it. I could have given him a false name. Maybe I should have. But he doesn't need to know my surname, and if I'm gone by the morning, it doesn't really matter anyway.

His hand is warm; the fingertips calloused from work, and the rest of the skin dry from being outdoors in all weathers. "Well, it's nice to meet you Portia," he says, letting go of me and closing the door. "You hungry?"

It has been more than a day since I ate anything, but I haven't really thought about the gnawing emptiness in my stomach until he asked that question. Do I really want to eat, though? It's been so long that I'm past the point of hungry. So, it's no longer a case of wanting to. It's what I should do. "I...I suppose," I mumble. "Please don't go to any trouble, though."

"It's no trouble." With an easy shake of his head, he turns and wanders down the wide entrance hall. After a few long strides, he stops and turns back to find me still standing motionless by the door. "Aren't you coming?" he asks with a chuckle.

"Oh," I breathe. "Sorry, I didn't realize..." Didn't realize what? That he was expecting me to follow? That he wasn't going to command me to? That he didn't expect me to stay put until told otherwise? Not bothering to try to find a way to finish the sentence, I wander after his footsteps. Once I'm close, he turns again and leads the way into his kitchen.

The room is vast, with dark wood floors, pine kitchen cabinets and black granite counters. An island sits in the middle of the room, with four stools placed around it. As he strolls to the fridge, my gaze drifts to the far end of the room where huge windows would let in massive amounts of light if it weren't the middle of the night.

"So, what can I get you?" he asks, twisting his face toward me.

"Um..."

Smiling kindly, he tries to tease information from me more slowly. "Anything you don't eat?"

"I'm a vegetarian," I admit quietly. I'm waiting for the roll of his eyes, the annoyed puff of his cheeks as he sighs. Michael always reacted that way. He'd spent the entirety of our marriage trying to get me to eat meat like a 'normal' person.

"Okay," he replies without fuss or hesitation. "So, are you in the mood for something light or are you starving?"

"Light is fine, thank you." Probably not a good idea to gorge myself when my nerves or so raw, and I'm depleted and tired.

"Sandwich?"

"Perfect."

Humming to himself quietly, he casts his attention back to the fridge. "I've got a few vegetables here. How do you feel about hummus?"

"I like it," I reply, astonished that this stranger is going out of his way to not just feed me but offer me something I'll enjoy. Although he's not to know that I'm unlikely to enjoy anything right at this moment. I'm too anxious.

"Great," he says, taking a handful of things out of the fridge and placing them on the counter. "Take a seat," he adds, grinning. "Make yourself at home."

On instinct more than anything else, I do as I'm told. Wandering to the island, I drop my bag and struggle to perch myself on the stool with the clinging fabric of my skirt constricting my legs.

For a few moments, he works quietly. Once the sandwich is sliced and placed neatly on a plate, he takes a seat opposite me. "If it's not a rude question," he begins, pushing the really rather delicious looking rye bread toward me. "What brings you here? You don't really look like you're from around these parts."

"It's...um...a long story." Accepting the plate, I smile shyly. "Thank you." Picking up the sandwich, which is crammed thick with tomato, two types of lettuce, some grated carrot, red onion and a healthy spread of what looks like homemade hummus, I wonder if it will taste like freedom. "But, you're right, I'm not from around here," I admit before sinking my teeth into the late night snack.

Leo watches me with a small smile, waiting I assume to get my verdict. When an unbidden hum of approval drifts from me, his grin widens. I'm not sure if it's the flavor of freedom, but it definitely tastes good.

He doesn't ask any more questions. Not about what I'm doing here, or where I'm from. Not about anything. It occurs to me that the silence should be awkward. But for some reason, it isn't. Perhaps he's as tired as I am. After all, work on the ranch must start early. He's probably been up since four or five in the morning.

I clean every crumb from the plate, my appetite having returned in the process of eating. With a light laugh, he asks if I want anything else, and I gratefully decline. "That was really nice, though. Thank you."

"My pleasure," he dismisses softly. "Come on, I'll show you upstairs, you must be exhausted."

I imagine I look it. Nodding, I slip down from the stool and reach down for my bag. However, before I've managed to grab hold of it, Leo's already swept it up. Second-guessing himself, he glances at me and gives me the chance to demand he give the bag back. But I simply thank him again.

He guides me back to the hallway and to the broad staircase. On the second floor, he leads me across the landing. "There's a bathroom here," he says, pausing to point at a closed door. "I use the one connected to my bedroom, so this is all yours." Turning to the door opposite, he flicks this one open. "And you can sleep in here. Sheets are all clean."

In my current weary state, I wouldn't much care if they weren't. If I'd been given nothing more than a dirty old blanket, I could quite happily have slept on his lawn.

"Will this be okay?"

"This is more than okay," I quickly assure him, catching a quick glimpse of the neat room with its big canopy bed, which looked at least a hundred years old. "I really can't thank you enough for this." As the words slip out, I regret them. It invites a selection of comments, including, 'Oh, I think we can find a way for you to thank me.'

"It's no problem," he says instead with a shrug. Walking inside, he places my bag gently on the end of the bed before twisting back to me. "Oh, and the door locks if you'll feel happier. But, I promise, you're completely safe." Disarmingly, he flashes me a broad smile. "If you need anything in the night, I'm at the end of the hall." He gestures that way.

I don't pay too much attention, though. I have absolutely no intention of disturbing him. Even if the room was on fire, I would deal with it myself. He's put himself out quite enough for me.

Stepping back, he doesn't stop grinning. "Good night, Portia."

# Chapter Three

I wake to the sweet smell of pancakes and syrup. There are worse ways to be tugged from blissful oblivion. And, for a few seconds at least, I'm able to fool myself into believing that life is as sweet as that scent. However, reality very quickly permeates my conscious mind. I may be in the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in. I may have slept like a log, and inviting smells may be wafting up from downstairs. But life is very far from picture perfect.

For one thing, I have to figure out what I'm going to do next. I can't stay in Small Town, Colorado. But I don't have anywhere to go. I've no friends I can contact. No family – well, no family that won't palm me off to the police as soon as they look at me. I am on my own. And I don't know what to do.

Maybe I don't have to move right away. Not today, anyway. Perhaps Leo will let me stay one more night and, by tomorrow, I'll have a plan. Will he? I'm almost certain he will. He's a truly remarkable person. I've never known anyone so blindly trusting, so inherently good. Is that possible? Is he as nice as he seems? He can't be. No human being is that nice. Everyone has an angle, everyone wants something. He's just an expert in playing the game.

Except, for reasons I can't account for, I'm not totally convinced by what my cynical voice is telling me. Maybe I'm just getting sentimental; maybe I just _want_ Leo to prove me wrong about the world. Doesn't mean he will. Regardless; whatever else is going to happen today, I have to get up.

I crawl out of bed, wander across the hall and take a shower. Then, back in my room and wrapped in a huge, fluffy, white towel I take some of my less conspicuous clothes out of my bag. Once I'm dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, I head downstairs.

In the kitchen, Leo is whistling to himself as he flips a new batch of pancakes. A plate stacked high with them is already waiting. "Feeding an army?" I wonder quietly, as I walk in.

"Hey," he greets, twisting his face over his shoulder. "Good morning. You look..." Stalling himself as his dark brown eyes move down the length of my body, he smiles. "You look good. Did you sleep well?"

I'm not used to being looked at like that. It wasn't the exacting look my husband used to give me. It wasn't the leering look some of his friends and colleagues flashed at me. It's subtly appreciative, and yet my legs aren't on display, there's no cleavage to ogle. I didn't even bother to put any makeup on. So, what exactly he's appreciating is something of a mystery. "I did," I say, recalling he'd asked a question. "Thank you. I slept very well."

"Good." Turning back to his cooking, he scoops the piping hot pancakes onto the plate.

Before I have a chance to ask again how many people he's feeding, deep voices drift in from the back door. As I turn, I see four men, the youngest probably no more than nineteen, and the eldest in his forties. All are dusty, and sweaty. As they notice me, they pause.

"Leo, dude." One the men chuckles.

My dark-haired knight in shining armor doesn't respond with the smugness he could do, though. "Guys, this is Portia. She's just passing through town and needed a place to stay."

A cocktail of 'hello', 'hi', and 'howdy' comes my way. Nervously, I nod and greet them in response. Thankfully, they don't seem too interested in me. Nothing else is said. Instead, they take their places at a large table in front of those immense windows; they let in an endless amount of sunlight, which bathes the room in a rich amber glow and soft warmth. There's something verging on celestial about it.

The youngest of the men sweeps one of the large plates off the counter before tossing his eyes at me. "How about some coffee, babe?"

Leo's right hand whips out and he claps the boy around the back of the head. "She's a guest," he says pointedly. "Make it yourself."

"I don't mind helping, I can-"

He doesn't let me get any further than that, though. "He's quite capable. Aren't you, Steve?"

Rubbing at the dusty blond hair at the back of his head, he chuckles. "Yeah, boss."

"Take a seat," Leo urges, smiling at me. "Guests in my house don't wait on anybody."

Wondering if he's for real, I move to the table and sit next to a bear of a man, who is as hairy as he is large. It occurs to me as I settle down that if Leo is putting on an act for my benefit, his friends...or employees (or both); they don't notice a change in him. The men are talking quietly, and laughing naturally. No-one has given him a sidelong glance that says, 'What are you doing, man?' So, maybe it's not an act.

The pancakes are brought to the table and soon after follows the freshly brewed coffee that Steve has managed to make. As we eat, occasionally a question is asked of me. But, they're pretty general: Where did I come from? Where was I heading? To both, I answer truthfully. New York. And, I'm not quite sure yet. When that raises an eyebrow or two, I feel a desire to fill the skeptical silence.

"I'm traveling alone for the first time. I just...I had a crazy idea about breaking loose and seeing the country. It's probably a stupid idea, but..."

"Doesn't sound like a stupid idea to me," the bear beside me says around a mouthful. "I wish I'd done something like that when I was younger."

"Brave of you, though," another voice chips in.

Shrugging, I dip my eyes to my plate. The conversation smoothly moves to other subjects; the men discuss their workload for the rest of the day and their plans for the weekend - apparently, there's a big barbecue planned.

Eventually, with full bellies, the men get up and stack their licked plates in the dishwasher. Steve even takes mine. I try to stop him, but he insists. And then, waving me goodbye, they head back outside, moving as noisily as they came in.

Leo lingers behind. Still sitting at the kitchen table, he looks at me with a subtle smile that's difficult to interpret.

"Um," I begin, clearing my throat when I realize the sound coming from me is reedy. "Please say 'no' if it's an imposition, but I wondered if you'd mind me staying one more night."

"That's fine."

"You see, I'm not really sure where to head next, and I...What did you say?"

Laughing, he leans back and runs a hand through his thick head of slightly too long hair. "I said, that's fine. You can stay here as long as you like."

Just like that? I didn't have to explain myself, apologize, give him the exact date I'd be freeing up his spare room, or offer to make it up to him somehow. He wants none of those things. It's all just simply 'fine'. I can't help but wonder if he's so laid-back about everything in life. I gain the distinct impression he is, but nobody's that easy-going, are they?

"Do you want me to show you around?" he offers, tipping his head to the vast stretch of glass that opens up to the beautiful landscape behind me.

Turning, I stare at the sunbathed land; grass so dry it's brown, dusty trails leading to barns and stables. On one hand, it all looks sort of barren. But there's something so appealing about it, too. "If you don't mind," I say, twisting my face toward him again. I'm not sure spending more time with him is an entirely good idea; he's so relaxed that I'm finding myself relaxed, too. And I have to stay on my guard. But, at the same time, I can't just stay holed up in my room. With only my own self-hating thoughts for company, I'll go insane. A distraction is definitely a good idea.

Pushing his chair back, he gets to his feet. "Come on."

Mirroring his motion, I walk around the table and follow him outside. It's hotter than I could have imagined. The air is so dry that it's a little hard to breathe. Leo glances at me out of the corner of his eyes as I suck in a deep lungful. When he seems satisfied that I'm alright, he strides forward again.

I follow, blinking at the way the sun reflects on the dusty ground. It's not quite as blinding as sun on snow, but it's not far from it. I didn't even bring sunglasses with me. Oddly enough, that wasn't one of the things I considered in my desperate attempt to leave as quickly as possible.

"We've got most of our cattle over there," he tells me, pointing towards the hazy horizon.

I can see the herd, or at least the blurred outline of animals, some distance away. "How much land do you own?"

"A little shy of a thousand acres." Sticking his hands into the pockets of his black jeans, he continues to walk, but his steps are slow and they kick up dead grass and dirt as he goes. "It's not a huge ranch, but we do okay."

A thousand acres seem like an immense amount of land to me. It means everything that I'm looking at is his property. It's difficult to imagine that in New York. Michael's company owns a large number of buildings - he would have known the number exactly, but I was less concerned with precisely how much he owned and precisely how much he was worth. For a moment, I wonder what he'd think of all this. Never in a million years could he even dream of owning all that he could see. Of course, he'd just scoff at Leo's ranch, though; the land here is much less valuable than back in New York...at least, in monetary terms. If value is measured in something other than ready cash, though, I figure this place wins.

"Do you ride?" he asks, turning to me.

"Horses?" I reply stupidly.

His broad grin tells me he thinks it was a dumb answer, too. Although, he doesn't seem to be making fun of me as he nods. "Uh huh."

"Um, no. I mean, I haven't ridden before."

"Seriously?" That appeared to be an almost alien concept to him. Cocking his head, he eyed me closely. "Never ever? I thought you uptown girls all had ponies by the time you were ten."

"Uptown girls?" I repeat, giving him a look that's very similar to the one he's giving me. "What makes you think I'm an uptown girl?" I don't know why it bothers me that he thinks that. I suppose because I assume 'uptown' comes with a whole raft of assumptions: spoiled brat, bitch, snob. And, if I'm honest, what bothers me most is that those things have been true of me.

Chuckling softly, he rocks on the soles of his feet. "I don't know. I guess, the name Portia was a clue. Aren't you then?"

"Well, I never had a pony," I mutter. It doesn't really answer his query, but if that's his criteria, I'm content not to go beyond it.

"You want to learn?"

"Huh?"

"How to ride." The discussion about whether or not I was a sheltered little rich girl forgotten, he returns to his first question. "It's not hard, I promise."

"I don't really...I don't know if..."

"Come on," he urges, laughing as he strides forward again. "There's not a feeling in the world like it." Pausing just long enough to make sure I'm following, he grins at me. "It's complete freedom. It's the closest you can get to flying on solid ground. I swear, you won't regret it."

I'm not as convinced about regrets. If I fall and break my leg, I will certainly regret it. I can just imagine trying to explain to him that I can't go the hospital, because I don't want anyone to know where I am. The rest of his words are attractive, though. His enthusiasm is infectious. And before I have time to think better of it, I'm letting him lead me into one of the stables.

# Chapter Four

By the end of the week, I'm aware of two things. One, I should really be thinking of moving on. And two, I don't really want to. I like Leo's company, and it's been a very long time since I enjoyed anyone's company, especially a man's. I feel safe here, even though I have every reason in the world to feel very unsafe. Rationally, I know I'm not safe. Staying in one place for too long is exactly the opposite of what I should be doing.

And, the longer I remain here, the more suspicious my new friend is going to become. He's incredible welcoming and ridiculously trusting, but he's by no means a stupid man. My continued efforts to skirt or outright avoid his questions must be starting to seem strange to him.

Every night, I've promised myself that I'll leave the following day. But every morning, I lack the will to move, or even think about where in the world I might go. And he doesn't make it any easier. He's so friendly, so warm. So completely unconcerned with when I'll be getting out from under his hair. In fact, I could swear he's encouraging me to stay. Maybe that's just my imagination. Perhaps I'm finding an excuse for my own weakness.

Nevertheless, he has been incredibly kind. Each day, he's taken me riding with him. I'm starting to get the hang of it, although mounting is still a pretty graceless affair. He's shown me all around his property. He's shown me how to rope cattle; something that he's talented at. I've helped him lug hay bales around. He tried to dissuade me from it, but I've been determined to prove I'm not the snooty heiress he seems to think I am. Besides, I couldn't just stand and watch him with sweat soaking right through his shirt. The soft fabric had been clinging to him, enabling me to see how athletically trim he was. The hard work he did day in and day out had left him solidly built and with no discernible body fat whatsoever.

Later that afternoon, while I showered, I found myself thinking about him: about the way the beads of sweat rolled down his neck and the fact his shirt was so wet I could see the ridges of his abdominal muscles. Closing my eyes, I pictured him right there in the shower with me as my hands slid over my body. Part of me knew that was a bad sign. Yet, still, I've remained right here. It's as though some weight is shackled around my ankle. The problem is; it's one I'm not overly perturbed by. I'm certainly not making any effort to remove it.

And the thing is, over the past six days, I've been able to forget everything. When I'm with Leo, it's as if my old life is a nightmare that I've awoken from. My decision to marry Michael seems surreal. Even more unreal to me is my choice to stay with him for seven years, when every instinct was telling me to run. Although part of me knows that wasn't really a choice. Not much of one any way. By that point, I was trapped. And now, as each day's passed, that final night with him seems more blurred. Everything happened so quickly, I can't even be sure of the order of things now.

"Portia?" The soft voice outside the door accompanies a soft tapping.

"Yeah," I reply.

"You decent?"

Buttoning a three-quarter length sleeved plaid shirt, I smile to myself. Always the gentleman. The question gives my cause to think, though. "Depends on your definition of decent," I whisper beneath my breath. I've a firm suspicion the very noble, moral and wholly good man on the other side of the door wouldn't think of me as 'decent' if he knew the truth about me. "You can come in,' I say aloud.

Quietly opening the door, he sticks his head inside while his body remains in the hall. "Hey, I was just wondering if you wanted to go out to dinner tonight?"

"That's sweet of you." Fastening the last of the buttons I move closer to him. "I don't really want to go into town, though." This is, I think, the third time he's asked me to travel in with him on an errand, or to go see a movie, or grab a bite to eat. I haven't given very good excuses for not wanting to go, and clearly that's not changing anytime soon. "I like hanging out here," I add, grinning at him. Well, that is at least true.

"Well..." Inhaling, he shrugs. "Okay. I mean, I know a really nice place, but..."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I'd just rather stay here." Will that confirm his belief that I'm a snob. Although, in fairness to him, apart from that one 'uptown girls' comment, he's made no mention of money, or my background at all. Still, he must be harboring a view of me as some affluent, snooty princess.

"Then, we'll stay here," he replies simply. "I'll fix us something. You in the mood for anything in particular?"

The word 'you' springs to my mind, but I beat that mischievous inner voice back. Truth be told, I'm not even sure where it came from. I've never been that way around a man before. In the past, men have always pushed for more than I've been willing to give. Even with Michael, he'd cajole me, try to get me drunk...or take a less subtle approach. I'd never found myself wanting a man who was just out of reach.

"Portia?"

"Hmm?"

Chuckling, his bright eyes twinkle. He looks even more handsome when he does that. Wrinkles at the corners of his lips and at the edges of his eyes lighten his whole face, making his natural warmth positively glow. "I asked whether there's anything you're in the mood for?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I don't mind what we have. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Sure." Stepping back, he beckons me with his head.

That trademark gesture of his is small, but effective. And, although in another man, I might have viewed it as a command, with Leo it felt like an affable request. I can't explain how one flick of a head could mean one thing, while another so clearly means something else. There was no obvious physical difference. The difference was only in how it made me feel, as though the intent behind it could be felt rather than seen.

As I continue to ponder what it is about Leo that I find so unthreatening, I follow him downstairs. He tosses out a few dinner suggestions as he walks into the kitchen, and I tell him that anything sounds good to me. With a quiet nod, as though he's reaching a decision, he heads to the fridge and gets out a handful of ingredients. As always I'm captivated by the deft, graceful movement of his large hands. Shuffling nearer to him, I lean back against the counter and watch as he dices some vegetables with a proficiency that's verging on chef-like.

"Where did you learn to cook?" I wonder aloud.

"Mom," he replies, not lifting his eyes as the knife moves swiftly in his hand. "She's pretty great."

"Does she live in town?"

"No, she and my dad moved down to Hawaii."

"Nice."

"Yeah," he agrees, grinning broadly. "How about your parents? You close to them?"

It's not the first time he's asked me about my life, and it's another quiet reminder that I'm playing with fire by staying here. Even though I've kept myself out of the town, his ranch hands know I'm here. Word about Leo's 'house guest' are probably doing the rounds. The net might be closing in as I stand here and silently watch him, as though I haven't a worry in the world.

"Um...my dad died when I was fifteen. My mom and I never really got along."

Lifting his face, his smile faded. "I'm sorry about your dad, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine." I didn't want him to feel bad, but I am glad that seems to have stopped that particular path of conversation. And, for a short time, he focuses on his work. I ask if I can do anything and, knowing I won't let it go if he doesn't give me something to do, he amuses me in the same way you'd keep a child entertained in the kitchen, by requesting that I fetch various things.

In less than fifteen minutes, he's prepared a pasta dish that he suggests we eat outside. Happily, I agree.

Out on the deck, he has a wood burning heater, which we don't need. But he also has a few bug-killing lamps that hang from a beam near the roof. And he does put them on, so we're not bitten to death while we eat. At a small timber table, we sit.

I'm smiling for no reason. I can't take my eyes off him. I am in big trouble.

His hair is still too long; at the back it's brushing his collar now. And it's flopping over the top of his ears. Some of it dangles across his forehead, making him look even younger. Once, during the week, he grumbled about it being time he got it cut. But I like it. Maybe I like it, because it's so different from all the preppy boys I dated at school. It's scruffy, and dangerous. No, scratch that, there's nothing dangerous about this man. Maybe I like it because it's completely different from Michael's fast-receding buzz cut.

"What do you think?" he asks.

Distracted as I might be, I know he's not talking about his hair. I haven't even touched the food yet. Realizing that, I quickly scoop up a mouthful and chew enthusiastically on it. "Hmm, it's really good."

"Good." He seems genuinely pleased, almost as though he's satisfied a Michelin star panel. "Y'know, Portia, I'm not sure how much longer you're planning to stay-"

"I'm sorry," I gabble, giving up my hold on the fork. "I've outstayed my welcome, haven't I? I'll get out of your way tomorrow."

"No, no," he replies, shaking his head. "That's not what I'm saying at all. I'm...I just wanted to say that this week has been a lot of fun."

"Oh."

"I've really loved getting to know you. And, the thing is, if you don't have to leave, I'd like you to stay."

"You would?" The question is asked so quietly, I'm not sure it made it out of my head.

It must have done, though, because he nods firmly. "If you can."

"For how long?"

"For however long you can stay," he offers with a casual shrug of one shoulder.

Is he really suggesting that I stay here for an indefinite length of time? "I...I..."

"I understand if you have other places to be, and you want to move on. But I...Well, I'm in no rush to be rid of ya." Slowly, his lips spread into a broad smile and I had to fight the urge to lean across the table and kiss him. "I just want you to know that."

Stretching my hand forwards, I curl my fingers around his. "Thank you. I can't ever tell you how grateful I am for everything."

As the hand beneath mine twists and he presses his palm to my skin, I feel a shock of electricity snap through me. If he feels it too, he seems remarkably unaffected. I, on the other hand, feel my cheeks flush. I think he must see it, and misinterprets the blush as discomfort, because he smoothly releases me.

We finish the meal quietly and, for a while, we move our chairs so we're sitting side by side, and just gaze up at the stars. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" I murmur. I'm just as captivated by that view of the sky as I was on the very first night I arrived in Haswell; there's no diminishing of returns. And I'm almost certain there won't be; even if I spend every night for the next hundred years staring at it.

"Hmm." With his soft hum of agreement, he slowly stretches an arm across the back of my chair. It isn't an adolescent, gauche motion. Instead, it all seems perfectly natural. As his palm smooths across my shoulder, I stiffen almost imperceptibly. It's been a long time since anyone other than Michael touched me affectionately. And with Michael 'affection' was a questionable definition.

There is no question with Leo, though. He's hand is moving softly, almost amiably, as if he doesn't foresee this leading anywhere. And with any other man, I would have found that incredulous. But I've been living under his roof for a week, and he hasn't made any attempt to flirt. Well, he hasn't intentionally been flirting. Little does he realize that everything he does and says is calling me like a siren's song. And like those women who lured sailors to their deaths, Leo is pulling me toward danger- he just doesn't know it.

Nevertheless, I can't bring myself to move out from under that warm touch. I have no will to politely remove his hand. It feels too good. It feels right. And that, in itself, should feel wrong. I haven't known this man long enough to really trust him. I haven't known him long enough to let my guard down. And while I might still be staying tight-lipped about where I've come from and what I've done, I've allowed myself to drop almost every guard when it comes to physical space – something I never thought I'd do.

"I could stay out here like this forever," he says quietly, but his deep voice reaches my ears easily.

"Me too."

And we do remain that way for a long time. I can't say exactly how long, but we watch the stars gradually move. Although, of course, we're the ones who are moving. Eventually, he gets up and, with a wide stretch of his strong arms, he yawns. "Gettin' late," he notes softly. "You tired?"

I'm not especially tired, but I know if I say 'no', he won't go off to bed and leave me alone. And, unlike me, he must be exhausted. So, despite wanting desperately to spend even just five more minutes with him, guilt over how little sleep he stands to get causes me to nod.

Quietly, we make our way back into the house, wander up the stairs and, in all his small town chivalry, he walks me to my bedroom door. "Good night." As the words leave him, he leans down to me. He's aiming for my cheek; that much is obvious. What's less clear to me is why I twist my face to his, causing his mouth to meet mine.

For a second, his surprise stalls him. But then, in the blink of an eye, as though we both suddenly realize what's happening, his lips lose their hesitancy.

# Chapter Five

I've never been kissed that way before. A man's mouth has never compelled mine to react with such passionate frenzy. Unlike Michael, and the boys (for they had only been boys) who came before, Leo's tongue isn't thrashing about like a dying carp or thrusting back and forth as though he was fucking me with it. He's gently wrestling with mine, exploring every inch of my mouth in an effort to know it, and to know me, by heart. And my own tongue wants to know him, too. I want him deeper. I want to taste him. I want to feel him. I want him closer. I _need_ him closer.

My hands wrap around the back of his neck, and I pull him to me. He comes willingly, feet shuffling until our bodies are pressed together and my back is thrust flush against the door. Palms cupping my face, he moans quietly. The low vibrations ripple through me, and my form responds instinctively to the noise, writhing against him. Momentarily, I wonder what it is about him and what he's doing that is making me act this way – a way that's entirely new to me. But there's no point trying to rationalize it. And as my breath starts to come harder and faster, my brain tells me it's time to stop thinking period.

Giving up the claim I have on his neck, I reach back and grasp the doorknob. With a quick, blind flick, I push the door open and stagger backward as the force of his strong body continues to push on me. Confused, he pulls his lips from mine before letting go of my face in favor of grabbing me by the waist to steady me. "You okay?" he murmurs, his breath a little labored.

Running my hands up his chest, I smile. "Yes." Truth is, I can't remember the last time I was this okay.

Seeming to realize that I opened the door to my bedroom and the invitation I am extending in doing so, he pauses and draws his tongue over his lower lip. "Um...Portia..."

I don't know what he's about to say, but I'm fairly certain that it's unimportant. It's unimportant to me anyway. Gripping the front of his soft shirt, I pull him closer and press my mouth to his an effort to stop him talking. It works, but only for a moment or two.

Chuckling, against my lips, he gently eases me back a step. "Portia, this is all...Well, I don't want to push you."

"You're not pushing me." Although I'm no longer holding my body against his, I refuse to let go of his chest. "Leo, I...I want this." Desire, that's what I'm feeling. For the very first time in my life, sex isn't something to be avoided. It isn't something to endure. I'm not thinking, 'At least it will be over quickly.' I want this. I really want it. I want him: a man I have known for only a week. On the face of it, it's insane. And yet, somehow, it feels like the sanest thing in the world.

"Still...maybe we should-" He was going to say 'slow down', I knew that as surely as anyone can know anything. And, the suggestion would be, unquestionably, a sensible one. It is hard to argue with, especially given everything I'm going through. In fact, if one of us is putting the brakes on, you'd think it should be me.

But I have no intention of saying it, and I don't want to hear it either. "Please, Leo," I whisper, halting him. "I know this is crazy, but..." But what? I'm horny and, for the first time in my life, I don't want to deal with it alone? Crass, and not even true. This isn't just being horny. "I just...I don't want to think." That is true. I didn't want to think about anything: about how reckless this is, how wrong it might be, or how unfair I'm being to him when he doesn't know the truth.

"Yeah?" he murmurs.

"Yeah."

"Good, because I'm not so mad about thinking right now, either." Breaking into a warm grin, his face drifts back down to mine. His mouth meets mine quickly, with more hunger than before. His tongue sweeps between my parted lips, lingering over my taste buds as though something pleasant clings to them.

Feeling utterly helpless, I whimper as my hands twist the fabric of his shirt. The heat of his groin seeping through my clothes and the stirring of his erection prodding at my abdomen, I lose even the slither of rational thought I have left. The thought of him inside me; the thought of our naked bodies moving in primal rhythm is rammed right in the forefront of my brain. It's consuming me, and causing me to become restlessly damp.

Fingers shaking, I grasp at the buttons of his shirt and begin to undo them. It's takes longer than it should, his soft groans as he deepens the kiss making it even harder to move my quivering hands. Eventually, though, I'm pushing the shirt off his shoulders. If I thought I'd been able to get a good idea of his physique through his sweat-soaked clothes, I was wrong. He was so much more beautiful than I imagined in those lust-filled moments in the shower. His torso is adorned with short black hair that forms a kind of T-shape across his pecs and down the center line of his abs.

His muscles are cleanly sculptured, with broad shoulders and a strong chest, which tapers to a narrow waist. How's it possible that this handsome man, with the body of a god, isn't spoken for?

"Hey," he mumbles, sweeping some of my long blonde hair away from my face. "You okay?"

"Just thinking," I note, dragging my eyes unwillingly toward his face. Although, when I find his smile, I realize I've swapped my wonderful view of his chest for one equally great.

"About?"

Shaking my head, I quickly decide the thoughts swirling through my mind are best not shared right at this moment. "I'll tell you later." In case he feels the need to argue, I run my hands up his abdomen, linger over his chest and slowly drift all the way up to his shoulders. "It's not important," I add quietly.

Dark eyes softening, his calm, confident hands slip the buttons of my shirt free. For a fleeting moment, habitual fear grips me. But it's gone as quickly as it arrives, and he doesn't seem to notice any trace of it in my face. Instead, as he deftly strips the shirt from me, his mouth drops to my neck and he draws a line of kisses from my jaw to my collarbone.

Lips so very gentle, I squirm beneath their deliberate teasing. But as he peels the shirt from me and places his large, warm palms on the bare skin at my waist, I inhale sharply. It's been a very long time since anyone other than Michael has touched me like this: skin on skin. I wait for the surge of dread, the slight nausea that I've become used to. Yet, it doesn't come. Leo's hands don't feel anything like my husband's did. Despite being much coarser than Michael's smooth and carefully manicured fingers, Leo's are so much gentler. There's no anger in them. No aggression. No demands. He's not touching me because he has a right to; he's touching me because he wants to make me feel good. That's new to me. And, in its own way, it's a bit scary.

"Leo," I whisper, tipping my head to his until my lips are brushing his ear. Even his name spoken in a panted gasp seems right. "Touch me."

It's a request that might be confusing. After all, he's already touching me. But he seems to understand what I'm asking for. His hands move smoothly, gliding over my ribcage until he meets the lacy fabric of my bra. Unlike my other clothes, I don't have anything in the way of 'casual' underwear. It's all La Perla. Leo doesn't seem to give the designer bra much notice, though. His big hands are quickly covering the material, and smothering my breasts in his warmth.

I arch a little, pushing myself into his touch and releasing a soft moan of gratitude. Deep down, though, I know it won't be enough for long. Already my lower half is writhing; I'm grinding myself against his thigh like a total slut. And as the pressure of it causes my panties to rub against my swollen folds, I learn just how wet I am. "God," I mewl.

"Oh, Portia," he groans, lifting his face to mine. "You're so beautiful." Sweeping up any words I might have to say in reply, he covers my mouth with his in the same way his hands cover my breasts.

Unable to tell him what it is I want, at least with words, I squeeze my hands between our bodies and tug his belt loose. Popping open the button of his jeans, I ease down the zip and wait, unsure whether what I'm about to do will be welcome. Unused to being sexually assertive, I wonder if he'll be upset with me for taking control. Not that I'm really in control. I'm fooling myself if I think that even for a second.

"Portia," he murmurs against my lips.

And with that, the internal debate is quashed. Slipping my hand into his pants, I rub the tented front of his boxers. I feel an almost adolescent sense of thrill as he jerks beneath my palm. It's not just the sense of power, although that's definitely part of it. It's the excitement of knowing that I can please him. That he's not finding me wanting. That gives me hope that he won't find me wanting after it's all over, too.

While I continue to press my palm to the scalding heat in his underwear, he reaches around me and unhooks my bra. I lift my hand from him just long enough to toss the expensive, designer underwear aside. Before I'm able to replace my hand on him, I gasp a trembling breath as his hands carefully caress my bare breasts. Soon his face is diving to them, kissing the outer curves before flicking his tongue across my nipples.

"Oh, God, Leo."

His hands once again on my hips, he kisses my mouth, his tongue moving sensually and deeply as he steers me back toward the bed. Wrapping my arms around him, I smooth my fingers over his back, enjoying the tiny play of muscle with each move he makes.

Quickly, he finds the button of my jeans and pops it open. The zipper follows and the denim is nudged off my hips. I wriggle, trying to help them on their way down, but I'm not sure how much help I'm actually providing. And soon, I'm unable to move at all. As he slides his right hand between my legs and presses his palm to my mound, I'm rendered temporarily paralyzed.

"Alright?" he whispers, tipping his face back to look at me with eyes so full of desire that they're inky black.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I nod before murmuring a breathy, "Yes."

Slowly, he massages me through the thin fabric of my underwear and I shiver, gripping his shoulders to steady myself. Grinning, he kisses me again. Drawing my lower lip between his teeth, he lightly bites down on me as his fingers press more firmly against me.

I buck into his hand, the electric sparks taking hold of my body. I feel suddenly very empty; my sex is yearning to be stretched, to be filled by him. To be so consumed with only him that nothing else exists.

"Leo," I murmur, his teeth still gripping my lip gently.

"Hmm?"

"Please..." I can't be any more articulate than that, but, fortunately, he doesn't need me to be. Hands slipping into the thin elastic of my panties, he edges them down. His lips leave mine and he begins to lavish my breasts with his attention again, as he peels my underwear lower.

For my part, I give them a shove, and then step out of the circle of clothing around my feet. Once I'm free of the puddle, I step back and lower myself onto the bed. Putting my hands back around his neck, I haul him with me. But I don't think he really needs my direction.

Placing most of his weight on the mattress beside me, he leans over me, pressing kisses lower on my abdomen and then the curve of my hip. "Oh, Portia," he whispers.

Raking my hand through his thick hair, I writhe beneath him as he explores my body patiently and affectionately. I love what he's doing. I love that he's so different from the greedy, selfish lovers I've known in the past. However, he's pushing me to the point of desperation.

Reaching down, I edge his pants down and hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxers. Again, he knows what I need without me having to give it words. As he shifts above me, I intuitively part my legs and curl one around him. Beaming broadly, he meets my eyes as he pushes his clothes down and eventually kicks them off. All the while, I feel his thick, heavy erection sliding along my inner thigh and I grow damper by the second.

"Leo," I whisper.

"You okay?" Bracing himself on his arms, he shifts slightly placing himself at my entrance. The broad crest is already stretching me.

"Yes." Smiling, I caress the back of his neck. "Don't stop." Before the words have left my mouth, I'm bracing myself for him to thrust deep and hard.

Only he doesn't. Still grinning at me, a bright, dazzling smile that would make me weak in the knees if I weren't on my back, he slowly pushes forward. Almost as soon as he does, the grin falters. "Oh, Portia," he gasps. "God, you're tight."

Actually, I think it's more that he's big. Really big. But I'm not as worried as I might otherwise be about that, because it's glaringly apparent that he's not going to rut away at me - as was my husband's love-making style.

Carefully giving my body a chance to catch up with his, he slides his arousal that has left my passage slick and willing. Panting hard, he gives a couple of easy, experimental thrusts before urging a little deeper still.

"Ah, Leo!" While the cry comes from deep within me, in a voice that doesn't sound like mine, I move in counterpoint to him, arching to meet his thrust as his hips finally meet mine and he's buried completely in my soft heat. Fluttering around his pulsing cock, my whole body quivers. So, this is what it's supposed to feel like?

"Por...Portia," he breathes, kissing me with desperate lips that are, for the first time, a bit clumsy in their assault of my mouth. I don't mind, though. In fact, if anything, his slight loss of composure is sexier.

My tongue is equally awkward as it snakes over and around his. Tangled mouths continue to move noisily as he begins to move in deep, steady thrusts that steal my breath. My brain has now completely shut down. I'm aware only of the heat of his skin, the teasing of his tongue and the hot, passionate motion of his lower body as he drives me closer and closer to orgasm.

His back is growing sweaty, and I can feel the perspiration clinging to me too. The heat rising from him is laced with the clean scent of his shower gel, and is mingling with the salty musk that is all him. It's the sexiest thing I've ever smelt.

I moan into his mouth as he buries himself with more force, causing his pubic bone to press hard against my clitoris. And suddenly, with no warning, I'm spasming beneath him. "God." Tearing my lips from his, I gasp a breath that burns my lungs. "Oh, God, Leo!" My figure continues to convulse, my passage squeezing him tightly as his thrusts slow to a deep, rhythmic drive that seems intent on prolonging the climax. Whether that's the intention or not, it works. The sensation surges over me again and again, like waves crashing on the shore.

The sounds drifting up from me grow quieter, the pleading call of his name no more than a whisper, until he's groaning mine, too. With an uncontrolled judder, his hips grind against me and the flood of his warm orgasm flows deep within me.

Clinging to him, my nails marking his back, I arch and relish the sensation of his senseless body offering mine his pleasure. We should have used protection, I know that. But I can't bring myself to feel bad about the fact we didn't. The heat of his sweet release, drawn eagerly into my body feels too good to ever regret.

# Chapter Six

I can't close my eyes. I don't even want to try. This night is, unquestionably, the best of my life and I have no desire to sleep any of it away. Even though Leo is dozing peacefully beside me, I don't want to join him in the land of unconsciousness. Every second of this is precious, and I won't squander it.

So, lying on my side, I move my lazy eyes over his features. The line of his thin, straight nose. The stubble on his jaw, which should make him look rugged and dangerous, but it doesn't. He looks like the safest thing in the world. His strong, angular chin. His relaxed cheeks, which have just the tiniest hint of red to them still. I watch the tiny flutter of his eyelids, as though he might be dreaming. I wonder what he's dreaming about. Am I on his mind? I'm certain that if I were to surrender to the pull of sleep, he'd continue to be on mine.

This all seems so utterly insane. So much so that I worry it might not be real. Perhaps the entire week has been a dream. Maybe, after what happened back in the condo, I lost my mind and this is some wonderful, very vivid, hallucination. But the sensations of twenty minutes ago were not just vivid. There were unquestionably real – the most real thing I'd ever experienced.

And that is both incredible and frightening.

Unable to take my focus from him, I realize silent tears are creeping from the corner of my eyes. They are tears of pain, because a deep wound has been made in my heart. From it flows an endless torrent of emotions that I both want and don't want. From it surges dreams of a life that could be so very different from the one I ran from. But part of me knows too well that they are _only_ dreams. They can only ever be dreams. From it bubbles up resentment toward fate. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't I have met him long ago, before Michael?

But I am forced to turn the inquisition in on myself. What would I have done if I had met him before? Would I have given Leo the time of day? Or would I still have chosen Michael, and his wealth? Because, back then, I hadn't known what I was letting myself in for. With hindsight, I would have run a million miles rather than marry him. But, without hindsight...if I just had to live it all over again, would I make the same mistake?

I know now that money is irrelevant to happiness and, more importantly, no amount of money is worth sacrificing who you are for. But back then, all those years ago when I accepted his proposal, I'd stupidly thought the kind of life he was offering would be perfect. I hadn't known that, once he had me, he would consider me his in every way; that I would no longer belong to myself. Decisions would no longer be mine, and I would barely even recognize the woman in the mirror. No different from a prostitute, I'd sold myself. No, it was worse than a prostitute, because I wasn't somebody's property by the hour. I was permanently owned. And in the process, I'd thrown away the person I was.

And, in a way, she's still gone. I have been more authentically myself in these last few days than I ever have in my adult life. However, while I'm keeping my past from Leo, it's all tainted. I'm tainted. Maybe there's no way to bring the woman I was before I met Michael back.

Sniffing, I wipe at the hot tears creeping down my cheek. As I do, his eyes flicker gently open. With a quiet, content moan, he rolls onto his side. We're so close now his nose is almost touching mine. "Hey," he murmurs, the pad of his thumb taking over from my clumsy fingers and sweeping across my damp cheek bone. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." It doesn't even sound particularly convincing to me.

Forcing his sleepy eyes wider, he lifts his head from the pillow and leans himself on his elbow. "Portia, are you okay? Is...You don't regret what we did, do you?"

"No," I reply quickly. "No, I don't have any regrets about that."

His dark eyes don't lose their concern, though. "Somethin's wrong. What's up?"

"I'm just thinking about..." About my past. About all the things I haven't told you, things I want to tell you and that I _should_ tell you. But none of that stuff comes out of my mouth. Because despite the small voice in the back of my mind nudging me to, 'Just tell him!' I can't. I know that, if I do, he will never look at me the way he is now again. I will change in his eyes – how can I not?

"What?"

"I'm thinking about you; about the fact I've never felt this way about anyone before." These things are all true, but, even now, I'm managing to hide from him. From my stupid mistakes. From myself. "It scares me."

The hair that's flopped onto his brow shifts as he creases his forehead. "Why?"

"I...I don't know..." That's less truthful. There are several reasons that my feelings for him terrify me.

Shuffling closer, he slips an arm around my waist and slowly rubs the sensitive skin at the base of my spine. "Portia, I don't know what you're running from. But whatever it is-"

"I'm not running." I've moved into outright lie territory now.

And with a slow exhale, he suggests he knows it, too. However, he doesn't call me on it, and I can't help but wonder why he doesn't. Probably because he knows I'll clam up even more, and the night would either end with us arguing or me leaving – or both. I don't think I'm the only one who wants to avoid that at all costs.

"You do know I would never hurt you," he breathes, but his eyebrows scrunch closer as he adds, "Don't you?"

"Yes." As I whisper the word, my voice cracks. I do know it. And it's the most wonderful feeling in the world, all the more wonderful for those years spent not knowing it – knowing the exact opposite. "You're the most remarkable man I've ever met, Leo."

"So what are you frightened of?"

"It can't last."

"Yes, it can." Seeming to relax a little, he smiles as he speaks with complete confidence.

"Nothing lasts," I remind him gently. "Nothing. This too shall pass, right?" Such a simple statement. Four words that can make a sad man happy and a happy man sad. Words that, apparently, humbled a king. I've never found it a particularly comforting thought when faced with bad times. But, now, faced with the possibility of being happy, the phrase is certainly succeeding in making me miserable.

"Yeah, okay," he says, nodding while his head is still propped up in the heel of his hand. "That's true. But things can last a lifetime."

"You've known me a week. You can't possibly be thinking about a lifetime with me."

In the darkness, it's difficult to see him clearly, but I do know his bright eyes are on my face and they're serious in contemplation. "Why not?" he eventually breathes. "Why is it so crazy to think that I might have found someone special? Someone worth hanging on to."

"But you don't know if I'm special or not. There's still so much we don't know about each other." Actually, there's still so much he doesn't know about me. I know him fairly well. He's talked about his family. He's told me about taking over the ranch from his dad when he was just twenty-four. We've talked about his dreams; about his love of this life even though he knows to some it would seem dull and simplistic.

"I know enough to know I like you...I like you a lot." It's childlike, and it makes me smile, but things are so much more complicated than that.

Lifting my hand from beneath the sheet, I run my palm over his warm, rough cheek. "I like you, too. Maybe more than you'll ever know."

"Then, we'll work it out, Portia. Whatever it is, we will figure it out, I swear to you." It really is that black and white to him, I know it is. And I know he means the promise with all his heart. I don't know why my cynicism is so easily swept away by his earnestness, but it is. I believe him. The problem is, he's swearing to something when he doesn't fully understand what it is he's promising. He doesn't know what he's getting himself into. What he's already got himself into. And that's my fault. I have fooled him, lied to him, and inadvertently involved him in something he probably would have run a mile from if he'd had fair warning. I have done something unforgivable.

And there's only one way to make it right now. I have to leave.

Lifting my head from the pillow, I press my lips lightly to his. "You really are something, Leo." Just one night, I tell myself. One night here, in his arms, listening to his reassuring breathing and the soft rhythm of his heart. One night that I'll be able to imagine and relive in the months and years to come. "I'm sorry for waking you," I add, stroking my fingers over his face to his ear and through his soft hair.

"You didn't," he insists, with a subtle shake of his head.

Smiling, I pull back and lie back down. "Go back to sleep," I whisper my palm settling on his chest and relishing the warmth of his skin even though it's already too hot in the bedroom.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Hmm." Still grinning, I stroke him soothingly in the hope it will urge him to join me on the pillow.

Slowly, he does relax his arm and let his upper body fall to the mattress. But he doesn't close his eyes right away. Instead, keeping me in his focus, he brushes some of the hair from my face and shoulder. "I'm so glad that you ended up on my doorstep, you know that?"

"I'm the lucky one," I correct him softly. "I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't found you that night."

Keeping one arm draped around me, he tugs me closer until our noses touch. "I'll always be right here," he says, smiling. "If ever you need me."

I can't help but wonder if he realizes that men like him are few and far between in this world. And I would be tempted to say in this day and age, but the truth is, I'm not sure there has ever been an overabundance of men like him. We think of eras of chivalry, but have they ever really existed? No, but what has existed since time immemorial are men who have seen women as their property; men who believe they have rights to a woman's body. Men like the one I married.

"Portia?" he mumbles, his hand stroking my back. "Where d'ya go?"

"I'm here," I reply. "I'm..." I stop myself as I realize I'm about to say, 'I'm not going anywhere.' I'm not prepared to lie to him anymore. I've lied enough already. "I'm just thinking about how great you are," I say instead.

"Get some sleep," he urges, kissing the tip of my nose. "We'll talk in the morning."

"Yeah," I reply, letting my eyes slip closed even though I know sleep won't come to me. We will talk tomorrow, though. And that is a conversation I wish I could put off forever. Tomorrow is a day I'd like to put off forever. Maybe it won't come. There's always hope the sun won't rise.

# Chapter Seven

But the sun does rise. And it brings with it a physical pain, which rests heavy on my chest. That wound in my heart that had seen such sweet agony last night is so much more acutely painful now. I don't want to leave him. I want to spend every second of every day of the rest of my life by his side. But I would also rather die than hurt him. And I will hurt him if I stay.

For his sake, if not for my own, I have to move away. I have to put as much space between us as possible, because, that way, when the cops come knocking, he'll be able to answer honestly that he knew nothing about me, and has no idea where I've gone.

I climb out from a bed he's already left, and I'm a conflicted as to how I feel about that. I'm relieved that he's not there to offer me a smile that will weaken my resolve and a kiss that will paralyze me completely. But that's all messily mingled with a mawkish disappointment. God, I'm getting all sappy. This is what the man's doing to me. Maybe I do need to worry about my own safety, because if I'm suddenly wearing my pathetic heart on my sleeve, I've certainly got something to worry about.

I can hear the low, drone of conversation and laughter coming from the men in the kitchen. Crossing the hall and slipping into the bathroom, I realize that telling Leo I'm leaving will be easier if I do it in front of his workmen. After all, I can't imagine him bringing up last night in front of them. He'll have to act as though we're barely friends, much less anything else, and will be forced to let me go without a fuss or even a trace of argument.

Stepping into the shower, I nod softly to myself. "Yeah, that's the best way to do it."

Resolved, I let the water wash over my head, and begin to run my hands over my body. And suddenly, I'm not so resolved again. The memory of his fingers, the memory of his lips, and the memory of his skin searing against mine. It's all so raw I can taste it. I can still smell him on me, and I'm loath to wash him off.

But I have to. And not just in the shower. I have to stop feeling this way about him. It's selfish. Trying to quiet a mind I know won't be hushed for a long time, I hurriedly wash, rinse off the suds that cling to my skin and my hair, and then step out of the shower.

After dressing, I take a deep breath and head downstairs. Calm, casual, just announcing it's time I move on. Except, there's a problem. When I get to the kitchen, the men are already gone. Leo is alone.

Standing in front of the sink, he washes a pan, but tosses his face over his shoulder as he hears me. "Hey, I didn't want to wake you. Saved you some breakfast, though." Grinning, he tilts his head toward the table where a plate sits waiting.

"Um...thank you." I don't move, though. Wavering over whether to say something else or not, I glance from him to the plate and back again. "I've been..."

Shaking the pan off its drips, he places it on the counter and moves toward me. "I figure it's okay to tell you this now," he says, wiping his wet hands on the back of his jeans. "But I've wanted to tell you from the moment I met you." Taking my face between his palms, he strokes his thumbs across my cheekbone. "You're so beautiful."

"Leo, I-" That's all I manage to utter. Before another syllable escapes, my lips are occupied by his. And I was right about them. They are paralyzing. Without consciously moving them, my arms wind around him, pulling him closer and surrendering to something that I don't have strength or even the will to fight.

He tastes of maple syrup and I find myself lingering over the sweetness that hugs his tongue and his teeth. Deep down, I know I should pull away from him. With every second, not only am I losing the fight with my own sense of right and wrong, but I'm also making it so much worse. Every moment is another lie. Every brush of my tongue across his feels like a betrayal. And yet, I can't stop.

His hands move across my back, stroking me through the thin cotton of a pale blue T-shirt. When he reaches the hem, his fingers slip beneath and graze the skin at the base of my spine.

Breathless, I tip my face back. "I'm-"

"I have to get to work," he whispers, regretfully.

"Oh, okay." That's probably a good idea. I need a few minutes to claw my scattered brain back together; to remember the decision I reached last night and had been determined to follow through with just moments ago.

"If you feel like it, why don't you come out for a ride when you've eaten?"

Unable to find any words, I simply nod as he unwraps his arms from me and takes a step backward. He gives me a lopsided smile and something he keeps a secret seems to drift through his head. I realize as he tries to take another step that I'm still holding onto his belt.

"Sorry," I mumble, snatching the hand back.

"Don't be." Sweeping both hands through his hair, he grins more broadly. "I'll see you in a little while."

Again I nod, and this time, unimpeded by my grip, he strolls casually to the back door. Motionless, I watch him leave and, for some time after that, I simply stare at the closed door. What kind of idiot am I? He's just a man. It was just a kiss. I am not a fucking teenager drawing hearts in the corners of her text books. I'm a grown woman, who should have at least some semblance of control over her desires.

But, where Leo is concerned, I apparently do not.

Disgusted with myself, I drag my feet to the table and drop heavily into the seat. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I grumble, sweeping up a slice of buttered toast. A tiny, selfish voice insists that I'm not doing anything terrible. And, after all, it doesn't make any difference whether I leave right this very second or if I wait an hour or two.

Crunching on the cool toast, which tastes all the better for knowing he was thinking of me when he placed it here, I know that's a voice I shouldn't listen to. However, it will not shut up. What's the harm? Just spend the morning with him. Go for one last ride. Enjoy the scenery; drink it all in now before it's lost to you forever.

No, I shouldn't. I should go upstairs now, chuck my stuff in my bag and get out. Maybe I'll leave Leo a note, but perhaps it's better if I don't even do that. He'll be hurt, of course. But it's kinder in the long run...isn't it?

You don't have to run right away. It's been seven days and no one's come knocking yet. Maybe they're not even looking for you. And if they are, they must be looking in the wrong place. You're safe here.

I'm not safe here. Leo isn't safe with me here. I can't do that to him.

So, just stay another hour. Spend one more hour with him.

It's a horrible idea. I do realize that. But I can't completely dismiss it. The pull to be with him; to be near him; to hear his voice; and to bask in the warmth that just seems to radiate from him is too strong.

Continuing to eat my breakfast, I make feeble internal arguments in favor of leaving right away. But I already know that I'm not going to listen. I'm too weak. And too selfish.

By the time I finish eating, and make my way outside, it's with a profound sense of self-loathing. I find Leo in the stable, saddling one of his horses: a friendly mare named Dolly. She's incredible docile, which is why he let me learn to ride on her. And I found out just how docile she is when she patiently waited for me to struggle gracelessly onto her back. She didn't seem to mind that I didn't know how to hold the reins properly, or that my legs clung tightly to her for fear of slipping off.

"Hey," he greets jovially. "I thought we could go down to the river and back."

It's a route we've taken a couple of times during the previous week, and it takes about three hours all told. In other words, longer than I promised myself I'd stay. "Sounds perfect," I reply, though.

"Are you alright?" Leading his softhearted friend toward me, he cocks his head.

"Uh huh." Forcing a smile, I wonder whether I'll be able to fool him for the entirety of our ride. Or fool him at all. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He doesn't look completely convinced, but he also doesn't seem ready to beat a confession out of me. As that thought flits through my head, I feel my blood run colder. I shake the sensation off quickly, though. Leo isn't in the least bit aggressive. I can't imagine him beating anyone, let alone raising his hand at me in anger.

"You sure?" he asks, one black eyebrow arching high as he studies my face.

"Yeah, let's go," I urge, taking the reins from him and leading Dolly the rest of the way. Once we're out in the beautiful, scorching hot sun, I slip my foot in the stirrup and hoist myself up with far more skill then the first time I tried it.

I can feel Leo watching me, and as I toss my face over my shoulder to check if he's still got that concerned furrow in his brow, I find that he's giving me a smile that suggests he's impressed.

"Atta girl," he says beaming.

Unlike inside the barn, my smile is now genuine. I know it's pathetic, but I'm thrilled at his approval. That infectious grin of his warms my fractured heart, and enables me to forget. Everything. When he looks at me that way, it's the only thing in the world that matters.

Visibly relaxing, he puts his finger and thumb to his lips and lets out a loud whistle. Obediently, his horse, Buster, trots out to his master and with a quick nudge of his nose against Leo's shoulder announces his presence.

Gradually taking his eyes from me, the handsome man turns and smoothly lifts himself into the saddle. "Ready?" he asks.

"Ready."

At first, we take a slow route, keeping to the perimeter as the horses negotiate the subtle rises and dips in the landscape. I recall how I felt when I first arrived here: that feeling of freedom mingled with agoraphobia – the sense that there was everywhere and nowhere to run. Being with Leo feels a lot like that. It's freedom, it feels good. But at the same time, there's nowhere to hide.

We make it down to the river, and I blink as the sun glancing off it almost blinds me. "This place really is beautiful," I murmur.

"I've always loved it." He slips easily down from Buster and lets him take a much needed drink. I follow his lead, letting Dolly head closer to the water without the added burden of me. Without realizing I'm doing it, I wander nearer to Leo until I'm brushing against him. I'm drawn to him. I've been drawn to him from the moment I met him; trusting him instinctively, even when I perhaps shouldn't have done.

Glancing down at me, he grins. "Must seem pretty strange to you, that I've spent my whole life here and never hankered for anything else." There's a slightly self-effacing narrowing of his eyes as they flit to the ground at his feet. "No ambition, and uncultured, huh?"

"No," I reply frankly. "No, that's not what I think at all."

"But you want more than this, right? I mean, you're used to fancy cars, and fancy dinners, and fancy...well, everything."

Curling my arm around his waist, I run my hand over his lower back. "How do you know what I'm used to?"

"You do know how much of a sore thumb you looked when you arrived here?" he replies, flashing a teasing smile at me as his own arm wraps quietly around my shoulders.

Yeah, with hindsight, I do know just how out of place I must have looked to him when I stumbled onto his doorstep. What was going through his mind that night? He must know that I left in an unplanned hurry. Did he ever wonder what sent me running? He must, and yet he's never asked. Not outright, anyway. He's simply respected my unwillingness to speak about my past. And it occurs to me suddenly that I'm not the only one who was blindly trusting on that first night.

"And do you make a habit of letting strange-looking women stay in your house?" I ask, mirroring his amused grin.

"I didn't say 'strange'," he quickly argues. "And, no, I don't make a habit of letting women stay in my house. I don't know what it is about you, but I..." Pausing, he quietly chuckles to himself before shaking his head. "Portia, I don't know exactly what's going on between you and me. I mean, I know I feel something around you that I probably shouldn't feel."

I don't know exactly what he's trying to say, or what will come out of his mouth next, but I fear that it might be something I desperately want to hear. And I shouldn't hear it, because it will make things all the more difficult.

"I think-" Before he's able to say anything else, I take my arm from him and step toward the horse.

"Maybe we ought to head back," I mumble, unable to look at him as I take hold of Dolly's rein and lead her away from the water's edge.

For a long moment, he remains motionless. I feel his eyes on me, and I can sense the weight of confusion in them – maybe even a little hurt. But he would have been hurt far more if I'd let him make whatever confession he was about to speak. And there's no way I'll be able to tell him I'm leaving if he so much as implies he loves me. For both our sakes, the unspoken is best left unspoken.

# Chapter Eight

I am a coward, that much is obvious. I've let the morning and afternoon slink past and I still have said nothing. I am a total coward. I'm also thoroughly and irredeemably selfish. If ever there had been any doubt about that, it is swept clean away now. I know what I have to do. I know that I have to put his interests, and his safety, above my...what is it? Lust? No, it's so much more than lust. Lust is superficial, it's transitory. It's an itch that needs scratching. This is deeper. He's found his way beneath my skin, and is a part of me. A better part of me. So, what kind of human being am I that I repay his kindness with lies and the potential to be charged with 'aiding and abetting'?

"You've been pretty quiet all day," he mentions casually as he takes a seat beside me. "Is it about last night. You know, if we moved too fast, I'm sorry. I didn't plan-"

Placing my hand on his forearm, I stop him with a firm shake of my head. "No, it's not about last night. We didn't move too fast. It was...It was great, Leo. I wouldn't change it for the world."

"And yet, you've been depressed all day," he points out, leaning back in the small chair and twisting his upper body to face me.

His deck is stunning at this time of day, with the sun setting behind us and casting a golden hue over the scorched land. This was another of those, 'just once more' my brain had coaxed me into. One more quiet evening sitting in the glow of the sunset, with his company beside me. But the problem is, the 'just once more' is never-ending. I'm already thinking about just one more night. One more night with him, he'd come to bed with me if I asked him to, wouldn't he? Judging by the look on his face at the moment, perhaps not.

"I'm not depressed," I say, blatantly lying. "I'm just....I'm just thinking."

"About something that's depressing." With a slight smile, he lets me know he's trying to lighten the mood. But I think we both know the attempt is doomed to fail.

Just tell him. Just get it over and done with. Tell him. You cannot keep living for each second, hoping the next won't come. It will come. The sun will keep rising, and they will, eventually, find you.

Unlike all the times before, no rebellious voice attempts to argue. "I...um...I have to leave."

Eyebrows almost meeting, he tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I can't stay here. I have to go."

The confusion in his face not lifting, he continues to stare at me. "Why?"

The simplicity of the question, coupled with the deep complexity of the answer causes a humorless ripple of laughter to move through me. "I...I can't explain."

"Yes, you can." No longer looking quite as baffled, his features stiffen. "You can explain. You just don't want to."

I shake my head, but I know his point is entirely valid. And true. I could explain. I could tell him everything. But I'm choosing not to. Although I try to convince myself that it's at least in part for his protection, I know deep down that it's because I don't want to see the change in his eyes that will come with the truth. And it would mean having to reveal the whole truth. Everything. Every single mistake, every stupid decision. For him to even begin to understand, I'd have to tell him everything. Once he is armed with that information, who knows what he'll do with it. Turn me in probably.

"So, last night meant nothing to you?" There's an edge in his voice, something I didn't think could ever exist there: anger. "You were just roughing it with the rancher? Something to tell your rich friends when you get back to New York?"

Tears are weighing on my lower lids, but I will not let them fall. "I'm not going back to New York. And you...you'll never know what last night meant to me."

Looking deep into my watery eyes, he chews his lip as though regretting the accusation. He doesn't apologize for it, though. And I don't blame him. I wouldn't want him to be sorry. I deserve it. I wait for the next wounding words, strangely longing for them. Is that because if he hurts me it's easier to hurt him? Or is it because being hurt feels so familiar that the lack of it is adding to my confusion?

"Then why are you leaving?" he asks quietly.

"Because I have to. Because it's the right thing to do. I never intended to stay this long in the first place, Leo. But you've been so good to me, so kind and you made it easy to pretend that this could go on forever. It can't. We both know that."

"What I know," he begins, leaning forward and taking my face between his hands. "What I know is that I have strong feelings for you. And if you want to stay, you can. Don't tell me you can't, because that's not true."

I'm grateful that he says nothing more than 'strong feelings', although the word 'love' hangs in his eyes in a way that might be worse than if it had slipped from his lips. Maybe that's my imagination. Maybe I'm seeing something that I want to see, something I thought I'd seen in Michael's eyes, but never really had. I'm a moron where that sort of thing is concerned. And yet, if Leo isn't sincere. If this isn't love, why is he insisting that I stay. Is there some shortage of women in town, and he needs to keep me here as his concubine? No, that's very obviously not it. Sex, I'm sure, he could get anywhere. When he says he has feelings for me, it's because he does. The kind of feelings I have for him. It's insane; it's all happened fast (too fast); it's ridiculous, but it seems real.

Maybe _it's_ not insane. Maybe I am.

"Portia..." Seeming unsure what he plans to say, he releases a steady breath. When his eyes fix on mine again, he's reached a decision about what it is he wants to ask. "Do you _want_ to leave?"

Another one of his simple questions, which does not have a simple answer. Part of me does want to go. The part that recognizes this as the danger it so clearly is. Another part of me; however, doesn't want to go anywhere or do anything. That part would be quite happy to slip into his arms and do nothing except wait for death to claim me. What would he say if I told him that?

"Portia?" he urges, as long seconds pass and I remain silent.

"It's not that simple."

"It's as simple as you wanna make it," he insists, his jaw still tense. He's no longer angry, at least not with me, but he is determined. He won't let this go. And I realize that he's not quite as laid-back as he first seemed. Or at least, he's not laid-back about everything. "You can make things _very_ simple. You can tell me you want to stay here. Or you can tell me what's really going on. You could even do both."

Leaning back, I remove my face from his warm hands. They're making it too difficult to think. "I never planned to stay here," I mumble. "This was just a stop and it's time I moved on."

"Without a second thought about me?"

"Leo, this isn't...I'm doing this..." Frustrated with my abortive efforts to speak, I sigh loudly and toss my eyes to the amber sky with its pink tinged clouds. It'll be a nice day tomorrow, I manage to think to myself. Only, it won't be.

"You know what, how about this? How about I make my position simple? I like you Portia. I like you a lot, and I want you to stay." Spoken bluntly, the words don't have quite as much romantic sentiment as they might otherwise have, and I'm oddly grateful for that. I don't want romance clouding my already jumbled head.

In fact, perhaps I should put a stop to this whole thing once and for all. Placing my hands on the table, I push myself out of the chair. "I am very grateful to you," I begin, sniffing back the few tears that still linger in my eyes. "You've been incredibly kind, and I can't thank you enough for taking me in."

"Portia," he says flatly, sensing as if he knows where I am heading. And I gain the impression he's warning me not to continue. Although, that doesn't quite seem his style. It's something Michael would do no doubt. But Leo? No, maybe he's not warning me. Perhaps he's asking me.

"If there's any way I can repay you, I will. If you want money, I-"

"Portia." Getting up, he wraps his fingers around my wrist.

He's not grabbing me hard. Not really. He means it, alright. He's trying to make a very clear statement. But he's not remotely violent. And yet, I react as if he is. On instinct, I snatch my arm away as quickly as if I've been burned. He doesn't stop me, nor does he try to grasp hold of me again. Instead, he stares at me with question in his eyes. And for a while, neither of us moves or speaks at all.

"I'm sorry," he eventually breathes. "I had no right to put my hands on you."

His apology makes me feel wretched. And not just because I'm guilty of making him feel as though he's done something wrong. But also because I'm struck by the difference between this man and the one I married; the one who believed he had every right to put his hands on me.

"It's alright," I whisper. "I overreacted." Finding his unflinching eye contact too much, I drop my gaze to sneakers that are still dusty from our morning ride and an afternoon spent helping, or to be more specific _trying_ to help, him work. "I do have to go though, Leo."

Arresting the impulses of his restless hands, he stuffs them deep into the pockets of his battered black jeans. "I don't want you to go," he says. "Does that count for anything at all?"

Lifting my face, I find him staring back at me with those big, dark eyes. Would I ever see them again? Yes, in my dreams. I'd see them all the time there. Not aware of a decision being made, my feet shuffle forward slowly, closing the slight gap between us. When I'm close enough to touch him, I hesitate, unsure whether what I'm about to do is foolishness of the highest order. It is, but I don't care.

Stroking one of his tan cheeks with the backs of my fingers, I relish the tiny pricks and scrapes of his stubble. "It counts for more than you'll ever know," I breathe, lips barely moving. "You are an amazing man. I've never met anyone like you before, and I don't think I will ever meet anyone like you again." As his face drifts slowly closer to mine, I add, "I don't want to leave."

"Then don't," he manages to say before his lips meet mine.

Even if I thought there was a chance I could resist, I still wouldn't have tried. Letting my fingers stroke across his face, to his ear and then around to the back of his head, I pull him nearer. As a deep, soft moan of approval rumbles through his chest, I push my body against him, lingering over the vibrations that move from his skin to mine.

His tongue delicately drifts forward, and my lips respond hurriedly, parting to enable my own tongue to rush out and meet his. "Hmm," I groan, as he gently wrestles his way into my mouth. Large hands are smoothing over my hips and he's turning me, pushing me closer to the table and placing himself between me and my way out. Is that a deliberate ploy? I don't care. Wrapping my other arm around his shoulders, I squeeze him tightly against my body as I feel myself falling into a gloriously numb state of oblivion.

But I can't let myself be dragged there. It's not right. Hurriedly placing my hands on his chest, I urge him back. Breathing deeply as I try to clear my kiss-dazed mind. "I can't, Leo," I pant. "I can't stay."

"Yes, you can," he insists, refusing to release the hold he has of my waist and continuing to press his hard, solid form to my smaller frame. At some point, without my being aware of it, he slipped one of his feet between mine and his broad thigh is pressing to the juncture of my thighs. It's impossible to tell whether that's intentional. Although, I suspect, like moving me away from the glass doors that lead back into the house, it's at least subconsciously by design.

"Leo, please." I'm not exactly sure what it is I'm asking for. Half of me is appealing to be let go. The other half is pleading with him to never ever let go. "Don't make this harder for me. I have to go."

"If you think I'm going to make it easy for you to leave, you've got another thing coming," he says, the hint of a smile tugging the corner of his mouth as he shifts his leg, and grinds the firm muscle against my mound. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to, and you've already told me you don't want to go. So, it's simple, don't go."

I try to stifle the soft whimper of longing he stirs in me. I try to stop the motion of my body as he massages me through two layers of denim and the thin lace of my underwear. Neither attempt is successful, and as I see his lips twitch, I know he's aware that I'm weakening.

Oh, I'm more than weakening. I'm growing hot. My breath is moving in short heaves that don't even half fill my lungs. The expensive, barely-there fabric between my legs is dampening. My mouth feels bereft without his. I want him to kiss me again. I want to feel his tongue moving rhythmically; dancing sensually with mine.

Tipping my face up, I silently beg him to take my lips. To make me feel as though no one else has ever kissed them. To make them his. He looks intently at me, I'm sure he knows what I'm asking. But he won't give it. "Stay Portia," he murmurs. "Tell me, you'll stay."

"Leo..."

He brings his face close and rests his forehead against mine. His mouth so very near and yet still not relieving the need in me. "Stay," he repeats softly.

"I...I need you." My lower half is still writhing restlessly. I'm so desperate, so empty. I'm not even a whole person anymore.

"Then stay."

I am a horrible, weak, self-serving human being. "I'll stay," I whimper.

Pushing his whole body hard against mine, he covers my mouth quickly and passionately. My lips are already opened, and his tongue plunges in. There's a sense of victory in the motion, and I can't help but feel a little like I've been conquered. Yet, that seems most unlikely of the quiet, good-hearted rancher. There was certainly no trace of it last night, when there was reason for him to view me as another notch on his belt. Now he's had me, surely, there's nothing triumphant about it.

As he tears his lips from mine as quickly as he assaulted them, he erases any doubt about whether he views me as some prize that he's won. "Thank you," he mumbles, his head dropping to my neck.

"Oh, Leo." I whimper. "I want you. I want you inside me."

But I can't. I can't do it like this.

# Chapter Nine

Twisting in his arms, I push my ass to his groin. I can't look at him, not when there are so many secrets between us. But I need him, I need him in the same way I need oxygen or the warmth of the sun.

He doesn't complain about me moving, in fact he says nothing at all. His lips simply switch to the back of my neck while his hands stroke up my torso and eventually cup my breasts. My nipples are already hardened, and he must be able to feel them through my bra and T-shirt. But he doesn't focus on them. His large palms move in smooth, slow circles, massaging the whole of my breasts and making me moan in longing.

"Portia," he mumbles, lips never quite leaving my skin. "God, you smell good."

I find that difficult to believe. I haven't showered since this morning, and I managed to get good and sweaty earlier. Still, it doesn't seem like the right time to contradict him. Leaning forward over the small table, I push myself tighter against his erection, hoping he'll pick up on the hint and take me hard and fast. He's rigid and hot as he pushes against my buttock. His body is impatient, even if his self-control still somehow has a handle on it.

A niggle of discomfort dwells in the pit of my stomach; memories of all the times Michael had sex with me this way – bent over a table, or the back of a couch, or just on all fours in the middle of the floor. He favored taking me from behind. It was always quick. Always rough. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I'd come even close to orgasm. He didn't care whether I climaxed or not. It was completely immaterial to him. When he had me bent over like that, I was his little bitch; his to do with as he wished.

Will it be that way now? Will Leo fuck me as though I'm a cheap whore? As I rub my ass against the front of his jeans, I realize I want him to. At least, on some level, I want him to. Because it's familiar, perhaps. Just like when he grabbed me, I was expecting aggression and violence. But I think there's more to it than that. I think I want him to punish me.

His hands sliding back down to my belly, he slips beneath my shirt and touches my bare skin. "Leo," I gasp, his fingers roaming back up my torso, lingering at the base of my ribcage before taking hold of my breasts again. This time, through the thin bra, he circles my peaked nipples before pinching them gently. I jerk, shivering against him as I force my eyes closed.

His lips are still trailing kisses up and down my neck, from the salty skin of my shoulder all the way to my ear. His breath is getting labored, and he occasionally releases a groan when I increase the pressure on his cock. "Oh, Portia," he gasps, the grip of his hands growing more intense as he takes possession of my breasts.

"Harder," I breathe, falling forward until my burning cheek is resting against the cool wood of the table.

His upper body moves with mine, his chest refusing to leave my back, and his mouth never really leaving my skin. "Say it again," he mumbles, fingers gliding back down to the hem of my shirt and urging me up so he can pull it over my head.

"Harder," I whisper, lifting myself and then my arms, so he can strip me of the T-shirt.

"No." Head shifting in a sort of shake, it stays buried in the crook of my shoulder as he unclasps my bra. "Tell me you'll stay."

"Leo," I whimper, moving restlessly against him.

"Say it, Portia."

He's not playing fair. I know that. And I guess he knows it, too. I won't lie to him; I can't not like this. "I'll stay."

"I'm never gonna let you go." That promise is very similar to things Michael said repeatedly. After a few months of marriage, when I realized what a horrible mistake I'd made, I threatened (although 'threaten' implies I had some power – I didn't) to leave. He swore that if I tried, I'd regret it. 'You're mine,' he used to tell me. 'And you're not going anywhere.'

I can't help but feel a chill skate down my spine as Leo mutters something so very similar. But, at the same time, I'm aware the tone is markedly different. Nevertheless, these reminders of my husband are increasing the desire I feel for Leo to hurt me. As tears, ones he thankfully cannot see, start to prick my eye, I bend down across the table. "Fuck me," I pant.

My torso completely bare, he kisses my back as his fingers roam over the silky smooth skin of my bosom. "Portia," he groans, his lower half jerking slightly.

"Please, Leo, fuck me."

His motion is gradual, much more gradual than I hoped for or expected. But at least his hands are moving in the right direction. Down. He lingeringly unbuttons my jeans and nudges the zipper down, the rasp of it sounding almost deafening to me.

I wriggle, hoping to shed the denim more quickly. But he holds it at my hips, edging it down excruciating slowly. Through the cotton of his buttoned shirt, I feel his hot, hard chest moving with the weight of his breathing and the pounding of his heart. His lips near my ear, he takes the lob briefly between his teeth. "I think I'm in love with you."

My own heart seems to stop dead when I hear those words. Silently tears are snaking their way down my cheeks. I want to say it back, and it would be true. Possibly the truest thing I've ever spoken. Definitely the truest thing I've ever said to him. But a lump in my throat is making it difficult just to get enough oxygen. Speaking is now far beyond me.

But maybe it doesn't matter. He's pulling my panties down.

Placing my hands flat on the table, I let them slide forward until they reach the edge and I can curl my fingers around it, bracing myself. His hands, meanwhile, are moving softly across my bare ass, caressing the curves and slipping between my legs.

Mewling, I rub myself against his fingers, hoping he'll realize just how wet I am and that foreplay is unnecessary at this point. As his middle finger slips inside me, I groan and bite down on my lower lip.

"It's crazy, isn't it?" he whispers, his hand moving with much more control than I could hope to have over my own body. "I've only known you a week."

"L-" I try to say his name, but don't get far.

"Jesus, I'm hard. I'm so damn hard for you, Portia."

"Fuck me," I manage to babble. I'm not sure if he'll hear me at all, so I hope he won't hear the sound of tears in my voice.

I assume he doesn't. But whether or not he does, his fingers leave my body and are quickly unbuckling his belt and unfastening his pants. The searing, heavy heat of his cock slaps against my ass as it bounces free of his underwear. I jerk at the surprise of it, and grasp the table until my chewed nails are digging into the wood.

Grabbing my hips, he lifts me a little as his solid, thick erection glides between my legs. And then, he's stretching me. But he's not slamming into me as hard as I wanted him to. Lingering, he inches his way deeper. My warm, dripping passage swells for him, aching for him to fill me completely.

"You feel so good," he sighs, his arms reaching forward and his hands covering mine. "God, you're hot." As he leans over me, he kisses my cheek. "Do you have any idea how amazing you feel?"

"Leo, I...Harder."

With a subtle surge, he drives forward nestling tight against my ass and burying himself to the hilt. But that's as far, it seems, as his rougher brand of sex will go. He stays that way, groaning gently as he continues to kiss my face, jaw and neck.

I arch up into him, urging him deeper and feeling him nudge my cervix. It's a little uncomfortable, but it's not the pain I was hoping for. "Please, Leo." I whimper. "Fuck me. Hard."

"You sure that's what you want?" he asks, calmly. How he stays so coolly rational, I can't begin to guess. Although, it seems insane that he even needs to ask. My repeated requests are, as far as I'm concerned, answer enough to his question.

Nevertheless, I try to nod as I groan out a, "Yes."

And finally, his hesitancy does stop. Pulling from me, he keeps hold of my hands as he pauses, his glans the only part of his impressive length inside me. "You're beautiful," he whispers, lips grazing my face. Then, with a grunt and a forceful thrust, he slams himself deep within me.

I reflexively tense, my hands gouging marks in the table as I let out a cry. Only it isn't a shout of pain. I think Leo realizes that before I do. He's already pulling back. Again, he pushes forward, his hips striking my ass hard as his dick finds the very depths of me.

I'm too aroused for it to hurt. At least, to _really_ hurt. I might have a couple of bruises from his hip bones, but that'll be a pleasant soreness across my buttocks. My sex, on the other hand, is begging for more. And this is not how it's supposed to be. He isn't supposed to be giving me pleasure; mind-numbing, soul-quivering pleasure. He's supposed to be hurting me. Hurting me for how I hurt him.

Feeling good is the exact opposite of what I wanted. I don't want to feel invincible, and filled with passion, and desperate for more, or complete while he's pummeling the depths of my body.

And as he thrusts deep and hard again, so hard this time that he's knocking the table onto just two of its legs, I lose concern for anything other than those intensely powerful sensations.

With every zealous, assertive thrust, he grunts deep in his chest. The sound moving through me as it mingles with my own screams of pleasure and cries for more. I have just enough sense to note that it's a good thing he doesn't have any close neighbors. As for what his animals or any wild creatures must think, who knows?

"Oh, Leo, yes!" I screech.

"So beautiful," he groans, his drives coming faster and only giving him time to pull about halfway out. This side of him, this commanding, dominant, almost aggressive side is unexpectedly arousing to me. And I think I realize that it's because I feel safe. I know he would never really hurt me. I know that, unlike my husband, he doesn't want to hurt me. He's certainly not enhancing his own enjoyment by spitting out vile names for me and vile words for parts of my body. This is passionate, lustful mutual enjoyment.

And I'm close to reaching the height of mine. Every limb is stiffening; I'm holding my breath and am unable to do anything to release it. Every muscle, every cell is waiting for that flood of relief and pleasure. My hands are trembling beneath his; who am I kidding, every inch of me is trembling.

His right hand suddenly leaves mine and smooths over my naked abdomen. He glides over my mound and dips between my legs. Without any groping for it, he finds my clitoris and rubs quick, rough circles as he thrusts deep once again.

"Fu-" I begin to utter, but the word dies on my lips. What comes next out of my mouth is something between a groan and a scream. It quickly dies away to a panted, whisper as my entire body bucks and squirms against him.

He doesn't stop. He continues to stroke my clit with those hard, calloused fingers, and he plunges ever deeper as though my orgasm is opening me up yet more to him. It's as his right hand begins to tense that I know he must be close, too.

"Portia," he grunts, panting for breath. His cheek pressed against the side of my face, I feel the sweat dripping from his temple. "God, I'm....Shit!" His strong, broad form suddenly seizing, he spasms against me. Hips grind feverishly against my ass as his cock lengthens and his climax pulses from him in vigorous bursts of heat.

Like a puppet that's had its strings cut, I slump forward, heaving in deep breaths as my breasts squash themselves uncomfortably on the wooden table. I don't have the strength to hold myself up. I don't have the strength to do anything. I'm amazed my heart and lungs are still functioning. Closing my eyes, I savor the warm evening air and the feeling of his cock softening slightly, but still held deep inside me. I don't want him to pull out. Even though, I realize I must look like a filthy slut sprawled over the table this way; and that I'm naked while he still has most of his clothes on, I have no interest in ending this. If it were possible to stay this way forever, I would.

"Oh, Portia," he murmurs, the side of his face resting on my shoulder. "That was..."

"Yeah," I say, the word barely audible.

"You can't go now," he adds, and, even though I can't see it, I'm sure there's a soft, almost drunk smile on his face. Licking the slight perspiration from my shoulder blade, he lifts his head. And, as he does, he pulls slowly back. Letting his soft length slip away from me, it gives my thigh a light slap on its way.

Will he zip himself back up and tell me to sort myself out? No, not Leo. That's not his style.

And, indeed, it isn't. Slipping his arm around my waist he slowly lifts me up and turns me to face him. Finding his cheeks flushed and his forehead glazed with sweat, I wonder what kind of mess I look, and imagine it's pretty bad.

Holding me firmly in his arms, which is just as well, because I have no strength with which to hold myself, he brushes some of the hair off my face and curls it around my ear. "You okay?" he asks, smiling.

"I...I..." Am I okay? In many ways, I'm much better than okay. But I'm also an asshole of the grandest kind. I know it, and I hate it about myself. "Leo...I..."

"Just tell me you're staying," he says simply, the grin refusing to fade.

"You sure that's what you want?" The irony isn't lost on me. He asked the same question after I'd made my desires perfectly clear. Now, I've gone and done exactly the same thing.

One palm rolling soothingly over my lower back, the other continuing to stroke my sweaty face. "I've never been surer of anything."

It's still not an informed decision, I'm acutely aware of that fact. But I can't think beyond the simplicity of him wanting me and me wanting him. He said it could be that easy if I wanted it to be, right?

Well, right here and now, I want it to be. That's all I want. "Leo," I whisper, grabbing the front of his shirt and clinging to it as my life depended on it. "Take me to bed."

# Chapter Ten

The smell of coffee wakes me, but in my sleepy state, I'm confused by it. Who's making coffee? It can't be Leo, because he's still...As I roll over and reach across the mattress, I find the sheet empty and chilled. Peeling my discontented eyes open, I grumble beneath my breath and lift my head from the pillow. It's only as I see the vacant space in the bed with my own eyes that I accept the truth of what my hands had felt. He's not here.

Making a mental note to ask him to wake me before he sneaks out of the bed, I throw myself back against the ridiculously soft pillows and stare at the ceiling. "Wow," I whisper. Last night was mind-numbingly wonderful. I thought the night before was amazing; but, my God, Leo had only shown me a small sample of his prowess the first time we made love.

After our vigorous exercise on the table outside, he carried me up to bed, stripped me of the clothes that still hung around my legs, and kissed every inch of my skin before slowly shedding his own clothes. By the time he did, he was ready to go again. And I was so thoroughly relaxed, that I was ready for anything as long as he didn't need something strenuous of me.

Chuckling at my enervated state, he didn't fuck me during our second round. Seeming mindful that I might be left tender, he made love to me deliberately slowly. We kissed and giggled, while he thrust gently, gradually building to an orgasm that rocked us both. It wasn't as powerfully acute as the one we'd experienced outside. It was calmer and it lasted longer; lingering for drawn out seconds before fading away, and leaving tingling spasms in its wake.

Finding myself smiling stupidly, I realize that I'm learning things I should have known long ago. Sex can be many things. It can be wild and verging on violent, it can be soft and tender. It can be filled with laughter. It can be filled with raw passion. It can be a burning hunger. Or it can be an appetite that's slowly quenched and savored over. And, in all of those times, sex could be good. The kind of relationship I'd had with my husband was a horrible distortion of what sex should really be.

I think I also know that Michael isn't a rarity. I don't doubt that not all men are like him. I would have been able to find a kinder, more compassionate husband without too much trouble. Leo, on the other hand, is I think a rarity. On the opposite end of the spectrum, he's the most remarkable man I've ever known.

Is he aware of how special he is? Have other women told him how lucky they are to be with him? They must have. Although, if their experience before Leo had been better than mine, perhaps they didn't realize that not all men are like him. How awful it must be for any girl who had him as her first. How much worse must it be to experience the best before you learn that not every sexual encounter is as great? As much as I'd like to take back the years of my shitty marriage, I am glad that I had the worst first.

Slowly stretching, I learn that the muscles in my abdomen are protesting. And as I shift and roll onto my side, I note that my sex feels slightly sore. But it's a good kind of sore. The kind of sore you get in your legs after going on a long run after a period of little exercise. I feel as though I've had a damn good workout. Admittedly, Leo has been working out some unconventional parts of my body, but I have absolutely no complaints about that.

Hauling my weary limbs off the mattress, I find that I still can't quite wipe the silly smile off my face. I'm happy. Genuinely, stupidly happy. Of course, I'm not a fool, I know there are still problems. I know I have to tell Leo the truth. But I'm less fearful of that than I was last night. Although I may not know him very well, I know enough about him to know that he will at least listen to my side of the story.

That's more than I can hope for from anyone else – even members of my own family.

I'm nervous about it. I'm worried that it'll change the way he feels about me. But I know that it's a risk I have to take. Lying to him, even when those lies are only ones of omission, isn't an option any longer. Not after last night. We shared something intensely intimate. Something deeper than I've ever shared with any other human being. If I'm ever going to be able to look at myself in the mirror again, it has to be with the knowledge that I did the right thing.

Quietly, I cross the hall, climb into the bath, and take a shower. Unlike yesterday morning, there's not even a passing attempt to wash away his hands and lips. On the contrary, as my own fingers move over the spots he's touched, I remember each moment vividly; calling it into sharp focus so I can prolong every touch for as long as possible.

The shower, therefore, takes longer than it should. Perhaps even longer than any shower I've ever taken. But I'm unconcerned. When I slip back into the bedroom to dress, I notice something that I should have noticed before. The smell of coffee is the only thing that's drifting up from downstairs. I can't hear any voices. Glancing at the clock, I see it's time for the men's breakfast and strain to hear any hint of them. Nothing.

With a silent shrug, I wonder if something is keeping them busier than usual this morning. Or if Leo has given them an impromptu day off. Imagining that my handsome, rugged rancher had plans to make love to me in every room of the house, and needs privacy to do so, I grin again. Although, the sensible part of me knows that's a highly unlikely scenario. After all, the work on the ranch could never stop. Not even for a day, no matter how horny the ranch owner might be.

Chuckling quietly to myself, I dress and give myself a quick check in the mirror. My hair is still a little wavy and damp from the lazy job I did of drying it. And my face is makeup free. None of that seems to bother Leo, though. He's found me attractive in much less presentable states. I love that. I love the fact that when he looks at me he isn't judging me. He isn't finding faults.

But...there is a fault. A very large one that he's about to see. "Tell him," I whisper. "Tell him the truth. He's owed that much." I am now at least certain that he won't call the police. Even if he never wanted to see me again, he'd let me go if I begged him to. However, with the memory of him staring deep into my eyes as he did last night, I can't imagine him doing anything other than taking me in his arms and telling me that we'll work it out together.

Maybe I'm being foolish, but it's his unwavering kindness and trusting that has made me this way. Besides, he said he loves me. Or, at least, he _thinks_ he loves me, which I'm sure is pretty much the same thing. Actually, that reminds me. When spilling my soul to him, the first truth, I start with should probably be that one: I'm in love with him.

I know that now. I know that's why I've found it so difficult to walk away from him, even when every sensible cell in my body is telling me I have to. I need him, and not just because he makes me weak in the knees or gives me orgasms that I'm half worried might leave me blind. I need him in a way I've never needed anyone. The thought of being without him terrifies me. Leaving seems pointless, because life without him in it isn't really worth living. And he's right, that is insane when I've only known him a week. But my heart has made the decision without any input from my head.

"Just tell him, Portia," I say aloud, loud enough to be heard if anybody happened to be in the hall. Taking a deep breath and pushing my shoulders back, I head for the door and discover to my relief that no one is around to have heard me in the first sign of madness.

Quietly and quickly, I pad down the stairs and head to the kitchen. The smile I wore when I woke has faded slightly, but it's still gracing my face. That is, until I reach the threshold and find Leo sitting alone. Elbows resting on the table, he rests his chin in one palm and looks at me with an expression that's impossible to read. Although I can't read the language of his features, I know I'm frightened of that look. My smile gone, I don't move. I have a feeling even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to.

"Wh...What's wrong?" I mumble.

Drawing in a breath, he leans back and sucks on his lower lip thoughtfully. "Good question." Eyes leaving my face, he glances down at a newspaper in front of him. It's too far away for me to read what's on the headline, but I can see a picture, which looks suspiciously like my wedding photo.

"Leo-"

He doesn't let me get any further, though. "Don't. Don't say a word. Whatever it is, I don't want to hear another lie from you."

"I have lied to you, and I'm sorry," I gabble, hoping he'll have a change of heart and let me try to explain. "I never wanted to. I stumbled here by accident, and I never meant to stay. I never meant to...fall in love with you."

His face remaining solemn, he releases a quiet laugh, or an approximation of a laugh at least. The truth is it's devoid of all humor. "You think you can get round me with that now? I notice you weren't interested in saying it last night."

"That's not...I didn't want to say it when there's this secret hanging between us."

"And now?"

"I was going to tell you the truth this morning, I swear to you I was coming down here ready to tell you everything."

"Really? And why would you do that? Surely, the whole plan was to keep me in the dark. Did you always intend to seduce me? And then what? You'd kill me just like you killed your husband?" Staring at me with eyes so much harsher and harder than they've ever been before, I'm convinced that at this very moment he hates me. And, in all honesty, I can't blame him.

But I still want him to know the truth. "It's not what it looks like...I-"

My faltering attempt to speak, gives him ample opportunity to surge ahead. "Or maybe you thought you'd hide out, somewhere the police would never find you, and I was just a distraction. A way to pass the time before you could skip the country with your dead husband's wealth, right?"

"No, that's not-"

"Because I'm an idiot, is that it? Some small town hick who doesn't know anything and is too stupid to put two and two together. Is that it, Portia? You think I'm a dumb country boy?" He's cheeks are glowing with the force of his anger. And for the first time, I'm frightened of him. If that anger turns on me, would he hurt me?

"No, I...I..."

"I suggest you just leave," he sighs. "Do what you wanted to do yesterday. Get the fuck out of my house."

"I will leave." Still stumbling over my words, I take a step forward, desperate to be heard even if it means he leaps out of his chair and slaps me in the face. "I will leave if that's what you want, but please give me a chance to explain."

"Give you a chance to lie to me again, you mean?" He doesn't get up. In fact, slumping in his chair, he looks resigned. Hurt and simmering anger making him listless rather than threateningly aggressive.

"Leo, I-"

"Give you a chance to mistake my kindness for weakness again? Why not take advantage of the naïve farm boy, huh? And if he starts asking too many questions, shut him up by seducing him."

His words are hurting me far more than if he'd simply given me a bloody nose. The thought that what happened between us is now so sullied and impure in his mind is like a physical pain in my chest. It wasn't dirty. It was the most perfect experience of my life. And although I know it's my fault that he views it very differently, I can't stop the tears that sting my eyes. "That's not what I was doing," I say quietly. "You...I hated lying to you. I wanted to tell you the truth, but I was scared. Please, please just let me explain."

For dragging seconds, he just looks at me with those same rigid features. "You've got five minutes," he eventually sighs, steely gaze softening although he seems to be fighting it.

What comes next from my mouth is important. Possibly the most important thing I will ever say. If I fuck this up, I lose the best thing that's ever happened to me. But maybe I deserve to lose it. Nevertheless, I'm not willing to. Not without a fight anyway.

### To be continued...

Thank you for reading!
