The horses were calm, resting, one rear leg cocked. The sky was a darker blue as the sun rose higher. The breeze no longer held a cold edge to it as it lifted strands of Shiloh’s red hair here and there. He felt her breasts pressed to the wall of his chest, noticed how soft and rounded they were. He could feel himself responding, growing hard with yearning. And he forced himself to stop responding to her.
Just how broken was Shiloh’s trust in men? Did she see some or all men in her stepfather? How much damage had he done to her? And did she view Roan through that toxic, stained lens of her life? Lumping him with all men? This was a minefield Roan had never anticipated. He thought she was just a romance writer. Writing frilly stuff that had no value, really. And her real life was a friggin’ ongoing nightmare. He wondered how she could create anything under that kind of pressure. It once more served to tell Roan just how resilient Shiloh really was. He had to stop seeing her as a helpless, ignorant Easterner.
His mind ranged over her nightmare the other night in the house. Was it about that time in her young life? Roan wasn’t sure. But he’d find out and he didn’t look too closely at why he wanted to know.
Gradually, her breathing went from ragged to slow and deep. Shiloh had innocently placed the palm of her hand over his heart. Her touch felt good. And he wanted to make love to her even more than before. There was depth to Shiloh. Roan knew bad experiences honed and shaped people’s emotions and lives. And as soft as she felt in his arms, all curves in the right places, her femininity, she was a survivor. That appealed to Roan more than anything else. He’d lived as an operator and knew life-and-death up front and close. Knew how it had shaped him, changed him, made him strong in ways most people would never be. And he knew internal strength was the most important power to have because it kept a person moving forward in the worst of times.
Shiloh had done that very thing at age eleven when she became the prosecution’s star witness in the murder of her own mother. The resilience and strength she possessed blew him away. He hadn’t seen it in her. And usually, he was very adept at assessing a person. But he hadn’t with her. Why? Roan’s mouth twitched and he stared sightlessly across the valley as he realized his whole reaction to her had been purely sexual. Shiloh was beautiful. Willful. Her feelings on the surface. Like a ripe fruit to be plucked and eaten. And he did want her in every possible way.
His brows flattened out as he considered her in this new, realistic light. Whether Shiloh was aware of it or not, she was a warrior. That what she’d survived, most eleven-year-olds would not have survived without wounds scarring their souls forever. She, on the other hand, had not only survived, but she had thrived. She had a career and she was highly successful. The only reason she was here was to get a respite from her stalker in New York City.
And that concerned him deeply. Roan tightened his arms around her for a moment, trying to feed her some of his strength. She was relaxed in his arms. Trusting. Not stiff. Not tense. But . . . at ease. For whatever reason, Shiloh trusted him. Roan closed his eyes. He wanted her to trust him and to come to him, to want him as much as he desired her. Then, and only then, would they be on equal, respectful footing with each other. Roan wouldn’t chase Shiloh. He’d let whatever was between them, if anything, unfold naturally. He refused to push her, get her in a corner, or manipulate her.
More than anything, Roan wanted Shiloh to be drawn to him just as much as he was to her. Could it happen? And why the hell did he WANT it to happen?
Chapter Seven
The feeling of being protected was so overwhelming to Shiloh as she lay in Roan’s arms that it made her want to cry all over again. Only this time, tears of relief. She had always felt this sense of safety around him, but now, she was getting a taste of it firsthand and it was incredible. As he gently moved his gloved hand across her shoulders and then slowly down her back, she thought of him doing this to a fractious, wild-eyed horse. Well, she was one, in a sense.