Michael knocked on Rochelle's door, and stood waiting, realizing she probably was still sleeping, since she did not have a clock.
“Yes,” her sleepy voice echoed softly through the door.
“Rochelle, it's me, Michael.” He waited through what seemed several minutes before he heard the sound of the night chain rattling and the lock turning just before the door opened. She stood before him in her long nightgown, her arms wrapped across her chest, her eyes looking clouded, not with sleep, but from lack of it.
“I couldn't find my robe,” she muttered uneasily, a bit of paranoia gaining strength as she struggled up through the layers of tiredness to awareness. Turning her back, she looked about the room, went and checked the bathroom, then came back to find Michael holding her robe.
He was smiling gingerly as he offered it to her, his eyes taking advantage of the opportunity to study the lovely sight claiming his gaze. Her breasts pushed at the loose fabric of her gown, the nipples plump and ripe and creating tiny peaks behind the shimmering, satiny material. Her hipbones protruded slightly and the gown fell against a flat stomach. When she turned to one side to slide the robe over her shoulders and on her arms, he saw her shapely derriere, and was quickly reminded that the ironclad control of his sexual urges had lost its mastery. An abrupt hunger weighed heavily in his loins.
“Where did you find it?” she asked, and sighed with relief when he indicated a place beneath the coverlet on the bed. With her arms in the sleeves, she left the belt hanging loose, and the deep cleavage between her breasts awed him. The power of his awakening passion erupted like a sudden storm. He wanted her. He wanted her badly.
Going up to her, Michael took her robe belt in both his hands and pulled her up against him.
“Good morning,” he said, leaning closer to her face until his lips grazed hers. Then he covered her mouth with his when she started to reply. He had hoped last night's strong feelings were no more than an illusion that would have disappeared with today's early morning light. When he touched his lips to hers, however, measuring her slow, uncoiling response, he knew this was no illusion. A shared fire had kindled between them. Their infatuation, attraction, or whatever the definition, was firmly in place.
Michael felt a sudden charge of adrenaline, his hormones kicking in, and his manhood growing rigid against her. If she noticed, she wasn't fighting it, and he found himself backing her toward the bed until her legs touched the mattress. He lowered her, his breathing short and ragged. His hands were already sliding off her robe, pushing the straps of her gown over her shoulders until delicate pink rosebuds sharpened his gaze as he watched them hardening before his eyes. He lowered his mouth to one, his hand cupping the other, as he tasted that sweet bud. With senses charged by unabated yearning, his need drove him like a runaway vehicle.
His kisses deepened, his hand moving to secret places that prompted a need to know every infinite detail of Rochelle's body.
Her response jarred his senses, leading him down a road that beckoned with heated longing. Her gown slid easily over her hips, down her legs until the only thing between them was his cumbersome clothing. He began loosening his belt and the front of his pants, his hands moving with lightening speed.
Then she began to tremble. It started in her shoulders, flowing like ripples down her entire body. At first, Michael wanted to believe it was passion. He continued touching her everywhere, kissing her, working into a heated frenzy of longing.
Then he saw her face.
Her eyes stretched wide like a frightened little kid's, tears running from the corners. Although she made no move to stop what he was doing, he knew she was no longer enjoying it. Some dark shadow had formed a cloud over her desire. His need shut down as quickly as a key turning off his car engine, and he rolled to her side, propping himself on an elbow to look at her.
“It's okay,” he whispered, brushing her damp tear-stained hair from her cheeks. She turned her head away so he could not see the expression on her face anymore, but he had seen it already and knew something had disrupted the flow of white-hot passion witnessed in those first fiery embraces and smoldering caresses.
“I'm sorry, Michael,” she said several minutes later, staring up at the ceiling with the sheet covering her. “It has nothing to do with you. It is about me. I couldn't. I just couldn't.” After experiencing so much sexual abuse, it was hard to let go to new desires.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently, his fingers cupping the nape of her neck, his thumb nuzzling the soft creamy smoothness of her throat.
“No,” she said shaking her head, unable to tell him that all the horrible ordeals with Tobias had flooded her brain at the instant she would have given herself to him.
“Then I tell you what, why don't you put on your jeans, and we'll go have breakfast. After that, we'll go to Bozeman and see about a car for you.”
He raised her up to a sitting position, and she wiped her eyes with her fingers. While she was grabbing for her robe to cover herself, Michael gained a delectable eyeful that warmed him instantly to pure sensuous delight. He gorged his eyes with the most superb round breasts ever, the pink rosebud nipples as enticing as any he had seen. The fair skin like cream begged for the taste of his tongue and lips. He shuddered with longing.
Rochelle crawled off the bed, quickly donning her robe, but not before Michael's eyes mentally photographed every inch of her. She possessed a glorious figure, and the curves, dips and peaks were wonderfully tempting. With his eyes still mesmerized by her graceful figure and movements, he watched her walk to where her clothes hung on a hanger. She took the hanger, clothes and all, and went into the bathroom.
While she dressed, Michael picked up the phone and called Ronald Zimmerman. “Hey, Ron, I'm going to be busy most of the day. How about opening the bank for me and keep an eye on things?”
“Sure thing, there isn't a problem, is there?” he queried.
“No, just some personal business I need to attend to,” Michael told him, and hung up.
He sat pondering over what had just happened between Rochelle and him. She had been so passionate and responsive, and then, in the flick of a moment, she shut down. He shook his head, crediting her reaction to the fact they barely knew each other. He knew how some women clung to their morals, disavowing any desire for casual sex. Still, that had not seemed to be Rochelle's problem. She was passionate one moment, icy the next. As she expressed last night, there was much he did not know or understand about her.
When Rochelle stepped from the bathroom, she was in control again. She sent Michael a timid smile. The tight little jeans outlined her lithe figure like a glove, and although dressed casual, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Michael's heart did a flip-flop in his chest as he recalled how he had kissed her, and touched every inch of her.
The feeling of familiarity had him pulling her against him. “I do like holding you,” he admitted.
“I like it too,” she whispered, draping her arms around his neck, and leaning her cheek against his hard, broad shoulder.
“Are you afraid of me, Rochelle?” he asked suddenly.
She winced noticeably, and stiffened in his arms. “No, I feel very safe with you. I'm just afraid of an involvement,” she whispered softly, and although he was not ready to let it drop, he knew he would get nothing more from her on the subject. He also doubted her reason.
“Shall we go to breakfast?” he asked, unable to put aside the images of delectable pink nipples ripening like plump, tender rosebuds before his eyes.
Michael caught a glimpse of doubt in her eyes as her hands slid from around his neck and down his chest. She backed away, her features taking on an expression of silent pondering.
“Breakfast? I don't know. Michael, I don't think I can…” She paused, and was thoughtful a moment. “Just what is it you expect of me?”
“Doubts so soon? I am not going to ask you to do anything you are not comfortable doing. Does that answer your question?”
She regarded him through deep introspection, finally saying,
“Intimacy frightens me for a number of reasons. But more importantly, I think I need to learn how to stand on my own two feet.”
“I didn't know the two were related,” he teased, his fingers touching the silky texture of her neck and throat.
She inclined her head. “What I mean is… I just don't want to become reliant upon you.”
“And you won't. Now stop worrying and let's go have breakfast.” He reached out his hand to her, and marveled at the delicate soft fingers that intertwined with his. Smiling a bit tensely up at him, her mood changed by degrees, and Michael recalled a science reel with the time-release action of a flower's petals unfurling.
Caroline invaded his pleasant images all of a sudden when he saw her car parked along the street when he neared the restaurant.
He hoped her phone call last evening would end their relationship.
He did not want to hurt her, but nothing between them was worth continuing. With her hot temper, she could cause unsettling problems.
MICHAEL WAS SADLY MISTAKEN if he thought things would end easily between him and Caroline. He and Rochelle had barely sat down and given their order, when Caroline came hurtling through the door. She was dressed in a two-piece suit for her switchboard job at the police station, looking extremely smart in her heels, her hair twirled into a neat twist on the back of her head. The speed, however, with which she moved, destroyed the effect of her nicely clad figure. She looked more like a mad dog ready to attack.
Caroline obviously saw Michael's car outside, not to mention the fact she probably got wind of his and Rochelle's outing at the steak house last night. He saw her coming, as did everyone else. He abruptly came to his feet, wanting to head her off before she got to his and Rochelle's table.
“Excuse me, Rochelle,” he said quickly, his face losing its composure while he hurried toward a charging Caroline who was hot for a confrontation.
With no time to answer, Rochelle shot him a surprised glance, and watched him hurry past her.
“Damn you!”
Rochelle heard a woman's voice at her back, and she turned just in time to see Michael grab the woman's arm and usher her out the door. After the shock passed, Rochelle's face must have turned a dozen different shades of red while people watched her reaction.
Temporarily glued to her seat, she attempted to make sense from what just occurred. An old flame, she decided, since he told her last night he was not married or attached—unless it was a lie. She sat there stiffly, undetermined as to what to do. From where she sat, she could see Michael and the woman standing by his car, and although their words were not audible, it was blatantly apparent the woman was yelling at Michael, shaking her fist at him, even trying to strike his face at one point until he grabbed her wrist.
With a little cowardly glance at some of the diners, Rochelle saw them smiling, and knew they were either enjoying her discomfort, or the spectacle the woman was causing outside. She heard low voices, soft whispers, and knew she was part of their discussion. She could not stand the scrutiny any longer. She stood up and grabbed her purse just as the waitress hurried over to her.
“Don't go,” the waitress said quietly. “He'll be back in a minute.
That woman means nothing to him. She just wishes she did.”
Rochelle acknowledged the waitress with a glance, a heated flush of red warming her face. Embarrassment and tears did battle with her self-control, and were quickly winning against her attempts to appear unaffected by the ordeal.
“No,” she said, pushing past the waitress. “Thank you, but I really do have to leave.” Her voice broke on the last couple of words, and she hurried out the door, blindly racing across the street to Mabel's shop, hoping all the while that Michael and the irate woman would not notice her.
Michael had his back to the restaurant door and did not see Rochelle, but Caroline did. Rochelle was no sooner inside Mabel's shop, leaning breathlessly against the door, her eyes pooling with moisture, than the girl came after her. Michael, on the other hand, thinking Rochelle still waited for him in the restaurant, went back inside.
“What's the matter, Sweetpea?” Mabel asked, noting a distraught young woman standing with her back to the door.
Suddenly the door burst open with heavy enough force to send Rochelle flying forward. She grabbed for the rack of clothing to keep from falling on her face. Mabel knew immediately what was wrong. She had heard, as had everyone else, about Michael's night out on the town last night. She quickly put herself between Caroline and Rochelle.
“You filthy bitch!” Caroline screeched at Rochelle, her arms and fists flailing as she tried to move past Mabel. “Why don't you go find your own man and leave mine alone?” Her fist shook violently at Rochelle, and she reached around Mabel trying to get in a punch.
Mabel kept the bulk of her body as a shield between them and warded off Caroline's attack. “That's enough, Caroline! Get out of here,” Mabel shouted, backing her toward the door.
Michael came rushing in, his face terribly pale and chiseled like a solid granite mask of anger.
“Its okay, Michael, Caroline was just leaving.” Mabel's eyes shot daggers through her, and Caroline knew she could not bully Mabel. She backed off in retreat, but she was not finished with Rochelle.
She raised both fists and shook them at Rochelle. “You little red-headed whore, when I get the chance I'll tear your eyes out!” she threatened. Turning, she purposely rammed her shoulder into Michael, nearly unbalancing him before going out the door.
The only person who was not upset was Mabel. “Come here, Sweetpea,” she said, going to Rochelle and wrapping her large arms about her. Her buxom chest offered a soft and comforting cushion for a tearful young woman's head.
Michael held a rigid pose, feeling completely helpless and looking the part. Caroline warned him yesterday evening. He should have known this would happen, and should have seen it coming.
God, he was stupid to have continued with Caroline so long. He should have broken it off completely a long time ago. He could not ignore Caroline's threat to Rochelle. Her temper was ripe enough to provoke her to just about anything.
What a circus, he thought, realizing how the grapevine was probably dancing to the tune of the gossipers. If that was not bad enough, there was Caroline and her jealous ravings, targeting an innocent girl as her victim.
Mabel gently moved Rochelle away from her comforting bosom and turned her toward the back of her store to the bathroom. “Go in there, Sweetpea, and wash that pretty face of yours. It'll make you feel better.”
Rochelle nodded her head, obeying like an obedient child, her shoulders drooping dejectedly. She felt terribly defeated, as if her life was without foundation or purpose. All she wanted to do was be alone where she could cry until no more tears were inside her.