Lacy Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Diana Palmer
burst into tears and was inconsolable. Even Cole, who'd
misinterpreted her nervousness before, finally realized what her feelings for
him were.
She passed by his room the morning he was
dressing to leave— and was shocked when he dragged her inside and closed the
door.
His shirt was completely unbuttoned down the
front, hanging loose over his elegant dress slacks. He seemed taller, bigger,
in disarray, and Lacy eyes went shyly over the expanse of tanned muscular chest
with its thick, dark covering of body hair.
"You cried," he said, without
preamble, and his dark eyes held hers mercilessly.
There was little use in denying it. He saw too
deeply. "I suppose you have to go?" she asked miserably.
"This is my country, Lacy," he said
simply. "It would be the essence of cowardice to refuse to fight for
it." His strong, brown hands held her upper arms firmly. "Haven't you
heard anything I've said about air power, about the edge it would give us on
the Hun if we could assist the French Lafayette Escadrille in developing
it?"
"Why the French?" she asked absently.
The scent of him, the closeness of him, made her dizzy with pleasure. She only
wanted to prolong it.
"Because the American air corps has no
planes of its own," he said simply. "We'll be flying Nieuports and
Sopwiths." "Flying is dangerous..." she began.
"Life is dangerous, Lacy," he replied
quietly. He looked at her soft mouth with its dark lip rouge. Absently he
reached up and smudged it with his thumb, smiling as the bloodred color
transferred itself from her lower lip to his skin. "Like being
branded," he teased. "I could use this war paint on my cattle."
"It washes off," Lacy pointed out.
"Does it?" He reached in his pocket
for his handkerchief and, holding her firmly by the nape of her neck with his
free hand, proceeded to wipe off every trace of it.
"Cole, don't!" she protested, trying
to turn her head.
"I'm not wearing that stain to the train
station," he replied, his mind on what he was doing, not what he was
saying.
But Lacy went quite still, her wide eyes
unblinking on his hard, dark face. "W—what?"
He smiled with faint indulgence as he finished
his task and tossed the handkerchief into his dresser. "You heard
me." His gaze went over her soft oval face, from her short dark hair to
her big blue eyes and down her straight little nose to the bow mouth he'd wiped
clean. "This might have been unthinkable before. But I don't know when
I'll come back again. Isn't it permissible for a patriotic lad to be sent off
with a kiss?"
Her fingers plucked nervously at the buttons of
his shirt, tingling as they felt the warmth of his bare torso under them.
"Of course," she said, almost strangling.
His lean hands framed her face with an odd
hesitancy and he moved closer, towering over her.
She could barely breathe. She'd dreamed of this
moment for years, lived for it, hoped for it. Now it was happening, and she was
self-conscious and shy and scared to death that she wouldn't live up to his
expectations.
"I.. .know nothing of kissing," she
confessed quickly.
She felt more than heard his breath catch, but
the only sign he gave of having heard her was the jerky pressure of his hands
increasing as he bent toward her.
"Practice makes perfect, don't they say,
Lacy?" he asked in an oddly husky tone, and his rough, coffee-scented
mouth ground into hers without preamble or apology.
She gave in without a protest, yielding to his
superior strength, to his growing hunger. She knew nothing, but he taught her,
his mouth invading hers in the silence of the big, high-ceilinged room, his
arms slowly enveloping her against the taut fitness of his tall body.
He lifted his head just briefly, to draw breath,
and his dark, narrow eyes met hers. She was dazed, weak, clinging to him while
her parted, swollen lips invited again the madness he was teaching her.
"Don't stop," she whispered shamelessly.
"I'm not sure I could, in any case,"
he whispered back. His head lowered again and
misinterpreted her nervousness before, finally realized what her feelings for
him were.
She passed by his room the morning he was
dressing to leave— and was shocked when he dragged her inside and closed the
door.
His shirt was completely unbuttoned down the
front, hanging loose over his elegant dress slacks. He seemed taller, bigger,
in disarray, and Lacy eyes went shyly over the expanse of tanned muscular chest
with its thick, dark covering of body hair.
"You cried," he said, without
preamble, and his dark eyes held hers mercilessly.
There was little use in denying it. He saw too
deeply. "I suppose you have to go?" she asked miserably.
"This is my country, Lacy," he said
simply. "It would be the essence of cowardice to refuse to fight for
it." His strong, brown hands held her upper arms firmly. "Haven't you
heard anything I've said about air power, about the edge it would give us on
the Hun if we could assist the French Lafayette Escadrille in developing
it?"
"Why the French?" she asked absently.
The scent of him, the closeness of him, made her dizzy with pleasure. She only
wanted to prolong it.
"Because the American air corps has no
planes of its own," he said simply. "We'll be flying Nieuports and
Sopwiths." "Flying is dangerous..." she began.
"Life is dangerous, Lacy," he replied
quietly. He looked at her soft mouth with its dark lip rouge. Absently he
reached up and smudged it with his thumb, smiling as the bloodred color
transferred itself from her lower lip to his skin. "Like being
branded," he teased. "I could use this war paint on my cattle."
"It washes off," Lacy pointed out.
"Does it?" He reached in his pocket
for his handkerchief and, holding her firmly by the nape of her neck with his
free hand, proceeded to wipe off every trace of it.
"Cole, don't!" she protested, trying
to turn her head.
"I'm not wearing that stain to the train
station," he replied, his mind on what he was doing, not what he was
saying.
But Lacy went quite still, her wide eyes
unblinking on his hard, dark face. "W—what?"
He smiled with faint indulgence as he finished
his task and tossed the handkerchief into his dresser. "You heard
me." His gaze went over her soft oval face, from her short dark hair to
her big blue eyes and down her straight little nose to the bow mouth he'd wiped
clean. "This might have been unthinkable before. But I don't know when
I'll come back again. Isn't it permissible for a patriotic lad to be sent off
with a kiss?"
Her fingers plucked nervously at the buttons of
his shirt, tingling as they felt the warmth of his bare torso under them.
"Of course," she said, almost strangling.
His lean hands framed her face with an odd
hesitancy and he moved closer, towering over her.
She could barely breathe. She'd dreamed of this
moment for years, lived for it, hoped for it. Now it was happening, and she was
self-conscious and shy and scared to death that she wouldn't live up to his
expectations.
"I.. .know nothing of kissing," she
confessed quickly.
She felt more than heard his breath catch, but
the only sign he gave of having heard her was the jerky pressure of his hands
increasing as he bent toward her.
"Practice makes perfect, don't they say,
Lacy?" he asked in an oddly husky tone, and his rough, coffee-scented
mouth ground into hers without preamble or apology.
She gave in without a protest, yielding to his
superior strength, to his growing hunger. She knew nothing, but he taught her,
his mouth invading hers in the silence of the big, high-ceilinged room, his
arms slowly enveloping her against the taut fitness of his tall body.
He lifted his head just briefly, to draw breath,
and his dark, narrow eyes met hers. She was dazed, weak, clinging to him while
her parted, swollen lips invited again the madness he was teaching her.
"Don't stop," she whispered shamelessly.
"I'm not sure I could, in any case,"
he whispered back. His head lowered again and