Free Love by Proxy by Diana Palmer Page A

without thinking, she barreled into his arms and hugged him fiercely. “Thank you!”
    His big hands held her shoulders, held her there, and his head bent over her. “You’re more than welcome. It’s little enough thanks for the good you’ve done around here. Grandmother worships you, did you know?”
    “It’s mutual. I think she’s the berries.” Amelia sighed. Her eyes closed as she pillowed her cheek against his broad chest. It felt so natural to be held by him, to stand in the shade of the trees and be together. Under her ear, she could hear his heartbeat. At her temples, his breath felt ragged, disturbed.
    “Amy,” he whispered.
    There was a note in his voice that meant trouble. And she wasn’t ready to deal with it, not yet. She tugged away from him, smiling to soften the rejection, and folded her arms across her aching breasts. She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t.
    “Now, what shall I plant?” she reasoned aloud, oblivious to the strain that colored her unusually high-pitched tone.
    He came up behind her, slid his hands around her waist and drew her back so that her body rested on his. “The yardman’s name is Harry. He’ll get you whatever you like.”
    “No, really, that isn’t necessary, I can buy what I want.”
    “I said, he’ll get it.”
    “Tyrant.”
    His hands slid up, so that they rested just under her breasts, and her heartbeat jumped. He felt it and laughed, deep in his throat. “It’s broad daylight,” he reminded her. “I wouldn’t do it in public, if that reassures you.”
    She knew exactly what he meant, and had to bite her lip to keep from saying something rude. He liked to tease, she knew that by now. He didn’t even mean anything by it. She was young and not too unattractive and handy, and he was very much a man. She just had to keep that in mind and everything would be fine.
    And it was, until he bent his head and kissed the side of her neck.
    She caught her breath and moaned, and everything changed. Very slowly, he turned her, holding her in front of him. He stared down into her eyes so intently and for so long that her heart went wild and she felt as if she were being electrocuted. She jerked her head down against his chest, breathless.
    “I’ve tried,” he whispered. “Oh, God, I have.”
    His hands tightened on her waist. Then, all at once, he bent and lifted her.
    She clutched at his shoulders as he turned and carried her into the greenhouse several yards away. It was deserted. The yardman usually took Monday mornings off, and Mrs. Carson was taking her noon nap.
    He set her gently down. His big, warm hands framed her face and he searched her eyes. He was breathing heavily, and she could hear his heartbeat.
    “I saw a painting of a fairy once,” he whispered. “She had long black hair and blue eyes and a slender, beautiful body like yours. And every time I look at you, I want to see you without your clothes, Amy. I want to take you into my bed and show you what it’s all about. And that,” he said gruffly, bending, “is why I’ve tried so damned hard not to do this….”
    His mouth melted into hers, soft and then hard, teasing, then rough and hungry. She went on tiptoe to link her arms around his neck. Her mouth answered the wildness of his. And she wasn’t even shocked when his hands slid down to her thighs and lifted her hard against his, so that she could experience the very tangible evidence of his need.
    He lifted his mouth to look at her. “You aren’t fighting,” he whispered.
    “No, I’m not,” she whispered back, and she smiled lazily, dreamily.
    His hands slid up to the base of her spine and moved her gently against him. “Not shocked?” he whispered.
    “No.” Her fascinated hands unbuttoned his shirt slowly and then eased under the fabric to touch thick hair over bare, warm skin. Against her body, his rippled and surged.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, stilling her hands.
    He breathed slowly, as if he were fighting to retain