“I guess I’d better rub the horses down before we eat,” she said. But first she rolled her head on her neck, presumably to get the kinks out, then put her hands on the small of her back and arched outward. A Vargas model couldn’t have done it better.
At the sight of her perfect breasts outlined by the damp fabric, every drop of blood in his body rushed to the lightning rod between his legs. And Helen knew perfectly well what she did to him. This was all part of the new game she’d decided to play.
Well, he’d always considered himself a worthy adversary in any fight. And he wasn’t about to wimp out now.
“Helen,” he said, stifling a grin.
“What?” She batted her eyelashes innocently.
Hah! She was as innocent as Eve in the Garden of Eden.
“How would you like a slice of Indian bread, honey?”
“Well, gee, I don’t know.”
“Lots of protein.”
“Okay.” She reached for the bread and began to eat, at first slowly, then with relish. “Yum. This is really good.”
My point, sweetheart.
Chapter Thirteen
Later that day, they met up with a man sitting next to a stream, talking to his horse. He appeared to be lost.
Rafe introduced himself as Rafael Santiago and Helen as his wife, explaining that they were heading for the northern mines to prospect for gold.
The young man — no more than twenty or so — identified himself as an author from New York, Henry Phillips. He’d been hired after graduation from Harvard College by publisher George Putnam, a friend of his father’s, to write a book on the Gold Rush. Henry wore rust-colored corduroy-type pants and a purple flannel shirt in great contrast to his curly auburn hair and florid complexion.
He rode a horse, but had a mule trailing behind him, loaded not with the usual mining gear, but, instead, with dozens of journals and sketchbooks, a barometer, a compass, a spyglass, one place setting of silverware, and a pewter table service. He sheepishly admitted that his mother had insisted on the latter refinements. In addition, he carried a special case for playing cards, like most miners did, known as “The California Prayer Book.”
“Let him travel with us for a while,” Helen coaxed Rafe. “He seems harmless.”
“More like inept,” Rafe grumbled, rubbing his butt.
“Do you have another blister?” she asked with concern.
“No, Helen, I don’t have another blister. I have a sore ass. And, yes, he can travel with us. Maybe it will give you something to do besides whistle and ooohm.”
“Aren’t you just the bluebird of happiness today?” she commented, but she was pleased with his mood. It meant her ploy was working.
Back at Sacramento, when he’d kissed her witless, then declined to make love until he was ready, she’d come up with a plan. What if she was the aggressor? What if she constantly made suggestive remarks? What if she deliberately provoked him with her body, which seemed to hold a fascination for him? What if she acted as if she’d like nothing better than to hop in the sack and make mad love all day long?
It was a gamble, but one that seemed to be paying off. Any moment now, she expected Rafe to throw in the towel and declare that they were returning to the landing site and his one night of making love. Really, men like Rafe were ruled by their passions, not disciplined logic. Soon he would give in.
To be perfectly honest, she was anticipating that one night too. Rafe had a way of making her breathless with just a look or a smile. And, when he touched her, even in passing, her heart raced and blood rushed to the spot. Yes, she was sure she would enjoy their one-night fling… immensely.
In the meantime, she was going to do everything in her power to make him miserable. And Henry could act as the buffer between the two of them, especially this first night when otherwise they would have been camping out in their tent, alone.
Rafe lay in his tent with his arms folded behind his neck, waiting for Helen to call it a day. She was outside teaching Henry how to meditate. For heaven’s sake, it sounded like they were ooohming themselves into a trance. Every bird from here to Monterey had flown off shrieking long ago.