unequivocal, and with a slicing edge that had not been there the last time she had exchanged words with him. “You always did enjoy being mysterious,” she said. “Unfortunately, I'm in no mood for it. Are you going to show me the way home, or are we going to spend the night here?”
He shifted, and the folds of a voluminous rain poncho settled across her. She shivered as she was enveloped by the heat of his body trapped under the waterproof material. His grasp tightened in reflex as he said, “Suppose I told you I intended to take up where we left off?”
“It's too late.”
Did he hear the faint quiver of doubt in her voice? How could he, when she was not certain herself of that flash of reaction? She wasn't afraid of him. She had felt many things, from scorn to hate and embarrassing flares of sheer yearning, but never fear.
“Maybe,” he said in pensive consideration, “and maybe not. A woman who has just tried to kill her husband could be capable of a lot of things.”
“How did you know—” she began, then stopped as she saw how it could have been, must have been.
“I heard the first shot and came at a run in time to see the others. Yes, I did follow you. And you're right — I could have stopped you long before this.”
His voice was a deep, disturbing murmur under her ear. She did her best to ignore the sound while she concentrated on the meaning of his words. She said, “But you didn't. You waited until you thought I was desperate, though what you hoped to gain is more than I can see.”
“Is it now?” he asked, settling her closer against him. “Actually, I thought I might not need to intrude on what looked to be a successful escape. However, letting you wander around all night soaking wet seemed to be carrying noninterference a bit too far.”
“Besides which, the opportunity to crow over me was too good to miss.”
“The thought,” he said deliberately, “had not occurred to me, but now you point it out, I don't mind if I do.”
The tone of his voice sent alarm jangling along her nerves. She pushed against him, trying to lever herself out of his hold.
It was a mistake. In an effortless flexing of muscles, he rolled with her, turning her onto her back within the confining poncho. He allowed his weight to settle upon her, pinning her in place. One of her arms was caught under him. He captured the other at the wrist in a painless but unbreakable hold.
She shuddered as she felt his male heat drive the chill from her body. In the space of a moment the wetness of her clothing seemed to steam against her skin. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, his thighs held hers apart, and the hardness under the zipper of his jeans nudged the softness at the apex of her legs.
She strained upward, digging in her heels as she tried to throw him off. The movement brought their bodies into closer, more fervent contact. She felt him stiffen, heard the soft, abrupt intake of his breath. She went still.
From inside her there rose a sweet, piercing ache that she had not felt in years. Fifteen years, to be exact. With it came an emptiness that was all too familiar, one that Keith had never been able to fill.
It was infuriating. It was astonishing. It was frightening.
Caught in the vortex of her own emotions, she lashed out at the man who had forced her to face them. “You always were good at taking advantage, you and all the other male members of your family.”
His sigh lifted his chest, and she could feel the definition of his taut muscles. It did nothing to help her concentrate on what he was saying.
“Still harping on that old tale? I would have thought you were old enough by now to have a little tolerance.”
“For your Yankee great-grandfather's misdeeds?” she inquired tartly. “But I would have to extend it to you, too. And you know what they say about falling acorns.”
“Good thing my great-grandfather wasn't a tree,” he answered in dry amusement.
“He still cheated my
He shifted, and the folds of a voluminous rain poncho settled across her. She shivered as she was enveloped by the heat of his body trapped under the waterproof material. His grasp tightened in reflex as he said, “Suppose I told you I intended to take up where we left off?”
“It's too late.”
Did he hear the faint quiver of doubt in her voice? How could he, when she was not certain herself of that flash of reaction? She wasn't afraid of him. She had felt many things, from scorn to hate and embarrassing flares of sheer yearning, but never fear.
“Maybe,” he said in pensive consideration, “and maybe not. A woman who has just tried to kill her husband could be capable of a lot of things.”
“How did you know—” she began, then stopped as she saw how it could have been, must have been.
“I heard the first shot and came at a run in time to see the others. Yes, I did follow you. And you're right — I could have stopped you long before this.”
His voice was a deep, disturbing murmur under her ear. She did her best to ignore the sound while she concentrated on the meaning of his words. She said, “But you didn't. You waited until you thought I was desperate, though what you hoped to gain is more than I can see.”
“Is it now?” he asked, settling her closer against him. “Actually, I thought I might not need to intrude on what looked to be a successful escape. However, letting you wander around all night soaking wet seemed to be carrying noninterference a bit too far.”
“Besides which, the opportunity to crow over me was too good to miss.”
“The thought,” he said deliberately, “had not occurred to me, but now you point it out, I don't mind if I do.”
The tone of his voice sent alarm jangling along her nerves. She pushed against him, trying to lever herself out of his hold.
It was a mistake. In an effortless flexing of muscles, he rolled with her, turning her onto her back within the confining poncho. He allowed his weight to settle upon her, pinning her in place. One of her arms was caught under him. He captured the other at the wrist in a painless but unbreakable hold.
She shuddered as she felt his male heat drive the chill from her body. In the space of a moment the wetness of her clothing seemed to steam against her skin. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, his thighs held hers apart, and the hardness under the zipper of his jeans nudged the softness at the apex of her legs.
She strained upward, digging in her heels as she tried to throw him off. The movement brought their bodies into closer, more fervent contact. She felt him stiffen, heard the soft, abrupt intake of his breath. She went still.
From inside her there rose a sweet, piercing ache that she had not felt in years. Fifteen years, to be exact. With it came an emptiness that was all too familiar, one that Keith had never been able to fill.
It was infuriating. It was astonishing. It was frightening.
Caught in the vortex of her own emotions, she lashed out at the man who had forced her to face them. “You always were good at taking advantage, you and all the other male members of your family.”
His sigh lifted his chest, and she could feel the definition of his taut muscles. It did nothing to help her concentrate on what he was saying.
“Still harping on that old tale? I would have thought you were old enough by now to have a little tolerance.”
“For your Yankee great-grandfather's misdeeds?” she inquired tartly. “But I would have to extend it to you, too. And you know what they say about falling acorns.”
“Good thing my great-grandfather wasn't a tree,” he answered in dry amusement.
“He still cheated my
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