Dangerous Waters

by Amy J. Fetzer

  He flattened his palms on the wood, just above her shoulders. "I never thought I would see you afraid." She gazed unflinchingly into his dark eyes. "I'm not" "Then why are you trembling?" "I'm resisting the urge to belt you where it counts." "Liar," came in a dark whisper as he leaned closer, his face coming within an inch of hers, and he inhaled deeply, catching the exotic scent of cinnamon and ginger. His breath fanned her jaw, warm and intoxicating, as he tilted his head, inhaling, exhaling, absorbing, drinking in her fragrance and Victoria splayed her hands on the wall, determined not to touch him.

  "Are you really going to hit me?" he murmured, then leaned back a fraction, briefly catching her gaze. "If you go now, I might reconsider it." The corner of his mouth quirked, yet he continued to absorb her, like an animal scents its prey for life, his face corning closer and closer, letting her feel his nearness, his breath against her hair, her ear, the curve of her throat. "But I don't want to leave." A smokey whisper, caressing.

  "What do you want, Chris?" A breathless plea, a nerve stretched taut, and Christopher knew she was experiencing the

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  same incredible burning as he. Like gunpowder about to be lit—even if she tapped every resource to quell it.

  "I want you to see what I see."

  She stiffened. Hurt speared through her gold eyes, and Chris regretted his choice of words.

  "I already know that." Bitter, cynical.

  "No, Victoria. Even I didn't."

  A dark amber brow rose.

  And his outstretched arms bent, his long leg shifted, knee insinuating between her thighs. But never touching. It was like standing too close to a fire. She could feel the heat of him. Naked skin to black jeans. And Victoria closed her eyes, fighting him, fighting her intense desire for the pressure of him, long and hard, against her. Her body knew his, the sultry air between them like a thin cushion laid to her skin, defining the width of his chest, mapping every curve and contour down to his lean hips. And the masculine heat between. Oh God, she wanted to touch him.

  "I see strength and beauty, Victoria." She opened her mouth to protest and he hushed her, the soft sound spiraling through her like a silken ribbon. "I see a vibrant woman, trapped behind a painted mirror." His lips grazed her chin, her throat, then his head dipped, his mouth brushing over her collar bone. A tiny moan, almost lost in their breathing, came from her.

  Chris retraced the contours of her skin, the flesh layered over bone and muscle. "I've never known anyone like you. I've never seen anyone so determined and angry."

  "I'm not angry." She swallowed, her head back. "Except with you."

  "I know and I'm sorry." His words imprinted, her skin, hot and liquid. "But I need to see the woman."

  "I can't give you that."

  "Yes, you can," he whispered in her ear, sending a chill over her skin, "She's there. I felt her in the forest. In the stables." His voice lowered to a husky pitch. "I'm feeling her now."

  "Chris." She bit her lower lip and squeezed her eyes shut.

  His lips touched her skin above her breast and her heart shot up to her throat. Her nipples tightened, stinging with need, to have him touch her there as his one hand slid down the wall, slowly, tightening her nerves, and he brushed the fabric off her shoulder. He kissed her there.

  "You have the most beautiful shoulders," he murmured, dragging his tongue around the scented flesh, his movements lusher and deeper than before. "They should never be cov­ered."

  Her chest rose and fell rapidly. His hands on her shoulders felt like strands of hot lead, branding her skin. Between her thighs dampened, and she tried to ignore it. But wave after wave of sensation roared through her, viciously pelting her body with feelings she never thought she'd experience again. She was on fire for him, his tenderness and patience ripping a tear in her shielded heart and Victoria shivered from the force of it. She couldn't kiss him or she'd be lost again. And she had to leave him. But God ... it had been years since any man kissed her, really kissed her, and he made her feel so sleek and sexy that she hungered for more, for a single brief moment to find what she'd lost.

  "Look at me, Victoria."

  Her lashes swept up and he saw the faint sheen of tears. His heart fairly lurched out of his chest She was so vulnerable— the guard dropped and the scared woman revealed.

  "Why are you doing this to me?" A soft wail, wounded.

  His expression saddened. "To prove what we have is real."

  "Chris—"

  "God, can't you feel it? It's like a razor between us."

  She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them slowly. "I feel like I'm on the edge of a cliff," she gasped.

  "I swear, Tori, I won't let you fall."

  His hands slid to the wall, both scraping up to rest above her, the motion arching his back, drawing his body closer. Her breasts, the hard tips hidden behind chambray cloth, grazed his chest. She gasped at the delicious friction.

  And he covered the sound with his lips. She flinched, shock

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  upon shock ripping and tearing between them. He moaned and

  sank into her mouth as his body sank against hers, grinding her

  to the wall. His thigh pushed up between hers. She whimpered.

  Nerves danced. Her womanhood moistened, warming his skin

  through his heavy jeans and Chris strained, fists clenched

  against the wood as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed

  her, his mouth liquid heat and rolling, his tongue parting her

  lips and driving inside. Her reaction was wild, savagely raw,

  undoing his restraint. Victoria couldn't get enough. Liquid fire

  seared in her blood, her legs gone boneless, her breasts

  throbbing and swelling and aching for his touch.

  Her nails clawed the wood wall.

  "Touch me, Tori. I need you to touch me."

  When she didn't, his hands slid down the wall and swept

  beneath her shirt, cupping her bare buttocks. The contact made

  her flinch, but he didn't stop, shaping her hips, then driving

  up her smooth back and around to enfold her breasts. A little

  shriek spilled into his mouth and her control broke, her arms

  wrapping around his neck with desperate hunger. She arched,

  rocking his thigh as his thumbs circled and flicked her nipples.

  They ripened into his touch and he wanted to taste them, needed

  to, and he caught her shirt, flipping button after button, then

  spreading the fabric wide. He pulled his mouth from hers to

  look at her, naked to his gaze.

  He swallowed thickly. "God, Tori." She was perfection, full pear-shaped breasts, paler, untouched by the sun, a stomach tanned, lean and flat and defined with muscle. His trembling fingers smoothed the clean line of skin rounding her hip and the delicate area between. It was incredibly erotic, the stark contrast, and the sight of her bare thighs straddling his robbed him of his breath. It took every ounce of control not to open his jeans and drive into her. But his hands wouldn't be still, sweeping up her body, wild images conjuring and calloused palms enfolded her breasts as his gaze climbed to meet hers. He recognized fear, her worthiness laid for him in the dim light. "Exquisite," he said and she knew he meant it. "Do you taste as good?'' He dipped his head.

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  And Victoria breathed deep with exotic pleasure as he took one pink tip into the hot suck of his mouth. A low rough moan sprang in her throat. She drove her fingers into his hair, feeling its tickling softness, but her mind centered on the wet lips pulling at her nipples, first one, then the other, over and over until she thought she'd faint. No man had even made her feel like this, so precious, so sexy, and her body was without control, starving for him, writhing with pleasure as his teeth grazed the soft underside of her breast, experimenting w
ith touch and taste and finding her most tender spots. His hand lowered to her spine encouraging her rocking against his thigh. It was wicked and sensual and she wanted more. Damn him. More.

  He straightened, and she clawed his shoulders, clutching handfuls of his hair and holding him for her plundering mouth. Chris trembled, matching her fire. It was almost a battle to see who could force who over the edge. He was determined to win and shifted his leg, spreading her, and Victoria felt the cool air touch her femininity. Then his hand did, two fingers plunging into her softness and she cried out.

  "Ahhh God, Chris."

  "Let me, Tori. Don't fight it."

  "I couldn't if I wanted to ... oh, Chris."

  His fingers withdrew and thrust again. He held her pinned to the wall and to him, an arm about her slim waist, his broad thigh hooking her leg. Her mouth was on his, tongue wielding honeyed fire. She clawed at his waist, his hips, one slim hand reaching between them and Chris thought he'd explode his seams when she boldly shaped his erection concealed in dark fabric, her gold eyes locked with his as he drove intimately into her softness over and over. He witnessed her climax, a darkening of her eyes, a tightening of her grip on his neck. For the length of a heart beat, she stilled.

  A short ragged inhale. A shudder of pure feminine desire.

  Then he thumbed the tender core of her and she flexed wildly, every muscle clamping tight and Chris buried his face in the curve of her throat, holding her as swells of thick opulent pleasure racked through her. He felt every breath she took,

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  every ripple of sleek muscle, hard and soft, wet and musky against him. He wanted to be deep inside her. Right now. Slick and hard and sliding into heaven. But he couldn't—not this soon. She may have accepted his touch, but he'd no idea if she'd rip his face off in a moment for making her so vulnerable.

  Ah, but she smelled so sweet.

  He hadn't meant for it to go this far. He'd just wanted to kiss her. Apologize. But there was nothing simple about kissing this woman. Nothing at all.

  She settled softly and he cupped her hips, rubbing her against his thigh, wanting her to remember how easily the fire blazed, wanting to feel her shiver and moan for his touch. He lifted his head and she kissed him, a warm slide of her tongue into his mouth, sensual, natural, and Chris thought he could stay here forever, just kissing her. She made him feel like a king when she did.

  Slowly he eased his leg down, letting her foot touch the floor.

  Her hands rested on his shoulders, then smoothed down the front of his shirt, muscles jumping to her touch. A faint smile curved her lips, the power she possessed freeing her in ways he could never understand. Briefly, she titled her head back and took a deep breath. She ought to be ashamed. Yet she was anything but.

  "That was certainly an experience. But can't we get arrested for it?"

  He quirked a smile. ' 'The marshal has certain rights.''

  ' 'Proving a point again?''

  He heard the edge in her voice. "I wasn't proving anything. Victoria," he growled, sandwiching her to the wall. "We were."

  "Do I get a chance?" Her hand slipped between them, firmly cupping his arousal and Chris flinched. "Tori."

  "Yes?" She smiled like a cat, her fingers manipulating him. "Stop," came through gritted teeth, even as he nuzzled her throat.

  "And if I don't?"

  He jerked back, sensual pain etched on his handsome face. "Damn it, 1 didn't come here for that." "What then?" "At first," he looked sheepish "just to get you alone long

  enough to apologize."

  She nodded thoughtfully. "Apology accepted, in case you

  didn't know."

  Oh, he knew. "Then I wanted to kiss—"

  "God, you're like a rock against me," she whispered sud­denly.

  He groaned. That's it, he thought, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to her bed. A man can only be just so chival­rous. He laid her gently in the center, then settled to the mattress beside her, his body quaking and his manhood tight and strain­ing his pants. He ignored it, deserving his suffering, and brushed tawny gold hair from her face, wondering how long he could take looking at her, knowing she erupted like a volcano when

  they touched.

  She held his gaze, her hand riding his arm to his shoulder, branding him like a new born calf. He wanted her so bad even his teeth ached. Yet when she opened her mouth to speak, he leaned closer, brushing his lips over hers.

  "Sleep, Tori. There is always tomorrow."

  He leaned toward the table and blew out the lamp. In an instant she knew that he was gone.

  And she missed him.

  Curling to her side, Victoria reveled in the sweet ache sim­mering through her body. Tomorrow. She didn't have many of them. Not in this century. But if the rest of them could be like tonight? She squeezed her eyes shut, shutting out the need, the undeniable hunger she felt for him.

  Victoria wasn't stupid.

  Christopher Swift was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of guy. And even if this might be her only chance to feel loved, she couldn't

  hurt him.

  No matter how much she wanted to love him.

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  Chapter Thirteen

  In the darkness, Chris eased open his front door, shivering, his boots in his hand, and he stopped short at the unexpected burst of light.

  "Well, it's a fine thing, comin' in this late . . . and why are you all soppin' wet, lad?"

  "One does not pry in his lordship's affairs, Miss Abigale." Randel raised his oil lamp a touch.

  Abigale, short, slightly round and cherry cheeked, snorted indelicately at the Englishman. "I diapered his bum, I'll stick my nose where I please.'' Randel sighed uselessly as she looked at Christopher. "Affair, it is?"

  Chris's gaze shifted between the two, ending on the valet and imploying for some masculine support. Randel, clad in an impeccably pressed dark robe and not looking at all as if he'd just dragged himself out of a warm bed, gave his employer a bland look. His usual expression. No help there. Abigale, on the other hand, cinched up her ruffled dressing gown and studied him closely, her gaze drifting down to his stockinged feet, to the boots, then to his wet hair. "In the river, were you?"

  Great. Here comes the Spanish Inquisition. "Yes." "Why, in the name of heaven, when we've got that new bathing room, with the heater and pumping water—"

  Randel cleared his throat and shot her a quelling glance. Abigale returned it, searching his aged face. Suddenly her fea­tures tightened and she looked at the master, her brows high. " Tis a woman who's set you to jumping in freezin' water?" came in a squeak.

  She looked too damn happy about it for Chris's mood. Which was foul with unsatisfied passion. The swim did little to squelch his need for Victoria, except make it less obvious in his trousers. Ignoring the unspoken question, Chris strode through the dimly lit foyer, dropping his boots by the umbrella stand and heading up the staircase toward his bedroom. He didn't get far. Not that he thought he would. "Christopher Waythorne Swift!"

  He sighed, dropped his head forward, then cocked a look over his shoulder. "Yes, Abigale. A woman." She beamed. "But don't get any ideas. I'm not."

  "Oh, 1 wouldn't dream of it, laddie," she called sweetly as he mounted the remaining steps, but Chris recognized her tone. Abigale was plotting, or would be the instant she discovered Victoria's identity. He scoffed, pushing open his bedroom door and slipping inside. Abigale would be the last person to recog­nize Victoria, if she had anything to do with it.

  But he supposed the old woman was repenting, since she'd encouraged him with Camille. A sudden dull ache worked in his chest and he rubbed it, crossing the room and stripping off his wet clothes. Camille McCracken. She'd insisted she loved him, agreed to marry him, then when he told her, merely to reaffirm his own skepticism, that he was half Cheyenne, she immediately broke their engagement.

  "Just
because I'm friends with Indians," she'd said in a condescending voice. "Does not mean I want to actually marry

  one.''

  She'd destroyed him with her carelessly chosen words, smashed his faith in women of her ilk—ladies, refined and

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  gently reared, with compassion and understanding that only went as far as the eye could see. He should have recognized it, but he'd assumed. How could he not, her relatives were Sioux, for Christ's sake. Venting his old anger and new frustra­tion on his clothes, he tore at the fastenings, slapped wet gar­ments over the back of a chair. It crushed his fierce desire for Victoria, but in the same instance, it made him remember. Everything. Her scent, her taste . . . her eruption. And he stilled, his breathing labored. His body flexed.

  He wanted that woman. More than just in his bed. She was unique, intriguing him, different by years and miles from Camille. Victoria Mason was intelligent, challenging, and full of capped passion, as savage in her loving as she was in hunting her bounties. And the tightly checked desire made her all the more alluring, for the explosive hunger her experienced tonight was only the beginning of what lay disguised and dor­mant beneath her cool demeanor.

  And he couldn't wait for the next time. And there would be one.

  But as he sank into the softness of his big empty bed, wishing she was with him, he knew that he'd pay for making her aware of herself. Of how much she meant to him. A year ago, he'd sworn off women and giving his heart away so easily ought to be warning enough, but he couldn't dredge up the old wounds to barricade behind. He should. Because she could detach her­self too easily. He'd witnessed it, in her eyes. Victoria wasn't staying. And he was damned if he knew how to change her mind.

  June 3872

  Sometimes, it hides in a place deep inside me, quiet, dormant as a tulip in winter. I forget it's even there, yet when I lay awake at night still, I feel it, swelling over me, drowning me. It's a hunger, a sudden unquenchable thirst, always coupled with pain. A horrible agony so cavernous it digs and digs,