by Janet Dailey
"Somebody ought to take you over their knee," he muttered.
"Do you always treat your women so brutally?" Tisha jeered.
His eyes narrowed. "Would you like to find out?" Pallor robbed her of colour at the undeniable threat in his voice, but she kept her gaze boldly riveted to his, her head tilted back defiantly.
"If you come near me, I'll scratch your eyes out," she vowed.
"You'd like to do that, wouldn't you?" he chuckled, his dark blond head cocking arrogantly at her puny attempt to threaten him.
"What's the matter? Don't you think I could do it?"
"I think you'd try," Roarke admitted, walking over to set the mostly empty glass on the counter. "But don't worry, the only thing I'm interested in is getting out of these wet clothes."
"Don't let me stop you."
"I don't intend to." His gaze lazily moved to her.
"Come on, you're going with me."
"Where?" Tisha took a hasty step away from him,
"To my bedroom," he answered grimly. "That's where I keep my clothes. You need to get out of those wet things, too."
"Into what? Your bed?" she taunted him.
"That's where all little girls should be at this time of night," he replied complacently, noting the frightened gleam that appeared in her eyes.
"I'm not going!"
"Do you want me to pick you up and carry you there?"
Tension screamed around her, applying pressure on all sides until Tisha thought she would break in two from the strain. With hate eating away at her mind, her heart was leaping at his potent male virility.
"I want you stop trying to bully me. I want you to quit ordering me around. I want you to leave me alone!" she cried.
"Stop behaving like an outraged female and accept the fact that you have to spend the night here whether you want to or not!" Roarke retorted.
Tisha was unprepared for the quick movement of his arm as he reached out and pulled her away from the chair she had sought refuge behind. Before she could attempt to struggle free of the hold on her arm he was pushing her away and ahead of him out of the kitchen door, through the foyer, and into the living-room. The hands on her shoulders continued to propel her down the hallway to the door at the end. When she forced him to reach around her to open the door, she tried to bolt past him, but he caught her around the waist and flung her into the room.
Stumbling down the short flight of steps, she turned to face him like a wary animal. She moved hastily backward as he walked down the stairs, but he paid no attention to her poised stance of battle, his supple strides carrying him to the other side of the room.
"The bathroom is through that door behind you," he drawled, peeling off his sweater and shirt as he opened a set of folding closet doors. "A good hot shower will drive the dampness out of your bones."
"What are you going to do?" Tisha ventured in a guarded tone.
"The same thing." He glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow elevated in cold mockery. "Only I'll be in the spare bathroom."
Sinewy muscles rippled over his broad naked chest as he turned towards her, a pair of dry slacks over one arm. A shiver trembled over her as he came nearer, but again he went past her to a tall chest of drawers.
"There's clean towels hanging inside," he said. "I don't have any shower caps, but your hair is already wet, so I don't suppose it makes any difference. And here," a pair of cranberry silk pyjamas were thrust in her hands as he walked by. "They'll be too big, but at least they'll be dry."
"You wear them." She tried to hand them back to him.
"I don't mean to shock you, Red," he smiled without amusement, "but I don't wear pyjamas in bed. Now go and take your shower."
She coloured furiously. "I don't want to take a shower. I don't want your clothes. And I don't intend to go to bed!"
Roarke stopped and turned back to her, his jaw set in an uncompromising line. "Let's get something straight. You're going to take a shower if I have to strip you and shove you in there myself. And unless you want to walk around in a skimpy bath towel, you're going to wear those pyjamas. Lastly, you're going to go to bed. So no more arguments?
With his ominous decree ringing in the air, he walked over to a smaller chest and took out a pillow and some blankets.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
"Since I'm going to be sleeping on the couch, I thought I might like some covers," he answered shortly before a wicked glint appeared in his eyes. "Or were you going to offer to share the bed with me?
"You're disgusting!" Tisha declared vehemently.
"Am I?" Roarke taunted.
"You're despicable and arrogant!" she added.
"Is that all? Never mind," he waved off the words that had started to spring to her mouth. "Go and take your shower before you catch cold."
"I hope you get pneumonia and die!" she called after him as his long strides carried him up the steps to the hallway door.
But the door closed with a finality that left Tisha with the impression that Roarke was glad to get her out of his sight. For a moment she stood there, the silence of the room closing in around her, muffling the growls of thunder outside the window. A shuddering chill quivered over her as the dampness of her clothes began to seep into her bones. However reluctantly, she had to admit that the tingling spray of a hot shower would feel good.
With the pyjamas still clutched in her hand, Tisha walked into the gold and blue bathroom, locking the door behind her. For several minutes she stood motionless under the biting spray as it beat out the embittered anger that had strained her nerves to the breaking point. When she finally stepped out of the shower stall and towelled herself dry, she was left with a self-pitying shame that she had responded with desire to the punishing passion of Roarke's kiss.
Going through the motions of hanging up her wet clothes, she fought off the aching void in her stomach, telling herself she was glad he had rejected her advance before she had suffered the ultimate humiliation. If anyone had tried to tell her that she could feel such lust for a man she didn't like, she would have called them a liar, but her own actions had proved her wrong. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't wholly blame Roarke for the misery that was drowning her with its waves of self-sorrow.
Determinedly she brushed away the teardrops hovering on the tips of her lashes. She wrapped her long hair in a towel and piled it on top of her head as she reached for the pyjama top. The silk material felt cool and slippery against her skin, but sleeves hung far below the tips of her fingers. It took some time to fight the excessive length and roll them up to a point where her hands were free. With the buttons buttoned, the ends of the pyjama shirt stopped a few inches above her knees. One glance at the pants and Tisha knew they were miles too long and too big around the waist, so she simply folded them back up and laid them on the counter.
Unlocking the door, she re-entered the bedroom and walked to the gold-covered bed. She ignored the invitation of its empty width to sprawl herself across it and cry out the misery she felt for herself. Instead she found a spot near the edge and sat in a cross-legged position with her back to the door. Unwrapping the towel from her head, she began vigorously rubbing her long hair dry.
A knock on the door was followed immediately by Roarke calling out, "Are you decent?"
"What do you want?"
But the door opened without an answer and Roarke walked in. He still wore only a pair of trousers, but they were wheat tan instead of the brown pair he had had on before. The light colour accented the dark tan of his chest. Tisha watched him from over her shoulder as he walked to the top of the steps.
"I brought you some cocoa to help you relax and get some sleep." His face wore an inscrutable expression as his dark eyes flicked over Tisha.
"How thoughtful!" she mocked coldly, turning away from him to continue rubbing her hair with the towel.
"There'll be a crew out in the morning to clear the road, and I telephoned Blanche to let her know I was putting you up for the night," he co
ntinued without the slightest pause at her sarcasm.
Tisha had been so busy feeling sorry for herself that she had completely forgotten that her aunt might be concerned about her prolonged absence.
"Thank you." Reluctant gratitude edged her voice.
"Do you want this cocoa or not?"
She could tell that he was still standing on the landing. It would have been quite simple to walk over and take the cup from him, but she didn't care to meet the freezing indifference of his gaze.
"You can put it on the bedside table. I'll drink it later," she replied, keeping her head averted as she heard his footsteps moving down the stairs towards the bed. Through the shield of her long hair, she saw him walk by her without a glance. When he turned to retrace his steps, she asked, "Is there a comb I can use to get these tangles out of my hair?"
"There's probably one in the medicine cabinet."
"Thanks," she said shortly, uncurling a long leg from beneath her to slip off the bed.
She was half-way to the bathroom when his voice barked out at her. "Where's the bottoms of those pyjamas?"
She stopped and glanced back at him, surprised at the restrained fury on his face. "They were too big," she shrugged.
"Put them on," Roarke ordered.
"I told you they were too big!" she repeated angrily, bristling at his censorious tone.
"And I told you to put them on. What are you trying to do-look like some silly sex kitten?" he jeered.
Bitter tears burned at her eyes as she glared at the tall figure halted just short of the steps. "The last thing I would try to do is entice you," she hurled back at him. "I told you they were too big for me, but don't take my word for it."
Spinning around, she stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door, grabbing the bottom half of the pyjamas from the counter. Fighting the long legs, she finally managed to draw the waist around her chest while her feet wiggled through the material folds to touch the furry carpet. She shuffled over to the door and swung it open.
"Do you see what I meant?" she demanded, looking from Roarke to the baggy material of the trousers lying in layers around her feet."
"Roll up the cuffs," he growled.
"Fine." A mocking smile of sweetness curved her mouth. "What do I do about the waistline? You're not exactly a size ten!"
"Improvise," he snapped.
"Improvise. You're absolutely impossible! What's wrong with wearing only the top? The darned thing nearly comes to my knees. What's so indecent about that?"
Tisha took two angry strides in his direction. On the third the material tangled about her feet and catapulted her forward. Her arms reached out ahead of her to break the fall, but her hands encountered Roarke's arms and chest as he tried to catch her. Off-balance, they both tumbled to the floor, Roarke's body acting as a cushion as Tisha fell on top of him.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, gently rolling her off him on to the carpeted floor.
"No," she gasped, momentarily winded by the shock of the fall. "No thanks to you."
"Was I supposed to let you dive head first on to the floor?" he muttered.
"You shouldn't have made me put on these stupid pyjama bottoms," she retorted, suddenly conscious of the heat of his body against hers. "I told you they were too big, but you wouldn't listen to me."
"Well, that's spilt milk now," Roarke declared angrily, reaching over her to place his hand on the floor and lever himself upright.
His arm accidentally brushed her breast. Tisha sharply drew in her breath at the intimate contact. That jellylike weakness spread through her bones as he turned his enigmatic gaze on her. He was propped inches above her, his bared chest with its curling dark hairs intimidating her with his closeness. The desire to touch him came dangerously near the surface and Tisha turned her head sharply away, a solitary tear trickling out of the corner of her eye.
"Tisha—"
"Oh, go away and leave me alone!" Her voice crackled slightly on the last word.
His fingers closed over her chin and forced her head around to where he could see the angry fire blazing in her eyes.
"Haven't you humiliated me enough?" she demanded hoarsely.
"You green-eyed little witch," Roarke muttered.
His gaze was focused on her parted, trembling lips. A horrified "No!" escaped her mouth as she brought up her hands to ward him off.
The instant her fingers touched the burning hardness of his naked chest, Tisha knew her body was going to betray her again. When his mouth closed over hers, she succumbed to the rapturous fire that swept through her veins. The hands that had moved to resist him twined themselves around his neck while his hands trailed down to her waist deftly arching her towards him.
Her nerves were attuned to every rippling muscle of his body as they responded to his searching caress. It was a seduction of the senses, mindlessly destroying all cognizance of her surroundings except for his touch. An almost silent sound of shuddering ecstasy came from her throat as he pushed the pyjama top away from her shoulder and started a liquid trail of fire over her skin while his mouth sought out the hollow of her throat.
"You're a witch," he murmured against her lips, then moved to nibble her ear lobe.
Tisha moved protestingly beneath him, her breath stolen by his ceaseless caresses yet needing the fire of his lips against hers. Her hand began a sensuous exploration of his back and shoulders, their nakedness inflaming her desire. His mouth moved over hers, lingering for precious seconds before he raised his head, his hands closing over her arms and pulling them away.
In one fluid movement, Roarke was on his feet, grasping her hands to pull her to his side, leaving the oversized pyjama bottoms on the floor. Her rounded green eyes raised their lashes to look at him, afraid of the cold rejection of before, but this time finding smouldering fires that threatened to blaze again.
"Do you have any idea what you do to a man?" he asked. His fingers closed over her shoulders, holding her in front of him while keeping her safely away.
Tisha was still trembling from the shock waves he had produced and could only look at him numbly. With one part of her mind, she seemed to sense the effort he was making to control his emotions.
"Drink your cocoa and go to bed." A finger lightly touched her lips as he walked determinedly towards the door. He stopped midway up the steps and looked back. "When I leave, put the chair under the doorknob. There isn't any lock."
"I trust you," she whispered.
"Thanks," he answered dryly, "but at the moment I don't trust myself, so do as I say."
"Yes, Roarke," Tisha nodded, surprised by her own meekness.
"Another thing," his gaze moved possessively over her, "there's no need to bother wearing the rest of those pyjamas, I already know what you look like without them."
She smiled timidly, not wanting him to leave but afraid to have him stay. "Good night."
"Good night, Tisha."
"Have a nice night."
"More than likely I'll go quietly out of my mind." A lazy smile moved across his face as he opened the door. "And don't forget about the chair."
"I won't," she promised.
But she did. Somehow she knew it wouldn't be necessary.
Chapter Seven
TISHA rolled over on her stomach, burying her head in the pillow to fight off the wake-up call of her conscious. A deliciously warm sensation of contentment was enveloping her and she didn't want to break its spell. An eyelid flickered open of its own volition and a green eye focused on the cranberry silk material covering her arm.
Vividly her mind recalled the events of the night before when Roarke had aroused the latent core of passion within her, then had left without satisfying it. Was she glad? she wondered, blinking open both eyes as she shifted on to her back. She stared at the sunlight sifting through the curtains. Yes, she decided, she was glad. There was no doubt in her mind that she had disturbed Roarke physically. But was it because she was an attractive woman or because she was Patricia Caldwell?
&
nbsp; A little sigh escaped her lips at the unanswerable question. For the moment she didn't want to try to figure out the whys and wherefores. There was time enough for that later. At the moment she wanted only to find Roarke, to see if the bright light of day would change her reactions towards him and vice versa.
A little reluctantly she slipped out from under the covers and padded into the bathroom. Her clothes from the night before were dry and she hurriedly put them on. It took several minutes to untangle the sleep-caused snarls in her hair. There was too much electricity in it for her hair to lie neatly about her shoulders and the scarf was much too wrinkled from last night's drenching. A search of her pockets revealed a pair of fasteners, and Tisha divided her hair into pigtails.
Softly humming a happy tune, she hurried from the bedroom, alertly listening and looking for a sign of Roarke. An overhead light shone from the open doorway of his den, slowing her steps as she neared it. When she glanced into the room, she saw Roarke slouched over the drafting table, his head cradled in his arms and a blanket thrown over his shoulders. The song in her throat died as her feet carried her into the room.
There was a compelling urge to walk over and push back the wayward strand of light brown hair from his forehead. In sleep he looked less formidable and, if possible, more attractive. As her hand closed over the railing to guide her up the steps, Tisha saw him move. The carpet had muffled the sound of her footsteps and she knew he couldn't have heard her enter. Still he wakened, propping his hands up with his elbows while they wearily rubbed his face. Any moment now he would notice her presence in the room.
"Good morning," Tisha greeted him brightly.
Her legs were no longer able to carry her up the steps as he turned a scowling face towards her.
"Is it?" he mumbled testily as he stiffly moved his protesting shoulders.
"It's not raining," she added hesitantly.
But he seemed not to hear her. A large hand rubbed his mouth and chin. "I don't suppose you've made any coffee," he grumbled.
