“You’re not mad?”
“You bet I’m mad!” She tweaked a chest hair for emphasis. Smiling sweetly, she batted the thick fringe of red-tipped lashes when Drake yelped and grabbed her wrist. “But I’ll get over it. Now, tell me what this job is,” she insisted as she nuzzled his neck and licked the moistness from his skin. Her hips wiggled against his. “You’ve got me intrigued.”
Drake pulled away with a husky groan. “I won’t be telling you a damn thing if you keep doing that. Tell me about your job offer first. If my memory serves me right, I think I like your deals better—if the first one is anything to go by.” His grin would have charmed the skin off a cat, and Hope blushed scarlet at the mention of their first drunken encounter. “The pay-up is fantastic.”
“Un-uh, you first. Mind can wait.” For a while, she thought. When she looked up, his expression had grown serious.
“It’s a good job, but I want you to think it over before you decide. I—” he hesitated. The words he’d so carefully rehearsed on his way to Virginia seemed to flow away from him with the steadily pulling current. “I want you to be my wife, sunshine.” Hope stiffened, and he rushed on. “Let me explain first. This won’t be like last time. Last time I would have done damn near anything to keep you near me until I was done with Charles. I was wrong. I should have just told you the truth then, or married you, I’m not sure which. But this time is different. This time the offer is for real.” Drake reached up and stroked the dampness from Hope's trembling jaw with the back of his hand. “I want you to marry me. Say yes, sunshine. Although I wouldn’t blame you a bit, I don’t think I could stand it if you refused me. I love you, Hope Bennett—more, probably, than I have a right to.”
“Oh, Drake.” A tear slipped down her cheek, mixing with the drops of water clinging to her skin as she wrapped her arms around his neck. The feel of his hard, wet body pressing against her awoke a burning desire that had been too long denied. “I’ve never wanted anything else,” she sighed against his firm shoulder. “Of course I’ll marry you. I’d be proud to be your wife.”
The air left his lungs in a rush as he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her until she too was breathless.
“My turn,” Hope said, ending the kiss before she no longer had the willpower to deny his tongue’s insistent probing. “Don’t you want to hear my job offer?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, busily planting tiny, hot kisses on the long taper of her neck, her cheek, her brow.
“Stop that!” She slapped his arm, grabbing his attention. “Be serious for a minute, will you? This is important. Now, I want you to know that this is a long-term position, with a very impressive title. But you need qualifications.”
One golden brow cocked high in the sun-kissed forehead. “Qualifications?” he tensed. “What kind of qualifications?”
She sighed thoughtfully, a finger tapping her pursed lips. “Let’s see, you’ll need patience, a willingness to learn, and a very strong stomach. Wisdom would help,” she winked, “but it isn’t necessary. Mind you, if you aren’t interested, I can find someone else.”
“And the title of this prestigious position?”
“Papa,” she said simply. “What do you say, gunslinger? Are you interested?”
His face drained white as his hold automatically loosened. “Papa? You mean you’re—” that I’m—? Where are you going?! Hope Bennett-soon-to-be-Frazier, you get back here,” Drake growled threateningly. “Hope!”
Too late. When his grip had slackened, Hope had waded away and scampered up the bank. He watched as she ran naked toward the trees, her wet hair slapping her back and rump as her laughter floated on the cool afternoon breeze. He bolted after her.
“'Find someone else', will you?” he bellowed as he sprang onto the bank. “Over my dead body!”
She hid behind the thick trunk of a maple tree, peeking out at him as he deftly hunted her down. She bit down on her lower lip, trying to contain her laughter.
Drake would find her, of course. She could count on that. He had promised he always would, and with all her heart, Hope believed him.
The End
Excerpt from
Perfect Strangers
by
Rebecca Sinclair
© 1996, 2011 by Rebecca Sinclair
Gabrielle sneezed, sniffled, then wiped her eyes and nose on the cloth. Distracted, it took a second for the reality of the situation to seep in. Sweet Lord, she was alone in the chamber with none other than The Black Douglas. Her heartbeat accelerated, heating the already fevered blood in her veins. She shivered and yanked the blanket up protectively close beneath her chin.
"Cold?" Connor asked as he eased himself onto Mairghread's recently vacated seat. The wooden chair legs groaned beneath his weight.
"Aye, a bit chilly," Gabrielle lied. Her shiver had nothing to do with the damp night air and everything to do with this man's commanding presence. However, there was no reason he should know that.
"Then Mairghread was right for once. 'Tis maun soup ye be needing to warm ye up on the inside and chase away those fever chills." Gabrielle watched, transfixed, as he dipped the spoon into the soup, coming up with a hearty mouthful. Compared to the gnarled old hand that had so recently held it, Connor's big hand dwarfed the spoon handle until the utensil looked sized for a child. "Here ye go, lass. Eat up and get well. The preacher will not wait fore'er, don't ye ken?"
"If you're thinking... Oh, nay, I will not. I—" Her words were cut short as, seizing the opportunity of her open mouth, Connor shoved the spoonful of soup past her lips. He used the bowl of the spoon to not only catch the drop of broth that trickled down her chin but to also nudge her gaping mouth shut before more broth could spill out.
Gabrielle chewed swiftly, barely noticing that the once-tasty soup now had the flavor of mud. A wave of irritation swept though her. Oh, but it was difficult to suppress the urge to finish what she'd started, and tell this heathen exactly what she thought of him and his impatient preacher.
She swallowed down the soup and was in the process of opening her mouth to vent her mounting ire... only to find she had no breath left in her lungs to vent it with. Her breathing had paused just beneath her hammering heart when Connor plucked the cloth from her hand and wiped the residue of broth from her chin.
Gabrielle stared at him. The gesture left her speechless. Nay, that was wrong. It wasn't the gesture that stunned her so much as the gentleness with which he'd accomplished it.
While The Black Douglas was known for many things, consideration wasn't one of them. Was it possible the rumors and ballads about this man were wrong? That he wasn't in truth the heartless, barbaric monster they all painted him?
Gabrielle suppressed a groan. Dear Lord, she must be sicker than she originally thought to even be considering such a notion. Was this not, after all, the same man who'd flagrantly—and much too easily, as far as she was concerned—stolen her, his brother's fiancée, right out from under the other man's nose? Was this not the same man who claimed it a rightful theft, the same man who'd then boldly bragged about marrying her himself?
Aye, it was. But, Gabrielle found all of those misdeeds hard to remember when the feel of Connor's strong, cloth-covered fingers gently skimming her jaw still lingered and tingled in her veins.
"Here, lass, swallow down another bite. 'Tis good and hearty fare, just the thing for a sick wench." He'd dipped the spoon back into the bowl and now held it close to her tightly compressed lips.
Gabrielle shook her head. She was wise enough this time not to open her mouth to voice the protest that itched the tip of her tongue.
Her attention had been locked on the closed door at the foot of the bed. It now lifted to his face.
From a distance, his eyes had looked... well, merely gray. Up close, she saw that there was nothing "merely" about them. The irises were predominantly slate colored, yet now she noticed they were also flecked with intriguing shards of brilliant blue. The darkness of his eyebrows, and the
uncommonly long, thick black eyelashes, contrasted sharply, complementing and enhancing their color.
She shook her head to clear it, ignoring the way the gesture set her temples to throbbing anew. "I'll not be marrying you, Connor Douglas, so get that notion out of your head right now."
This time, Gabrielle was prepared. She kept her teeth clenched together as she talked, giving him no opportunity to shove more food into her mouth.
Connor frowned and looked vaguely disappointed.
Gabrielle gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt almost as much as her pounding head and aching throat. Did he truly think her so stupid she would fall for that trick more than once? If so, the man had a good deal to learn about Careltons and their intelligence... not to mention their stubborn determination!
"Right now me main concern is nursing ye back to health. What's done is done, and cannot be undone. What happens after ye're well will happen. There's naught ye can do aboot it. Ye're... er, a robust lass, I'll grant ye that, but naught more than a lass all the same. If I chose to wed ye, there's not a thing ye can do to stop me."
"That's where you're wrong. There are several things I can, and will, do," Gabrielle replied tightly, even as her fevered mind scrambled to think of what even one of those things might be. "You realize that..."—ah-ha!—"that Elizabeth will have your head when she finds out what you've done, do you not?"
"Elizabeth isn't my sovereign, she's yers." Connor replaced the spoon in the bowl, then sat back in the chair, his shrewd gray gaze never leaving her. "And aye, the messenger she sent this afternoon did mention something aboot separating me head from me shoulders, but I paid the threat no heed."
She sucked in a quick breath. The Queen had sent a messenger? And The Black Douglas had blatantly ignored the threat the messenger carried? Was the man insane?! Did he not know that, while Elizabeth could ignore much, never could the woman stand to be ignored herself?
"What about your young king?" Gabrielle asked, and winced. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak, shaky, lacking its previous conviction. "Methinks James will be equally displeased with what you've done."
A reckless grin that made Gabrielle's heart skip a beat tugged at one corner of Connor's mouth. "Och! but there's the rub. Ye're right aboot him not being pleased, but I've gotten him angrier in the past. Jamie threatens only a fine." When she regarded him suspiciously, he shrugged and added, "His messenger arrived as the Queen's was leaving, and shortly a'fore twa sent by the March Wardens. Squeezed in between those was a messenger from the Maxwell. Er, I think that be the order. Truth to tell, I dinny remember exactly, there were so many messengers coming and going. 'Tis been a busy afternoon."
That even one messenger had come was music to Gabrielle's ears. Surely with so many protests and threats The Black Douglas would have to let her go now.
Wouldn't he?
Her gaze raked his face; Connor's features were ruggedly carved, his expression decisive. A glint of persistence shimmered like liquid gray fire in his eyes.
An uneasy feeling prickled along the nape of Gabrielle's neck. The Black Douglas looked more determined than ever to keep and wed her.
She shuddered. This would never do!
Excerpt from
Montana Wildfire
by
Rebecca Sinclair
© 1991, 2011 by Rebecca Sinclair
A shiver of heat splashed through Amanda when the stranger's gaze raked the partially dried hair scattered around her face and shoulders. His attention dipped, lazily taking in the water-darkened bodice of her cream-colored shirtwaist and the dark rose skirt that clung to her hips like a clammy second skin.
She'd heard rumors of men who could strip a woman bare with one smoldering glance, but she'd never met one who would dare. Until now. As the man's attention poured over her, Amanda had the unpleasant feeling he could see right through the saturated barrier of cloth. A warm, tight sensation curled in the pit of her stomach: unfamiliar, alarming.
She tipped her chin up defensively. Crossing her arms over her chest, she cut his lewd investigation short.
His gaze took its sweet time lifting to hers. His grey eyes shimmered in the mid-morning sunlight, telling her it was far too late for modesty. His appreciative expression said something else again; that he'd already decided what "type" of lady she was... and that he could tolerate her sort with little trouble.
"I suppose you'll be wanting my help now, ma'am?" The way his tongue wrapped around the word "ma'am" sent an odd, warm-cold tremor down Amanda's spine. Somehow, he made it sound less like a title and more like a sensual endearment.
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," she replied stiffly, and thought, why not? Her left leg throbbed from supporting her idle weight for so long. She was wet and chilled to the bone. She knew if she didn't allow this man to help her, she might never get out of this frigid water.
He nodded and turned his attention to Roger. "Go find some sticks and get a fire started. Don't skimp; I want it blazing. The lady's going to need all the heat she can get once she's out of there. And get some blankets, too. All you can spare. There's a couple rolled and tied on my horse. Use them."
Roger's golden brows slashed high, disappearing beneath the curls that kissed his forehead. He glanced up at the stranger as though the man had lost all grip on reality. "You want me to do what?"
"Get a fire started," the man gritted impatiently, even as he sank to the ground and began yanking off his knee-high moccasins. "What the hell are you waiting for, kid? I want that fire started, and I want it started now!"
It must have been the ring of authority in the man's voice, Amanda decided. Either that, or the veiled threat glistening in his eyes. Whatever the reason, Roger spun on his heel and sprinted into the woods with unheard-of speed.
"Looks like it's just you and me, princess," the man said as, lithely pushing to his feet, he took a step toward the river. His attention rose from the spot where the water lapped at her hips. His gaze ascended—slowly, hotly—over her breasts, her shoulders, her chin, and lips. Finally, he locked onto her fear-widened eyes.
In that instant, Amanda knew why Roger had run. If her foot wasn't stuck, she would do the same thing. The savage glint in the man's eyes, coupled with his insolent perusal, had a terrifying affect on her.
"You have a name?" His question was instantly followed by a loud splash. He'd just taken his first swaggering stride into the icy river.
"O-of course." Closing her eyes, Amanda stifled a groan in the back of her throat. Her voice deserted her. Not for all the money in the world could she have forced her eyes open at that moment, forced herself to watch as that dangerous-looking man stalked toward her like a hungry wolf hunting down its trapped, defenseless prey.
"You going to tell me what it is?"
His voice was closer. Amanda thought that reason enough not to answer him. That, and the feel of the water being disturbed around her. The icy current lapped at her stomach. She rolled her lips inward and ordered herself not to shiver. It wouldn't do for this man to think her tremors were caused by his nearness and not the water's numbing coldness.
And he was near. She could sense it, feel it.
"Okay, princess, let me put it another way. You want to get out of this river any time soon?"
Amanda's eyes snapped open. A split second too late, she realized it for the mistake it was. The stranger was standing close. Too close. The span of his shoulders and chest cast a chilly shadow over her, blotting out the warmth of the late morning sun, blotting out everything. The water was cold, but it would have needed to be covered with a thick sheet of ice to counterbalance the intense male heat his lean body radiated.
The earthy, leather-and-spice smell of him surrounded her, seeped through her, seeped into her. The scent warmed her blood, thawing what Amanda had begun to think would be an everlasting chill. She didn't feel chilled right now. Just the opposite; she'd never felt so hot in her life!
The man angled his head to look down at her, a
nd Amanda saw that he'd removed his hat. His straight black hair scattered flatteringly around his face. The breeze tossed the inky strands around his shoulders. Her gaze picked out a thin, tight braid, no thicker than her pinkie, woven into the underside of his hair, just behind his left ear. She trailed the braid down to a small brown feather, anchored by a leather thong tied to the end of it.
On another man, that braid would have looked more than odd; it would have looked feminine. She wondered why it didn't work that way on him.
"Well, what's it going to be, princess?" he asked, his warm breath puffing over her cheeks. "The way I see it, you've only got two choices. Either you stand there gawking at me all day, or you answer my question so I can dig you out. I'd say it's your call."
Question? she thought dazedly. Had he asked her a question? Maybe. She couldn't remember. It was hard to remember her name with him standing so close. Amanda told herself her lengthy stay in the water had warped her mind as well as her fingertips, but she wasn't convinced. No, more likely it was seeing the man's eyes up close that robbed her of the will to speak... as well as a good deal of breath!
His eyes weren't grey, as she'd first thought, but a rich, smoky silver. The intensity of his gaze was enhanced by a fringe of thick, sooty lashes, and emphasized by his deep copper skin.
"Guess I was wrong. Looks like you don't want out after all," he said as, tearing his gaze from hers, he pivoted and began wading back the way he'd come.
Only after his body heat—the smell of him, the confusion of him—had been removed, did Amanda shake herself to her senses. By that time he was climbing lithely onto the grassy riverbank. "Wait, Mr....!"
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