He didn't turn around. "Un-uh. That was my question, princess. And until you answer it, you're staying put."
Amanda blinked hard. That was it? All he wanted was for her to tell him her name and then he'd help her out? That seemed reasonable enough. No, it wasn't reasonable at all! A gentleman would never leave a lady stranded in the middle of frigid water merely because she hadn't supplied her name the second he'd snapped his fingers and demanded it. Then again...
Her gaze narrowed on his back, on the way the tough denim pants clung wetly to his heavily muscled thighs and calves. She reassessed. This was definitely no gentleman. Her deduction had nothing to do with his native heritage. It had everything to do with the way he dressed—truly, those pants were indecent!—and the way he walked—make that swaggered. His every move screamed arrogance and authority. Which would have been fine, were it an unintentional, spontaneous thing. It wasn't. Amanda had a gut-feeling this man knew exactly what kind of cocky, insolent impression he made on people, and that he played it to the hilt.
When he turned his head and regarded her from over one shoulder, Amanda knew she was right. She also had an uneasy feeling that he knew what she was thinking.
"Change your mind yet?" As he spoke, he sat down in the grass and reached for his moccasins, although he made no move to tug them on. Yet.
The enormity of what he was doing hit Amanda like a slap. She glared at him. "You aren't really going to leave me here, are you? Just because I wouldn't tell you my name?"
He tipped his head to one side. A lock of black hair fell forward on his brow when he shrugged. "What do you think?"
"I don't think you'd dare."
"Then you don't know me very well."
Her chin tipped haughtily. "I don't know you at all."
"We could do something about that."
Was it possible for a grin to be devastating yet emotionless at the same time? Amanda wouldn't have thought so—until she saw the proof of it with her own eyes. Her heart flipped over in her chest, its tempo hammering in her ears. Her trembling fingers closed around the water near her hips in empty fists.
"That wasn't very nice," she snapped, and stifled a groan when his grin only broadened. The smile, she noted, didn't reach his eyes. They remained narrow and frosty.
"I'm not a very nice person," he said. "Ask anyone, they'll tell you." As though to prove it, he started tugging on his moccasins. When he was done, he pushed to his feet. In the same fluid movement he swiped up his hat and settled it atop his head. He pinched the low-riding brim between his index finger and thumb, nodded to her in mock politeness, then turned and walked toward the trees.
Amanda blinked hard. Dear God, the man really was going to desert her. The rotten bastard!
She didn't realize she'd said the words aloud until she saw him stop. His shoulders squared. His back stiffened. Even from this distance, she could see tension pull the muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms taut.
"Come again, princess?"
Since it was too late to deny it—the damage was already done—Amanda sucked in a deep breath and repeated herself, loudly, and clearly enough so he would have no doubt as to what she'd just called him.
"Goddamn. That's what I thought you said." He sucked in a sigh and released it in a slow hiss. Then he shook his head—regretfully? she doubted it—and plucked off the hat. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it hurling to the grass. "Guess I'm going have to fetch you out of there after all."
There was something in his tone—too calm, too leashed—that sent a shiver down her spine. Amanda couldn't pinpoint the underlying emotion he'd stressed, and, as she watched him again tug off the deerskin moccasins, she stopped trying. Before she knew it, he was trudging through the water toward her. Forcing herself not to shiver in dread took all her concentration.
Wondering what had made him change his mind, she glanced up.
He glanced down.
Silver and green warred, and in that instant Amanda knew exactly why he'd decided to free her. His eyes were narrowed to steely slits. His jaw was bunched hard, and a muscle ticked beneath the high copper plane of his cheekbone. As she watched, his lips thinned into a tight, uncompromising line.
Calling him a bastard had hit a sore spot with him. The man was quietly furious. Worse—much, much worse—all that tightly leashed anger was directed at her. The knowledge seemed a good enough reason for Amanda to flinch when he stopped so close his chest threatened to graze the very tips of her breasts.
"I-I'll tell you my name," she offered, and winced when her voice squeaked.
"Don't bother. Where are you stuck?"
Swallowing hard, she fixed her gaze on one of the flat metal buttons trailing down his shirt. As for the tight bands of muscle rippling beneath the dark blue cloth... well, she refused to notice them at all. "Amanda Lennox. That's my name."
"That's dandy. I repeat: Where are you stuck?" His hand came out of nowhere. His index finger hooked under her chin, dragging her gaze up. His warm, sweet breath blasted over her face when he said, "Better give some thought to answering me this time, princess. You've got exactly ten seconds to tell me what's going on under this water. After that, my hands start doing some exploring of their own."
Meet Rebecca Sinclair
Murphy's Law, Rebecca Sinclair's first short contemporary romance, was a finalist for the EPPIE Award, an award given for excellence in electronically-published fiction. Perfect Strangers and Montana Wildfire, two of her earlier books, are now being made available for the Kindle, Nook, Sony, PDF... and just about any other e-reading device there is. Reb is working on getting the rest of her back-list out in e-book format (keep checking her website–rebeccasinclair.com–for details).
In case you're wondering why her name sounds familiar but you can't quite place it, now would be a good time to mention that Reb is just coming off of a ten year, self-imposed sabbatical. She's back to writing now, however. Currently, she has three new projects in the works: one a sexy time-travel historical romance and two long Young Adult novels. (The latter genre is an departure for her, yet it's one she's having great fun with!)
While no one who knows her would make the mistake of calling her shy, Reb really doesn't like to talk about herself. Don't expect blog posts to be churned out every day... or week... or month even! She doesn't care to detail the mundane details of her life, not when there are so many books floating around in her head yet to write. Nor will she chew your ear off about the specifics of her current project(s) … that's so not Reb's style!
All that said, for those who are curious, here are the basics about Rebecca Sinclair:
Reb has lived on the rocky southeastern coast of New England all her life; first in Maine, where she was born, then in Massachusetts, where she grew up, and finally settling in the biggest little state of the union: Rhode Island. For the last 15 years she's lived in a big, turn-of-the-century (the last century—circa 1865!) house … that came complete with a widow's walk, a Table-of-Death and, of course, its own ghosts!
Reb enjoys spending time with her family, reading (a lot!) and listening to a wide variety of music. Her favorite time to write is in the wee, wee hours of the morning, when all the sane people are asleep; then, her creativity flows like a river. She is the owner and primary webmaster for the popular website Eclectics (http://www.eclectics.com), which she founded in 1993). Eclectics is Internet home to a variety of authors, literary agents, writing articles, and more.
Would you like to contact Reb? Here are several easy ways to do it:
Visit her website @ rebeccasinclair.com
Drop her an email @ mailto:[email protected]
“Friend” her on Facebook @ http://facebook.com/rebecca.sinclair1
“Friend” her on Goodreads (a new fav of hers) @ http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/90768.Rebecca_Sinclair
Write to her @ her postal address:
Rebecca Sinclair
PO Box 15385
East Providence, RI 02915
After swearing you to secrecy, Reb might admit you can find her on Twitter (@Rebecca_S, http://twitter.com/Rebecca_S) early, early in the morning; it's her favorite time of the day––when the house is quiet and everyone is sleeping––to relax with a cup of hot blueberry coffee, sit back and spin her stories without interruption.
However you choose to get in touch, Reb will cherish hearing from you! Please don't tell her that we told you this, but if you write to her postal address and include a SASE (Self Addressed Stamped Envelope), she just might send you back a tiny surprise with her reply… if she's so inclined. ;)
Last but by no means least, Reb hopes you enjoyed reading this book as much as she enjoyed writing it, and she looks forward to entertaining you again in the future!
Table of Contents
Cover
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Excerpt – Perfect Strangers by Rebecca Sinclair
Excerpt – Montana Wildfire by Rebecca Sinclair
Meet Rebecca Sinclair
Table of Contents
Cover
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Excerpt – Perfect Strangers by Rebecca Sinclair
Excerpt – Montana Wildfire by Rebecca Sinclair
Meet Rebecca Sinclair
California Caress Page 36
