by Nancy Morse
“Do you believe in fate?”
Rennie asked, her voice barely a whisper.
John emitted a long, low breath he’d been holding trapped in his lungs. “The Seminole Indians believe that it is what you do with your life that determines your fate.”
She moistened her lips and tilted her face up to him. “And what do the Seminoles say about two people coming together for only one night? Would they call that fate?”
His whole body tensed. “They would say that a man and a woman coming together can change the course of the world, and must not be taken lightly.”
“I don’t want to change the whole world. Only my world.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “You’re vulnerable right now, and confused. You don’t know what you really want.”
Her hands came up to caress his face. “For the first time in my life, I know exactly what I want.”
Dear Reader,
Valentine’s Day is here, a time for sweet indulgences. RITA Award-winning author Merline Lovelace is happy to oblige as she revisits her popular CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries. In Hot as Ice, a frozen Cold War-era pilot is thawed out by beautiful scientist Diana Remington, who soon finds herself taking her work home with her.
ROMANCING THE CROWN continues with The Princess and the Mercenary, by RITA Award winner Marilyn Pappano. Mercenary Tyler Ramsey reluctantly agrees to guard Princess Anna Sebastiani as she searches for her missing brother, but who will protect Princess Anna’s heart from Tyler? In Linda Randall Wisdom’s Small-Town Secrets, a young widow—and detective—tries to solve a string of murders with the help of a handsome reporter. The long-awaited LONE STAR COUNTRY CLUB series gets its start with Marie Ferrarella’s Once a Father. A bomb has ripped apart the Club, and only a young boy rescued from the wreckage knows the identity of the bombers. The child’s savior, firefighter Adam Collins, and his doctor, Tracy Walker, have taken the child into protective custody—where they will fight danger from outside and attraction from within. RaeAnne Thayne begins her OUTLAW HARTES series with The Valentine Two-Step. Watch as two matchmaking little girls turn their schemes on their unsuspecting single parents. And in Nancy Morse’s Panther on the Prowl, a temporarily blinded woman seeks shelter—and finds much more—in the arms of a mysterious stranger.
Enjoy them all, and come back next month, because the excitement never ends in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Yours,
Leslie. J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Panther on the Prowl
NANCY MORSE
Books by Nancy Morse
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Sacred Places #181
Run Wild, Run Free #210
The Mom Who Came To Stay #683
A Child of His Own #773
Panther on the Prowl #1134
NANCY MORSE
Nancy lives in New York and Florida with her husband, Talley, who works in the film industry, and their Alaskan Malamute, Max, aka Big Fur. An early love of reading and happy endings led to the publication of her first historical romance in 1980. She has an avid interest in Native American art and culture and takes pride in her collection of nineteenth-century artifacts. In addition to writing, she keep busy with reading, gardening, aerobic workouts and a full-time job in health and education.
Contents
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 1
Rennie Hollander was desperate.
The practiced hands at the controls trembled and her usually steady grip was scared and unsure as she piloted the single-engine Cessna southward, hugging the Florida coastline.
All around, lightning snaked the black sky. The sudden, violent thunderstorm that ripped through the night shortly after takeoff should have forced her to turn around and head back to Palm Beach International, but the radio frequencies were flooded with diverted pilots trying to talk to tower controllers. And besides, it would have been a mistake to go back.
Fixing her coordinates, she flew on into the thick night. The steady hum of the engine was the only reassuring thing as the plane bumped its way through the turbulence.
South Florida was called the lightning capital of the world. It was a reputation well deserved, Rennie thought grimly. Two years ago the senator’s caddy was struck and killed by lightning on the tenth hole, and last summer a workman repairing the roof of the guest house was knocked into the air by a bolt of lightning.
Rennie knew from the weather report she received before take off that she was taking a chance flying in such weather, but she was an experienced pilot, and desperate to get away.
Far below, the Everglades stretched into the darkness. Rennie shuddered, recalling the only time she had ever been to the Everglades. It was the summer after her father died, when her mother’s friend, Senator Trevor Hollander, took her on an airboat ride. Of course, he wasn’t a senator back then, merely an overambitious businessman eager to impress an eight-year-old and her wealthy, widowed mother.
She found the place treacherous and frightening, with alligators sitting like partially submerged logs in the still water. Yet to her child’s eye it was also strangely beautiful. Though Rennie had been too young to understand the dichotomy, the Everglades haunted her until she grew older and came to realize the place mirrored her own life, for it, too, was filled with beautiful things and long, endless stretches of loneliness.
In the years following her mother’s marriage to the senator, the conflict within her deepened. Hers was the kind of life that most people only dreamed about, with private flying lessons, the best schools, summers in Southampton, winters in Palm Beach. But like the vast wetland somewhere down there in the darkness beyond the plane’s window, Rennie felt empty and alone. Something was missing. She referred to it as her missing link.
The family wealth notwithstanding, Rennie preferred to earn her own living as a professor of anthropology with the University of Miami. Her work gave her life some focus. She didn’t earn much, but at least she earned it herself. Besides, there was always the trust fund to fall back on. Not that she needed it. She already had everything she could want—except, of course the things that really mattered, like the love she lost when her father died and the attention she rarely received from a mother who had been too busy hosting lavish parties and fund-raising events for her husband.
Growing up, money had always been the only constant thing in her life. The more she had of it, the less she needed of everything else. But as she grew older, what was once difficult for a little girl to understand became frighteningly clear to the woman she had become. Where was the desire? The need? The sheer necessity for life? That old missing link churned deep inside, filling her with the need to need something…someone.
She had thought her fiancé, Craig Wolfson, was that someone. She’d met the handsome land developer at a fund-raising party for the senator. A whirlwind courtship led to a proposal of marriage. Craig would make a good husband, she had reasoned much the way her mother had reasoned that the senator would make a good husband after Rennie’s father died. Rennie hadn’t cared that she wasn’t head-over-heels in love with Craig. He was good-looking, smart, successful and utterly devoted to her. Almost too good to be true. Besides, the senator approved the match, and the senator always got what he wanted. Thank God she found out about Craig in time and broke off the engagement.
Rennie’s fingers gripped the stick
tighter, knuckles whitening under the pressure as she contemplated the consequences of her actions. She didn’t want to be there when the Senator returned from Washington and learned what she had done.
Glancing up she noticed that the landing-gear-indicator light had burned out. Routine, she told herself. No reason to panic. And she didn’t, until several moments later, when the engine didn’t sound right.
Apprehension darted through her like a hard-driven nail. Like it or not, she had to turn around and return to the airport.
It was in the midst of a banked left turn to head back when the engine went to takeoff power. That’s when the world exploded.
There was a horrible noise, followed in less than a heartbeat by a jolt that pitched Rennie forward in her seat. A ferocious heat welled up behind her. She didn’t have to turn around to know that the plane was on fire and that she was going to crash.
There was a bone-shattering thud when the plane hit the ground. Cushioned by the soft, damp earth, it remained in one piece. Rennie was shaken violently from side to side as the tail section spun around and around, churning over the muck and saw grass.
When the plane finally came to a stop, Rennie found herself miraculously alive and pinned beneath the wreckage. Jet fuel from the engine poured on her. Her fingers clawed at the seat belt. In her frenzy she got it unbuckled. Disentangling herself from the wreckage, she fell out of the plane into the swamp.
Worse than the awful sound of the crash was the crushing silence that greeted her. There was no noise, no movement, no life, it seemed in the cold, raw darkness that swallowed her up. She stumbled away from the plane, mindless of injuries and fearful of the sinister creatures that lurked in the swamp. Alligators came to mind. Snakes. And panthers. God only knew what was out there. It was so dark she couldn’t see a thing. Then a startling realization came over her. The darkness all around her was not caused by the veil of night or because her eyes were shut. Her eyes were, in fact, wide open. She blinked several times just to make sure. Yes, open. Her hands went up to her eyes, and she cried out at the horribly painful touch of her fingertips. With a strangled sob she realized that she could not see.
Panic unlike anything Rennie had ever known seized her, constricting the breath in her throat and threatening to choke her with fear. It was then that she began to scream.
In her terror, Rennie did not hear the sound of the frog hunter’s airboat. In her blindness, she did not see the light on his helmet leading him through the dark swamp to the woman who had collapsed unconscious on the soft, wet ground.
Images darted out of the darkness. Distorted images of Craig, his eyes filled with the same arrogance she had heard in his voice that night she stood in the doorway listening to him speak to someone on the telephone.
She had gone to his apartment to tell him the news that she’d been awarded a grant to study the myths and legends of the Seminoles. Letting herself in with the key he’d given her, she overheard him telling someone on the telephone of his plan to build a high-rise condominium on a prime parcel of coastal real estate he was receiving as a wedding gift. All he had to do was make a sizable donation to the senator’s reelection campaign…and marry a woman he didn’t love.
Rennie was devastated. She knew the senator had promised Craig the land, but she never dreamed that it was the only reason he was marrying her. It had all been a charade—their first meeting, the courtship, everything had been carefully orchestrated by Craig to get the land.
She thought that marrying Craig was a way to test her independence and find some shelter from the influence of her family, but his betrayal only proved that she hadn’t been making the right choices for herself. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Maybe she just hadn’t wanted to see. Maybe she’d been unconsciously trying to replace the father she lost at an early age. Whatever the reason, the eye-opening experience drove home the realization of just how important it was for her to stand on her own two feet and not to depend on someone else for happiness, especially someone as controlling as Craig.
Rennie struggled to awaken, but unconsciousness maintained its tenacious hold, and all she could do was thrash this way and that in a vain attempt to block out the images.
The images faded and returned and faded again until, in the end, she sank even deeper, to a place where there were no memories or images, only a nothingness in which to take refuge.
It could have been minutes, hours or days before she crawled painfully awake out of unconsciousness. There came to her the smell of the damp earth. It seemed somehow familiar, but her mind was hung with moss and cobwebs and was unable to make a connection.
Slowly she became aware of the sounds around her, the hum of insects, a bird’s cry in the distance, and a strange shhh that she could not identify, beckoning her into a state of semiawareness. Uncurling her fingers, she splayed them against the soft fabric on which she lay. Cotton, worn fine by age and cool to the touch.
She did not have to open her eyes to know that she was awake. Yet when she tried to open her eyes, she could not. Was she still dreaming? No, she was sure she was conscious. She could feel a thin ray of sunshine on her face and the dryness in her throat. Why, then, couldn’t she see? Her hands moved cautiously upward, coming to within inches of her face and pausing. She tried with a desperate force of will to tell herself that everything was all right, but when her trembling fingers felt the gauze that covered her eyes, she knew in one great gasping breath that it wasn’t.
A scream welled up within her but no sound emerged as darkness came again like a cold wind, wrapping chilly arms around her and leading her back to unconsciousness.
She had no idea how long she lay there, slipping back and forth from reality to dark dream. In the place in which she hovered, time had no meaning. It could have been day. It could have been night. She didn’t know where she was, or even if she was. For all she knew she was dead, and this was what heaven was like…or hell.
It went on like that until something called her away from the darkness and back to the conscious world. It was the touch of hands working with amazing gentleness to peel the dressing away, hands of mercy applying a soothing compress to the burned skin around her eyes, followed by fresh gauze.
Her voice, unsure and untested, scratched painfully at the back of her throat and emerged as a husky whisper. “Am I in a hospital?”
“No.”
The singular word uttered in a deep pitch that was both unfamiliar and unfriendly made her shudder.
“Wh-where am I?”
“You’re at my place.”
There was no mistaking the inhospitable edge to the voice that spoke, conflicting sharply with the tenderness of the hands that applied fresh gauze to her eyes.
There was a scent about him, of the forest and the damp soil, a scent that Rennie found both comforting for the mother-earth images it conjured up, and frightening with visages of wild things.
She could feel his presence in the very air she breathed, and she wondered how it was possible to be so aware of a man she could not even see.
She drew back, partly out of caution—she had no idea who he was—but mostly from the unanticipated warmth that began at the tips of her fingers and spread clear down to her toes. Appalled at such a reaction at a time like this, she waved his hands away, questioning, “Who are you?”
“My name is John Panther.”
Her mind clouded by the effects of unconsciousness, she echoed, “Panther? Is that some kind of joke?”
“Not that I know of.”
There was a hint of something savage in the deep-throated reply, of wildness and regret and things that Rennie didn’t understand. “I-I’ve never heard a name like that.”
“It’s not so uncommon in these parts.”
“Where are we?”
“In a place called Big Cypress Swamp.”
“Where…?”
“You’re in the Everglades,” he said flatly.
Yes, she remembered now, all that black, wet land stretchin
g for miles in every direction. She began to grow even more afraid. “How long have I been here?”
“Three days.”
She found it hard to imagine that she had been unconscious for three whole days, when it seemed like only moments ago her world exploded.
“Why are my eyes bandaged?”
“They were badly burned. The gauze is necessary to keep the area clean to prevent infection.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No, but I know a few things about healing with plants and herbs.”
Rennie’s mind struggled to assimilate the information it was receiving and make some sense out of it. Everglades? Plants and herbs? A name like Panther? “What are you?” she asked. “An Indian?”
He answered stoically, “Seminole, to be precise.”
That would explain the essence of something wild that she felt about him, but what was the reason for that inhospitable tone of voice? She sank down onto the mattress…his mattress…his bed. She could smell it now, the scent of the Everglades, the scent of him, lingering on the pillow as her head fell back onto it.
She was scarcely aware of his footsteps retreating to the opposite side of the room, or of the quiet stirrings of his movements as he went about doing whatever it was he was doing. Within minutes he returned. The edge of the bed sank from his weight when he sat down beside her.
“Here. Drink this.”
His hand moved to the back of her head, strong fingers entwining in her hair as he lifted her head and urged a cup to her lips.
Rennie sipped the hot liquid that tasted like tree bark and dirt, and wrinkled her nose. “What are you trying to do, poison me?”
“It’s just an infusion of valerian root to calm you and some local plants to help ease the pain.”
In no time the raw pain around her eyes began to subside and her nerves started to feel a little less frayed around the edges.
The rough, unfriendly voice asked, “Do you remember what happened?”
