Perfect Strangers
Page 27
"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."
Montana Wildfire
A Historical Western Romance
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Montana Wildfire
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Meet Rebecca Sinclair
Critically-acclaimed author Rebecca Sinclair lives in a circa 1865 house complete with a widow's walk, a Table-of-Death and, of course, its own ghosts! When Rebecca isn't crafting stories, she enjoys time with her family, reading (a lot!) and listening to a wide variety of music.
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Author's Note
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
A Note from the Publisher
Excerpt from MONTANA WILDFIRE
Meet Rebecca Sinclair