demanded. “I’m damned if I have time for these stupid tricks!”
“Let me up!”
“No chance, lady. You’re in a lot of trouble.”
Desperately Mel tried to buck, to twist and wrench and somehow squirm free, but her spirits sank as she realized the futility of it. He was far larger and stronger than she, and like it or not, she didn’t have much choice but to lie there beneath him and wait for him to decide what to do with her next.
She went perfectly still.
Cal shifted slightly, pinning her all the more securely. The hardness of his body pressed against hers sent a strange tight heat through her belly.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she cried at last, wishing she could wipe the faint sheen of perspiration from her face or somehow toss aside the heavy coils of her hair, which had fallen across her cheeks in her struggle and were now dangling before her eyes and twisted around her nose and jaw. But she couldn’t move.
“Go ahead and get on with it!” she continued, biting her lip. “Aren’t you going to hog-tie me again or shoot me with my own gun or—”
“I’d like to take you over my knee.”
At this, panic set in, and she started struggling again. “Don’t you try it, you greasy, disgusting saddle tramp, you... kidnapper, you thief! I’ll make you sorry you were ever born!”
With his jaw set, Cal watched her lovely face twist and contort with the hopeless effort of trying to free herself. She was a spunky little hellion—he had to admit that, and he could almost admire it—but he was wondering just what it would take to intimidate her.
Maybe a herd of stampeding buffalo. Or a charging cavalry regiment. Then again, maybe not.
She went still again, exhausted and breathing hard. Her hair drifted in tangled skeins across her face.
Releasing one of her hands, Cal reached down and shifted the heavy golden tendrils aside, laying bare once more the finely chiseled features, which were so dainty and so feminine, the straight, firm nose, the lush lips the color of baby roses, and the alluring eyes that blazed at him from beneath slim, gracefully arced brows. Whew. He felt his breath choking deep inside his lungs.
She was something all right. An enchantress. Her magnificent hair slid through his hands like the finest silk. The finest, most richly textured, unbelievably soft silk, and despite all of the hardships she’d endured since last night, those lush curls still smelled faintly of lavender.
And so did she.
No doubt Miss Melora Deane of the great Weeping Willow Ranch bathed in perfumed water with flower-scented soap, he thought harshly. No doubt she was accustomed to the finer things in life, to being petted and indulged, and to getting her own way. He’d seen that plain enough; she was obviously as spoiled and headstrong as they came.
Well, now she’d just have to get accustomed to a rougher life—at least for a while.
And that was that.
Grimly he stared down at her defiant face as she lay beneath him, her skin damp with sweat, her wide-set eyes fixed on him with a mixture of hatred and apprehension, and suddenly, unexpectedly, pity stirred.
She was putting on a good front, game as could be, but he’d have bet every gold piece he owned—which was not too many, unfortunately—that beneath it all, right at this very moment, she was scared to death. He could feel her softness, all the delicate curves and hollows of her body, and her ultimate feminine vulnerability touched his conscience. She probably was wondering right about now if he meant to rape her, Cal realized abruptly. He adjusted his weight so as not to crush her, and—he admitted to himself—to lessen the risk of growing even further aroused in case she decided to start once again with those enticing, wriggling movements. Yet he kept her securely pinned, his long frame heavy upon her. He had no intention of letting her up until they had a few things straight between them.
“I order you to get off me right now!”
“Let me up!”
“No chance, lady. You’re in a lot of trouble.”
Desperately Mel tried to buck, to twist and wrench and somehow squirm free, but her spirits sank as she realized the futility of it. He was far larger and stronger than she, and like it or not, she didn’t have much choice but to lie there beneath him and wait for him to decide what to do with her next.
She went perfectly still.
Cal shifted slightly, pinning her all the more securely. The hardness of his body pressed against hers sent a strange tight heat through her belly.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she cried at last, wishing she could wipe the faint sheen of perspiration from her face or somehow toss aside the heavy coils of her hair, which had fallen across her cheeks in her struggle and were now dangling before her eyes and twisted around her nose and jaw. But she couldn’t move.
“Go ahead and get on with it!” she continued, biting her lip. “Aren’t you going to hog-tie me again or shoot me with my own gun or—”
“I’d like to take you over my knee.”
At this, panic set in, and she started struggling again. “Don’t you try it, you greasy, disgusting saddle tramp, you... kidnapper, you thief! I’ll make you sorry you were ever born!”
With his jaw set, Cal watched her lovely face twist and contort with the hopeless effort of trying to free herself. She was a spunky little hellion—he had to admit that, and he could almost admire it—but he was wondering just what it would take to intimidate her.
Maybe a herd of stampeding buffalo. Or a charging cavalry regiment. Then again, maybe not.
She went still again, exhausted and breathing hard. Her hair drifted in tangled skeins across her face.
Releasing one of her hands, Cal reached down and shifted the heavy golden tendrils aside, laying bare once more the finely chiseled features, which were so dainty and so feminine, the straight, firm nose, the lush lips the color of baby roses, and the alluring eyes that blazed at him from beneath slim, gracefully arced brows. Whew. He felt his breath choking deep inside his lungs.
She was something all right. An enchantress. Her magnificent hair slid through his hands like the finest silk. The finest, most richly textured, unbelievably soft silk, and despite all of the hardships she’d endured since last night, those lush curls still smelled faintly of lavender.
And so did she.
No doubt Miss Melora Deane of the great Weeping Willow Ranch bathed in perfumed water with flower-scented soap, he thought harshly. No doubt she was accustomed to the finer things in life, to being petted and indulged, and to getting her own way. He’d seen that plain enough; she was obviously as spoiled and headstrong as they came.
Well, now she’d just have to get accustomed to a rougher life—at least for a while.
And that was that.
Grimly he stared down at her defiant face as she lay beneath him, her skin damp with sweat, her wide-set eyes fixed on him with a mixture of hatred and apprehension, and suddenly, unexpectedly, pity stirred.
She was putting on a good front, game as could be, but he’d have bet every gold piece he owned—which was not too many, unfortunately—that beneath it all, right at this very moment, she was scared to death. He could feel her softness, all the delicate curves and hollows of her body, and her ultimate feminine vulnerability touched his conscience. She probably was wondering right about now if he meant to rape her, Cal realized abruptly. He adjusted his weight so as not to crush her, and—he admitted to himself—to lessen the risk of growing even further aroused in case she decided to start once again with those enticing, wriggling movements. Yet he kept her securely pinned, his long frame heavy upon her. He had no intention of letting her up until they had a few things straight between them.
“I order you to get off me right now!”
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