Runaway by Heather Graham Page A

broken arm. McKenzie jerked him back by the collar.
    “What are you after?”
    “Just your gold!” he cried out. “That pocketful of gold!”
    “What has she done?” McKenzie demanded.
    The man’s eyes widened. “She? I was after the gold, man!”
    He shoved the man away, staring at Tara. “Do you know him?”
    She shook her head.
    He stared at the man again. “You’re just a common thief?”
    The man nodded, glum and frightened.
    “Get the hell away from here!” McKenzie said, shoving him away. The fellow began to nod strenuously. “I’m gone, I swear it. I never saw you, I don’t know—”
    “Go!”
    McKenzie clutched her arm again, hurrying her along. “In the midst of this we have to get hit upon by a common thief?” he said incredulously.
    “You asked him about me!” Tara cried. “You said that you wouldn’t ask—”
    “Here!” he said, suddenly stopping. They had come to another walk. It led to a handsome rooming house under a broad tree. The place was fronted by huge, beautifullycrafted porches and balconies, the ironwork all done in pastels that shone lightly in the few streaks of moonlight that touched the ground.
    “Around the back!” he urged her. They came around the house. Stone steps led to the second floor. McKenzie quickly rattled a key in the lock, urging her into a shadowed room.
    Her heart began to pound ferociously. She backed into the darkened room and fell against a bed. She jumped back up, but he wasn’t watching her. He had silently come across the balcony himself and was looking into the night.
    “Someone’s coming!” he said very softly. He swiftly began to strip his frock coat from his shoulders, then his shirt from his torso. Tara’s jaw simply dropped.
    “Get your clothes off and get in bed,” he said in a low whisper.
    Her heart slammed as she watched what she could see of his silhouette. Oh, God, her lip was trembling! Her voice was a squeak of a protest. “But you said that—you promised that you wouldn’t force—”
    It was too dark to see his eyes. She knew that his glance fell upon her with aggravation. “I’m not even going to touch you!” He slid out of one boot, and then the other. She heard, rather than saw, him peeling his trousers from his thighs. He was naked, and she couldn’t see anything but his silhouette, and yet his silhouette was enough to create a tidal wave of shivers within her. Tremors that came hot, and then cold, and then hot again. He was as trim and lithe and tight-muscled as any panther ranging the night. He was as natural and assured as a beast in the wild. The moonlight fell upon the sleek bulge of his forearm and shoulder for just a moment. Oh, God!
    “I told you that you had to trust me!” he warned her angrily. “Now, get in there. Trust me!”
    He sounded so annoyed—and she was terrified. Courage! “Well, excuse me! It’s difficult to trust a naked stranger!” she snapped out.
    He paused, his head turning just slightly, his voice both taunting and amused. “The fellows out there are still dressed. Want to trust them instead?” Something outside caught his attention. “Get in there!” he commanded her.
    She tried to undo the back laces on her gown. Her fingers were shaking too hard. He strode swiftly across the room, and had them undone in seconds flat. He jerked free the ties on her corset and pulled her gown and petticoats swiftly over her head. He threw the lot of her clothing across the room.
    She was startlingly aware of the fire of his flesh brushing against hers. She nearly screamed out at the feel of it, simply because it was so intense. He was smooth, tight, hot as blue flame. And his hands were on her waist, lifting her while their flesh brushed, and she was suddenly flying through the air, landing on the bed.
    “Under the covers!” he commanded, and even as she did so, she let out a soft gasp of a protest because he was joining her there, sweeping his arms around her.
    “What—” she