voice very much. She had covertly admired the breadth of his chest and the tapering shape of his torso. His thighs were lean and hard. The bulge between them testified that his reputation as a stud was well-founded.
But she was Schyler Crandall and knew better than to fall for Cash Boudreaux's disreputable charm.
"Kindly let me go."
He kept stroking her throat. "Not before I put something on that bite."
"That won't be necessary."
However, she didn't move when he removed his hand from around her neck and went foraging through the bag again, coming up with a small vial. He uncorked it. The scent of the oily substance was familiar and evoked memories of summer camp.
"You're a phony witch doctor, Mr. Boudreaux. That's Campho-Phenique."
He grinned unapologetically. "Close."
Schyler never knew why she didn't deflect the hand that moved toward her neck again, why she sat still and let the pad of his index finger, slippery with the camphor-laden substance massage that small, red bump on her neck. She didn't know why, having done that, she let his fingers explore her neck and chest for other welts, and, finding one beneath the neckline of her blouse, let him unbutton the first button. He slipped his hand inside and liberally coated the raised spot with the lotion.
His hand remained in the opening as he asked, "More?"
It was a loaded question. "No."
"Sure?"
"Very sure."
Slitted eyes revealed glints of amusement as he withdrew his hand and replaced the vial in his bag. Standing, he stepped out of the pirogue and offered a hand down to her. This time she declined to take it and came to her feet without assistance. But the moment she stood up, she swayed. Only his quick reaction prevented her from falling. Once again, he lifted her in his arms.
"Put me down. I'm fine."
"You're drunk."
She was. A near impossibility on one swallow of booze. "You lied to me. That drink you gave me wasn't liquor store whiskey." He made a noncommital sound that could have meant anything.
The three-quarter moon had risen above the tree line. As a result, the forest was brighter than it had been earlier. Cash made rapid progress through it, seeming to know even better than Schyler did where each curve in the path was and anticipating each low limb.
The frightening ordeal with the dog, not to mention the potent liquor, had left her listless and dizzy. She gave up trying to hold her head erect. Her cheek dropped to his chest. Her body went limp. Her shape molded pliantly against his. She couldn't keep her eyelids open and they closed. When he came to a stop, she kept them closed for several seconds longer before opening them. They were standing in the shadow of the gazebo.
His face was bending low over hers. "Can you make it the rest of the way on your own?"
Schyler raised her head. Belle Terre looked like an iridescent pearl nestled in green velvet. It seemed very far away. The prospect of covering that distance under her own steam wasn't very appealing, but she said, "I'll be fine," and slid to her feet when he relaxed his arms and released her.
"I'd be glad to carry you the rest of the way, but your daddy would rather have somebody piss in the well than to have Cash Boudreaux's shadow fall on Belle Terre."
"You've been very kind. Thank you for—"
The breath left her body when he planted the heels of his hands in the center of her midriff and backed her against the latticed wall. His fingers closed hard around her narrow rib cage. His breath was hot as it fell on her startled face.
"I'm never kind to a woman. Beware, pichouette. My bite is much more dangerous to you than Jigger Flynn's dog."
"You call that making love?"
Cash rolled away from the woman lying beneath him. Her body was shiny and slick with his sweat and bore the reddish markings of rowdy sex. Reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, he lit one and drew deeply on it.
"I never have called it making love." He left the bed, peeling off the condom and
But she was Schyler Crandall and knew better than to fall for Cash Boudreaux's disreputable charm.
"Kindly let me go."
He kept stroking her throat. "Not before I put something on that bite."
"That won't be necessary."
However, she didn't move when he removed his hand from around her neck and went foraging through the bag again, coming up with a small vial. He uncorked it. The scent of the oily substance was familiar and evoked memories of summer camp.
"You're a phony witch doctor, Mr. Boudreaux. That's Campho-Phenique."
He grinned unapologetically. "Close."
Schyler never knew why she didn't deflect the hand that moved toward her neck again, why she sat still and let the pad of his index finger, slippery with the camphor-laden substance massage that small, red bump on her neck. She didn't know why, having done that, she let his fingers explore her neck and chest for other welts, and, finding one beneath the neckline of her blouse, let him unbutton the first button. He slipped his hand inside and liberally coated the raised spot with the lotion.
His hand remained in the opening as he asked, "More?"
It was a loaded question. "No."
"Sure?"
"Very sure."
Slitted eyes revealed glints of amusement as he withdrew his hand and replaced the vial in his bag. Standing, he stepped out of the pirogue and offered a hand down to her. This time she declined to take it and came to her feet without assistance. But the moment she stood up, she swayed. Only his quick reaction prevented her from falling. Once again, he lifted her in his arms.
"Put me down. I'm fine."
"You're drunk."
She was. A near impossibility on one swallow of booze. "You lied to me. That drink you gave me wasn't liquor store whiskey." He made a noncommital sound that could have meant anything.
The three-quarter moon had risen above the tree line. As a result, the forest was brighter than it had been earlier. Cash made rapid progress through it, seeming to know even better than Schyler did where each curve in the path was and anticipating each low limb.
The frightening ordeal with the dog, not to mention the potent liquor, had left her listless and dizzy. She gave up trying to hold her head erect. Her cheek dropped to his chest. Her body went limp. Her shape molded pliantly against his. She couldn't keep her eyelids open and they closed. When he came to a stop, she kept them closed for several seconds longer before opening them. They were standing in the shadow of the gazebo.
His face was bending low over hers. "Can you make it the rest of the way on your own?"
Schyler raised her head. Belle Terre looked like an iridescent pearl nestled in green velvet. It seemed very far away. The prospect of covering that distance under her own steam wasn't very appealing, but she said, "I'll be fine," and slid to her feet when he relaxed his arms and released her.
"I'd be glad to carry you the rest of the way, but your daddy would rather have somebody piss in the well than to have Cash Boudreaux's shadow fall on Belle Terre."
"You've been very kind. Thank you for—"
The breath left her body when he planted the heels of his hands in the center of her midriff and backed her against the latticed wall. His fingers closed hard around her narrow rib cage. His breath was hot as it fell on her startled face.
"I'm never kind to a woman. Beware, pichouette. My bite is much more dangerous to you than Jigger Flynn's dog."
"You call that making love?"
Cash rolled away from the woman lying beneath him. Her body was shiny and slick with his sweat and bore the reddish markings of rowdy sex. Reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, he lit one and drew deeply on it.
"I never have called it making love." He left the bed, peeling off the condom and
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