Montana Wildfire (16 page)

That Jake didn't believe she'd heard noises was frustrating. That she couldn't
make
him believe her was infuriating. Truly, he'd left her no choice. Either she searched the woods to see who'd made the footsteps that she
had
heard, or they would never know who was out there. Not knowing, always wondering if she was being secretly watched and evaluated, was unendurable.

It had taken Amanda less than a second to decide to search the woods herself. It was the only way to get the job done, since Jake had made it clear
he
wouldn't do it.

Up ahead another twig snapped. Amanda heard a muffled sound that might have been a voice, but might have been something else—it was too distant to be certain.

She molded her back against a thick tree trunk, and her fingers trembled as she slipped the antique pistol from her pocket. As she'd done before, she prayed that the sight of it would be enough to scare whoever was out there away. And if it wasn't... well, she hoped Jake Chandler could live with her death on his conscience! If he even had a conscience, that is—he'd given her every reason to believe he didn't.

The branches above shifted. Tiny paws scampered through the underbrush. The rustle of grass sounded exceptionally loud. Except for that—and one very shrill bird chirping from a branch high above—the woods were quiet. Too quiet, she thought, as, holding her breath, she slowly peeked around the tree.

Only once she'd proved she was still alone did Amanda realize she'd been holding her breath until her lungs burned. She released it in a rush. The fingers clutching the pistol to her chest stopped quivering. Well, all right, maybe they hadn't stopped trembling completely, but her shaking had begun to ease. The coward in her took that as a good sign. Now, if only she could get her heart to stop drumming wildly in her ears.

Easing away from the tree, she cautiously picked her way to the next hazy trunk. The process was repeated two more times, until her fingers really did stop shaking.

The muffled noise she'd heard before came again. It sounded closer... she thought. Of course, as Jake had sarcastically pointed out, at this time of the morning distance and place was easily distorted.

Damn Jake Chandler,
she fumed as she moved to the next tree, molding her back against the scratchy bark.
Damn him to hell and back!
In less than twenty-four hours he'd turned her world upside down. She wasn't sure how he'd accomplished that in such a short amount of time, and so easily. Or was she?

Last night's kiss—and her wanton reaction to it—had haunted her dreams and fueled her confusion. If it was one thing Amanda hated, it was confusion. She could easily learn to hate Jake for making her feel it.

Another twig snapped. It was closer, she was sure. The sound blended with the whisper of dry leaves scattering on the breeze and the bird that continued to shrill loudly overhead.

Amanda's fingers tightened around the pistol. The handle was hot from the heat of her palm. Her index finger twitched on the trigger. She didn't know why; it wasn't as though the thing was loaded. It wasn't as though she had any bullets to load it
with!
Still, having the gun in her clammy hands made her feel better. Safer. Not a lot, but a bit.

Something—footsteps?—sounded in front of the tree she was hiding behind. The noise was soft, fleeting. If she hadn't been listening for it, she wouldn't have heard it.

Whoever was out there was moving closer.

Amanda's hands started to shake again. She sucked in a steadying breath and promised herself that on its release she would muster her courage and stop stalling. When she exhaled, she would jump from behind the tree, brandishing her weapon, and face whatever,
whoever,
was out there.

The air pushed from her stinging lungs when she'd held it for as long as she could. Before she could command her feet to move, she'd sucked in another. All right, after
this
one...

Coward!
a tiny voice taunted in her head.

Amanda's brow puckered in a frown. Her spine bristled. Was it her imagination, or was that voice
not
in her head?

Her gaze snapped to the side. Her eyes widened.

If it took her entire life, she would never know how Jake Chandler could be standing so close without her being aware of him. She was aware of him now, she would have to be dead
not
to be! His presence—his body heat and earthy scent—tingled through every nerve in her body.

His grin was slow and taunting. "Didn't think I'd let you face this alone, did ya, princess?"

A movement caught Amanda's attention. She glanced down, and noticed belatedly that Jake was holding his left hand close to his stomach. Something small and fuzzy and brown nuzzled his cupped palm. As she watched, Jake leaned forward and lowered the furry thing to the ground.

The rabbit wasn't fully grown, nor was it a baby. For a split second the animal looked stunned, as though surprised to suddenly feel earth beneath it's feet. But only for a second. Tipping its head to the side, the rabbit glanced at Jake, then with a shove from its long, powerful back leg, bolted headlong into the woods. It's small feet crunched over dry leaves and twigs.

The noise it made as it ran sounded remarkably like footsteps.

Amanda stifled an embarrassed groan as her gaze strayed to Jake. He was standing beside her—close beside her. His right arm was arched above her head, the forearm resting against gritty bark. His left thumb was hooked through a belt loop at his hip. His ankles were crossed, which made his hips jut at a cocky angle. His thigh, she noticed belatedly, rested a mere fraction of an inch from her own.

"Well?" Jake asked, his voice soft, husky.
"Did
you think I'd make you face that mean little bunny by yourself, princess?"

Amanda ignored his heat, his nearness, his sarcasm. At least, she tried to. What she couldn't ignore was the way her heartbeat stuttered and her breathing shallowed. Her gaze shifted, skimming Jake's lips; her heart stopped entirely when she saw the very corners curve up in a wolfish grin.

"Yes," she hissed softly, "that's exactly what I thought, Mr. Chandler. That's exactly what you
wanted
me to think."

"You must've gotten the wrong impression,
Miss Lennox."

"I don't think so." Amanda sighed. It was humiliating enough to know she'd come out here with a gun, chasing what she thought were footsteps but what was in reality nothing more than a harmless rabbit. She swallowed hard, and felt a desperate need to change the subject. "What are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

He shrugged, and his shoulder came into sizzling contact with hers. Amanda knew she tensed, she wasn't sure if Jake did or not. Nor, she told herself, should she care.

Jake nodded to the gun she fisted to her breasts. "Loaded?"

"Yes," she lied with surprising ease. Well, it was either that, or tell him the truth and risk his opinion of her—which was already frighteningly low—lowering still more. She wasn't sure why the idea that Jake would think her a fool should bother her so much, it just did.

He extended one coppery hand and wiggled his fingers expectantly. "Good. Hand it over."

"I will not!"

He grinned again.

Amanda's heart stopped...
again,
then throbbed to vibrant life. Her knees felt watery. Oh, how she hated that! Embarrassing though it was to admit it, even to herself, the tree trunk grinding into her spine was the only thing keeping her erect.

His eyes narrowed. The muscle in his cheek jerked. "Maybe you didn't hear me right, princess. I said give me the gun."

"There's nothing wrong with my hearing, Mr. Chandler," she snapped, her voice rising to a very loud whisper, "but perhaps there's something wrong with yours. I said no."

Jake sucked in an irritated breath and released it very, very slowly. The hand he'd extended curled into a fist, flexed twice, then gradually relaxed. His voice, when it came, sounded strained. "Give me the f—goddamn gun, lady.
Now!"

Amanda gasped. She felt her cheeks heat, though she refused to acknowledge that she was blushing. Of course not! She'd heard worse—from this man's lips, come to think of it. "There's no need to use that sort of language, Mr. Chandler."

"No? Well, I for one think there is. And what you just heard is nothing compared to what you're
going
to hear if you don't hand over that pistol."

Amanda knew she couldn't give him the gun. She'd told Jake it was loaded and it wasn't. If he discovered the truth, he'd be furious with her... again. She'd already seen enough of this man's volatile temper for one day, thank you very much. She tipped her chin and met his gaze with a level one of her own.

"Mr. Chandler—" Her breath caught when he slashed his index finger across her lips, halting her words before they'd really begun. She felt the calloused roughness of his skin, the heat as well as the promise of his touch. His eyes darkened. A tremor rippled through his finger, through her. Her shiver of anger dissolved into a shiver of something entirely different, something strong, potent, distracting.

Amanda leaned back against the tree when Jake angled his head, bringing his face near hers. His lips were a hair's breadth away from her ear. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the warm puffs of his breath on her cheek. She anticipated the contact of his mouth on hers. Anticipated, yet dreaded it.

"Mr. Chandler..." she said suddenly, breathlessly, just to hear the sound of her own voice. At that moment, she would have said anything to break the tension that stretched like a taut, heated wire between them. She'd overlooked just one thing: the way her lips would move against Jake Chandler's finger when she spoke. His skin felt pleasantly warm, pleasantly rough. It abraded her tender lips and sparked a slow burn in her blood. "I'm not entirely sure the noise I heard was made by that rabbit."

"Maybe not that rabbit specifically, but something just as harmless."

"But—"

"Sorry, princess," he whispered softly, seductively, as he leaned closer, "but if I'd thought you really heard footsteps, I'd be honest about it and tell you. You see, I never learned to lie to quite the extent you did."

"I don't lie," Amanda lied, very, very weakly. A bolt of awareness shot down her spine when he moved the arm braced above her head. As she'd dreaded, their thighs made contact. As she'd dreaded, the contact was hard and hot and wonderful. The layers of calico, linen, denim, all of it seemed to fade, until it felt like no barrier separated them. Amanda hated the odd, liquid sensations that settled deep in her stomach, spiraling quickly lower. Hated them, but savored them, too. Damn Jake Chandler!

His chuckle was a blast of hot air in her ear, smoldering over her cheek and brow. "Lady you lie like a rug. We both know it. And you know what else? You blush something fierce every time. Bet you didn't know that, did you?"

As he spoke, Jake's finger dipped, and the tip traced her lower lip. He felt her moist flesh quiver beneath his touch. Then again, maybe it was his finger that quaked. He wasn't sure, didn't much care. Touching this woman left no room for thought.

"Give me the gun." His fingertip skimmed her chin, her neck. Her skin was so warm and soft and white it stunned him—but not nearly as much as his reaction to the feel of it did. That was like being stabbed through the heart.

His finger dipped beneath the prim, high buttoned collar of her blouse. He didn't tarry there long, just long enough to see a splash of warm pink stain her cheeks. Her eyes widened when his fingertip inched upward, and the lump in her throat slid up and down in a dry swallow. Her pulse drummed a wild rhythm against the back of his knuckle.

Jake thought about stopping, but only briefly. The notion registered only in his mind. His body had other ideas, other demands.

"I could wrestle that gun away from you, you know." His darkened gaze roved over her, then darkened still more. "But I won't use force. I'd rather you gave it to me. I want you to
want
to give it to me, Amanda Lennox."

Amanda frowned. Was he still speaking about the pistol? Somehow, she didn't think so.

Jake gave her no time to wonder about it. Before she knew what was happening he'd shifted, straddling her legs between his knees, his lean, hard body crowding her against the tree. His chest brushed her breasts. The touch was accidental, over quickly—the first time.

There were some things it wasn't within a man's power to resist. Resisting never entered Jake's mind. He simply knew he
had to
do it again. The firm roundness of her burned past his shirt and burned into his skin. He wondered if the imprint of her would be branded into him hours later, when he took off his shirt. It wouldn't surprise him if it was. Nor would it thrill him.

While he stilled his torso, his finger was never still. He stroked a hot path down her throat, over her collar, lower. He traced the dark tubing that arched around the yoke of her bodice, hesitated, then with a flick of his wrist turned his search inward. A groan rumbled in the back of his throat as his touch feathered the generous upper swell of her breast.