Montana Wildfire (5 page)

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret here, princess. Not three hours ago I knocked a man's teeth down his throat for calling me a bastard. The guy apologized. So will you."

"I will not, so you might as well get that thought right out of your head," Amanda replied, her haughty Bostonian accent now locked firmly in place. "I've done nothing to apologize for."

Tension crackled in the air between them. Rather, it crackled in what little air managed to worm its way between them. He was holding her dreadfully close.

His fingers tightened on her arms. While his grip was not painful, it threatened to become so soon. "You sure about that?"

"Positive."

"In other words, you don't think calling a man a bastard is something you need to apologize for?"

Amanda pursed her lips. If she'd felt any fear, it was gone; replaced by a nice, warm surge of resentment. "Not if the man in question is acting like a bastard, no. And you
were
acting like one."
You still are
, she thought, but wisely didn't say. "No, I can't apologize to you."

"Wrong, princess. You can, and you
will.
Nobody—and I mean
nobody—
calls Jacob Blackhawk Chandler a bastard and walks away intact. Not even a prissy little white snob who, I might add, could use a good lesson in manners."

His voice had taken on a calm, deadly edge; the words were slowly and precisely drawled. Not spoken,
drawled.
Her resentment drained away as though she'd never felt it. Amanda couldn't have felt more intimidated had the man grabbed her, shook her until her teeth rattled, and yelled the threat in her face. Her cheeks drained of color. Rolling her lips inward, she bit back the cowardly apology that sprang to mind.

The wall of muscles beneath her cheek flexed. She stifled a groan. Good heavens, the man was hard as a rock—every inch of him coiled muscle and strength. His grip tightened. She winced, though she knew he wasn't applying all that much pressure. Surely not as much as his whip-cord-lean body said he was capable of. Her newfound courage floundered.

"I'm waiting." His hand shifted, his grip loosening enough for his thick, calloused thumb to stroke invisible circles over the sensitive inner curve of her upper arm. "Don't rush on my account. Can't say I'd mind holding you like this a while longer."

"No? Well,
I'd
mind," she snapped, then instantly wished she hadn't. His laughter was short and merciless. The deep, husky sound rumbled in the chest beneath her ear and vibrated through her body like a bolt of heat lightning.

The muscles beneath her cheek bunched and released, suggesting a careless shrug. "If my company offends you, feel free to get up and leave."

Amanda fisted the damp blankets beneath her chin. She flexed her foot, and winced at the stab of pain. Circulation had returned with force; waves of it ripped up her leg. Without the icy water to dull it, the pounding in her ankle was excruciating.

"You know I can't," she grumbled miserably.

"That's right, I do."

One thing she
could do,
however, was to give pushing him away a good try. Snuggling against his chest the way she was doing, drinking in his body heat and scent, was not appropriate. It suggested that his arms offered a security and trust that only a complete idiot would be feeling right now.

Amanda wedged her fists between their bodies and shoved. Hard. The muscles in her arms screamed with the force she pooled into the action. She felt him ease back half an inch, no more. It was enough space to let the cool autumn breeze sneak between their chests.

The warmth he radiated was intense. She didn't realize
how
intense until it was gone. Amanda shivered, scowled, and took a swift mental inventory of all the spots on her body where the chill originated. It was as she'd feared. The cold was most pronounced in the places where
he
had warmed her.

That settled matters in Amanda's mind. Getting away from the confusing feel of Jake Chandler was now a necessity; one that seemed infinitely more important than her strong Lennox pride. Perhaps if she offered a compromise? As much as it went against her grain to do so, she reasoned that gaining her freedom
had
to be worth relinquishing a small amount of dignity.

Could she do it? Could she say she was sorry when she knew deep down that she had nothing to be sorry for? Amanda didn't know, but she was willing to try it and find out. If it could make this man unhand her, it would be worth the effort.

Her chin rose loftily, and her gaze clashed with piercing silver. "I have a proposal," she said. Her expression hardened when a flash of lewd suggestion flickered in his eyes. "Don't even
think
it! What I propose, Mr. Chandler, is that I thank you for freeing me from the river, and we can call the rest a draw."

It was the "don't even
think
it" that aggravated the hell out of Jake. He saw the contempt shimmering in her eyes. While her expression remained cautious, her mood was easily read by a man who knew what to look for. Jake knew what to look for, and what he saw in Amanda Lennox's eyes, he didn't like at all.

Scorn. Ridicule. Disgust.
Those
were the emotions he thought he saw swimming in her big green eyes. Jesus, she looked like she was afraid his dirty, half-breed hands would somehow contaminate her precious white skin. Oh, how that grated!

"I don't want your thanks, princess," he sneered, "as you damn well know. And as for the draw...?" He shook his head, his grip on her arms squeezing painfully tight. "Hell, no. What I want is my apology."

"You want me to lie, in other words." Though her tone was smooth, it was laced heavily with pretension.

"Yeah, if you have to. That'd be fine by me."

Amanda rarely got angry. It just wasn't in her nature. Few people had the power to arouse her slow-burning fury. Roger was one. Jake Chandler, for whatever reason, was another—and he seemed to know exactly how to use that power for optimum effect. His innate stubbornness stimulated her ire quicker and easier than anyone she'd ever known.

"Fine?" she snapped. "With you, maybe.
Not
with me. Threaten me all you want, Mr. Chandler, but I won't lie and tell you I didn't mean what I said. I meant it." Her tone lowered until it was hard, icy, unfamiliar even to her own ears. "You, sir, are unquestionably a bastard."

That did it! Jake had taken about as much of this woman's lip as he was going to.

Lightning fast, he shifted. His fingers bit into her arms as he hauled her up hard against his chest. He angled his head until their noses touched. "I think it's about time you learned some manners, princess. For a white lady—an
Eastern
white lady—yours are atrocious."

One brow slanted high in accusation. Her eyes narrowed, the green depths firing as they flung the insult right back in his arrogant face. "Is that so? Well I see some white in you too, buster, but I've yet to see anything in
your
manners to write home about."

Uh-oh, she'd hit another sore spot. She could tell by the way the muscle in his cheek jerked and by the deadly glint in his eyes. If she hadn't been so mad, Amanda would have been concerned about that.

Inky lashes hooded a gaze that narrowed to furious silver slits. His eyebrows were dark slashes in the rich copper of his forehead. They rode naturally low over his eyes to begin with. As she watched, they pinched into a frown that only emphasized the weathered creases between them—the ones that suggested a man who scowled hard and often.

"You're getting on my nerves, Amanda Lennox," he growled, his lips barely moving over the words. His tone was menacing; it trickled down Amanda's spine like drops of melting snow. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

Now that he mentioned it, no. She wasn't at all sure that was what she wanted to do. She
was
sure that angering him more than he already was might not be in her best interests. His seething gaze said it was already far too late.

Unfortunately, it was also too late to back down, and Amanda knew it. She gave a toss of her head, her eyes sparkling with dark green challenge. "Are you going to deny you're part white, Mr. Chandler?"

"Are you going to apologize,
Miss Lennox?"

"Are
you
going to let me go?"

His heartbeat slammed beneath the heel of her palms, the rhythm fast and furious, beating out a tempo to match the wild glint in his eyes. Amanda's own heartbeat sounded just as frantic as it thundered in her ears. His fingers dug into her tender flesh. The thin cotton sleeves offered no barrier. She flinched but refused to beg for mercy. She had a feeling that, even if she'd asked, there wasn't an ounce of mercy in this man.

"Looks like we've reached an impasse," he said, his voice tight and strained, giving unneeded evidence to his barely leashed temper. "I want my apology; you won't give it. Problem is, you see, I don't intend to leave until you do."

"What?"
Amanda glared at him, positive she'd heard wrong. She must have! "That's ridiculous. Of course you're leaving."

His condescending grin didn't come close to reaching his eyes. They remained hard, shimmering like chips of silver ice. "Am I?"

"Yes!"

"You're sure?"

"Yes!"

"Guess again." He shook his head, and his damp hair flicked her cheek. Amanda pulled back as if she'd been slapped. "I've got nowhere else to go right now." A tension-riddled pause was followed by, "One thing you should keep in mind, though... I get bored easily. And when I get bored with
you,
Miss Lennox, I intend to drag that apology out of you in any way that leaps to mind. Willing or not, I'll hear you say it."

In a way that was meant to convince her he fully intended to wait her out, Jake moved, redistributing her weight atop the solid cushion of his lap.

The movement shifted the air around Amanda's face. She drew in a shaky breath, and found herself inundated with an aroma that was strong and sharp and flagrantly male. Her nostrils stung with the earth-sharp scent of Jacob Blackhawk Chandler.

Courage. Had she ever had any? If so, it evaporated like steam the instant she let out that breath and drew in another. The meaning of bravery was suddenly foreign to her. The fear she'd only touched on before was strong, yet minor compared to the white-hot tingle of awareness that rippled through her now. Her breath clogged in her throat. Her heart clamored against her ribs, pumping hot surges of adrenaline into her bloodstream.

She huddled deeply beneath the blanket, deciding belatedly that she would have been better off keeping her mouth shut; as always, it was getting her into trouble. Since talking reason to this man was like trying to converse with a stone, she decided instead to bide her time, wait him out. Surely he would tire of the game shortly. When he did, he would go. Wouldn't he? Of course. He must have better things to do with his day... like finishing whatever he'd been about before Roger had found him.

A half hour ticked by. Except for occasionally shifting his weight, Jake didn't move. He made no signs of leaving.

Amanda sighed. The sun was at its zenith, telling her she'd already missed half a day's travel. Great! At this rate she'd be lucky to get Roger home by Christmas.

Fifteen minutes ago she'd decided she really had only one choice left. She was going to have to give this arrogant beast his apology. Only then would she be allowed to scramble off his lap. Only then would he leave her in peace.

It was the lap in question that gave birth to the decision. As time passed, Amanda had become more acutely aware of it. Now, half an hour later, she found herself much too intimately acquainted with the corded bands of muscle beneath her—not to mention the peculiar, tingly sensations all that raw warmth and strength sparked deep inside of her.

Why, oh why, had she ever called him a bastard? Because he was acting like one. He still was. But that no longer mattered. Getting off his lap
did.

Amanda swallowed her pride; it tasted sour in her throat. As she lifted her cheek from the cushion of his warm, damp chest, she reminded herself that she really didn't have a choice. She glanced up at him. Her lips parted as their gazes met and held.

She never knew if she would have been able to push the distasteful words off her tongue. A distant scream robbed her of the chance to find out.

The high, ear-piercing wail sliced through the air; the sound more alarming because it was so easily recognizable.

Roger! Oh, dear God...

Jake Chandler had heard it too. She felt him tense, even as his grip on her loosened. "The kid?" he asked, his mouth suddenly very close to her ear.

"I think so." She turned her head, focusing her gaze on the thick line of trees. "Roger?" she called out, and the single word felt as if it were torn from her throat.
"Roger!"

Silence was her only answer.

Amanda twisted out of Jake's hands. When she was free, she tried to struggle from the thick, wet wrapping of blankets. Spasms of pain shot up her injured leg the second she put weight on it. She gasped and went still. Dammit! Even if she
could
free herself and stand up, she'd never get to Roger in time.