Wild Honey (12 page)

“Second-rate what?” She looked stung and confused.

“That respect-yourself crap, the deep breathing, the yoga. Save it for wishful thinkers week.”

“I was only trying to—”

“Help? You want to help, Sasha?” He deliberately sliced through her good intentions with his voice. “In the future, learn your lines and mind your own business.”

She sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did want to help. So sue me! I’ve been trying to get to know you. Marc Renaud the man, the human being. All right, call me a bleeding heart, but I thought it was pain I saw in your eyes yesterday. Now I know it was pure meanness. You’re not a lost soul”—her voice rose with what was now painfully obvious to her—“you’re a bastard.”

She grabbed up her sneakers, stormed down the steps and onto the beach, her hair flying in the wind. The rain had stopped, replaced by a misty drizzle. Watching her slog barefoot through the wet sand to the water, Marc felt a mix of emotions. Lord, but she was a spitfire. He loved that about her, but he also knew it left them with about as much chance of a relationship as the Christians and the lions. They were both too strong-willed and volatile to be together for long without clashing.

Walking to the steps, he followed her with his gaze as she disappeared down the coastline, running gracefully at the water’s edge. She ran like a marathoner, gliding with an economy of movement that was surprisingly sensual. Her legs were curves of gold in the waning sunlight.

Unbidden, an image took him by storm. He could almost see her, feel her beneath him, moaning and supine as he sheathed himself in the melting warmth between those legs. He wanted to follow her. He caught hold of the doorjamb, his jaw flexed against the sweet, stinging riot of desire in his muscles.

The drizzly mist penetrated Sasha’s clothing as she ran, but it didn’t cool her simmering temper. If she was angry at him, then she was furious at herself. How could she have been so naïve. The man had a cruel streak. It was there for all the world to see, and she’d insisted on labeling it pain, sadness? She wasn’t naïve. She was a thirty-year-old sap!

She pressed on at a faster-than-normal gait, as if by running hard she could burn away indignation like a car engine sloughs off carbon. The impact of the hard sand reverberated through her body and blurred the horizon into an unbroken seascape of gunmetal-gray water and sky.

Her heart stilled as she picked up something other than her own rhythmic footfall, a soft thudding sound that came from behind. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him twenty yards back, striding steadily after her. He was shirtless, faded jeans his only clothing.

He’s following me, she realized, accelerating the pace. A muscle in her calf twitched, threatening to cramp as she pushed herself harder, beyond the limits of her normal endurance. Moments later she glanced over her shoulder again. He was still back there—and moving up on her with every stride. He wasn’t following her, he was chasing her! She began to sprint, her breath coming in hard, painful spurts.

A wave thundered up onto the beach, catching her legs and dragging her off course as it rolled back to sea. Her imagination rocketed out of control as she glanced back again and saw him closing the distance between them. Her nerves and muscles jumped, galvanized by a primal shriek, the instinctive fear of pursuit. She gulped in a breath, thrashing through the foam. When she hit the hard-packed sand, she dug in, running as though her survival depended on it. With every cell in her body she fought to outdistance him.

A driftwood branch snapped under her foot. Thinking it was him behind her, she imagined him catching her, his hands on her arms, his body against hers. The vision sent thrills of apprehension through her. She flew over the sand with frantic, mindless precision.
No, she would never let him catch her, never let him take her that way.

Marc came up behind her. A little more than three yards back now, he’d been narrowing the gap between them steadily. His breathing was deep and fast, and the feverish heat of the chase was in his blood. He was going to catch her, by God, if it was the last thing he did.

Another yard or so and he could tag her. A flying leap and a hand hooked around her ankle, and he would send them both sprawling in the sand. The idea had a certain sophomoric appeal—warm bodies rolling and tumbling every which way—but the consequences didn’t. She already was furious and he liked living. Better that he outrun her and then gently,
very
gently, cut her off at the pass.

He mobilized his energy for the capture. She was still running expertly, showing no obvious signs of fading, but then, she was a trained runner.
Hell, she didn’t smoke.
His ace in the hole, he reminded himself, was speed. He was fast, a strong finisher with a kick. He considered her smoothly striding form and smiled. She didn’t stand a chance. Sixty seconds and she’s mine, he thought, breaking into a sprint.

As though sensing his plan, she cut out, too, and they raced across the beach like bandits, redesigning the drifting sand dunes with the light skim of their footfall. Sixty seconds was a slight underestimation on Marc’s part. She was invincible, barely touching the ground by the time he caught her. Gasping for air, he ran her off the shoreline and into the water. “Slow down, dammit,” he ordered, latching on to her arm.

Off balance, she floundered farther into the frigid, knee-deep surf, nearly dumping them both in the drink. “Let go of me!” she said, obviously in a perfect fury. With a mighty tug she wrested free and promptly began kicking water at him.

“Hold it, hold it!” He braved her flashing feet to grab her by the wrists and tug her toward him. She never stopped flailing, even when he jerked her so close their mouths were just inches apart. “I wanted to apologize,” he said, breathing in air that was hot from her lungs. “What does that make me? A mass murderer in your book?” He jumped back, dodging her shot at his shin. “Hey! Take it easy, I’m sorry—”

“Oh, now you’re
sorry
?” She ceased struggling for a moment, her chest heaving. “My goodness, what prompted this? Afraid I’ll walk off your picture the way Leslie did? I’m beginning to feel a real kinship with that woman.”

“All right, then,” he said, releasing her, “no apologies. Can I run back with you at least?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

It was a good question. They were at least four miles from the beach house, and after chasing her for several minutes and nearly
not
catching her, Marc was hardly in the mood to admit that his legs were giving out on him. “Try me,” he said, challenging her. He broke into a trot and wheeled around, running backward. “Maybe I should run this way to even things up?”

“Show-off,” she said with a disdainful arch of her eyebrow.

He spun, started off down the beach, and a moment later she was right beside him, running like a perpetual motion machine. He set a fast pace and held it, but she strode alongside him easily.

By the time they’d completed their second mile, Marc was running out of steam, but he was thoroughly intrigued. She barely seemed to be breathing beyond the soft shiver of her breasts beneath her tank top. She was so quiet, he could have sworn she was in a trance. When he remarked on her silence, she said simply, “I’m minding my own business. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Spoken like a forties movie heroine, he thought, smiling to himself.
I’ve got one tough dame on my hands.

Marc’s legs were cramping by the third mile, and his lungs were screaming for air, but he wasn’t about to slow up. Not with her gliding beside him like a winged messenger of the gods. Summoning reserves of energy, he dug in and labored along until he’d caught his second wind.

By the time the beach house came into view, a distant rectangle on the horizon, he was moving with relative ease and beginning to feel a little cocky. “First one to the stairs takes the trophy,” he challenged her, referring to the stairway that led from the beach to the house.

She glanced over at him, smiled wickedly, and nodded. They both broke into a sprint at once. “What sort of trophy?” she called after him as he pulled into the lead.

“I’ll tell you when you lose it,” he yelled back.

The remaining half mile was the race of Marc’s life. His ego was fully involved now. He wanted to win, dammit—for himself, for posterity, for all the men whose cigarettes she had snapped in half. He glanced back, saw she was on his heels, and shifted into high gear. He thought his lungs would burst as he fought to hold his lead. His legs felt like weights, and his heart was a roaring monster in his ears. The stairway came into view, and he threw up a fist in triumph.

“Marc!” Sasha cried from just behind him.

He jerked his head around, but she wasn’t there. Had something happened to her? Where was she? He swung around the other way and grunted, hurtling forward as his toe caught on something. He hit the ground on his hands and knees and somersaulted with the furious momentum of his driving pace. His muscles absorbed the wet, hard-ridged sand like body blows. Unable to stop himself, he rolled right into the surf, howling as an icy wave washed over him.

Hearing Sasha’s squeal of glee, he rolled over and watched her dash up the stairs. In the moment it took him to figure out what was going on, another wave broke over him. He hadn’t snagged his foot on a rock. She’d tripped him!

Following her flight as she disappeared into the house, he made a silent promise to himself. That golden-haired hellion had to be taught a lesson!

A
LONE IN HER ROOM,
Sasha stripped off her damp tank top, jeans, and panties, and wrapped herself in a big fluffy towel. Her heart was still beating at a rapid pace and her body was glistening with perspiration, but she didn’t feel a bit tired. Quite the opposite, she was exhilarated.

Glancing at her reflection in the bathroom’s wall of mirrors, she saw the reckless twinkle in her eye and felt a flash of guilt. Laughter bubbled in her throat. Lord, but it had felt wonderful to have the last laugh on Marc Renaud. Luckily the water had broken his fall, she thought, stifling a giggle.

Enjoying herself thoroughly, she pulled her hair up into a loose chignon and began pinning the abundant golden mass into place. It was only as one of her dad’s stock sayings came to mind that the thought of consequences interrupted her muffled glee. Never laugh at live dragons.

“Uh-oh,” she murmured, halting in the act of securing her topknot, “if ever there was a live dragon.”

The sound of Marc’s wail echoed in her ears, raising goose bumps on her arms. He was going to kill her, of course. He would string her up by her ankles, stretch her on the rack, or try something uniquely French. The guillotine? The only smart move was to stay away from him until he cooled down. What had possessed her?

She congratulated herself on remembering to lock the bedroom door as she dropped the towel and stepped into the shower stall. Not that she really believed he would violate her privacy by storming into her room uninvited, but still, a girl couldn’t be too careful.

Turning slowly in the jet spray, she let the steaming water pelt her body and relax her taut muscles and nerves. Later, soaping herself down with one of the fragrant, lavender-scented bars she found heaped in a porcelain shell, she allowed her mind to drift to an image of Marc Renaud coming up behind her, chasing her. A soft thrill formed in the pit of her stomach. It swirled like a feather in a spring breeze as she imagined him catching hold of her wrists and tugging her toward him. He’d come to apologize? Lord, but he was unpredictable and magnetic, a lightning rod to her senses.

Such a difficult, complicated man, she thought, holding up her hair to rinse the soap from her neck and shoulders. Would she ever find out what made him tick? She wasn’t even sure it was safe to try. He had a countdown tension about him that made her think of a delayed-action bomb. And yet there were other qualities about him that captivated her—the misty sadness, the piercing intelligence.... He was such a beguiling man with those crystalline eyes of his, that heartbreaking mouth. “Who are you, Marc Renaud?” she asked, a sigh slipping into the question.

She was still in a reflective mood as she stepped out of the shower, rewrapped herself with the fat blue towel, and entered the bedroom. How was she going to while away the rest of the day in the confines of this room, she wondered, opening the lingerie drawer of her dresser.

Black, white, or champagne, she mused, fingering through a neat stack of lacy panties. As the scent of patchouli wafted up to her nose, she realized Arturo didn’t just fold well. He’d tucked a sachet in the drawer somewhere. Delighted, she picked out a pair of champagne panties and hesitated, thinking she’d heard something. Yes...there. She heard it again, a soft clicking sound. “Oh Lord, no—” she said with a gasp, whirling as a key turned in the lock and the door swung open.

Eclipsing the streaming light from the hallway, Marc paused long enough to take stock of her. His jeans were still damp, his face still flushed from the run—or from anger. It was hard to tell which, except that he was angry. He was massaging a knot on his forearm, and the muscles that ran from his neck to his shoulder were tense as cable.

“You look...wet,” she said, hugging the towel to her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late for sorry, McCleod.” He shook his head slowly. “I want satisfaction. I want you rolling in that surf the way I was a few minutes ago. I want to hear you howl.”

“Ah, come on,” she said, backing to the dresser, “that’s so adolescent. Couldn’t we just—”

“Put on a suit,” he said, “or I’ll do it for you.”

The panties slipped from her hand and dropped to the floor. “Marc—”

“That’s what they call me,” he said, crossing the room. He caught hold of her towel by its upper edge and gave it a yank, drawing her toward him.

“Stop it,” she said, yanking back.

“Stop me,” he challenged.

Sasha checked the retort on her tongue. He looked as if he might not be kidding, and she couldn’t risk antagonizing him any more than she already had.