Montana Wildfire Page 14

  If Jake heard, he gave no sign. His slitted gaze volleyed between her big, frightened green eyes, and the snake—the body of which now curled like a shadowy coil of rope in the grass near his feet. "Jesus, lady, what the hell'd you do that for?"

  "You deserved it." The second she saw him sheath the knife, Amanda began to relax. Unfortunately, her trembling wasn't so easily conquered. "Don't think for a minute I'm going to... to skin that... that..."

  "Snake," he finished for her, the word hissing from between tightly clenched teeth. "It's a snake, princess."

  "I know what it is!"

  "Then say it."

  "No."

  Jake had always prided himself on having an abundance of patience. He found nothing admirable about how close he was to loosing his temper with this woman now. "Fine, don't say it," he growled. His nostrils flared, and the muscle in his cheek jerked. "Hell, I don't care if you never say it. Just so long as you skin it."

  Her chin was tipped at a haughty angle. Until that moment, Jake didn't realize just how much he hated the way she did that. Her condescending glare now had to travel the full, pert length of her nose to reach him. The glint in her green eyes made him feel low and dirty, like she found him more repulsive than the reptile that would, with any luck, be their supper. He supposed the expression was a natural gesture for her, just as he supposed it was only natural for his reaction to be an itch in his fingers that begged for the chance to throttle some of that regal disdain out of her.

  He leashed the urge. Barely. "Well? You going to cook it or not?"

  "Not. I refuse to touch that," she grimaced, and shivered delicately, "thing."

  His grin was cold and ruthless, gone as quickly as it had come. "You just did, princess. Or don't you remember throwing it at me?"

  "I remember. And the only reason I touched it then was because I was too upset to think about what I was doing." Amanda was thinking about it now, though. Thinking about how the cold, scaly hide had felt in her palms. About how heavy it was, the way its body had twisted and moved as though it was still alive. She swallowed hard and rubbed her hands down her skirt, trying to scrub away the disgusting feel. It refused to be banished.

  Jake studied her long and hard. He had to admit, at first he'd chalked up her reluctance as a childish desire to... annoy him—her way of getting even for what he'd done to her last night with the fire. Now he wasn't so sure. The woman looked truly horrified at the thought of touching the snake again. And when he'd mentioned eating it... well, her pale white cheeks still had that unflattering green undertone.

  Jake scowled, at her as much as at himself. All right, so he'd had a momentary slip. He'd temporarily forgotten that properly bred white ladies rarely if ever saw, let alone dined, on snakes. So what? He'd been hungry and tired after a long day of riding and tracking. When he'd seen the snake he'd thought it would make a nice, easy-to-cook, hearty supper. He still did. God knows it would be a refreshing change from jerky and beans. He hadn't given a thought to how Little Miss Prissy Britches would react.

  He wasn't going to think about it now. He was still tired, still hungry, and he'd already killed the goddamn snake. He wasn't about to go hunt up something else when they had a perfectly good meal waiting to be skinned, gutted, and cooked.

  Which brought up another interesting point...

  "You do know how to cook, don't you, princess?"

  "I can fillet and broil a swordfish that would drive you to your knees, Mr. Chandler," she sniffed imperiously. His knees, Amanda thought wistfully. Yes, she would definitely like to see Jake there. Soon.

  His laughter took her off guard. It was a deep, thoroughly masculine, thoroughly appealing sound. She glanced up, and found herself entranced. The whiteness of his teeth made an intriguing contrast to his rich copper skin. Laugh lines bracketed his mouth, and his eyes shimmered in a way that was mesmerizing, not to mention breathtakingly attractive. Amanda couldn't look away. Worse, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.

  One inky brow cocked. "Swordfish? Princess, I don't know how to break this to you, but we're nowhere near the ocean. A few trout is the best I could do... providing I found a stream before dark. Which I won't, because I'm not going out again."

  "Pity. My swordfish is a real treat."

  "No doubt," Jake said, then chuckled and shook his head. Broiled swordfish! Jesus, this pampered white woman was chock full of surprises!

  Like his laugh, Jake's low, husky chuckle shot down Amanda's spine like a flash of liquid heat. It sizzled in her blood and melted her indignation. Deep down she knew she should still be feeling at least a smidgen of anger. He was laughing at her expense, after all. She had a right to be upset. So why wasn't she? Why couldn't she, no matter how hard she tried, summon up even an ounce of resentment?

  She didn't know, she just couldn't. Amanda thought Jake's suddenly good mood had a lot to do with it. His laughter was infectious. She was having trouble trying to keep the corners of her mouth quirked in a stern frown; her lips begged to curl upward, eager to join in his mirth.

  "Tell you what I'm gonna do," Jake said, sounding very much like a carnival vendor she'd seen once, many years ago. "Why don't we trade chores? You get the fire started while I skin our friend here." He crouched down and picked up the snake, letting it drag from his hands down to the ground. "Sound fair?"

  Oh, yes. It sounded more than fair. Unless one took into account what he wanted in return for such a magnanimous gesture. And he would want something, she knew. Jake Chandler was too shrewd to offer a favor like that out of the goodness of his heart—if he had one, which she rather doubted. No, there had to be something in it for him. Amanda didn't hesitate to ask exactly what that something he would want in return was.

  Jake's attention immediately, albeit unconsciously, dipped to her lips. His gaze burned and devoured—more so when he saw her catch and nibble the full pink flesh with her teeth. His jaw clenched, and he curbed an overpowering urge to replace her teeth with his. To nibble, taste, stroke with his tongue...

  Remember that she's a prissy white woman. Remember what happened this morning.

  Jake knew that was what he should be thinking about right now. That, and the bitter sting of years of old memories and hard-learned lessons. Surely, between the two, this urge to taste and touch and push the rules would fade. Wouldn't it? Jesus, he hoped so!

  Jake hiked the snake over his shoulder and shrugged. "What do I want?" he said, his tone forcefully light. He retreated to sit with his back propped against a tree that was as far away from the sweetly forbidden temptation that was Amanda Lennox as he could get. "Supper, princess. That's what I want. All I want. I'm starving."

  Amanda had been, too, until she watched him whip out his knife, the blade poised close to the snake's head. She was not hungry enough to consider eating a... snake. No, no. She would never be that hungry. Chewy jerky and watery beans were no culinary delight, and, yes, she was heartily sick of the tasteless, repetitive meal at this point, but at least her supper had never bitten anyone!

  She shifted her attention to gathering wood, all the while doing her best to ignore what was happening between Jake and... his dinner. It wasn't easy. Some of the noises coming from his direction were quite revolting. As luck would have it, his humming masked a goodly portion of them.

  "That's a catchy tune," she murmured a few minutes later, as she knelt and deposited on the ground the small pile of dry twigs and branches she'd gathered. Actually, the melody had a barroom flavor to it. But Amanda didn't mind. She was willing to compromise her integrity if it meant getting him to talk. She had missed the sound of his voice today. Much, much more than Miss Henry would have considered proper. "What is it called?"

  After a noteworthy pause, he said, "Don't ask."

  "Really, Mr. Chandler, I want to know."

  "No, Miss Lennox, you really don't. Trust me."

  Trust him? Trust him? Amanda rather thought not. How could she trust a man she hardly knew? A man who, by his own admission,
was one part savage, no part gentleman? She couldn't, and that was that.

  Amanda yanked out and sprinkled a handful of dry grass around her foundation stick, then sat back on her heels. She almost looked at Jake but, remembering what he was doing, decided against it. She knew her limits, knew when she was pushing them, and watching him disembowel a snake fell into the latter category. She flattened her palms on either side of the stick, positioned it, and, as she prepared to whirl, said, conversationally, "I know a lovely tune about a dog and clover. The melody is similar to the one you were humming. I'd be happy to teach it to you, if you'd like. Unless, of course, you already know it."

  "Depends," he asked cautiously. "How does your song go?"

  Amanda had always had a uniquely off-key voice. Normally it didn't bother her when people referred to her singing as dogs howling at the moon—or were the canine begging for her to stop? She had a feeling that today it was going to bother her immensely if Jake made that same comparison. Still, not wanting to break the mood, she took a deep breath and tried her best. "Roll me ooo-over, roll me ooo-over, roll me over in the clover do it again, bom, bom."

  Amanda couldn't put her finger on what emotion was riddled in Jake's pause.

  "Yeah," he said finally, slowly. It sounded like it took great effort to keep his tone flat. "I know it. But the version I'm thinking of doesn't have a dog. Could be interesting if it did, though. Should I ask who taught you that little ditty?"

  Amanda smiled and began whirling the stick, nice and easy, just like Jake had taught her. "My father. I was about... oh, ten or eleven at the time."

  "Now I know we ain't talking about the same song. And if we are, we're definitely talking about different versions."

  "Why do you say that? Because my version has a dog?"

  "No. Because my version is dirty as hell."

  The stick came to an abrupt halt. One golden brow arched. Amanda's eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips, intrigued despite herself. "Define 'dirty.' "

  "Let's just say the first verse alone would tighten your corset a few inches. And speaking of corsets..."

  Just the mention of such a personal piece of apparel made the article in question feel uncomfortably tight, as though it had just shrunk two sizes. All of a sudden, the whalebone stays felt like they were digging into her ribs. That was the reason she couldn't breath... wasn't it?

  "Wh-what about my—" She couldn't. Amanda simply could not bring herself to mention her unmentionables in front a man like Jacob Blackhawk Chandler. Miss Henry would praise her decorum. As for herself, Amanda wasn't feeling very proprietary at the moment; she was too mortified.

  "Your corset?" Jake supplied cheerfully. Too cheerfully, she thought... until his next words robbed her of the ability to think. "You know it's going to have to come off, don't you?"

  "What is?"

  "Your corset."

  "What?"

  "You heard me, princess. I had to ride slow today because you could hardly breathe, and we don't have time for it. Not if you want your cousin back any time soon. Un-uh. That corset's coming off. Tonight."

  The stick dropped unnoticed from her suddenly slack fingers. "It most certainly is not!"

  "We'll see. And just for the record, you'll never get a fire started that way. Didn't you learn anything last night?"

  Think of it as like... making love.

  Amanda closed her eyes. A groan slipped past her lips before she could catch it. "Oh yes, Mr. Chandler. I learned quite a bit," she said, somewhat breathlessly. And it would have made a lot more sense to me if I knew what "making love" entails. Of course, she didn't say that, because a man like Jake would feel it his duty to tell her. Or, worse, show her. A queer, fluttery sensation tumbled in her stomach when that particular thought, and the erotic images it provoked, filtered through her mind like dappled sunlight.

  Jake's chuckle did nothing to endear him to Amanda. "Want another lesson?"

  The color in her cheeks deepened, and her heartbeat throbbed into double time. "That won't be necessary."

  "Okay. Just ask if you change your mind. I'm always willing and able... for a lady."

  Don't say it, Amanda. Don't you dare say it.

  She didn't. Instead, her voice dripping sweetness, she said, "Oh, I will, thank you." And as she reached over and snatched up the stick, she swore inwardly that it would be a cold day in Hades before she ever voiced such a request. To any man!

  Ten minutes later, kneeling in front of a still cold stack of unlit twigs and branches, Amanda came alarmingly close to choking on that vow. Dammit, what was she doing wrong?! She was whirling the stick exactly the way Jake had taught her. She had the chaffed palms to prove it. Her strokes were slow and easy, smooth and fluid enough, she'd hoped, to create a friction that would at least provide a satisfying curl of smoke, if not the wished for flame.

  It didn't.

  For an unprecedented first time in her life, Amanda pouted. She couldn't help it, she felt a disappointment that was irrational. And besides, she reasoned, it wasn't as though it was a big pout. Just a gentle out-thrust of her lower lip. Jake couldn't see it. The light would have to be perfect, and he would need to be looking directly at her...

  The light on Jake's side of camp was damn good. And he was looking at Amanda. Directly at her. He saw her pout, and his body reacted swiftly and thoroughly, damn her proper little hide! He felt desire throb to life, straining and seeking, reminding him down to the second of how long it had been since he'd had a woman.

  In the corner of his mind still able to function, he thought it was a good thing he'd already skinned and gutted the snake. The knife was safely tucked away, otherwise he would have worried about slicing his hand open—something he'd never, never done before. Then again, he'd never been distracted in such a way before. The attention he paid to that thrusting lower lip was all-consuming. He couldn't think beyond it, didn't want to.

  Sweet. He'd thought last night that Amanda Lennox would taste sweet, just before he'd stupidly proved it. Now he knew... he knew The flavor of her lingered on his tongue, tempting and teasing him until his gut knotted. How in the hell was he ever going to keep himself from kissing, tasting, feasting on her, again?

  He leaned his head back against the gritty bark and released a long, slow breath through his teeth.

  Amanda wasn't the only one hoping for the fire to get lit. Fast. Jake was hoping for it too. In a way he couldn't remember hoping for anything in his life. Because if she couldn't light it without help, if he had to go over there and guide her again and... well, twigs weren't the only thing that were going to combust. If that happened, his pride and her proper Bostonian sensibilities were going to get singed. It was inevitable.

  Unless he left. Just for a while. Just long enough to get himself under control. Ah, what a wonderful idea.

  Jake tossed his supper aside and pushed to his feet.

  He glanced at Amanda, and his senses were suddenly filled with the long thick braid trailing down her spine like a ribbon of captured moonlight. He wanted to snatch the frayed ribbon from the end of that plait and work the silky strands free, to bury his hands in the soft golden cloud, to...

  His jaw clenched as Jake forced himself to acknowledge the problem that was raging inside of him. Control. That was what he was leaving right now to find. The problem was, he had a feeling he could search until dawn, but it wouldn't be out there in the moonlit woods waiting for him. Oh, no. The ugly fact of the matter was, when it came to this woman—this lady—this white lady—he didn't have a whole hell of a lot of control to hang on to. And he should. Dammit, he should!

  "I'll be back," he muttered as, in one fluid, silent motion, he turned his back on her and stalked from the clearing.

  Amanda watched him go, confused by his abrupt departure, even more confused by the nagging emptiness that came back with sudden, breath-crushing force. When Jake had been talking to her, looking at her, even when he'd been laughing at her, the vacancy inside her had been filled. It was empt
y now, hollow and yawning. For him.

  Oh, God. She really was losing her sanity. She'd known the man less than two days, yet here she sat missing the sight and sound of him. She wished she could believe that Roger's kidnapping had upset her so much that her logic had been tilted off balance. She was, and it had. But Roger's wasn't the cause. Jake Chandler was; his mere presence knocked her off-kilter.

  As she positioned the stick, determined to give lighting the fire another try, her mind flashed her an image of Jake as she'd seen him last night. Tight copper skin, hard bands of muscle, long black hair cast blue in the shimmering moonlight, piercing silver eyes. Wet. All of him. Her heartbeat raced and her palms grew suddenly moist, suddenly sensitive and alive when she thought about those few drops of water clinging to his shoulder and how badly she'd wanted to rub them into his skin.

  It wasn't possible to breathe, and Amanda wondered ironically if perhaps Jake wasn't right about her corset after all. It could use loosening. She could use loosening.

  Sheltered and structured was how her life had always been, though not by choice. Yet her years at Miss Henry's hadn't sheltered her from the raw male onslaught of Jake Chandler, naked and proud and wet. Nor had her rigid schooling prepared her for the exquisite structure of his body, the tender torment of his kiss, or the unladylike ache he fostered deep inside of her with a glance, a touch, a word. Nothing had prepared her for that.

  When a lady thinks of a man, it is his good character and innate sense of honor she reflects upon. Not his body.

  Miss Henry's words. Amanda almost laughed when she thought that perhaps Miss Henry didn't know as much about ladies as she professed. It was obvious the old woman had never in her prim-spinster life met a man like Jacob Blackhawk Chandler.

  Jake had no "good character" that Amanda had seen, and his "sense of honor" had yet to be found. That left his body. And oh, how Amanda reflected upon it!

  She felt the bark of the stick she'd forgotten she held bite into her palm. Prying her eyes open, she saw the slice of wood was being held in a white-knuckled grip that threatened to snap it in two.