gasping, dying! She twisted anew and tried to kick her legs to propel herself to the surface. She managed to shove herself forward into her attacker’s chest, and only then became vaguely aware that his skin was dark.
She realized that she was facing a well-muscled chest, thickly covered with crisp dark hair. Dark hair that narrowed at the waist, then flared richly again to nest the long, thick rod of the man’s—
Oh, God!
Why was she praying? God had deserted her.
What had she so carelessly done, in diving into the temptation of the pool?
She kicked harder, frantically. She was losing air. It wasn’t possible, but she was becoming a victim of the man—and the water. She was in danger of drowning. Black spots began to obscure her vision. She couldn’t even be afraid anymore of being raped and perhaps murdered by a stranger. She couldn’t think at all anymore….
Sometime later—just seconds, minutes? Surely no more!—her vision began to return. Her face was out of the water. She was being towed through it. An arm was around her torso, a hand just below her breast. “Oh, God, God!” she gasped out, and began to struggle once again against the hold upon her. She tried to strike, to kick, knee, disable this man however she might.
In the midst of it all she suddenly heard, “Woah, stop! I’m just trying to keep you from drowning! Dammit, those are vicious knees, woman … ah, but then, you must be Peter O’Neill’s young hellion—my Lord!”
Her eyes met his. Deep, dark cobalt, they reflected the very depths of the water.
“The young fencing mistress playing havoc on the lawn!” he exclaimed.
She was released. She tread water a foot away from him, staring at him in horror.
He was dark, all right. His hair was nearly black; his strong, striking features were well sun-bronzed. His eyes were all but black, assessing her, ripping over the length of her, piercing into her. Ian McKenzie. Ian.
She really wanted to expire. Right then and there.
Ian! The great man’s oldest son. James McKenzie’s nephew. Heir to half the known world, so it seemed. Built like an Atlas to take his part in the world as master of Cimarron. Towering, hard, handsome, independent, remote; the powerful young military man who had already made himself legend throughout the peninsula, to white men and red alike.
It had been years since she had seen him. Since he had stolen her father’s attention, and she had been both infuriated by him…And fascinated.
He was no stranger; she knew him. Yet he had changed in those years since she had seen him.
She had been young, but she had come to know him. She knew his deep, probing attention when something intrigued him. She remembered the passion and intensity with which he had asked her father questions, the determination he had shown to learn, and his capacity to absorb what was taught him.
Ian McKenzie.
Oh God! What had she done to deserve this? What ironic cruelty fate had cast upon her!
She hadn’t even realized he was home. She hadn’t seen him at Tara McKenzie’s afternoon tea; but then, she had fled from it rather quickly.
And it seemed he must have somehow witnessed at least a part of the exchange between her and Peter O’Neill.
Could humiliation kill? Dear Lord, what had he heard, what did he know?
What had he seen?
Then? Now?
What had he…
Touched?
Oh, God, but she wanted to die. Fall straight back into the cool, encompassing depths and never break surface again.
“Ian!” At last she managed to speak. To gasp out his name.
Then, perhaps, the greatest insult of a sadly humiliating day assailed her.
“Do I know you?” he inquired with polite amusement and a slight edge of wariness.
She stared at him, astonished, then let out a furious oath and turned to swim away.
But a hand fell upon her naked shoulder as he jettisoned past her.
A hand that had touched her before. Slid proprietarily over breast, down her ribs… between her thighs. Again she burned, her
She realized that she was facing a well-muscled chest, thickly covered with crisp dark hair. Dark hair that narrowed at the waist, then flared richly again to nest the long, thick rod of the man’s—
Oh, God!
Why was she praying? God had deserted her.
What had she so carelessly done, in diving into the temptation of the pool?
She kicked harder, frantically. She was losing air. It wasn’t possible, but she was becoming a victim of the man—and the water. She was in danger of drowning. Black spots began to obscure her vision. She couldn’t even be afraid anymore of being raped and perhaps murdered by a stranger. She couldn’t think at all anymore….
Sometime later—just seconds, minutes? Surely no more!—her vision began to return. Her face was out of the water. She was being towed through it. An arm was around her torso, a hand just below her breast. “Oh, God, God!” she gasped out, and began to struggle once again against the hold upon her. She tried to strike, to kick, knee, disable this man however she might.
In the midst of it all she suddenly heard, “Woah, stop! I’m just trying to keep you from drowning! Dammit, those are vicious knees, woman … ah, but then, you must be Peter O’Neill’s young hellion—my Lord!”
Her eyes met his. Deep, dark cobalt, they reflected the very depths of the water.
“The young fencing mistress playing havoc on the lawn!” he exclaimed.
She was released. She tread water a foot away from him, staring at him in horror.
He was dark, all right. His hair was nearly black; his strong, striking features were well sun-bronzed. His eyes were all but black, assessing her, ripping over the length of her, piercing into her. Ian McKenzie. Ian.
She really wanted to expire. Right then and there.
Ian! The great man’s oldest son. James McKenzie’s nephew. Heir to half the known world, so it seemed. Built like an Atlas to take his part in the world as master of Cimarron. Towering, hard, handsome, independent, remote; the powerful young military man who had already made himself legend throughout the peninsula, to white men and red alike.
It had been years since she had seen him. Since he had stolen her father’s attention, and she had been both infuriated by him…And fascinated.
He was no stranger; she knew him. Yet he had changed in those years since she had seen him.
She had been young, but she had come to know him. She knew his deep, probing attention when something intrigued him. She remembered the passion and intensity with which he had asked her father questions, the determination he had shown to learn, and his capacity to absorb what was taught him.
Ian McKenzie.
Oh God! What had she done to deserve this? What ironic cruelty fate had cast upon her!
She hadn’t even realized he was home. She hadn’t seen him at Tara McKenzie’s afternoon tea; but then, she had fled from it rather quickly.
And it seemed he must have somehow witnessed at least a part of the exchange between her and Peter O’Neill.
Could humiliation kill? Dear Lord, what had he heard, what did he know?
What had he seen?
Then? Now?
What had he…
Touched?
Oh, God, but she wanted to die. Fall straight back into the cool, encompassing depths and never break surface again.
“Ian!” At last she managed to speak. To gasp out his name.
Then, perhaps, the greatest insult of a sadly humiliating day assailed her.
“Do I know you?” he inquired with polite amusement and a slight edge of wariness.
She stared at him, astonished, then let out a furious oath and turned to swim away.
But a hand fell upon her naked shoulder as he jettisoned past her.
A hand that had touched her before. Slid proprietarily over breast, down her ribs… between her thighs. Again she burned, her
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