throat as she yielded to the merciless ardor that was years beyond her few experiences with men. Nothing that had gone before prepared her for the adult passion she felt in Blake, and it sparked a response that was mingled fear and shock. This was no boyfriend assaulting her senses. This was Blake. Blake, who taught her to ride. Blake, who drove her to cheerleading practice and football games with her friend Nan. Blake, who was a confidant, a protector, and now…
He jerked his head up suddenly, surveying the damage in her swollen, bruised lips, her wounded eyes, her wildly flushed cheeks and disordered hair.
“You're…hurting me,” she whispered brokenly. Her fingers went to her drooping coiffure, nervously, as tears washed her eyes.
His face seemed to harden as he looked down at her. His breath came hard and fast. His eyes glittered with unfathomable emotions.
“This is what happens when you throw that sweet young body at me,” he said in a voice that cut. “I warned you before about flaunting it, and you wouldn't listen. Now, maybe I've managed to get through to you.”
She drew in a sobbing breath, and the tiny sound seemed to disturb him. His eyes softened, just a little, as they wandered over her face.
“Please let me go, Blake,” she pleaded in a shaken whisper. “I swear, I'll wear sackcloth and ashes for the rest of my life!”
His heavy brows drew together and he let go of her arms to lean his hands on either side of her head against the door, pushing back a little to ease the crush of his powerful chest and thighs.
“Afraid?” he asked in a deep, lazy voice.
She swallowed hard, nodding, her eyes mesmerized by his.
He let his eyes move down to her swollen, cut lip as he bent toward her again. She felt his tongue brushing very softly against it, healing, tantalizing and she gasped again—but this time, not in pain.
He drew back and caught her eyes. The expression he found was one of curiosity, uncertainty. She met that searching gaze squarely and felt the breath sigh out of her body. Her heart went wild under the intensity of it. She wanted suddenly to reach up and bring his dark head back down again, to feel his mouth again. To open her lips and taste his. To kiss him hungrily, and hard, and feel his body against the length of hers as it had been, but not in anger this time.
His jaw went rigid. His eyes seemed to burst with light and darkness. Then, suddenly, she was free. He pushed away from her and turned to walk back to the bar. He poured himself another whiskey, and paused long enough to dash a jigger of brandy into a snifter for her before he moved back to the door where she stood frozen and handed it to her.
Wordlessly, he caught her free hand and drew her back to his desk with him. He perched against it, holding her in front of him while she nervously sipped the fiery amber liquid.
He threw down his own drink and put first his own glass, then hers, aside. He reached out to catch her by the waist, drawing her gently closer. He stared down at her flushed face for a long time before he spoke, in a silence heady with new emotions.
“Don't brood,” he said, in a tone that carried echoes of her childhood. Blake's voice, gentle, soothing her when her world caved in. “The tactics may have been different, but it was only an argument. It's over.”
She pretended a calm she didn't feel, and some of the tension went out of her shocked body. “That doesn't sound very much like an apology,” she said, darting a shy glance up at him.
One eyebrow lifted. “I'm not going to apologize. You asked for that, Kathryn, and you know it.”
She sighed shakily. “I know.” Her eyes traced the powerful lines of his chest. “I didn't mean to say what I did.”
“All you have to remember, little innocent one,” he said indulgently, “is that verbal warfare brings a man's blood up. You can be provocative without even realizing it.” He shook her gently. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.” Her
He jerked his head up suddenly, surveying the damage in her swollen, bruised lips, her wounded eyes, her wildly flushed cheeks and disordered hair.
“You're…hurting me,” she whispered brokenly. Her fingers went to her drooping coiffure, nervously, as tears washed her eyes.
His face seemed to harden as he looked down at her. His breath came hard and fast. His eyes glittered with unfathomable emotions.
“This is what happens when you throw that sweet young body at me,” he said in a voice that cut. “I warned you before about flaunting it, and you wouldn't listen. Now, maybe I've managed to get through to you.”
She drew in a sobbing breath, and the tiny sound seemed to disturb him. His eyes softened, just a little, as they wandered over her face.
“Please let me go, Blake,” she pleaded in a shaken whisper. “I swear, I'll wear sackcloth and ashes for the rest of my life!”
His heavy brows drew together and he let go of her arms to lean his hands on either side of her head against the door, pushing back a little to ease the crush of his powerful chest and thighs.
“Afraid?” he asked in a deep, lazy voice.
She swallowed hard, nodding, her eyes mesmerized by his.
He let his eyes move down to her swollen, cut lip as he bent toward her again. She felt his tongue brushing very softly against it, healing, tantalizing and she gasped again—but this time, not in pain.
He drew back and caught her eyes. The expression he found was one of curiosity, uncertainty. She met that searching gaze squarely and felt the breath sigh out of her body. Her heart went wild under the intensity of it. She wanted suddenly to reach up and bring his dark head back down again, to feel his mouth again. To open her lips and taste his. To kiss him hungrily, and hard, and feel his body against the length of hers as it had been, but not in anger this time.
His jaw went rigid. His eyes seemed to burst with light and darkness. Then, suddenly, she was free. He pushed away from her and turned to walk back to the bar. He poured himself another whiskey, and paused long enough to dash a jigger of brandy into a snifter for her before he moved back to the door where she stood frozen and handed it to her.
Wordlessly, he caught her free hand and drew her back to his desk with him. He perched against it, holding her in front of him while she nervously sipped the fiery amber liquid.
He threw down his own drink and put first his own glass, then hers, aside. He reached out to catch her by the waist, drawing her gently closer. He stared down at her flushed face for a long time before he spoke, in a silence heady with new emotions.
“Don't brood,” he said, in a tone that carried echoes of her childhood. Blake's voice, gentle, soothing her when her world caved in. “The tactics may have been different, but it was only an argument. It's over.”
She pretended a calm she didn't feel, and some of the tension went out of her shocked body. “That doesn't sound very much like an apology,” she said, darting a shy glance up at him.
One eyebrow lifted. “I'm not going to apologize. You asked for that, Kathryn, and you know it.”
She sighed shakily. “I know.” Her eyes traced the powerful lines of his chest. “I didn't mean to say what I did.”
“All you have to remember, little innocent one,” he said indulgently, “is that verbal warfare brings a man's blood up. You can be provocative without even realizing it.” He shook her gently. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.” Her
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