Montana Wildfire (17 page)

Amanda fumbled the gun.

Lightning quick, Jake snatched it out of mid-air.

He caught the old, beat-up-looking pistol with his free hand. His other hand stayed right where it was, poised in a place it had no right to be; on the inviting upper curve of Amanda Lennox's breast. The sweet, tempting-as-all-hell heat of her seeped into him. He was aware of every choppy breath she drew. Her pulse slammed beneath his fingertip; quick and wild, the beat matched his own.

Jake knew he should break the contact and break it now. It would be the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do. Touching this particular woman in this particular way was against the rules. He knew that. So why, he wondered , was the feel of her against his hand so damn good? Why was touching Amanda Lennox, almost but not quite intimately, the most enjoyable—
the most excruciating!
—form of torture he'd ever known?

And why the hell couldn't he stop?

Jake knew why, and he forced himself to confess it. All of it. He didn't want to stop touching her because, deep down, he knew this was the only time he would ever allow himself to touch a woman—a
white
woman—
this
white woman—in such a fashion. He'd learned his lessons long ago; his previous mistakes would not be repeated. But that didn't mean he couldn't satisfy his curiosity, did it? Hell, no. Just so long as he recognized his limits, remembered the boundaries...

Oh, yes, and there was one other reason. Jake was a strong man, yes, but... hell, he was flesh and blood—even if his flesh was copper, his blood half savage. Only a saint would have the strength to shun temptation when it came in the form of Amanda Lennox's warm, ripe body. Jake Chandler was no saint. Thank God! He doubted saints were lucky enough to feel anything so earthy and good as the curve of this woman's breast gliding beneath his fingertip.

"M-mr. Chandler...?"

"Jake," he growled, his voice low and raspy. "When I'm touching you like this, call me Jake." He angled his head, and discovered that his mouth now had access to her earlobe. His tongue darted out, wetting the small white shell. Was it possible for earlobes to tremble? God, he hoped so. He'd hate to think those tiny quivers came from him!

His touch drifted lower. Just the one finger, just the tip.

To Amanda, that was more erotic than if he'd used his whole hand... because it made her ache for him to do exactly that. At some point, her own hands had risen; they rested against the hard, warm wall of his chest. Her fingers curled inward, bunching his shirt in tight, moist fists. His heartbeat slammed beneath her wrist. Like the man, the rhythm was dark and primitive... dangerously out of control.

His breath felt hot and misty against her skin. The strokes of his tongue on her earlobe and neck made her burn. So did his slowly searching fingertip. Her breath caught as he crested the center of her breast, then slid down the full undercurve. He circled her, groaned, then began a torturously slow ascent.

Amanda knew she should make Jake stop—
now,
while she still had the presence of mind left to do it. Miss Henry had made it clear what sort of woman allowed a man to play with her body. The term she'd used was not "lady." Of course, if the man was your husband, it was perfectly all right to let him play in any way he saw fit.

Miss Henry's mandates had made perfect sense to Amanda, at the time. They made no sense to her now. How could feelings this good, this warm, this nerve-shatteringly hot and delicious, be wrong? And
why
was it wrong for her to want Jake to continue touching her? For her to want to touch him?

Jake's fingertip slowly circled the center of her breast. Amanda felt her nipple tingle and stiffen beneath the confining layers of linen and calico. Her blood heated. Unbidden, her back arched away from the tree; she arched into the hot magic of Jake Chandler's touch.

In that instant, she stopped thinking, and
started feeling.
Everything. Her fingers loosened from the folds of his shirt. The material felt moist and wrinkled from the tight heat of her grip when she splayed her hands on his chest. He moved—she didn't know why—and she felt his muscles flex into steel bands beneath her fingertips.

The tip of his tongue traced the line of her jaw, boldly sipping his way toward her chin. She craned her neck and arched toward him. Her tongue ran over her lips as she remembered last night's kiss—the heat of it and the satisfaction. She could still taste his strong, compelling flavor. Pulling in an unsteady breath, Amanda realized she wanted to taste Jake again. Now. Badly.

Jake licked the sensitive underside of her chin. If warmth had a taste, this was it. Whiskey and honey. Salty-sweet and tempting. Warmth, he decided, was the taste of forbidden fruit—or, in this case, forbidden white skin. It was a taste to be savored, like fine French brandy. A flavor to be enjoyed to its fullest before it was snatched away. Jake
did
enjoy the taste of her. Very much. More, he was sure, than he should have, more than would be considered safe for either of them.

A thousand times he told himself to stop. A thousand times his body countered the impulse with stronger, undeniable urges. He had reasons to keep his distance from this woman. Good, solid reasons. Yet logic crumbled when he heard her throaty whimper. The sharp edges of reality blurred when he felt her skin glide beneath his tongue... felt her fists reclutch his shirt... felt her warm, sweet breath wash over his scalp and neck.

His breathing turned ragged. His self-control was shredded. Had he ever needed a woman as badly as he needed this one; right here, right now? No. And any need that strong scared the hell out of Jake.

His finger paused on the upper swell of her breast. This time it was a conscious hesitation, a very strained one. For the first time in his life, Jake didn't trust himself. He didn't dare move, didn't dare
breathe.

The urge to find out how well this woman would nestle into his hand was strong. The urge to find out how well his hips would nestle between her perfect white legs was stronger. Too damn strong! The thought—sweet and tempting beyond reason—threatened to break him. In the end, it was the urge not to be broken by any white woman that won out. Regaining his self-control was a victory, though a rather unsatisfying one.

Jake lifted his head. He gritted his teeth when he felt his cheek brush hers. Even that innocent contact wasn't so innocent. Nor did it do his floundering composure any good. Touching Amanda Lennox, even accidentally, was a test of his endurance. His control was proving to be not nearly as good he'd once thought it was. Hell, with this woman, he didn't have any!

He pulled back slightly and glanced down at her. The back of her head rested against the tree trunk. Her lashes were down; the thick, dark fringe flickered against her porcelain smooth cheek. Her color was high, her breathing shallow, rapid. Jake knew it shouldn't please him to see he had that great an affect on her, but it did. It pleased him immensely.

"Jake?" Amanda whispered hoarsely. Her hands dragged down his chest. Her fingertips caressed his taut stomach before she let her arms drop, hanging limply at her sides. She wanted to touch more of him.
All
of him. For that reason alone, it would be best not to touch any of him at all.

Jake sighed and, like her, forced his hands away—with two major differences. He touched her shoulders, but no other part of her sweet, sweet body. And, where she'd trembled, Jake was positive he did no such thing. He was proving himself weakened by this woman, but he would never allow himself to become
that
weak. Not with Amanda Lennox, not with
any
white woman.

Amanda found it easier to think without Jake's hand and mouth caressing her. Not much easier—the memory of his hand and mouth was still sharp, still strong—but a little. Now, if she could make herself stop wishing he would kiss her today the way he had last night...!

Her lashes snapped up. In the brightening daylight she found herself held prisoner by his stare.

"You tempt me, princess," he drawled, and his husky voice skated warmly down her spine. "Really you do. But..."

"But...?"

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then apparently changed his mind. His eyes said that the words he finally settled on were not his first choice. "Don't look at me like that. We..." Jake's gaze dropped to where he'd unconsciously laced his fingers around hers. Her hand felt cool and fragile in his. In the glow of ripening sunlight, her skin looked very white, his own very dark and coppery.

"...can't." Stronger, he repeated, "We can't."

Amanda had never been brazen in her life. Miss Henry wouldn't have allowed or condoned it. Therefore, she was shocked to hear herself say, "All I want is for you to kiss me again, Jake. Like you did last night. Is that so wrong?"

"Hell yes, it's wrong! It's even more wrong that you can't see
why
it's wrong." His eyes narrowed, his glare swept her assessively. "You really don't understand, do you? You really don't see the difference between us. Jesus!" He shook his head and plowed the fingers of his free hand through his hair.

Amanda, in turn, lifted her hand to gently cup his cheek. His skin felt warm and smooth beneath her palm. It felt nice. His lashes swept down. His expression tightened—in pain, or in pleasure? There was no way to tell. "No, Jake, I don't see it. Why don't you explain it to me?"

Jake meant to answer her with one of the curt, seasoned rebuttals he gave to anyone who pried into his personal life. He was never sure where the answer he finally settled on came from. A place buried in a dark, hidden corner of him? Could be.

"Look at this," he growled. He lifted her hand until their entwined fingers were right under her nose.
"Don't you see it?"

Amanda's breath caught. She blinked hard, and studied his hand. She saw the rich copper skin; the long, thick fingers; the red and calloused roughness that made her burn wherever and whenever it touched her. She saw a hand that could make her forget she was lady, a hand that made her want to be anything but. Was that what he wanted her to see?

"You're bigger than I am," she said finally, cautiously. "And stronger. I see that."

"Yeah, right," he snapped, frustrated now. "Bigger, stronger... and redder. Or did you forget about that part?"

"I didn't forget. I just—" she shrugged. "I didn't think it was important."

With jerky motions, Jake disentangled their fingers. Her hand dropped limply to her side. His balled into an iron-hard fist. He needed to hit something. A tree, a rock... anything inanimate would do. The urge was countered by a stronger, inexplicable desire not to frighten Amanda. "It's important, princess. Damn important. To
me."

"I can see that."

"Can you?"

She nodded. "Yes. I just don't understand it."

"No? Well understand
this."

He tunneled his fingers through his hair, the side with the braid, drawing the long, thick black curtain back and away from his face. He pointed to a place on the back curve of his neck.

Amanda's stomach muscles knotted. She didn't need a mirror to see that her face had paled, she could
feel
the icy drain of color.

The scar he'd pointed to was four inches long, thick, and curved like a half-moon. It narrowed at the tip, and faded from sight beneath his collar. The skin was puckered and pink; the scar obviously was not new. Not the one creasing his flesh, anyway. Who knew how old the scars on his soul were? Or how deeply
they
cut?

Jake let her look her fill. Only when he saw her swallow hard and glance away did he let his hair sift through his fingers, sliding back into place. His voice was gritty and hard. The cold glint in his eyes said there would be no compromise between them. "Listen to me, lady, and listen good. Because I'll only say this once." He held a rigid index finger up close to her face. "In my entire life I've slept with exactly one white lady.
One.
That scar was what I got for my pleasure."

She still wasn't looking at him. Dammit! Jake wanted her to look at him when he drove his point home. To that end, he reached out, hooked her chin with the crook of his index finger, and roughly dragged her gaze back to his. He didn't label the emotion he saw shimmering in her eyes. He didn't dare.

"Ask. Come on, baby, I know you're dying to."

She shook her head. "Well, yes, but—"

Jake cut her off sharply. "I was working a spread in Texas about five years back. The
lady
in question was the boss's daughter," he sneered, and took perverse pleasure in the way Amanda flinched. Good. He needed to hurt her right now. Not physically—he'd never hurt a woman like that, and he'd be damned if he'd start now—but he had to lash out and make her feel just a little of the pain eating away inside of him.

Jake leaned into her, his voice edgy and flat. "Her name was Cynthia. Cynthia Reed. You would've liked her, princess. She was all sweet and ladylike. So damn refined," his chuckle was short and merciless, "and so damn far above the likes of me it was scary. But, hell, I was young and stupid enough to believe her when she said she wanted to marry me. That she loved me. And why not? At the time I was just gullible enough to believe I deserved to be loved just like any other man. I should be grateful to Cynthia for setting me straight, don't you think?"

Amanda sucked in a sharp breath and glanced away. Jake increased the pressure on her jaw, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Oh, no you don't. You're the one who wanted to hear this. Listen up, dammit!"

"No, Jake, I don't want—"

"Shut up and listen!"

Amanda snapped her mouth shut.

So did Jake, but only long enough to draw in two deep breaths. "Cynthia, as you've probably guessed, didn't love me, but she sure as hell loved what I could give her." His nostrils flared and, if possible, his expression hardened. "I'm not just talking about what I gave her between the sheets, baby. She wanted adventure. A taste of the wild and savage. She told me once she wanted to tame me... at least, she wanted to
try.