Montana Wildfire (9 page)

Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened. Jake's finely carved face hovered a mere inch from the ultrasensitive tips of her breasts. She closed her eyes, trying to will back just a sliver of sanity. It was a mistake, she realized too late. Shutting her eyes honed her other senses to a finer pitch. She could actually
feel
each hot wash of his breath sluicing over her—seeping through her bodice, seeping through her skin!

The skin in question tingled and burned. So did her cheeks when, to her mortification, she felt her nipples pearl against the confining chemise. Was it her imagination, or did her breasts feel fuller and heavier, her nipples stiff and sensitive? No, that wasn't her imagination. Her imagination wasn't
that
good! She felt the rosy crests straining against the linen and cotton as though seeking on their own the hot, moist promise of his mouth.

Her eyes snapped open, and her gaze fixed on the sensuous line of Jake Chandler's lips. The tip of his tongue darted out to wet just the lower one. It was a provocative gesture in itself, made more provocative by the way his attention never strayed from her breasts. His gaze was intent. His eyes burned out of his copper face, out of the shadows of the night. His expression said that similar thoughts had lodged in his own mind.

Amanda felt as if a herd of butterflies had gathered in her belly, clamoring to break free. And that was exactly what she should be doing, she decided instantly. Yes, freedom was what she needed. Perhaps without her body absorbing this man's body heat, without his scent enticing her nostrils, without his steely muscles pressing against her, she'd be able to put a logical thought together. Maybe then sanity would return.

On impulse, she piled her fists atop his shoulders and shoved, hard, arching her back until her spine ached. Either she'd taken him by surprise, or he'd also decided they could use some distance. Whatever the reason, his arms shifted.

Supporting her weight with his elbows and forearms, his fingers coiled around her upper arms. Holding her gaze ensnared, he slowly,
slowly
slid her down the hard length of his body.

Amanda felt her thighs drag against his hips. Her pelvis was acutely aware of every hard band of muscle in his thighs. The tips of her breasts hardened still more when a rock-solid chest rubbed intimately against her.

She turned her head, trying to hide her confusion, but not before she felt the copper velvet of his cheek graze her lips. The feel was like a bolt of lightning coursing through her. Raw sensation shot through her blood, and her toes curled inside her shoes.

The second her feet touched the ground, Amanda winced and rationed her weight onto her left foot. Jake hadn't released her arms, and she was unnaturally grateful for that. His grip was the only thing that kept her upright.

"You okay?"

"Ummm-hmmm, fine," she lied. Somehow, she managed to force a note of confidence into her voice. Odd, she didn't feel very confident right now. In fact, she felt... well, damn peculiar,
that's
how she felt! Her gaze fixed on the feather interwoven at the tip of his braid. It lay against his chest, lifting and falling with his every ragged breath.

"Then you won't mind if I let you go?" he asked. Was it her imagination, or was his drawl not so casual anymore?

"Not at all, Mr. Chandler. In fact, I insist upon it."

"Ever the lady, ain't ya, princess?"

"I try to be. Will you please unhand me now?"

"Sure, since you asked so nicely and all..." One by one, his fingers unpeeled from her arms. When he'd broken the grip, he let his hands fall limply to his sides. He didn't step away. His body was still close enough for her to feel, and react to, his searing heat.

They stood that way for one tense moment. Jake let her remain wrapped in her thoughts, mostly because he couldn't shake himself from his own long enough to distract her. What the hell had just happened here? Nothing extraordinary, he assured himself. Something
very
extraordinary, another part of himself argued. No, not really, he insisted.

Dammit, what
had
happened? He'd saved her from falling. It was that simple. He'd noticed the nice way her body was put together. Not so simple—not by half!—but normal for any healthy, red-blooded male. Then she'd moved, pressing herself so close he could feel her heart skipping. And out of nowhere...
bam!
Jesus, he'd never felt attraction that quick and strong in his life!

Jake sighed, and dragged a palm down his jaw. He had to get his thoughts back on track. The best way to do that would be to get away from the woman who was causing them to stray. "You hungry?"

Amanda forced a shrug, and eyed him closely. Judging from his expression—granite hard and stoic, as always—she was the only one who'd felt that sizzle of awareness when they'd touched. If Jake had felt it at all, it didn't show. He appeared oh, so calm. Oh so casual. Well, she decided, if
he
could act as if nothing had happened, surely she could do the same. Her gaze strayed back to his flat metal buttons. This time she forced it to stay there. "Yes, a bit. You?"

"Famished."

He wasn't talking about food. Amanda knew it. The information shivered through her, even as her attention snapped up. Their gazes met and held. Absolutely no emotion could be read in either his eyes or his expression, and that annoyed her.

"I have some jerky and beans in my saddlebag," she said tightly, and she limped back a step. A chilly breeze whisked over her. Though the night was cool, the air felt unnaturally brisk. She wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to hold in some of her body heat. "I think I have enough coffee left for one more pot. You're welcome to share it."

His shrug was negligent, as though he really didn't care. "Fine by me. So long as you're not the one making it."

Amanda took offense. "I brew a decent pot of coffee, Mr. Chandler," she argued. The way he continually ordered her about was beginning to grate on her nerves.

"Yeah, princess, I'm sure you do. I was just thinking of what happened the last time you waded into a river for water." His grin was slow and wicked. The sight of it made her heart palpitate. "Then again..."

His gaze seared her from the top of her head, down to the arms she clasped at her waist. She had a feeling he was thinking more of the way her wet skirt and blouse had clung to her body, and
not
the foot he had freed from the sunken tree trunk.

Amanda swallowed hard. Her reaction was not so much from his gaze—though that was certainly a part of it—a
large
part of it—but from the memory of his calloused fingertips and the way he'd boldly explored the wet, slippery curves of her legs. Her skin still burned from the intimacy of his touch, even though it was nothing more than a disturbing memory now. She had an uneasy feeling that she wouldn't be forgetting the branding feel of his hands on her anytime soon.

"I'll get the food," she said, and turned away from him.

She hobbled over to the horses with as much dignity as a tired, limping woman could. The cinch strap on the mare's saddle had worked itself tight. It took effort to pry it loose. Her trembling fingers made the chore take longer than it should have.

Jake, in the meantime, retrieved his coffee pot from the possessions he'd rolled up in the saddle-blanket strapped to the white. Her own coffee pot had, of course, been lost to the river that morning.

"You start the fire while I'm gone," he said, sparing Amanda only one quick, piercing gaze before he pivoted on his heel and again disappeared into the thick covering of underbrush.

Amanda listened for the rustle of leaves or snap of twigs that would mark his leaving, but wasn't surprised when she didn't hear any. She hadn't heard him approach before he'd caught her falling off the horse either, but that didn't seem to mean anything. The man was quick, agile, and as silent as a cat.

Though the observation was unnerving, it did help soothe her conscience. It proved her decision to hire Jake Chandler had been a good one. If anyone could find Roger, that person was Jake. He was strong, mentally and physically. His judgment was sound, even if his sense of honor was warped. Make that nonexistent; the man
had
no sense of honor that she'd seen. Though he was, by his own admission, not the world's best tracker, he hadn't lost the trail yet, which meant he wasn't bad either.

She hoisted the saddle off the mare and let it thump to the ground near her feet. When she turned, her gaze fixed on a small stack of firewood scattered sloppily in the center of the clearing. She remembered the clatter of noise just before Jake had caught her. One golden brow arched in contemplation.

Amanda studied the twigs and branches as though they were the most amusing thing she'd ever seen. Hadn't she told Jake she was out of matches? If not, she'd certainly meant to.

Arm over arm, Jake's body sliced through the river. The mountain-fed water felt like a sheet of ice lapping at his skin. Bitter cold and invigorating, it was exactly what he needed. Pity it didn't cool off his thoughts a damn bit.

The turn of his mind was red-hot. The object of his attention? The curve of a certain snobby Bostonian princess's breasts... and the more than enticing way she'd felt when he'd dragged her soft, slender body down his length.

Lowering Amanda Lennox to her feet like that hadn't been the smartest thing Jake had ever done. At the time it had seemed like a good idea. He'd been bitten by the urge to find out what her luscious curves would feel like sliding against his hardness. Now he knew. In retrospect, it was something he could have lived happily without ever having learned. But it was too late now.

Plain and simple, the woman made him hot. And she did it so quickly and thoroughly, so
effortlessly,
that it staggered him. Even after a brisk swim in a river fed by mountain water so cold it numbed and puckered his skin, Jake couldn't stop thinking about her. Fantasizing about her. His blood still boiled, his gut still churned, and his...

Jesus, he was hot for her still!

That knowledge hit him like a fist to the gut. It drove him to double the already furious pace of his arms and legs. The frigid water wasn't working the way it was supposed to. It didn't cool either his body or his mind. It sure as hell didn't diminish the throbbing ache in his groin. Tonight, his body had a mind all its own, and swimming in an ice-cold river wasn't what it wanted.

What it—
he
—wanted was Amanda Lennox. He wanted her soft and willing... as hot and as hungry for him as he was for her.

In other words, he wanted what he couldn't have.

Ever.

Soft and willing or hard and fighting, it didn't matter. He couldn't have her. Not Amanda Lennox. Not tonight, not any night. The memory of her creamy white skin and the way it glowed like expensive porcelain in the moonlight told him why. The sight of his own copper flesh as he stopped swimming and waded to where the water was only waist-deep confirmed it.

Amanda Lennox was white. Worse, she was a society snob, born and bred. A—
shudder
—lady to the core, she was off-limits to a filthy half-breed like himself. It didn't matter that he'd been raised white. It didn't matter that his only memories of his mother's tribe—hell, of his
mother,
for that matter—were so vague they were virtually nonexistent. The white man's blood pumping through his veins mingled with the blood of a savage. And
that,
when it came right down to it, was all that mattered to white people.
All
white people.

Amanda Lennox was no different. And why the hell did that knowledge disturb him so damn much? Why did
she
disturb him? He didn't know, but she did. There was something about her, something illusive and indefinable, that made him hungry. That made him remember things best forgotten.

Jake had never been one to put stock in memories. In his life, there had been few incidents worth reflecting on for more than a passing second or two. Even those fleeting recollections weren't greeted fondly. This time was no exception.

He'd been twelve years old the first time he'd realized he was different. Oh, he'd known it before then, sure, but no one on his father's spread had dared to come right out and say it, so he'd never thought it mattered. His innocence came to an end the night the foreman's son had cornered him out behind the barn.

Stuart Price. The name twisted through Jake's mind, bringing the familiar ugly face, the familiar surge of hatred.

Price had made it clear that it was high time the little red-skinned boy learned his place. Jake's place, he'd found out shortly, was face-down in the rich Montana soil—if not buried six feet beneath it. Price said he'd decided that Jake's weekly visits to their white neighbor's daughter were not proper, and would no longer be tolerated... just before the brawny fourteen year old had planted his beefy fist in Jake's face and broken his nose.

Jake had learned a lot of things that night. The first was just how nasty the word "breed" could be snarled. The second was that a white boy was never,
ever
to be trusted. The third, and most important, was that if he was going to survive in this life, he'd better learn to use his fists—because there was a whole world of Stuart Prices out there, and he was damn well going to need to know how to fight.

Jake shook his head and scowled, his palm absently rubbing the back of his still-damp neck. He hadn't been a good fighter back then. Oh hell, who was he kidding? He hadn't been any kind of fighter. His father was a big bear of a man who, because of his size, had never needed to use his fists. Whether by intent or neglect, Yancy Chandler had never taught Jake how to protect himself. After the night Stuart Price had beaten him to a bloody pulp, Jake had learned to fight back. Damn straight, he had! In fact, as with everything else, he'd taught himself.

Prejudice.
That
was the lesson he'd started to learn that moonlit night behind the barn. In the years since, more lessons had followed. Most had the same theme; stay away from white girls. It was a hard lesson for Jake to learn, but learn it he had... years after his encounter with Price was only a bitter-tasting memory. He'd learned how to survive the way he learned everything: the hard way. His body and mind still bore the scars of his last, and final lesson. That was the message that had really hammered the point home. It wasn't an experience Jake cared to repeat. Ever.