Amanda gave Jake her full attention—in more ways than one. There was no forgetting or ignoring the intimate way he'd molded himself to her hips and back. His thighs straddled hers from behind, pressing, arching. She couldn't deny her tumultuous reaction to the hard, firm feel of him. The only thing she could do was pretend she hadn't noticed it.
She pulled Jake's hands into focus. He paused imperceptibly before blanketing the back of her knuckles with his palms. His skin felt hot and rough, his fingers thick and strong. The back of her wrist was acutely aware of his pulse hammering against it. The tempo was wild and erratic; it matched her own racing heart.
"Ready?" he whispered huskily. His mouth was close enough for her to feel the movement of his lips against her earlobe.
Amanda nodded weakly. "I-I think so."
"Just do exactly what I tell you, and I'll show you how we Indians set a bed on fire."
"You will?" Lord, but it was embarrassing to hear how small and panicky her voice sounded.
"Sure I will, princess. Anything for a lady." His pause was long enough to make her heart skip, yet short enough to stop just shy of blatant torture, "You did want to learn how to light a fire this way, didn't you?"
Amanda felt the vibrations of his laughter against her back. She told herself she didn't really tremble—of course not!—but she knew that she did. She also knew Jake was very much aware of the way his sinewy body absorbed her minute quivers.
Not waiting for an answer, he started guiding her small white hands back and forth on either side of the stick. His initial pace was slow, his strokes long and smooth. The stick rolled from the tip of her fingers to the heel of her palm, then back again. The process was repeated.
Once she had the rhythm, he accelerated the tempo.
The insides of his arms rubbed against the outside of hers. A thin sleeve separated flesh from flesh; in no time, it seemed to melt clean away. Amanda could feel the play of his muscles with every stroke. His cheek was nestled against her ear. She felt his breath in the chest that moved against her back, in the heat of each controlled exhalation, and the way it seeped through the material covering the upper swell of her breasts.
The stick, Amanda, pay attention to the stick!
She pasted her shattered concentration together and focused her thoughts on her hands and the stick she whirled between her stinging palms. Her gaze shifted to where the sticks met. She frowned. Was it her imagination, or had the powder the friction had created begun to glow? She blinked hard, refocusing. That wasn't her imagination. The wood was glowing. A curl of smoke wafted into the air. Some of the grass flickered with a spark. It wasn't much, but Amanda could have sworn she felt the inviting heat of it against her fingertips.
"Blow on it," Jake told her. "Very gently."
She did, and giggled when more of the grass caught. Soon, even the two sticks were burning. The sting of charred wood laced the air. Amanda inhaled deeply, and knew she'd never smelled anything so sweet in her life.
She'd started a fire without matches! Oh, what a heady feeling accomplishment was. Her shoulders squared with pride. It wasn't until she noticed that her back was cold and that there was no firm obstruction holding her in place, that she realized Jake was no longer behind her.
"Proud of yourself, ain't ya, princess?"
Her gaze whipped up. Amanda tracked his voice and found Jake lying on the grass to her right, not too far away. He was sprawled on his side, his lean body stretched casually over the ground. His right elbow was bent, the heel of that palm supported his head. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth. The tip was dark, yet his eyes were squinted as though curls of smoke were trailing up there from the unlit end.
Her gaze sharpened on his other hand, the fingers of which were poised over his outer thigh. Her jaw hardened. Her green eyes narrowed furiously when she saw his hand flick upward along the coarse side-seam of his denim pants.
The sound of a match flaring to life was grating against its backdrop of taut silence.
Amanda sucked in a quick breath. Her glare was degrees hotter than the flame Jake held to the tip of his cigarette. She was too angry to yell.
Hell, she was too angry to breathe! She forced her attention back to the crackling fire. Her fingers shook as she fed the struggling flames a few brittle twigs. "You're not much of an Indian, Mr. Chandler," she said tightly.
"Guess that makes us even then, Miss Lennox. Because you ain't much of a lady."
Her fury grew like the fire she'd built. Both were white-hot, hungry. When she felt sufficiently enraged, Amanda shifted her glare to Jake. "You bastard!"
He wedged the cigarette between his index and middle finger. Taking it from his mouth, he used it to point at her. His gaze was frosty. "Now that's the only thing you've gotten right all day, lady. I am a bastard. In more ways than one. If you've got a brain in that pretty little head of yours, that's one thing you won't keep flinging in my face. I don't like it."
"I'm not a violent person," she said. Her voice wasn't the only thing trembling with anger now. "But I have a very real need to slap you. Quite hard."
"Why's that, princess? Am I... annoying you again?"
"I've gone past annoyance. Furious would be a better word."
"And you think giving me a good slap will make you feel better?"
"Oh, yes. I'm certain it would."