Amanda scowled, and shifted in her saddle. She shrugged, confused. "As friendly as any, I suppose. Why?"
"I don't know what you folks do in Boston, but around here people take in travelers." He nodded to the crest of t
he hill. "There's a young couple living that cabin. They'll give you a bed and a hot meal. You don't have to ask for it, just show up on their doorstep and look needy." He turned toward her, one inky brow cocked high. "Think you can manage that?"
Amanda pulled herself up straighter in the saddle, no longer slouching, no longer tired. Exhaustion channeled swiftly into a hotter, more turbulent emotion. Indignation was the closest she'd come to naming the feelings roiling inside her.
Eight years of Miss Henry's diligent tutelage was evident in the lofty tone of her voice and in the way she glared down the pert length of her nose at Jake. "Mr. Chandler, I've never appeared needy in my life!"
"Is that a fact?" His gaze slid hotly over her. "No, I guess you haven't."
Jake studied what he could see of her casual skirt and shirtwaist. The cloak hanging from her shoulders was made of thick, practical wool. Damn, but the outfit looked wrong on her somehow. All wrong. It wasn't the material or cut of the clothes that bothered him so much as the way she wore them. On her, cotton passed for taffeta, calico for yards of watered silk, tailored in the latest Parisian fashion. Her regal bearing modified plain wool, turning it into expensive sable, and...
Those were the clothes a woman like Amanda Lennox should be wearing. Not practical cottons and ready-made dresses. Hell, no. She deserved better. She deserved finely tailored outfits cut from the most exquisite fabric money could buy. Nothing bright, nothing flashy, just something... classy. That was the word Jake was looking for. Classy. Like the lady herself. She was born to it.
Amanda shifted uneasily. Why did the heat of Jake's gaze remind her of the way his fingertip had stroked her breast? She didn't know, but it did remind her of that morning in the woods. Vividly. Graphically. His gaze traced her stomach, caressed the flair of her hips and the turn of her calf revealed by the hiked up hem of her skirt. Her flesh burned, and a fragile spark of desire pooled in her stomach. Her gaze lowered to his lips. With breathtaking clarity she remembered how it felt to need—really need—that mouth covering, devouring her own.
Except for erotic dreams, her desire for Jake Chandler had been suppressed, forced to lay dormant for days and torturously long nights. But, as he'd so effortlessly proved—and her strong, hungry response confirmed—while her passion had been carefully concealed, it hadn't by any stretch of the imagination been abolished. One hot glance from him, one lazily drawled innuendo, and desire flamed to smoldering life.
Jake's lips burned under the caress of her eyes. His gut twisted. Against his better judgment, he did some painful remembering of his own. He came to the abrupt conclusion that bringing up the word "need" with this woman, in any way, shape, or form, was a mistake. It brought too clearly to mind his body's fierce demands.
His attention skimmed the full, ripe breasts he'd yet to forget the tantalizing shape and feel of. His jaw hardened, and his fingers curled into tight fists around the reins. His grip was so tight his fingers actually hurt. That was fine by Jake. He was tempted, so goddamn tempted to reach out and touch her, to stroke her, to feel her creamy white skin coasting beneath his hand the way he'd wanted so badly to do these last few days. These last few hellishly long nights.
Amanda's heartbeat skipped, her blood heated. Her skin felt warm and tingly, as though it was his fingers stroking and caressing her, not merely his eyes. She was surprised by how quickly, how effortlessly, this man could spark passion in her. She was shocked to the core by how deep-rooted that newfound passion ran. It warmed her, consumed her. Desire—hot and sharp and alive—flamed inside of her, burning away the indignation she could have sworn she'd felt only a few moments ago.
"Can you do it?" Jake repeated, his voice as harsh as his expression.
"Do what?" Amanda asked breathlessly.
"Can you show up on that doorstep and look needy?"
Oh, that! Her wayward thoughts had made her lose track of their conversation. Amanda cleared her throat, and tried to make her reply sound haughty. It wasn't easy. The blood surging through her veins, pounding in her ears, inhibited the anger she should have been feeling, but wasn't. "I'm not a total incompetent. I—I think I can manage to look needy."
"Good. Then do it." Forcing his gaze from hers, Jake gave a flick of his wrist that turned the white around. He started back toward the woods, in the direction they'd just come. From over his shoulder he said, "Meet me back here after the storm passes. Tomorrow, probably. The day after at the latest."
Amanda rocked back in the saddle as though he'd just clipped her jaw. Her lips parted in mute shock. She blinked hard, and filled her vision with his proud, swaying back. Where the hell was he going? Hadn't he just told her they would be stopping at the cabin for the night? Yes, he certainly had. So why—?
Her mouth snapped shut. Her lips compressing in a thin, angry line when a thread of realization wound its way down her spine. Meet me back here...
He was trying to get rid of her. The bastard! Not only did Jake have no intention of accompanying her to the cabin, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that, if she let him ride off now, he wouldn't come back for her. Not in one day's time, not in one year's time!
"Damn him," she muttered under her breath, shocking herself. To curse inwardly was one thing, to do it aloud meant she must be extremely upset. And she was... with Jake Chandler, the beast who was deserting her. Well, she wouldn't tolerate it, and that was that. Deciding she would not allow him to ditch her so easily, Amanda swung the mare around and hurried after him. It took less than two minutes to catch up.
Jake heard her pursuit. Drawing in a resigned breath, he released it by letting it hiss slowly through his teeth. The muscle in his cheek throbbed, his fingers tightened on the reins. Those were his only outward signs of annoyance.
"Now what?" he growled when she guided the mare up beside him. Too closely beside him, the sudden burn in his left thigh screamed. "Thought I told you to get to that cabin before the storm breaks."
"You did," she snapped, her tone as annoyed as his. "But at the time I agreed to it, I thought you were going with me."
He didn't look at her. He didn't dare. The memory of his fingertip following the lush curve of her breast was still too fresh in his mind. If he looked at her now, and saw in her large, expressive green eyes just how disturbing that same memory was for her... worse, if she saw how much the memory kept eating at him...
Jake drew himself up short. The tantalizing memory wasn't just eating at him, he realized. Hell, no. At some point during the last seventy-two hours his hunger to possess this woman had blossomed into a gut-grinding need. A full-blown obsession.
He felt the heat of her invade the tough denim encasing his leg. Her warmth penetrated his skin, seeped into it, stole into his bloodstream. A cool breeze blew fragile puffs of her sweet, sweet scent his way. Jake damned the brewing storm for that almost as much as he damned the feminine aroma itself. The smell of her flooded him, threatening to drown him, as it lent a seductive undertone to the acidy tang of imminent rain.
He sensed Amanda's agitation, felt her confusion as though it was his own, and it... well, dammit, it bothered him. More than it should have. More than was safe. For either of them. Because with the knowledge came the need to reach out and touch, to reassure. He countered the urge, but just barely.
"With you?" he said finally, her words just now penetrating his distracted mind. He scowled, his steely gaze flashing with annoyance. "I never said I was going with you, princess."