Chapter 2
"I'm going to let
you in on a little secret here, princess. Not three hours ago I knocked a man's teeth down his throat for calling me a bastard. The guy apologized. So will you."
"I will not, so you might as well get that thought right out of your head," Amanda replied, her haughty Bostonian accent now locked firmly in place. "I've done nothing to apologize for."
Tension crackled in the air between them. Rather, it crackled in what little air managed to worm its way between them. He was holding her dreadfully close.
His fingers tightened on her arms. While his grip was not painful, it threatened to become so soon. "You sure about that?"
"Positive."
"In other words, you don't think calling a man a bastard is something you need to apologize for?"
Amanda pursed her lips. If she'd felt any fear, it was gone; replaced by a nice, warm surge of resentment. "Not if the man in question is acting like a bastard, no. And you were acting like one." You still are, she thought, but wisely didn't say. "No, I can't apologize to you."
"Wrong, princess. You can, and you will. Nobody—and I mean nobody—calls Jacob Blackhawk Chandler a bastard and walks away intact. Not even a prissy little white snob who, I might add, could use a good lesson in manners."
His voice had taken on a calm, deadly edge; the words were slowly and precisely drawled. Not spoken, drawled. Her resentment drained away as though she'd never felt it. Amanda couldn't have felt more intimidated had the man grabbed her, shook her until her teeth rattled, and yelled the threat in her face. Her cheeks drained of color. Rolling her lips inward, she bit back the cowardly apology that sprang to mind.
The wall of muscles beneath her cheek flexed. She stifled a groan. Good heavens, the man was hard as a rock—every inch of him coiled muscle and strength. His grip tightened. She winced, though she knew he wasn't applying all that much pressure. Surely not as much as his whip-cord-lean body said he was capable of. Her newfound courage floundered.
"I'm waiting." His hand shifted, his grip loosening enough for his thick, calloused thumb to stroke invisible circles over the sensitive inner curve of her upper arm. "Don't rush on my account. Can't say I'd mind holding you like this a while longer."
"No? Well, I'd mind," she snapped, then instantly wished she hadn't. His laughter was short and merciless. The deep, husky sound rumbled in the chest beneath her ear and vibrated through her body like a bolt of heat lightning.
The muscles beneath her cheek bunched and released, suggesting a careless shrug. "If my company offends you, feel free to get up and leave."
Amanda fisted the damp blankets beneath her chin. She flexed her foot, and winced at the stab of pain. Circulation had returned with force; waves of it ripped up her leg. Without the icy water to dull it, the pounding in her ankle was excruciating.
"You know I can't," she grumbled miserably.
"That's right, I do."
One thing she could do, however, was to give pushing him away a good try. Snuggling against his chest the way she was doing, drinking in his body heat and scent, was not appropriate. It suggested that his arms offered a security and trust that only a complete idiot would be feeling right now.
Amanda wedged her fists between their bodies and shoved. Hard. The muscles in her arms screamed with the force she pooled into the action. She felt him ease back half an inch, no more. It was enough space to let the cool autumn breeze sneak between their chests.
The warmth he radiated was intense. She didn't realize how intense until it was gone. Amanda shivered, scowled, and took a swift mental inventory of all the spots on her body where the chill originated. It was as she'd feared. The cold was most pronounced in the places where he had warmed her.
That settled matters in Amanda's mind. Getting away from the confusing feel of Jake Chandler was now a necessity; one that seemed infinitely more important than her strong Lennox pride. Perhaps if she offered a compromise? As much as it went against her grain to do so, she reasoned that gaining her freedom had to be worth relinquishing a small amount of dignity.
Could she do it? Could she say she was sorry when she knew deep down that she had nothing to be sorry for? Amanda didn't know, but she was willing to try it and find out. If it could make this man unhand her, it would be worth the effort.
Her chin rose loftily, and her gaze clashed with piercing silver. "I have a proposal," she said. Her expression hardened when a flash of lewd suggestion flickered in his eyes. "Don't even think it! What I propose, Mr. Chandler, is that I thank you for freeing me from the river, and we can call the rest a draw."
It was the "don't even think it" that aggravated the hell out of Jake. He saw the contempt shimmering in her eyes. While her expression remained cautious, her mood was easily read by a man who knew what to look for. Jake knew what to look for, and what he saw in Amanda Lennox's eyes, he didn't like at all.
Scorn. Ridicule. Disgust. Those were the emotions he thought he saw swimming in her big green eyes. Jesus, she looked like she was afraid his dirty, half-breed hands would somehow contaminate her precious white skin. Oh, how that grated!
"I don't want your thanks, princess," he sneered, "as you damn well know. And as for the draw...?" He shook his head, his grip on her arms squeezing painfully tight. "Hell, no. What I want is my apology."
"You want me to lie, in other words." Though her tone was smooth, it was laced heavily with pretension.
"Yeah, if you have to. That'd be fine by me."
Amanda rarely got angry. It just wasn't in her nature. Few people had the power to arouse her slow-burning fury. Roger was one. Jake Chandler, for whatever reason, was another—and he seemed to know exactly how to use that power for optimum effect. His innate stubbornness stimulated her ire quicker and easier than anyone she'd ever known.