Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,16

it back into the wastepaper can. “Nothing she or I did constituted infidelity. She’s just a lonely, neglected woman who wants to feel attractive and desirable, who wants to be listened to with interest and genuinely cared about.”

“And you managed all that…on a purely platonic level? Quick, let me look outside. There must be a few white crows around.”

“So now I’m a liar, too.” He turned and sauntered over to his bookcase with amazing, icy calm. “Would you like to borrow a book while you’re here? I’m a fan of murder mysteries. I’m sure that somewhere in my collection you’ll find a scenario that matches Jack’s death to a T. Then you’ll be able to promote me from gigolo and liar to killer.”

He swung back to face her, his move swift and catlike. His eyes had narrowed, his lean bronzed face gone hard and cold.

“I never said…suggested…” Her heart bumping against her ribs, she began to back toward the door.

“No, but you thought…and thought…and thought.” He slammed it shut, then held her trapped against it, his hands on the panel on either side of her head, towering over her, making her shrink before his pure animal power. “Let me add a bit more color to the picture you’ve painted of me.” His tone became dangerously soft. “I have a criminal record. I’ve spent time in prison. Do outlaws turn you on, Allison Armstrong? Do they?”

He was all but touching her now, so close she felt she was drowning in smoldering amber pools and a rock hard wall of muscle and sinew. His nearness frightened her, excited her, left her gasping.

“Don’t…” The word was a strangled whisper. Her heart raced out of control, partly in fear, but mostly—she hated herself for it—in wild anticipation. She remembered his kiss, that earthy, head-spinning, belly-turning kiss on the floor the previous night, and her knees turned to mush.

“What do you really believe about me, Allie?” He astonished her with his use of the pet name her grandfather had given her years ago. “In your heart?”

“I think…” she breathed softly, looking up at him with what she hoped was a beseeching look. “That I couldn’t hate you more.” She lunged out with both hands and a knee.

“Ahhhh!” He stumbled backwards, and she yanked open the door.

“I believe you’re a conceited, money-mongering ape!” she yelled as she ran, stumbling, out of the cottage.

Chapter Five

She paused a few yards from the cottage and glanced back to see if he was pursuing her. He wasn’t. She threw back her shoulders, sucked in a deep breath, and gave herself a figurative pat on the back.

I showed him. He won’t mess with me again. Wobbly knees and pounding heart be darned. I showed him who’s in charge around here.

A smug little smile on her lips, she headed for the boat house. As she made her way over the root-roughened foot path carpeted with pine needles, childhood memories flooded back, and she slowed her pace. She and Gramps had walked this trail so many times when she was a little girl. Sometimes she’d put her small hand in his large one and enjoy the sense of warmth and security. Other times she’d skip ahead of him, making him laugh at her antics.

When she reached the boathouse, she pulled his jacket about her and sat down on the weathered old park bench near its open doorway. In spite of the sunlight bathing her in a soft pool of warmth, she recognized the cold nip in the air that characterized the early reluctance of spring in this country. With a sigh she turned up the woolly collar, stuffed cold fingers beneath her armpits, and cuddled into a corner. She needed time to think, time to straighten out the tangle of thoughts and emotions Heath Oakes had snarled about her mind.

She gazed out at the river rushing past, glinting in the sun. Jack Adams had loved the North Passage and gloried in all its moods and caprices.

“It was meant to continue forever,” he’d said, his arm about his granddaughter as they’d sat together on this same bench over a dozen years ago. “Like life through a family.”

And she was all that was left to keep their family going. She and…Paul? Somehow she couldn’t bring him into focus as a viable current in the stream that was the Adams dynasty.

A squirrel scampered down a tree trunk and sat up on its haunches in front of her. It stared at her with wide, inquisitive eyes. Memory