Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,41

in hand, his expression mirroring the excruciating pain of having his hopes and expectations destroyed in a single moment of abject cruelty.

Heartless wench! She fought a hint of tears threatening her eyes. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t help, and she couldn’t erase it. But she could work on fixing up the present.

“Want to dance, cowboy?”

“What?”

“I said, Want to dance?”

“Sure, why not?” He stood in front of her.

She polished off what was left in her glass, got to her feet, weaving, and found herself in his arms.

For a moment he gazed down at her, remarkable eyes staring deep into hers, then slowly and sensuously he began to move to the rhythm of the music, easing her into sync with his movements, drawing her full length against him. Aware of every frontal inch of his amazing body, Allison melted, dissolved into the wonderful sensations he was creating. She barely noticed when he danced them out onto the verandah, the full moon over his shoulder mesmerizing her along with the man in her arms.

His lips found her temple, her earlobe. She gasped as his hands slipped from her waist to her hips to thrust them into his.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said, pulling out from him with a monumental force of will, out from his mind-swirling, solar-plexus-crazing being.

“When I went to university, Jack saw to it that I had decent clothes and enough money to buy fresh flowers.” His voice sounded soft as a cat’s purr. “As a result, I found a few ladies who were willing to teach me.”

“I just bet you did.”

She looked up to see the intensity of his attention focused on her. She turned to putty: soft, warm, malleable putty she wanted him to mold. As he drew her back against him in time to the music, it was easy to let sexual instincts take control. Paul never looked at her like that, not when they were dancing, not ever.

“You smell…wonderful,” she murmured and missed a step. “Fresh and clean…not like a bottle of three-hundred-dollar cologne.”

“And that’s a good thing?” His lips brushed her hair.

“I hate that over-priced junk.”

She was having an all-out battle with her words, but she didn’t care. With his body and his lips and his eyes making her head swirl until her legs no longer wanted to hold her up, speech wasn’t a major concern.

“Heath Oakes, I think you’re trying to she-…seduce me.”

“How am I doing? Are you sufficiently under my spell to reconsider running the river with me?” His words and eyes changed in an instant, had become deadly serious.

“No way! Bugs and bushes and no bathrooms? Forget that idea, cowboy. After a couple of days in the woods, a body gets so dirty and smelly there’s no possib…prob…there’s no way a person could get romantic. And, right now, I’m feeling very romantic. What about you? Is it true what they say about o…oysters?”

Chapter Eight

Allison awoke to the feeling that she had eaten a huge chunk of cotton wool and most of it was still clinging to her tongue and the roof of her mouth. A dehydrating sun blazed down, filtered from her face by a circular fabric dome.

She tried to raise her arms but found she was swaddled in something soft that would have been too warm if it had not been for a coolness at her back. And she was moving, gliding backward, to the sound of moving water.

What happened? Where am I? Frantic, she wrenched against her restraints. The Tilly hat that had served as a blind fell from her face.

“Easy. You’ll upset us.” His voice stopped her struggles.

Hands gripped her shroud, pulling her to a sitting position. Half blinded by a mid-morning sun, she faced a dark silhouette topped with a Snowy River hat. As her vision returned, she recognized him. She was in a canoe caught in the current of a fast-flowing river with the last man on earth she wanted to be anywhere with. A wilderness of forest covered both banks.

“Oh, my God! What have you done? Where are we?” she rasped out the words, then coughed and grimaced. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Her head drummed a pounding ache.

“Headed down the North Passage,” he said. “Here.” He reached under his seat and pulled out a canteen. “You need a drink…of water.”

He unscrewed the cap as she managed to free her arms from the sleeping bag. When he extended the container toward her, she snatched it from his hand. Throwing back her head, she gobbled. The ice cold