Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,46

be furious when she finds out what you’ve done!”

“She knows.” Satisfied with the knife’s sharpness, he returned it to its sheath.

“Mom knows…that you filled me full of wine, that you’re taking me on this voyage of the damned against my will?” Allison was appalled.

“She knows we’re running the river.” He faced her squarely. “I told her what I planned to do when I spoke to her on the telephone yesterday. She thought it was a good idea to jog your memory of all your grandfather held dear. She also thought I’d be able to convince you verbally to come along. When that failed, I had to resort to other methods. She doesn’t know about that last part.”

“Do you think she’ll condone what you actually did? Do you honestly think—”

“No,” he said. “If you were my daughter, I’d be ready to beat the living daylights out of any man who ‘spirited’ away my child. But you’re not my child, and I’m confident the end will justify the means.”

He turned and once more strode off into the darkness. Allison sank back down on the riverbank gravel. This entire mess read like something out of a cliché adventure novel. Heroine captured by handsome savage and carried away into the wilderness to become his adoring mate.

She drew her knees up in front of her, folded her arms on top of them once again, and watched the flames diminishing into coals—red-hot, glowing coals perfect for roasting wieners and marshmallows. She remembered her last meal cooked over a bonfire.

Gramps had been there. And her mother and Heath and his mother. It had been the second to last night she’d spent at the Chance, and after they’d eaten she and Heath had wandered down by the boathouse, a full summer moon lighting their way. She’d been fourteen, that age when boys are an endless fascination, and Heath, at sixteen, had seemed very much a man of the world, a romantic rebel full of inner-city toughness and street savvy.

She recalled leaning back against the rounded logs of the boathouse, the moonlight on her face, her waist-length wavy hair falling in cascades over her shoulders. Heath had come to stand close in front of her, a dark silhouette between the wild river and the romantic light of the moon. Feet planted apart, he’d towered above her, his shadow enveloping her, the planes of his face strong and handsome in the shadows.

The soft summer night filled with silvery magic. From the riverbanks, frogs raised a chorus to the young lovers. A tender breeze rippled sensuous music through the pines. And when Heath took her into his arms and touched his lips to hers, all her naive fantasies burst into full bloom. She remembered the way her heartbeat had gone into a wild flurry, the butterflies that had danced in her stomach, and, below, an overwhelming feeling of ecstasy she’d never before experienced. It had whirled her out of reality.

Heath was in love with her! Wild joy burst over her in an enchanted wave. Nothing could have been more wonderful, more perfect.

But suddenly his embrace tightened. She was pinned against the boathouse by his taut body. His mouth came down on hers again, but this time it was hard and brutal. He forced her lips apart, his tongue into her mouth. One hand went under her T-shirt, sliding up her back, working at her bra clasp. His body forced against hers was hard, shocking, demanding more than she could have imagined.

“What are you doing? Let me go!” She struggled, but somehow he pinned her hands behind her back with one of his.

“Come on, baby. I know the signs. You’ve been inviting this all night.” His arms became steel bands, his chest a brick wall. He bent his head to kiss her again, but this time she was ready. She clamped her teeth down on his lower lip.

He howled and staggered back from her.

“Bitch!” he snarled, scrubbing at the blood seeping down his chin. “Snotty rich bitch! Get away from me. Go on, run back to your fancy house and clothes!”

For a moment she stood staring at him. He was no longer handsome, no longer exciting and romantic. His features, in the shifting shadows, took on the threatening sneer of a wolf. He was a beast—a horrible, nasty beast.

With a stifled sob, she turned and ran toward the Lodge, stumbling over roots, tears streaming down her face. She was relieved to find her family and Mrs. Oakes hadn’t yet returned. Rushing to