Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,49

because of him.

Running a hand through her tangled hair, she started toward him.

A noble savage wouldn’t have shanghaied me. A noble savage wouldn’t have scoffed at my fears last night.

“Good morning.” He turned at her approach and smiled a flash of perfect white teeth.

“Chilly for river bathing half naked, isn’t it?” She had to struggle to keep her gaze off his incredible body.

“I had to.” He headed across the gravel to where his packsack lay open. He took from it a snowy white T-shirt and pulled it over his head. “I couldn’t risk having you call me filthy or stinking again.” His eyes flashed with bitter humor. “A filthy, stinking, street tramp, to be exact.”

“I never did!” she gasped as he pulled a flannel shirt from his pack and thrust his arms into it.

“You most certainly did.” He buttoned it, narrowing those amazing golden-brown eyes as he looked over at her.

Oh, my God, I remember. I did.

“And what did you call me?” she countered, shame burning up her face in a hot blush. “‘Snotty rich brat’ isn’t exactly complimentary, either!”

“No, but at the time, it was accurate.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, it was ages ago. Let’s just drop it. We both said a lot of things.”

“Okay, fine.” He looked down at her and something inside did flip-flops at his nearness, his blatant maleness, his intensity. “What happened to your hair?” He reached out to touch the curls hanging below her ears.

She felt her breath catch in her throat. Don’t, a small warning voice whispered. Don’t let him charm you…again.

“I cut it.”

“It was the stuff romance is made of.” His perception startled her, the softness in his tone weakened her defenses. “So you had to get rid of it.”

How can he know me so well? Those penetrating eyes seem to be able to see right through to my soul.

He released the curl and stepped away. He tucked his shirttail into his bush pants, pulled on his vest, and headed to where a pot sat steaming on the camp stove.

Damn it, I won’t have him getting into my mind. As for what he’s doing to my body…

She grabbed her packsack and strode upriver out of his sight to freshen up.

When she finished her morning ablutions, crouched by the river, she paused and gazed about. Memories flooded back with that wonderful sense of awe she’d always felt and shared with her grandfather on mornings such as this.

The full flush of spring surrounded her. Birches and maples, their buds about to burst into leaf, stood laced in soft, transparent halos of palest green against a dark backdrop of spruce and pine. The moss under her hiking boots formed a natural carpeting, the river’s lusty rush voicing nature’s special baritone. In the branches of a thicket nearby, a flock of chickadees cavorted, chorusing their joy in the perfection of the season.

An osprey squawked as it slanted past her. Shielding her eyes against the morning sun, Allison watched it settle on its awkward nest of sticks and twigs high atop a dead tree several hundred yards away.

She remembered Gramps telling her the names of trees and birds and plants and animals, teaching her which mushrooms and berries were edible and convincing her that the snakes and frogs and toads that made their home on the Chance were harmless, valuable in keeping the insect population under control.

He’d taught her about the erosion caused by clear cutting of the forests and its far-reaching side effects, preached against sport hunting, and worried aloud about stresses on the environment caused by careless overuse of wilderness areas for recreational activities.

Finally she gathered up her toiletries and arose. She was letting the ambience get to her, and that was tantamount to falling victim to Heath Oakes’ plan.

Before she headed back to the campsite, she glanced once more up at the osprey nest and saw its mate lighting beside it on the rim of the crude nest.

Spring. Mating season in the wilderness. She clamped her packsack to her chest and turned away.

Heath had brewed coffee and made French toast, with butter and maple syrup to top it, for breakfast. Allison polished off her second slice and third cup and hated her admission. Delicious. It’s not bad enough the man looks better than a movie star…he can cook. I hope the way to a woman’s heart isn’t the same way as to a man’s…through the stomach. If it is, I could be in trouble.

When they’d finished eating, he replenished both their mugs and came to