Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

And he was near. She could sense it, feel it.

"Okay, princess, let me put it another way. You want to get out of this river any time soon?"

Amanda's eyes snapped open. A split second too late, she realized it for the mistake it was. The stranger was standing close. Too close. The span of his shoulders and chest cast a chilly shadow over her, blotting out the warmth of the late morning sun, blotting out everything. The water was cold, but it would have needed to be covered with a thick sheet of ice to counterbalance the intense male heat his lean body radiated.

The earthy, leather-and-spice smell of him surrounded her, seeped through her, seeped into her. The scent warmed her blood, thawing what Amanda had begun to think would be an everlasting chill. She didn't feel chilled right now. Just the opposite; she'd never felt so hot in her life!

The man angled his head to look down at her, and Amanda saw that he'd removed his hat. His straight black hair scattered flatteringly around his face. The breeze tossed the inky strands around his shoulders. Her gaze picked out a thin, tight braid, no thicker than her pinkie, woven into the underside of his hair, just behind his left ear. She trailed the braid down to a small brown feather, anchored by a leather thong tied to the end of it.

On another man, that braid would have looked more than odd; it would have looked feminine. She wondered why it didn't work that way on him.

"Well, what's it going to be, princess?" he asked, his warm breath puffing over her cheeks. "The way I see it, you've only got two choices. Either you stand there gawking at me all day, or you answer my question so I can dig you out. I'd say it's your call."

Ques

tion? she thought dazedly. Had he asked her a question? Maybe. She couldn't remember. It was hard to remember her name with him standing so close. Amanda told herself her lengthy stay in the water had warped her mind as well as her fingertips, but she wasn't convinced. No, more likely it was seeing the man's eyes up close that robbed her of the will to speak... as well as a good deal of breath!

His eyes weren't grey, as she'd first thought, but a rich, smoky silver. The intensity of his gaze was enhanced by a fringe of thick, sooty lashes, and emphasized by his deep copper skin.

"Guess I was wrong. Looks like you don't want out after all," he said as, tearing his gaze from hers, he pivoted and began wading back the way he'd come.

Only after his body heat—the smell of him, the confusion of him—had been removed, did Amanda shake herself to her senses. By that time he was climbing lithely onto the grassy riverbank. "Wait, Mr....!"

He didn't turn around. "Un-uh. That was my question, princess. And until you answer it, you're staying put."

Amanda blinked hard. That was it? All he wanted was for her to tell him her name and then he'd help her out? That seemed reasonable enough. No, it wasn't reasonable at all! A gentleman would never leave a lady stranded in the middle of frigid water merely because she hadn't supplied her name the second he'd snapped his fingers and demanded it. Then again...

Her gaze narrowed on his back, on the way the tough denim pants clung wetly to his heavily muscled thighs and calves. She reassessed. This was definitely no gentleman. Her deduction had nothing to do with his native heritage. It had everything to do with the way he dressed—truly, those pants were indecent!—and the way he walked—make that swaggered. His every move screamed arrogance and authority. Which would have been fine, were it an unintentional, spontaneous thing. It wasn't. Amanda had a gut-feeling this man knew exactly what kind of cocky, insolent impression he made on people, and that he played it to the hilt.

When he turned his head and regarded her from over one shoulder, Amanda knew she was right. She also had an uneasy feeling that he knew what she was thinking.

"Change your mind yet?" As he spoke, he sat down in the grass and reached for his moccasins, although he made no move to tug them on. Yet.

The enormity of what he was doing hit Amanda like a slap. She glared at him. "You aren't really going to leave me here, are you? Just because I wouldn't tell you my name?"

He tipped his head to one side. A lock of black hair fell forward on his brow when he shrugged. "What do you think?"

"I don't think you'd dare."

"Then you don't know me very well."

Her chin tipped haughtily. "I don't know you at all."

"We could do something about that."

Was it possible for a grin to be devastating yet emotionless at the same time? Amanda wouldn't have thought so—until she saw the proof of it with her own eyes. Her heart flipped over in her chest, its tempo hammering in her ears. Her trembling fingers closed around the water near her hips in empty fists.

"That wasn't very nice," she snapped, and stifled a groan when his grin only broadened. The smile, she noted, didn't reach his eyes. They remained narrow and frosty.

"I'm not a very nice person," he said. "Ask anyone, they'll tell you." As though to prove it, he started tugging on his moccasins. When he was done, he pushed to his feet. In the same fluid movement he swiped up his hat and settled it atop his head. He pinched the low-riding brim between his index finger and thumb, nodded to her in mock politeness, then turned and walked toward the trees.

Amanda blinked hard. Dear God, the man really was going to desert her. The rotten bastard!

She didn't realize she'd said the words aloud until she saw him stop. His shoulders squared. His back stiffened. Even from this distance, she could see tension pull the muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms taut.

"Come again, princess?"

Since it was too late to deny it—the damage was already done—Amanda sucked in a deep breath and repeated herself, loudly, and clearly enough so he would have no doubt as to what she'd just called him.