"Yes," she lied with surprising ease. Well, it was either that, or tell him the truth and risk his opinion of her—which was already frighteningly low—lowering still more. She wasn't sure why the idea that Jake would think her a fool should bother her so much, it just did.
He extended one coppery hand and wiggled his fingers expectantly. "Good. Hand it over."
"I will not!"
He grinned again.
Amanda's heart stopped... again, then throbbed to vibrant life. Her knees felt watery. Oh, how she hated that! Embarrassing though it was to admit it, even to herself, the tree trunk grinding into her spine was the only thing keeping her erect.
His eyes narrowed. The muscle in his cheek jerked. "Maybe you didn't hear me right, princess. I said give me the gun."
"There's nothing wrong with my hearing, Mr. Chandler," she snapped, her voice rising to a very loud whisper, "but perhaps there's something wrong with yours. I said no."
Jake sucked in an irritated breath and released it very, very slowly. The hand he'd extended curled into a fist, flexed twice, then gradually relaxed. His voice, when it came, sounded strained. "Give me the f—goddamn gun, lady. Now!"
Amanda gasped. She felt her ch
eeks heat, though she refused to acknowledge that she was blushing. Of course not! She'd heard worse—from this man's lips, come to think of it. "There's no need to use that sort of language, Mr. Chandler."
"No? Well, I for one think there is. And what you just heard is nothing compared to what you're going to hear if you don't hand over that pistol."
Amanda knew she couldn't give him the gun. She'd told Jake it was loaded and it wasn't. If he discovered the truth, he'd be furious with her... again. She'd already seen enough of this man's volatile temper for one day, thank you very much. She tipped her chin and met his gaze with a level one of her own.
"Mr. Chandler—" Her breath caught when he slashed his index finger across her lips, halting her words before they'd really begun. She felt the calloused roughness of his skin, the heat as well as the promise of his touch. His eyes darkened. A tremor rippled through his finger, through her. Her shiver of anger dissolved into a shiver of something entirely different, something strong, potent, distracting.
Amanda leaned back against the tree when Jake angled his head, bringing his face near hers. His lips were a hair's breadth away from her ear. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the warm puffs of his breath on her cheek. She anticipated the contact of his mouth on hers. Anticipated, yet dreaded it.
"Mr. Chandler..." she said suddenly, breathlessly, just to hear the sound of her own voice. At that moment, she would have said anything to break the tension that stretched like a taut, heated wire between them. She'd overlooked just one thing: the way her lips would move against Jake Chandler's finger when she spoke. His skin felt pleasantly warm, pleasantly rough. It abraded her tender lips and sparked a slow burn in her blood. "I'm not entirely sure the noise I heard was made by that rabbit."
"Maybe not that rabbit specifically, but something just as harmless."
"But—"
"Sorry, princess," he whispered softly, seductively, as he leaned closer, "but if I'd thought you really heard footsteps, I'd be honest about it and tell you. You see, I never learned to lie to quite the extent you did."
"I don't lie," Amanda lied, very, very weakly. A bolt of awareness shot down her spine when he moved the arm braced above her head. As she'd dreaded, their thighs made contact. As she'd dreaded, the contact was hard and hot and wonderful. The layers of calico, linen, denim, all of it seemed to fade, until it felt like no barrier separated them. Amanda hated the odd, liquid sensations that settled deep in her stomach, spiraling quickly lower. Hated them, but savored them, too. Damn Jake Chandler!
His chuckle was a blast of hot air in her ear, smoldering over her cheek and brow. "Lady you lie like a rug. We both know it. And you know what else? You blush something fierce every time. Bet you didn't know that, did you?"
As he spoke, Jake's finger dipped, and the tip traced her lower lip. He felt her moist flesh quiver beneath his touch. Then again, maybe it was his finger that quaked. He wasn't sure, didn't much care. Touching this woman left no room for thought.
"Give me the gun." His fingertip skimmed her chin, her neck. Her skin was so warm and soft and white it stunned him—but not nearly as much as his reaction to the feel of it did. That was like being stabbed through the heart.
His finger dipped beneath the prim, high buttoned collar of her blouse. He didn't tarry there long, just long enough to see a splash of warm pink stain her cheeks. Her eyes widened when his fingertip inched upward, and the lump in her throat slid up and down in a dry swallow. Her pulse drummed a wild rhythm against the back of his knuckle.
Jake thought about stopping, but only briefly. The notion registered only in his mind. His body had other ideas, other demands.
"I could wrestle that gun away from you, you know." His darkened gaze roved over her, then darkened still more. "But I won't use force. I'd rather you gave it to me. I want you to want to give it to me, Amanda Lennox."
Amanda frowned. Was he still speaking about the pistol? Somehow, she didn't think so.
Jake gave her no time to wonder about it. Before she knew what was happening he'd shifted, straddling her legs between his knees, his lean, hard body crowding her against the tree. His chest brushed her breasts. The touch was accidental, over quickly—the first time.
There were some things it wasn't within a man's power to resist. Resisting never entered Jake's mind. He simply knew he had to do it again. The firm roundness of her burned past his shirt and burned into his skin. He wondered if the imprint of her would be branded into him hours later, when he took off his shirt. It wouldn't surprise him if it was. Nor would it thrill him.
While he stilled his torso, his finger was never still. He stroked a hot path down her throat, over her collar, lower. He traced the dark tubing that arched around the yoke of her bodice, hesitated, then with a flick of his wrist turned his search inward. A groan rumbled in the back of his throat as his touch feathered the generous upper swell of her breast.
Amanda fumbled the gun.