What he wanted, as always, was impossible. He wanted Amanda Lennox, the one thing in his life that he knew damn well he couldn't have. Not for long. Not forever. Not a man like him.
"You're silence is condemning," Amanda said, and commended herself for keeping her voice low and even. If he only knew how badly she was shaking on the inside, how much his silence hurt! He could slash her flesh to ribbons with one of his knives, but she doubted it would hurt nearly as much as this did.
Smoothing trembling fingers down her skirt, Amanda stood. She closed the saddlebag, then hoisted it over her shoulder. Her gaze fell on Jake, and something he'd said earlier tickled the back of her mind. She scowled and asked, "What did you mean when you said I'd lied about knowing who took Roger?"
"Exactly what I said." Jake stood and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the chair careening across the room. It slammed into the wall, then clattered to the floor. "The tracks are leading to Pony, Miss Lennox. And what's more... there are no longer two sets of prints, there are three."
"Pony? Three?"
"Yup."
Her scowl deepened. "But that's impossible. Why would they... and who—?"
"How the hell should I know? It seems whoever we're after either kidnapped someone else, or enlisted help. It also seems a might peculiar that whoever took the brat, they're taking him exactly where you were!"
"Peculiar? It sounds suspicious, if you ask me." Her mind whirled in confused, disjointed thoughts. "Are you sure they're heading toward Pony? Are you absolutely positive?"
Jake planted his fists on his hips and glared at her. "I'm not the best tracker in the territory, but I can damn well follow a steady set of prints. I know my way around these mountains, and I know where Pony is. Those tracks are heading toward Pony." He took a slow, measured step toward her. "Now, I want to know why. What kind of mess have you gotten me involved in?"
Amanda's heartbeat accelerated when Jake took a step closer. Another. His body heat and earthy scent invaded her from every quarter. It made her knees weak, her head spin—and, as always, his nearness made logical thought impossible.
Jake reached out and cupped her chin, lifting her gaze back to his. Her eyes were large and confused, but he wasn't stupid enough to believe that she didn't know what was going on. She'd lied to him too many times already; his mistrust had a solid foundation to grow on, "Why, Amanda? What's going on that you haven't told me?"
"Nothing. Jake, I've told you everything I know. I have no idea why the prints are heading to Pony. And I don't know why there are three sets now instead of two. I just... I don't know!" She reached up and curled her fingers around his forearm. Even through the flannel sleeve she felt the thick, tight bunch of his muscles. She felt his heat, his strength, and she drew from it, letting it bolster her floundering courage.
Jake decided he must have lost all grips on reality sometime in the last few weeks because, against his better judgment, he believed her. He had to. The idea that she was lying to him yet again was unbearable. "You have no idea who could have taken the kid, or why?"
She shook her head. "None."
"And the new set of prints...?"
Again, she shook her head.
"If you're lying to me again, princess, I'll—"
"I'm not. I swear it."
"Ah, God, I wish I could believe you!"
"You can, Jake. You have to. I'm all out of lies." Amanda lifted a hand and cupped his cheek. His whiskers abraded her palm, but she didn't complain. It felt good. Wonderful. How long had it been since she'd touched him? Three agonizing days too long, her body told her. She felt every second of that absence ripple up her arm in a wave of white heat.
Jake stifled a groan. He was torn between the urge to break the contact, and the equally strong urge to make it more intimate.
The memory of the two men outside her room came back to torture him. He wanted to touch her—everywhere, slowly—wanted to brand her with his possession until she finally realized what he was beginning to think he'd known all along: that she was his. Maybe not forever, but for here and now, for as long as he could make it last. Again and again...
Amanda saw his gaze dip, tracing her lips, devouring their shell-pink softness. His gaze darkened to midnight gray, sparked with undeniable desire. Her fingers trembled. Her blood heated, tingling with sweet promise as it surged through her veins.
She saw the muscle in his cheek jerk and knew that he was fighting the attraction, fighting the overwhelming passion that even the most accidental touch between them caused to burn out of control. She could have told him not to bother, not to waste his time and energy fighting the inevitable. In the end, with them, desire always proved stronger than good sense.
His hair fell forward on his shoulders as he angled his head to the side. His mouth lowered, dipping in a path aimed for complete possession. He stopped midway, his hungry gaze still riveted to her mouth. "I don't want this," he said, his voice low and husky.
Tortured. "I don't want to want you. Not this badly. Not at all."
"But you do," she whispered, and closed the distance between his chest and hers. She'd forgotten how hard he was, forgotten how perfectly her soft curves nestled into his rigid planes. "You want me, Jake. You can't deny it."
He sighed raggedly, his liquor-scented breath blasting over her, heating her skin. "I can try."
"You'll fail." She went up on tiptoe, circling her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Then closer still. Her next words were whispered against his mouth. "Love me, Jake. Just for a little while, just for tonight, love me. Please."