Charon's Crossing

"What's the problem, Captain? Did I drag you out of some nice, cozy corner where you've been curled up like the egotistical bully you are, getting your kicks by wondering if I'd miss you? Well, I didn't. Not one damned bit."

Matthew thought of the damnable attic, of how he despised its dark corners and walls that imprisoned him as if it were a dungeon, of how he'd been pacing it like a trapped beast until something had drawn him to the window and to that sight he'd never forget, Kathryn fighting for her life against that wicked predator of a sea.

Bloody hell! How could one woman be so infuriating? It was all he could do to keep from turning her over his knee and whaling the daylights out of her.

"I am relieved to hear that you did not miss me," he said coldly, "for I did not miss you, either... which is surely a good thing since you spent all of five minutes searching for me in this misery of a house!"

He hadn't meant to say that. What did he care, how long she'd bothered to look for him? Unfortunately, it was too late to call back the ill-chosen words, especially since Kathryn's temper was already rising to the challenge.

"Five minutes?" she said. Her eyes turned flinty. "What do you mean, five minutes?" She cam

e down a step and slammed her fist on the banister. "I spent hours looking for you, you stupid fool!"

Matthew's face whitened. "Be careful with what you call me, madam."

"Don't tell me what I can and can't call you, dammit! Not that I really gave a damn if I found you or not! Not that I cared a fig for where you'd gone or what you were doing. It's just that I was furious that you'd run out on me before I could tell you that I—that I..."

"That you what?" Matthew said in a tightly controlled voice.

She stared at him, at that stern, handsome face, the angry green eyes and the unforgiving mouth.

"I wanted to tell you that—that I hate you, Matthew, that I..."

The rushed words ended on a broken sob. Kathryn swung away, but not in time. Matthew had already glimpsed the telltale shimmer of tears in her eyes.

All his anger and rage drained away. What was the sense in pretending? His blind fury had nothing to do with Kathryn and everything to do with the knowledge that he had almost lost her.

He choked out her name and she turned towards him, her eyes dark and enormous in her beautiful face. He said something, though he would never know what, but it must have been the right thing because the next instant, she was in his arms.

"Where were you?" she said, between kisses. "Why did you leave me?"

"I was right here all the time, sweetheart, playing at being noble."

"Noble?" She drew back in his arms. "I don't understand."

"I wanted so badly to make love to you yesterday, Kathryn, but I knew it was wrong. That was why I left you."

There were tears on her lashes, but she was smiling.

"How could what we both wanted be wrong?" she asked softly.

Matthew shook his head. "I should never have let you become so important to me. Don't you see, this can only end badly?"

"It can end here," Kathryn whispered, "where we want to be, in each other's arms."

She caught his hair in her hands, dragged his mouth to hers and silenced any protest he might have made with a kiss. For a long moment, he didn't respond. Then he groaned, swung her into his arms and carried her up the stairs and to her bedroom.

He kicked the door shut behind him. The howling of the wind, and the grey shadows of the room, closed around them.

Slowly, so slowly, Matthew lowered Kathryn to her feet. A moan broke from her throat as her body traveled the length of his. Was that his heart racing, or was it hers? The hardness and heat of him burned through the layers of fabric that separated them, scalding her with desire.

She felt the hard press of his erection against heir belly. The sheathed power of his flesh made her heartbeat quicken, but not with fear. She moved against him, slowly and deliberately, pressing her softness against his male rigidity, shuddering with delight when he groaned again before crushing her mouth under his. His hands cupped her bottom, seeking the shape of her through her wet clothing, and then he drew back, his eyes hot on hers.

"I want to see you," he whispered.

His eyes held hers while he undid the buttons down the front of her shirt and eased it back from her shoulders. He waited, prolonging the moment like a man with a special gift on Christmas morning. Then he looked down to feast his eyes on what he had unwrapped.

Her skin was the same pale gold as the rest of her, though it seemed dark against the whiteness of her chemise. The chemise itself was like none he had ever seen, feminine and lacy but covering only her breasts. He feasted his eyes on the proud, lush rise of them. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands and cupped their weight.