Charon's Crossing

The threat wasn't worthy of a response, though he had to give her credit for courage. She was frightened; he could see it in the swiftness of her breathing, but her demeanor, and her tone, were cool.

Matthew dumped more rum into the glass and brought it to her. She shook her head.

"No, thank you," she said, and frowned.

No, thank you? Had she really said that?

He, on the other hand, obviously had no such constraints. He glared and shoved the glass at her.

"Drink it," he growled.

Kathryn drew back, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

"I don't want it."

"Dammit, Cat, this is not a tea party. Drink the rum."

Her chin lifted in defiance. "You're right. This isn't a tea party so I don't have to pretend to be a gracious guest. And for your information, my name is not Cat."

His mouth twisted. "Isn't it?"

"No."

"What is it, if not Cat?"

"It's Kathryn," she snapped.

"Forgive me, m'lady," he said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "I had forgotten your preference for formality."

"I don't have a preference for anything, except for seeing your back as you go out the door!"

"Ah, Catherine, you cut me to the quick. To think you want only to wound me with words after being so long without me."

"Listen here, you..."

"Don't argue with me, dammit! Drink the rum and be quick about it."

Kathryn opened her mouth, then slammed it shut Maybe she was nuts! She had to be, to sit here and quarrel with a crazy man.

Maybe he was right. Maybe a stiff shot of something alcoholic was just what she needed to clear her head. At the very least, it might help her figure out what had happened to her.

All right, so it wasn't every day you strolled into your own house and found a man dressed like an extra from Mutiny on the Bounty coming down the steps. But the rest of it...

Kathryn shot a quick look at his hand, curved around the glass.

Thank you, God.

It was a powerful hand, a very masculine one with long, blunt-nailed fingers. But it wasn't transparent. Given the choice, she'd much rather deal with a flesh-and-blood intruder than—than... Oh boy!

Maybe a belt of rum wasn't such a bad idea. "All right," she said, and rose to her feet. His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I've reconsidered," she said with all the cool hauteur she could muster. "I think I'll have some of that stuff after all." He shoved the glass at her; the rum sloshed from side to side. "Drink, then."

Kathryn looked disdainfully at his glass, then at him. "I'd prefer a glass of my own, thank you very much." Her eyes dared him to argue. Matthew gritted his teeth, then let go of her wrist.

"Of course. How foolish of me." He lifted what remained of the rum to his lips and downed it in one swallow. He shuddered, then wiped the back of his hand over his lips. "Perhaps if I wore a red shirt open to my navel and fashioned my hair into greasy ringlets, you might be less fussy."

Kathryn spun towards him, the decanter and a glass in her hands. "What?"