Chapter 9

 

It was nearly dawn before Sabrina fell asleep. Embarrassment and shame had given way to confusion and bewilderment, but then even that had faded, and she was left with only humiliated anger. She couldn't lay all the blame for what had happened at Brett's feet either—she had not discouraged his very improper advances. No, she remembered with shame, she had courted them.

Her thoughts tormented her. One moment she was appalled at herself, and the next she was assailed by a feeling of sharp disappointment that she hadn't experienced fully what being a woman meant. Even now, several hours later, just the thought of the way he had caressed her caused her body to ache for the touch of his hands and mouth. With a muffled sob, she turned her head into the pillow, wondering miserably why he alone affected her as he did. No one had ever aroused within her the fierce, terrifying emotions that he did, not even Carlos, and with a jolt she realized why.

Her tears drying, she uttered softly, disbelievingly, "I'm in love with him! That's why I've been such a goose since he arrived. I love him!" The knowledge should have brought her joy, but it didn't. She might have stupidly fallen in love with him, but it was apparent that she was caught in a situation that could only bring her pain—had already brought her pain. She turned her face once again into the pillow, realizing now so many things—why his indifference had hurt, why she had been so eager for his touch... and why Carlos or any other man had never touched her heart or emotions.

Restless and unhappy she rose from her bed, unwilling to spend more time in the fruitless search for sleep. Instinctively, like a wounded animal, she sought a place in which to soothe her pain, and a few minutes later, dressed in a white cotton shirt and calzoneras, she slipped from the house.

Intent upon reaching the one place that spelled solace for her, she hurried through the darkened pine-wood forest, oblivious to the night sounds and the movements of the wild creatures. There was the barest glimmer of the dawn light to guide her, but Sabrina was as familiar with these woods as she was the hacienda, and shortly she reached her destination—a tiny clearing at the edge of the small lake that could be glimpsed from her balcony.

It had been a favorite spot of her parents when Elena had been alive, and the place held happy memories for Sabrina. The family had come here often, and Alejandro had overseen the construction of a small, graceful gazebo for their further enjoyment. Sabrina could remember long, hot summer afternoons spent here, laughing meals held alfresco, her mother smiling and merry, her father's face full of the love he felt for them both.

Alejandro never came here anymore, but he had maintained the gazebo, knowing that Sabrina took comfort from the place. Inside was a small round iron table, and built against the lower walls were wide wooden benches. The benches were covered with comfortable cushions of vivid orange, and large, soft pillows of bright yellow and green were scattered about. With a sigh, Sabrina sank down onto one of the cushions, wrapping her arms tightly around a yellow pillow.

The bottom half of the octagonal gazebo and the roof were of solid whitewashed wood, but the upper half of the building was made of a delicate latticework. The doorway was a tall, wide archway cut into one of the walls, the other seven being broken by long, narrow open arches in the latticed walls. Honeysuckle and trumpet vines completely covered two sides of the gazebo, the sweet scent of the honeysuckle filling the air as Sabrina stared blindly out of one of the arches.

She sat there for a long time, her mind blank, letting the peacefulness and tranquility of the place seep into her. The lake lapped gently at the shore, a hunting owl hooted in the distance, and there was the faint rustle of a light breeze.

Sitting there in the chill of the April dawn, staring numbly at the silver glitter of the lake as the rising sun struck it, she admitted bitterly that she had always loved Brett Dangermond. She had loved him as a child in Natchez, and she had carried that memory of him with her always. Flinging the pillow away, she clenched her fist in angry denial. How ridiculous! she berated herself. Children didn't fall in love! But they did, a part of her persisted sadly. They did... you did.

Her lovely face pensive, her fist slowly unclenched in defeat, and with a low moan she threw herself facedown on the orange cushion. She might have learned that she loved him, but it changed nothing; he was not in love with her.... or ever likely to be, she thought wistfully, remembering the cold look in his eyes tonight just before he had stalked from the library. Various phrases of Tia Sofia's letters came back to haunt her.... "I worry continually about Brett—he is so cold and distant with women. I sometimes feel that he actually hates us all."..."We had hoped that he would make a match of it with a suitable young lady when he visited Spain last year, but nothing came of it. When Hugh asked him about it, Brett just got that contemptuous look I so dislike on his face and said something awful about a wife being needed only for an heir and that Hugh had plenty of those! I could have boxed his ears!" In another letter she wrote, "Brett has all the young ladies in the area atwitter—he is so handsome and manly that I am not surprised, but he cares nothing for any of them. He sneers about love and has made it plain that women have only two uses (most improper of me to mention that to you, but I'm certain I'll be forgiven). He stated flatly on his last visit home that he doesn't need the one and the other can be easily obtained without love or marriage. How Gillian's rejection has eaten into his heart! And then there was that terrible affair with some English girl. I doubt very much that he will ever experience love or even consider marriage—pity the woman, Sabrina, who makes the fatal mistake of loving him! He would be a devil! People call him 'Devil' Dangermond, and I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that a woman coined that name!"

Sabrina's face twisted. Half of what Tia Sofia had written had gone over her head at the time she had read those letters, but not any longer. Now she knew what Tia Sofia had been referring to. How could her foolish heart love so unwisely? Sabrina wondered helplessly. Her plight was hopeless, and knowing what she did about him, how could she even dare to think that he might fall in love with her? He'd had the choice of every beautiful, eligible young woman in Europe and America, so why should he single out an unsophisticated young lady like herself for his attentions? Especially one who greeted him with a knife!

Sitting up ramrod straight, Sabrina faced her problem squarely. It was both unwise and idiotic to love Brett Dangermond. She must protect her unruly heart and teach it not to love him. She didn't want to love him, and she was positive that he would never love her. So. A lifetime of unrequited love holding absolutely no appeal at all, she reluctantly and painfully concluded that her safest and most sensible course was to armor herself against his dangerous, insidious charm. She wouldn't love him! She would not!

Having gained some measure of peace, she drifted off into uneasy sleep just as the sun rose fully above the tree tops. Brett was not so fortunate.

When he strode into his rooms after leaving Sabrina so precipitously in the library, Ollie, who had been waiting up for him as usual, took one look at the black scowl on Brett's face and bit back the impertinent greeting that had been on his lips. Instead he walked over to the tray of liquors that sat upon a heavy mahogany chest and splashed an overly generous measure of brandy into a glass. Handing it to Brett, who stood rigidly staring out the opened balcony doors at the courtyard below, and treading where no proper servant would have dared, Ollie asked, "Something wrong, guvnor?"

Brett swallowed the brandy in one long gulp, and passing the glass back to Ollie, he muttered, "Shut up, Ollie, and give me another one."

Ollie did as he was told. When he turned around with the refilled glass, he found Brett lounging in a large chair of red Cordova leather. His long legs stretched out in front of him, his dark head resting on the back of the chair, Brett appeared to be absorbed in studying the open-beamed ceiling, but when Ollie approached, he looked at him and demanded grimly, "As long as you've known me, have I ever seduced an honorable young woman?"

His lips pursing thoughtfully, Ollie finally said, "Can't say that you ever 'ave, guvnor. There's been many a rum doxy you've set up as your mistress for a brief spell, but I can't recall that there was ever one that wasn't already in the trade, so to speak. Now then, there 'ave," he added fairly, "been one or two leg-shackled gentry morts among your ladybirds, but never one that you could call honorable."

Brett tossed down the second glass of brandy as quickly as the first, and slamming the empty glass on the table, he snarled, "Then why in the hell am I on the point of doing it now, for God's sake? My very kind and honorable host's own daughter at that!"

"Never say your fancy's lit upon that red-haired termagant!" Ollie gasped, his first unfavorable impression of Sabrina having faded little during their stay.

Brett sent him a look that made Ollie wish he had not been quite so forthright in his speech, and in a tone of voice that did nothing to calm him, Brett asked silkily, "And if it has?"

Ollie swallowed. In the many years that he had served his master there had been several sharp exchanges; Brett allowed him unthinkable license, and Ollie was not inclined to keep a civil tongue between his teeth. But for the first time in their odd association, Ollie was aware that he was treading on dangerous ground. Warily he eyed Brett's set features. Obviously there was more to this queer situation than Brett was telling him—women never cut the guvnor up rough, but that she-viper, Sabrina, apparently had. Concluding that a conciliatory reply was his wisest course at the moment, at least until he could get to the bottom of this, Ollie answered cautiously, "If that's the way the wind sits, guvnor, it's no bread and butter of mine." Piously he averred, "It's certainly not for your most 'umble servant to tell you 'ow to go on."

His black mood lifted and Brett snorted with laughter. "And you are running a rig, jackanapes! I know you well enough—you are merely waiting for a more opportune time to give me the sharp side of your tongue."

Ollie grinned, relaxing. "Now guvnor, 'ave I ever been anything but a dutiful servant to you?"

Brett grinned back at him. "I won't answer that question. My plate is quite full enough as it is!" His grin faded, and moodily he stared down at his booted feet. "I think I must be just blue-deviled, Ollie—leave me alone and go to bed. Forget what I asked earlier."

Ollie hesitated. "Guvnor, if there's anything I could do..."

"Nothing," Brett said flatly. But forcing his thoughts away from his tangled emotions, he asked abruptly, "Do you remember a young Spaniard by the name of Carlos de la Vega? We might have crossed paths with him a few years ago."

Ollie shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Can't say as I do. Describe him for me."

Brett did, and when he finished Ollie frowned. "Seems to me, guvnor, there was a fellow in New Orleans who looked like that. Don't know if it was the same one, though—them Spaniards all look alike to me. But remember when the old captain was killed and we joined the smugglers? Remember that 'igh and mighty Spaniard that cut up Frenchie's favorite girl?"

Brett sat up straight, Ollie's words reminding him vividly of the incident. Of course, that's where he'd seen de la Vega before! It had been a minor confrontation, just one of the many violent encounters he'd experienced, and he had forgotten about it until Ollie reminded him.

Frenchie had been the leader of the renegade band of smugglers that had killed Sam Brown, and it was while Brett was part of their band that the incident with Carlos had occurred. Frenchie had operated a saloon and bordello on Girod Street in the notorious area known in New Orleans as 'the Swamp.' It had been there that Frenchie conducted his business of disposing of the smuggled goods. The actual transactions took place privately in a back room, and afterward it was Frenchie's policy to send his best customers upstairs to sample on the house some of the latest wares procured from all over the world. Nubile young girls direct from Africa were the most common commodity Frenchie had available, but there were also unfortunate young women from India, the Orient, Europe, and even Greece.

It had been near the end of Brett's sojourn as a smuggler that Carlos had appeared on the scene, and he had been there in the back room playing his role as Frenchie's newest right-hand bully when Carlos had come to bargain for the latest cargo of smuggled goods. Brett couldn't remember what it was that Carlos had purchased, but he did remember clearly being the one to escort the swaggering Spaniard upstairs to where the girls were kept. And it had been the shriek of fear and pain coming from the room where Carlos had been shown that had caused Brett to burst through the door to discover the naked and bleeding body of the young Greek girl who'd been Carlos's choice. Fortunately she wasn't dead, only badly frightened and horribly slashed by the thin-bladed stiletto Carlos still held ready in his hand. Carlos had been fully dressed, and his narrow lips had drawn back in a sneer as he had said coolly, "She tried to steal my money. I am disappointed in Frenchie. He should have known better than to try that trick with me!"

It was possible Carlos had been telling the truth, but it didn't excuse what he had done to the Greek girl. Controlling his blazing temper, Brett had roughly hustled the affronted Carlos out of the room and out of the saloon. It was only when they stood outside the low-gabled cypress building that Brett had threatened him. Carlos had looked him up and down and then shrugged his shoulders and drawled, "I don't fight with ruffians, nor do I brawl over common whores."

The dark green eyes glittering with suppressed violence, conscious of the dangerous role he played, Brett had dared not reply in kind. Instead he had taken a deep breath and promised, "Perhaps someday I'll make you change your mind about that. You might just find a brawl with a ruffian better sport than knifing an unarmed girl."

Carlos's face had whitened, but he had not pushed his luck. He'd spun on his heel and disappeared quickly, leaving Brett wishing he could forget his masquerade for about five minutes. He had figured that was about all it would take him to teach that arrogant Spaniard a lesson. And now, he thought with a grim smile, I might just get to teach Carlos that lesson after all.

Looking across at Ollie, he said, "You're right. That was the fellow. And he's Alejandro's nephew."

Ollie whistled with dismay. "That could be right bad for us, guvnor. This de la Vega saw you when you were acting the part of a smuggler. It'll be a bit difficult to explain what you were doing there."

Brett made a face. "It won't be that bad. Remember, Alejandro already knows what I was doing there. He was in New Orleans when Frenchie and the rest were brought to trial, and I explained to him my part in their arrest. The problem will be Carlos. I got the distinct impression tonight that nothing would give Carlos greater pleasure than to see me discredited. Even if I were to explain myself to him, he wouldn't believe it, wouldn't want to believe it. He'll try to cause trouble if he can, but I think I can probably stand the nonsense. The most that will arise out of it should be nothing more than a few raised eyebrows and whispers. As long as Alejandro isn't affected by it, and I don't believe he will be, I really don't give a damn what Carlos says or does!"

Ollie looked skeptical. "You going to mention this to Señor Alejandro?"

Frowning, Brett regarded his manservant. "It's a bit delicate, my little friend. Carlos is his nephew, and I don't like tale bearers. I can't very well march into Alejandro's room and say, 'Oh, by the way, I had a bit of trouble with a nasty customer when I was posing as a smuggler, and imagine my surprise when it turns out that my nasty customer is your nephew!' A little difficult, wouldn't you say?"

"I see your point," Ollie replied glumly. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. Carlos may not even remember the incident. And if you'll recall, I looked the part I was playing. Hopefully there is a great deal of difference between Brett the smuggler and Brett the nephew of Alejandro del Torres." A glimmer of laughter deep in his eyes, he murmured, "And if there isn't, it must be the fault of my rascally valet! Hmmm?"

Missing the lurking laughter, Ollie bristled. "Well, if that don't beat the Dutch! I work my fingers to the bone turning you out proper, and you doubt my craft!"

Smiling, Brett dismissed him. "Go to bed, Ollie, and don't worry your head over tonight. We'll come about, you'll see."

Once he was alone in his rooms, Brett wished he were as confident as he sounded. This evening's interlude with Sabrina had left him rattled. And the ugly suspicion that he might have been the one seduced couldn't be dismissed. In the black, suspicious mood he was in at the moment, he wouldn't have been at all startled to have Alejandro suddenly come barging through his door, demanding that he do the honorable thing by his daughter. But he found it almost impossible to believe such a thing of Alejandro and as the time passed and the house remained silent, he dismissed that notion. That Sabrina had planned tonight's confrontation wasn't quite as easy to dismiss. Even her youth did not stand in her defense—women were trouble right from the cradle as far as Brett was concerned.

Of course there was Carlos.... But he shrugged. Sabrina could simply have decided that Brett was a better catch—even Carlos had admitted that the engagement had not been formally announced. So had she planned what had nearly happened tonight? Or had it been as innocent as it appeared on the surface?

Unable to resolve that problem, he turned his mind away from it. But if he could push aside the question of Sabrina's innocence or guilt with reasonable ease, he could not ignore his own part in tonight's near disaster.

How could I have lost control of myself like that? he wondered bitterly. Not only had he transgressed his own code, he had nearly dishonored and abused the trust of a man he held in high regard. Disgust and fury rising up in his throat, he got up and poured another glass of brandy. If she hadn't called a halt when she did... He closed his eyes in pain. Christ! He had wanted her. And he was bleakly aware that in another moment or two he wouldn't have been able to stop—no matter what she'd said or done. Just thinking of her warm body, of that soft mouth beneath his, made his body harden and burn with desire. Outraged that even now she could arouse him so powerfully, he cursed helplessly under his breath. Unwilling to admit to any reason other than simple lust and propinquity for his body's betrayal, he was able to convince himself that all he really needed was a woman—any woman. Once he'd broken his celibate state, this ridiculous obsession with Sabrina would disappear completely.

Assured that he had discovered the reason for having nearly broken the rules of a lifetime, he relaxed. He had nothing more to worry about, he told himself repeatedly. Sabrina's attraction had been merely that she was a desirable young woman and she had been close at hand. Too close at hand, he reminded himself.

Those conclusions should have allowed him to seek his bed and sleep soundly, but such was not the case. He found himself instead increasingly restless, and like Sabrina he finally left his room and wandered downstairs.

Idly he walked through the darkened hacienda. Eventually he ended up in the library, and lighting the candelabrum at the end of the couch, his gaze went reluctantly to the floor where he and Sabrina had lain together. The image of her lying there came back to him, the flame-colored hair spread out like a cloak of fiery gold around her, the amber-gold eyes drowsy with desire, the lush ripeness of her mouth begging for his kiss. He swallowed dryly. He had to stop thinking about her.

Like a man chased by demons, he left the library, fleeing unwanted memories. Reaching the stables just as the faintest glimmer of light broke on the eastern horizon, he declined the services of a sleepy stable-hand and saddled Firestorm himself.

How long he rode, or even where, he never remembered, but the movement of the horse beneath him soothed the devils that ate at him, and the need to pay attention to Firestorm's spirited attempts to increase their pace kept him from thinking too deeply.

When he finally did return to the hacienda, the sun was high in the sky and the place was bustling with the usual daily activity. Dismounting, he tossed the reins to the waiting stable-hand and walked toward the house. Passing one of the paddocks, he absently noticed Sabrina's mare, Sirocco, joyfully frolicking with two other handsome horses. He stopped for a moment to watch the fluid, graceful movements of the sleek palomino, the sunlight turning Sirocco's gleaming hide to pure spun gold. A beautiful animal worthy of her owner, he decided.

Pleasantly exhausted now, he wanted nothing more than his bed, but crossing the front courtyard, he was stopped by Bonita, a faintly worried expression on her plump features.

"Buenos dias, Señor Brett," she began politely. "Don Alejandro apologizes for having to leave this morning before seeing you, but a puma killed a calf last night, and he didn't want to delay the hunt for it until you could be found." A scolding note in her voice, she said, "We were concerned that you were not in your room when word of the kill came, but once it was discovered that your horse was gone, your servant explained that you often go for an early morning ride." Her lips pursed, she admonished, "You are as bad as Señorita Sabrina—both of you seem to forget that there are bandits in the area and it is foolish for you to disappear without letting someone know your whereabouts."

His suspiciously meek demeanor at odds with the twinkle deep in the dark green eyes, Brett murmured, "I am sorry, Bonita, if you were worried about me—I will try to be more considerate of your fears for my safety in the future."

Bonita sniffed, not at all placated by his words. But letting the subject drop, she went on, "Don Alejandro does not think that the puma hunt will take too many hours, and he suggested that you might care to accompany him this afternoon, after siesta, when he plans to ride into Nacogdoches."

Brett nodded in agreement and would have gone on his way, but Bonita seemed to hesitate, and then she asked anxiously, "Señor, did you see Señorita Sabrina this morning? Or notice if her horse was in the stables when you were there?"

Brett stiffened, wondering if this was another calculated move in whatever game Sabrina might be playing. "I haven't seen her since last night," he answered warily. "I did see Sirocco just a few minutes ago, though, in one of the paddocks. Why do you ask?"

Bonita wrung her hands, the expression of worry deepening. "She is not in her rooms! I was not alarmed at first, because, like you, señor, she comes and goes as she pleases, but it is almost mid-morning and still there is no sign of her. Never has she been gone this long without telling me! I had hoped that she had gone riding with you—but now you tell me that this is not so and that her horse is here." Her big, round brown eyes frightened, Bonita wailed, "Where can she be, señor? With the bandits around..."

Something decidedly unpleasant slithered down his spine, and because he had never experienced the feeling before, it took Brett a second to realize what it was—fear. Bonita's unspoken words raised horrifying specters in his mind—Sabrina helpless and at the mercy of the cruel, unscrupulous bandits; Sabrina suffering rape and worse at the hands of those same brutal murderers who had attacked and razed the Rios ranch... Savagely he reined in his racing imagination.

Concealing his own niggling fear, Brett said soothingly, "Now, Bonita, don't work yourself up into a frenzy. She's probably just gone for a walk and taken longer than she expected. Have you had any of the servants look for her?"

"Si, señor!" Bonita answered quickly. "I had them search the grounds thoroughly when I could not find her. I myself was on my way to the stables when I met you."

"Well, dammit, she must be someplace!" Brett bit out, torn between worry and irritation. "She can't just have disappeared on foot. Isn't there someplace you haven't looked, someplace she might have gone?"

Suddenly Bonita's face cleared. "Ah, señor, of course! What a silly old woman I am—she must have gone to the gazebo at the lake. It is a favorite place of hers, and she often goes there for an early-morning swim. How foolish of me not to have had someone look there. I shall see to it immediately!"

"Never mind. Just tell me where it is, and I'll do it," Brett growled. If Sabrina was there, he was going to wring her neck for alarming old Bonita. And if she wasn't...

His face hard and unfathomable, he listened to Bonita's directions, and in a mood of mingled suspicion and uneasiness, he set out for the gazebo. Finding Sabrina sound asleep inside the little building did not allay his mistrust of the situation. If anything it reinforced it—the scene was too reminiscent of last night for him not to be instantly on his guard. Last night had not gained her what she wanted, so she would try again. And yet, while his suspicions were fully alive, the feeling of relief that swept over him when he discovered her slim form stretched out on the orange cushions left him curiously shaken and weak.

That feeling didn't last very long, and in a matter of seconds, relief was replaced by fury. How could she frighten poor Bonita this way? he thought irrationally, ignoring the fact that he, too, had been frightened and that half his anger was simply because he had been, even for a moment, filled with fear for her.

Walking over to where she lay, he looked down at her, his mouth curling in a sneer. He shook her, saying roughly, "Wake up, Sabrina, if you're really asleep. Bonita's had the entire household looking for you."

Groggily Sabrina stared up at him, disorientated. But then suddenly everything came flooding back and she jerked upright, the bright sunlight causing her to blink. Childlike, she rubbed her eyes with her fists and then yawned hugely. Still not fully awake, she glanced at Brett standing rigidly nearby and muttered, "What did you say? Something about Bonita?"

"Merely that this little stunt of yours has her frightened to death. She's been entertaining notions of your capture by the bandits."

Sabrina appeared incredulous. "Bandits? Here? They are not so foolish as to try such a thing! The Rancho del Torres is safe. No one could harm me here!"

"Not only is this place not safe," Brett said nastily, "but you shouldn't be roaming about like some wild gypsy. What the hell is your father thinking of! Anyone could come across you here."

Enraged at the implied slur upon her father, Sabrina sat up even straighter and said frostily, "I beg your pardon!"

"You'll do more than beg, little girl, if you pull another escapade like this. Next time, if there is a next time, I'll tan your backside so hard you won't sit for a week." Brett said brutally, and grabbing her arm, he jerked her to her feet. "Now let's get going. I haven't had any sleep, and I'm in no mood to argue with you."

"Let go of me!" Sabrina snapped, ineffectively trying to free her arm from his iron-hard grasp. "You're hurting me!"

"I thought you said no one could harm you here?" he shot back, giving her a little shake.

Sabrina was aware that he was deliberately being disagreeable, but it didn't stop her temper from flaring, and as he dragged her out of the gazebo, she reached down into her boot and pulled out her knife. Before Brett realized what she was about, the blade had cut a neat slice across the top of his hand and Sabrina had danced free of his slackened grasp.

The jade-green eyes nearly black with fury, Brett first glanced at the thin line of blood on his hand and then at her. "You little hellcat!" he muttered. "You're a damned sight too quick with that knife, and I think it's time that someone taught you some manners with it!"

He was very handsome as he stood there outside the gazebo, the lake shimmering in the distance behind him. A slight breeze ruffled the thick blue-black hair; his black silk shirt intensified the darkness of his hard, lean features, and the hip-hugging black breeches made her very aware of those long, powerful legs. Legs that had pressed intimately against hers only hours before, she thought with a catch in her breath. The air of suppressed violence radiating from him frightened her, though, and nervously her hand tightened on the knife. She didn't want to fight him—all she wanted was for him to love her.

But Brett wasn't giving her any choice. With the quickness of a hunting cat he was on her, and Sabrina raised the knife in defense. Her defenses were useless; he had fought too many brawls in too many dark alleys to be stopped by a slim if determined girl. Unerringly his fingers closed around the hand with the knife, and with one sharp movement he brought her hand down painfully on his thigh, the shock of the impact against those steel muscles breaking her grip. The knife went flying, and with a sound of satisfaction, Brett saw it land near the edge of the lake.

Releasing Sabrina, he whirled and moved to pick it up, and looking back at her, a thin smile curving his mouth, he asked softly, "And now how are you going to defend yourself?"

"I'm not," Sabrina said calmly. Disconcertingly she began to walk slowly toward him.

Brett eyed her warily as she approached. When she was only inches from him, she stopped and extended her hand, palm dawn. Coolly she said, "You may take your own if you like. Perhaps it will make you feel better."

He stared at her for a long moment, wishing she weren't quite so lovely or that he weren't quite so conscious of her slim body and the isolation of this spot. He looked at her, looked at the knife, and then shrugged his shoulders. A twisted grin creasing his face, he handed her the knife. "Your win, I think," he said dryly.