Then she realized that he was actually studying her. A strange warmth seared through her. The oddest sensation of panic seized her, a panic she couldn’t even understand because it wasn’t simply a fear of him. Irrationally, she sprang from the tub, racing wet and naked for the door.
Naturally, she didn’t make it. When he seized hold of her this time, lifting her into his arms, she half sobbed and half laughed, slamming her fists against him. The robe he wore came open. She was aware of his flesh, the warmth of it, the sleekness of it, the muscled strength that lay beneath it. He smelled of soap from the bath, and to her horror, though she was afraid, she was not as repelled as she should have been.
He laid her back down on the cot. He was entangled with her hair, she with his robe. Whether or not he’d intended to, he fell upon her, and she became more vividly aware of the structure of his anatomy and all the strengths and hungers within it. An awful breathlessness seized her, a fear, a fire. Desperate, she twisted and writhed, struggling to free herself from his weight. He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head, then cast a leg over the length of her, holding her immobile no matter what energy she set into her writhing and struggle. She was absolutely powerless against him and swiftly growing exhausted from herefforts to free herself. She spoke, staring at him with all the venom and courage she could muster.
“I will kill you, you know, you overgrown savage.”
His green eyes narrowed. His fierce, rugged, oddly handsome features were very taut. He was furious with her. He might not understand her words, but he knew she was threatening him, she thought.
“Yes! I’ll kill you!”
It was actually amazing that he hadn’t already done her some irreversible harm. He stared at her still. With those green eyes.
A shudder swept through her. Green eyes. She felt a strange sense of familiarity as she looked into them. As if she’d seen them before.
There was something about them…
Yes! They were dangerous, menacing.
Deadly.
Again, she felt trembling and fire sweeping within her. She had to keep threatening and fighting. Until she died, she reminded herself. There was nothing else for her to do.
“I’ll gouge your eyes out. I’ll tear you to shreds, cut off your limbs one by one, beat every single oversized muscle into pure pulp. Skin you alive, feed your hands to the dogs, chop off your pen?—”
She never finished her threat, for her captor decided to break his silence at last.
“Madam, make one more threat against my anatomy,” he said suddenly in perfect English, “and I will feel forced to make good use of it before it exists no more!”
Completely stunned, Skylar lay dead still at last. “What?” she gasped, disbelieving.
“You heard me—and I do believe that I made myself perfectly clear.”
He spoke English. Oh, God, he understood English.
She burned. She shook. She was still terrified.
But she was furious, too.
“You—you—despicable?—”
“Take care!” he warned.
“Bastard!” she cried out heedlessly. “You bastard!” she repeated. “You speak English damned well, you—who the hell are you?”
Those strangely familiar eyes burned into her relentlessly. Undaunted. Merciless.
Deadly.
And he spoke again.
His voice deep, rich.
Its tone…
As deadly as the green fire in his eyes.
“The question, madam,” he hissed furiously, “is just who the bloody hell are you?”
