Peter's Return. Cynthia Cooke
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and pulled her into the thicket.
She struggled, but it was futile. Dear Lord, help me. Peter. Where was Peter? The man stopped moving and dropped her back down onto her feet. He lifted his hand from her face and she could finally draw a deep breath. And she did, lots of them, so many she started to hyperventilate and grow dizzy. She bent over, her hands braced on her knees.
“Stop panicking,” the voice snapped.
“Panicking? I’m not panicking. I’ve passed panicking, I’m bordering on hysterical,” she babbled, and then it hit her. She knew this voice. She knew this smell, strong as it was. She knew this touch. She swiveled. The beast who had stuck his hot, sweaty palm across her mouth was Peter. A haze of red fury seized her, clouding her vision. “Are you out of your mind? What were you thinking grabbing me like that, scaring me half to death?”
“Be quiet!” he demanded.
“No, I won’t be quiet. Don’t you even tell me to be quiet—”
Once again he picked her up, this time swinging her over his shoulder. The air whooshed out of her lungs and she found she couldn’t say another word as he marched off the path and through the bushes.
How dare he? Who did he think he was? And what on earth was wrong with the man? Did he not think she could walk? Something swatted her face. Abruptly she brought up her hands, covering her eyes, not only to protect them from an occasional branch, but also from what she thought she caught sight of scurrying in the bushes. Some things she just didn’t want to know about, especially at such close range.
“Ugh!” she groaned as his shoulder dug into her stomach. Her anger intensified and she realized that she was doomed, because there was no way God was going to forgive her for what she was planning on doing to this man once he finally set her down. Before she could contemplate the many ways of primitive medieval torture devices, he unceremoniously plopped her onto the ground.
The blood must have rushed to her head, because she’d barely managed to find her footing, or get a handle on her surroundings through the stars swimming in front of her eyes before he was dragging her in through the back door of a small bungalow.
She opened her mouth to let loose on the cretin, then suddenly the cool air hit her. Abandoning the colorful curses teetering on the tip of her tongue, she immediately rushed to the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet and drowned herself in the icy cold water. Relief. She’d finally found sweet relief, she thought as the water cascaded across her hot sticky skin and rolled around in her mouth.
A rough grip on her shoulder pulled her head out of the sink.
“What did you do that for?” she demanded.
“You were drowning.”
“And it felt good, too.”
“Suit yourself.” He gestured toward the sink.
She promptly stuck her head back under the faucet, relishing the cool water and trying to get hold of her temper. When she finally came up for air, he pushed a towel in her face. “Thank you,” she blurted harshly, then kicked off her canvas shoes and promptly deposited them in the trash can under the sink. Then and only then did she turn off the water and turn to face him, the only man she’d ever loved, and the only man she’d ever wanted to do severe harm to.
“Was that little display of Neanderthal He-Manship really necessary or have you been living in this cesspool for too long?”
“You were making too much noise,” he said evenly.
“Oh, excuse me for disturbing…what? The mutant, diabolical reptiles?”
A smile twitched the corners of his mouth. She raised her fist. “Don’t even think about it.”
He took a step back, his hand raised in an “I surrender” position. “Don’t worry, babe. Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Don’t call me babe,” she growled. “I’m not your babe! I’m not anyone’s babe. Got that?” She poked a finger in his chest.
“Okay, okay. No babes, not even a dollface.” He leaned against the counter, his face contorting as he visibly tried to get himself under control. Losing the battle, he burst out laughing.
She narrowed her eyes and said the first words that came to her lips. “You are going to have to die.”
His bright blue eyes sparkled with laughter, eyes that used to have the ability to turn her to butter. Well, she must be cured of that now; she was sprung way too tight to remotely resemble anything like butter.
“Sorry, love, but I have other plans in mind.”
She didn’t know whether to pound on his chest in frustration, or throw her arms around his neck and never let go.
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