The Heir's Proposal. Raye Morgan
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He wasn’t even trying to see this from her point of view—and he had no interest in exploring alternatives. She looked around, trying to think of some way to avoid this, and he took a step forward and grabbed her, swinging her up into his arms. It was pretty obvious he wouldn’t mind just chucking her over his shoulder, good to go, but when she shrieked he relented and straightened her so that one arm was under her knees and the other behind her back. She threw her arms around his neck to avoid being dropped, and they started off.
He was impossibly hard and exciting to touch, but even worse, his incredible warmth worked on her like a drug. She was clinging to him, trying to get closer. She closed her eyes and took it all in, trying to pretend he wasn’t the boy she used to watch with stars in her eyes.
Those stars had dimmed when the Huntingtons had fired her father, accused him of crimes and kicked her whole family out of what had long been their beloved home. Let’s face it, the Huntingtons had pretty much destroyed her family and torn apart their lives—and all over a lie. Nothing had ever been the same again and the pain and resentment still smoldered deep inside her.
But she’d never been in stronger arms. It felt good—as long as she didn’t think about who he really was.
The water was surging against him and she could feel the effort it took him to keep his footing. He almost went over at one point, splashing a spray of seawater against her legs, and she cried out, holding on more tightly, pressing her face against his neck.
“I’ve got you,” he told her gruffly. “Just a little bit more. We’re almost there.”
She peeked out. She couldn’t see a thing but the cold, clammy gray of the fog. How did he know they were almost there? She couldn’t tell. But she knew one thing—his skin against hers felt like heaven. To think she’d been resisting.
But the fog was lifting and she began to see the shore herself.
“Here we are,” he said, and she could feel the difference in the way he was walking. They’d hit dry sand. He began to lower her and she felt a pang of regret.
“Put on my jacket,” he told her as he picked it up off the sand and handed it to her. She did as he suggested. It was big and heavy, made of denim with a few studs at the pockets—and it still felt warm, as though his body heat had lasted.
She turned to look at him. His arms were raised and he was pulling a long-sleeved thermal shirt down over his head. She watched, marveling at the interplay of muscles, and then gasped as she noticed the deep, ugly scar that disfigured an area of his rib cage.
Her shocked gaze met his ice-blue eyes as the shirt came down into place and covered everything—the muscles and the scar. She blinked at him, feeling breathless.
She wanted to ask about the scar, but the look in his eyes told her not to do it. Still, she had to say something. It was only right.
“Did you do something horribly brave that saved the day?” she asked a bit too quickly.
His look was dismissive. “No. I did something horribly stupid and ended up injured, which is something you never want to let happen.”
“Oh. Of course.”
But she didn’t want him to think she was just a snotty brat. She needed to let him know she did appreciate what he’d done for her.
“Thank you,” she said at last, feeling almost shy now that they were on firm ground and about to end their rescue encounter. “I really appreciate it. I mean…”
“What I’d appreciate,” he said, his voice calm but icy, “is some answers.”
She’d been stopped in the middle of her sentence, and she was still staring at him. “Uh…answers? About what?”
“About what you’re doing here. Why you came.”
She blinked at him, a flicker of panic near her heart. Had he really caught on to her so quickly? “I…we came to see the estate, of course. It’s for sale, isn’t it?”
He nodded, waiting.
“Well, we came to see if Carl wants…I mean if we want to buy it. Isn’t that what this is all about?”
His gaze never left her eyes. “You’d think. That’s what all eight of you people came for, to spend the weekend looking over the property, evaluating it.” His eyes narrowed. “I would have thought the house itself would be the main attraction. Either that, or the patio, the waterfall area, the huge front yard. And yet you’d hardly dropped your bags in the bedroom before you were off to see the caves. And your husband was off to nose around in the old vineyard area.” He cocked an eyebrow. “What gives?”
She frowned at him. She hadn’t realized Carl had gone off on his own sightseeing mission. She had to admit, it might look odd that the two of them had been so driven by alternate goals so immediately. She ought to do her best to quell all suspicions—if she could.
“What do you mean, ‘what gives?’ Nothing. We’re just interested in everything, the house, the land, the beaches. I’d heard about the caves and…and I wanted to see them for myself.”
He didn’t look convinced. “The caves are cool, but they’re hardly the best feature on the estate.” He eyed her speculatively. “They do have a lot of historical significance,” he said. “Smugglers seem to like them, and have since the old Spanish days.” His gaze narrowed and he added acidly, “Is that what you were doing out there? Hiding something?”
She wanted to laugh out loud at such a silly suggestion, but she could see that this was no joke in his mind. “If I were, I wouldn’t tell you about it, would I?” She bit her lip, regretting her words before she’d finished uttering them.
Keep it friendly, Torie, she told herself silently. Save the anger for when you’ve got the ammunition.
She quickly added out loud, “I’m going to enjoy seeing everything. It seems to be a wonderful property.”
“Oh, it is that.” A stormy look filled his blue eyes. “And it’s worth a whole lot more than my mother is asking for it.” He gave her a faint, sarcastic smile. “But you know that, don’t you?”
A crash of thunder seemed to give an eerie emphasis to his words and large raindrops began spattering around them. Torie was shivering again.
CHAPTER TWO
THUNDER rolled and the rain began in earnest. Looking up, Marc swore under his breath.
“The fog no sooner thins out than the rain comes,” he grumbled. “Come on. We’ll never make it back across the dunes. Head for the tool shed just beyond the ice plant over there.”
He pointed toward a wooden structure only a few hundred feet away and they ran for it, reaching it in moments, the threat of a downpour chasing them. Luckily the door wasn’t locked and they tumbled in, breathing hard and laughing. Marc slammed the door shut, holding back the cold, wet wind, then turned to look at her.
They were both still laughing from the run across the sand, but Torie saw the humor fade in his eyes, and she looked away quickly.
“This shouldn’t last too long,” he said. “We might as well have a seat and wait it out.”
The interior of the shed seemed clean enough, with tools piled along one side and bags of gravel and peat moss stacked along the other. They sat down on the plastic bags and listened to the rain pound on the roof. A couple of leaks appeared along the walls, but they weren’t bad. Neither of them spoke, and the rain was too loud to try to talk over anyway.
Marc’s head was turned away, looking out a small window at the rain, and Torie had time to study him, the back of his head and the angle of his neck and the width of his shoulders.
She shivered again, but not with cold. She was beginning to realize this wasn’t going to be easy. How could she ever have imagined it might be? For fifteen years, she’d