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“Shit.” The knife clattered forgotten to the ground. “Morgan, are you all right?” Cam wiped a hand down his face. “Shit,” he groaned again.
She tried croaking out an answer, but aside from her squashy lungs, Cam’s weight still pinned her to the ground. “Fine,” she managed to squeeze out, “I think.”
The solid weight of him on top of her was doing crazy things to her earlier resolve to stay as far away from Cam’s dazzle as possible. “Off,” she gasped. “Off me.”
“What?” He leaned toward her and those amazing lips drew closer, the stubble on his jaw within kissing distance. Delicious heat spread outward from her center, twisting through her, tying her in knots.
“Off,” she squawked, thrusting up with her hips to dislodge him.
Oh, that was definitely the wrong thing to do.
Her body went on instant alert, as did his. But he got the message. He scrambled off her as if she’d caught fire.
She pushed up on her elbows, breath finally expanding to fill her airways. Doing her best to ignore the explosive mixture of pleasure at the closeness of his body and tension at what that pleasure might mean. When she spoke she tried sounding as if she’d meant for this to happen all along. “You’re better than good. I never heard you.”
He retrieved his knife. Shoved it back into his belt. “You weren’t meant to.”
“But how? You didn’t learn that stalking deer.”
“Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
“But, Cam. That was amazing. It takes a hell of a—”
“I said forget it.” He clenched his jaw, his tone curbing further questions.
She sat up, wincing as she felt the lump on the back of her head.
“Are you bleeding?” His hand stole around her neck, probed her skull as he checked to make sure she hadn’t received anything worse than a goose egg.
She closed her eyes. Giving in would be easy. He held her in his arms. His hands were in her hair. What would he do if she kissed him? And expanding that thought, how would she react to his reaction?
Not exactly normal thoughts to have after an almost-death experience by an ex-lover, but she’d passed far beyond that about a week ago when she’d walked into General Pendergast’s office.
“I could have killed you,” he muttered. Low, apologetic, and thoroughly, completely annoyed.
She opened her eyes, her erotic fantasies shriveling under Cam’s steel-edged gaze. Those were fighting words. “Do you think so?”
He sat back, checking her challenge with a raised hand. “No. You don’t understand, Morgan. I…could have…killed you. It’s what I do. What I did.”
He dropped his head, his chest heaving as if he’d been the one to have the air punched out of him.
“Well, I’m still breathing. I guess you’re stuck with me, killer.”
Cam didn’t seem to appreciate her attempt at humor. Ignoring it, he stood, helping her up after. “What the hell were you doing skulking around anyway?” he asked. “Playing cat and mouse? Your little joke on me?”
“No,” she defended herself, though without much conviction. That had been exactly what she’d been doing. A stupid effort to prove something.
She’d proved something all right.
She still had it bad for Cameron Sinclair.
Now she just had to decide what to do about it.
“I understand, Morgan,” he fumed. “You’re Miss Warrior-woman. You don’t have to ram the point down my throat.”
Knowing he was right, she held silent, gritting her teeth, slapping at the mud on her breeches. Her scraped hands stung, and her legs felt wobbly, although whether her unsteadiness was a result of being plowed over or—more disturbing to her peace of mind—not being plowed at all, she couldn’t say.
She swallowed hard, taking a few shaky steps.
