Nathan's hand slid further down, to grip her upper arm, and draw her closer to his heat. She did not pull away, and she could not imagine why he had this strange power over her. The sensations that swept over her from his nearness both frightened and intrigued her.
She lifted her chin and tried to disregard the tingling in the pit of her stomach. Tomorrow, when Nathan felt better, she would get him out of her house. She would insist that Michael hand back the money and that would be the end of it.
As she walked slowly with Nathan's weight bearing down upon her, despair edged
into her heart. She knew Michael wouldn't return the cash. They needed it. They needed it to keep the farm, and they needed it for Terry--she had to get better.
Nathan McDugan had them all in his grasp. He could buy their very souls.
It all seemed too much to bear. The awful images of the day slammed into her in a vivid review of horror and she stumbled against a chair.
"Am I too heavy for you?" Nathan asked.
She shook her head while she saw death and blood, sorrow and terror flashing
before her. She clamped her mouth firmly together. It took all her strength to remain dry eyed.
"I think I can manage if you just hold my hand." He lifted his arm from her
shoulder to gently grasp her hand. The contact of his flesh against hers scattered the horrible memories in an instant.
Startled, she glanced up and found herself locked into his electric blue gaze. Gone was the glassy look induced by his fever. His torrid appraisal sent blood surging through her veins. Alarmed by her own response, she tried to tug her hand away, but he held it fast.
"I won't hurt you." His voice came as a whisper, almost a caress against her ear. "You are beautiful."
His words faded away and she found herself barely breathing. Torn by a tumult of conflicting emotions, she shook herself mentally to try and break the spell.
"You are still my enemy." Her voice came out harsh and raw.
He sighed deeply and lurched toward the stairway. "Are you sure of that?"
"You want to change everything." Her lips quivered.
"Not everything, mon petit elfe d'hiver."
"Use English!" She dared to look at him again and felt her defenses crumbling.
His bemused smile lay half-hidden beneath his mustache. She could not stop the memory of how soft that mustache had felt when he had covered her lips with his, when she had tasted her own sweet jam mingled with the taste of his mouth.
He chuckled. "There are some things that sound better in French, mon petit chou."
Unnerved by the change in his manner, she realized how much more complicated
he was--and far more dangerous than she had imagined. She would do well to remember that indeed he remained her adversary, especially since tonight he would be sleeping under her roof.
