TWICE A HERO By Susan Krinard

“You threw down the gauntlet last night,” he said, cupping her breasts. He kissed the angle of her jaw. “You’ve been doing it ever since I brought you back to San Francisco. And now I think I’m going to take it up.”

Her nipples puckered under his hands. He kissed her throat, her shoulder, the last level plain of fair skin above her breasts. And then he took what he wanted so badly to taste. He covered one breast with his mouth and suckled, rolling her nipple against his tongue, licking and teasing until Mac’s head was tossing against the pillows.

When he’d had his fill of one breast he moved to the other, savored it, made her shudder and squirm and thrust up against him.

He wanted very badly to undress her, to feel her naked body writhing under his, to make her vulnerable, to possess her completely. But this was not the place, or the time. There was no need to go so far. Not to get what he must have.

He continued to kiss and nip her neck, her chin, the corners of her lips while he reached down to gather the bunched hem of her skirt in his free hand.

She didn’t protest. Even Mac was helpless at a man’s touch. At his touch. He had her skirt up to her knees and his hand underneath before her body recognized his intrusion.

“That’s… not a gauntlet you’re taking up,” she said hoarsely.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, Mac?” he said, catching her lower lip between his teeth.

He found the ties of her underdrawers, parted the delicate fabric and found moist skin. More than moist; she was wet, hot and wet and ready. He fumbled urgently with the buttons of his trousers.

“I warned you, Mac. You started this fire. Now you’re going to put it out.”

Her eyes closed as he pushed her legs apart and positioned himself between them. Acres of heavy skirt and a lacy froth of muslin were no impediment; he had her where he wanted her. The mere anticipation of taking her like this, so unexpectedly, so hard and fast, excited him almost beyond endurance. It could never be like this with Caroline. Would never be.

“Tell me you made a mistake,” he taunted. “Admit you’re no match for me, and I’ll let you go.”

He waited, breath suspended, for her answer. But he hadn’t read her wrong. Nothing had changed since the jungle. His memory hadn’t played tricks on him, hard as he’d tried to forget. She grinned like a she-cat and grabbed a handful of his shirt.

“Forget it, O’Shea. You’ll never hear me say uncle.”

A wild, triumphant joy seared through him then, almost euphoric, as if he’d discovered some fantastic ruin never seen by civilized man. That elation beat in his blood, drove his body in a primal dance of hunger and victory. Mac arched against him, spurring him on. In. One stroke, one long, deep stroke…

“Liam?”

Through a fog of lust he heard his name. Mac had gone very still, clutching his shirt in both hands, her gaze fixed past his shoulder.

Toward the door.

“Oh…” The faint, disembodied voice trailed off into a whimper. Liam almost ignored it, almost flouted the barrier of Mac’s suddenly rigid body. He wanted, and he always took what he wanted—

Mac planted both hands against his chest and shoved. In his startlement he jerked back, watched in blank confusion as she grabbed at her skirts and pulled them down over her legs.

“Oh, my,” another, older feminine voice said behind them.

Liam turned his head. The door was open. Two people stood on the threshold. The younger woman’s pretty face was pale except for two vivid spots of color in her cheeks. The elder looked like a cat who’d gotten into the cream.

The elder was Mrs. Hunter, Caroline’s chaperon.

And the girl who stared at Liam with horror in her eyes was Caroline.

Chapter Eighteen

Times go by turns,

and chances change by course,

From foul to fair,

from better hap to worse.

—Robert Southwell

ICE DOUSED THE fire in Liam’s blood. He turned his back to the couple and buttoned his trousers with unsteady fingers.