was.
Hell, for all she knew, maybe she was actually in love with the man.
Now there was a sobering speculation. Sobering and scary. Who knew what love was? Or even if love, romantic love, really existed outside the fantasies individuals dreamed up for themselves?
Sandra had never run across that impossible-todescribe, elusive emotion.
The affliction called love certainly couldn’t be clinically diagnosed. Nor could it be smeared on a slide and studied under a microscope. Come to that, as far as Sandra knew, the feverish fancy had never been nailed down by an absolute definition.
That being the case, how was one woman supposed to know if and when the emotion struck, replacing common sense with uncommon appetites?
Appetites.
Her stomach rumbled.
There were appetites, and then there were appetites.
Sandra laughed aloud. Here she stood, quite like a twittery teenager, mooning over a man, when what she should be doing was rustling up some food.
Of course, Sandra was well aware that feeding herself, getting a shower, shampooing her sweatstiffened hair, then having a good night’s sleep, were all ploys to distract herself from contemplation.
She didn’t want to think about love, in any way, shape or form.
Sex, yes.
But love?
That really was too scary.
Sandra did sleep well, surprisingly well, considering her mental upheaval during the hours prior to her crawling between the sheets.
The questions of the evening, most especially the questions about motivation, were banished by the exciting, erotic dreams that visited her in slumber.
She awoke refreshed, eager to embrace the bright spring morning, and the man who hopefully would be joining her in the retreat by lunchtime.
After a leisurely breakfast of juice, toast and coffee, Sandra switched on the radio, and proceeded to while away the hours by alternately pacing from room to room and staring out the wide front window and along the road leading to the cabin.
He was late.
It was past noon.
Had he changed his mind?
Sandra bit her lip and peered down the driveway.
It was exactly 12:46 when she spied his Jeep; Sandra knew, because she shot a quick look at herwristwatch as she made a dash for the door to greet him.
She stepped onto the deck as Cameron stepped from the Jeep. The sun felt warm on her face. The sight of him made her feel warmer all over.
The Lone Wolfe.
Lord! He looked delicious.
Good enough to eat.
Sandra promised herself a taste.
He was dressed for the outdoors—tight jeans, denim jacket and desert boots. He waved and strode toward her, looking long and lean and dangerous.
Sandra shivered in the sunshine.
“Hi.”
Cameron’s voice, low, intimate, was more dangerous than the look of him. Her pulse leaped. Her heartbeat went thumpety-thump. Her breath fluttered from between her parted lips on a whisper.
“Hi.”
He took the steps in two long bounds.
Nervous as a crab dodging a rake, she skittered sideways to the door. “Come in.”
He was right behind her.
The strains of an old love ballad blared from the radio. She started toward it to turn down the volume. One step, and then: “Oh!” She yelped as a strong arm curled around her waist, turning her around, bringing her hard against his harder body.
“Dance with me, I want my arms about you.” He sang along with the instrumental rendition of the song in a low, seductive voice.
Sandra gave herself up to the moment, and the dance, and the thrill of moving in time with him.
They danced together very well, as if they had been doing it for years. Bemused, beguiled, Sandra found herself thrilling to the prospect of their being so attuned to one another in the more intimate dance of love.
“I’m hungry,” the Lone Wolfe growled into her ear.
She shivered. “I. I’ll make you lunch.”
“I don’t think so.” His soft laughter was pure incitement. “I’ll have you for lunch.”
“M-m-m-me?” Sandra drew her head back to stare at him; the raw passion blazing from his
Hell, for all she knew, maybe she was actually in love with the man.
Now there was a sobering speculation. Sobering and scary. Who knew what love was? Or even if love, romantic love, really existed outside the fantasies individuals dreamed up for themselves?
Sandra had never run across that impossible-todescribe, elusive emotion.
The affliction called love certainly couldn’t be clinically diagnosed. Nor could it be smeared on a slide and studied under a microscope. Come to that, as far as Sandra knew, the feverish fancy had never been nailed down by an absolute definition.
That being the case, how was one woman supposed to know if and when the emotion struck, replacing common sense with uncommon appetites?
Appetites.
Her stomach rumbled.
There were appetites, and then there were appetites.
Sandra laughed aloud. Here she stood, quite like a twittery teenager, mooning over a man, when what she should be doing was rustling up some food.
Of course, Sandra was well aware that feeding herself, getting a shower, shampooing her sweatstiffened hair, then having a good night’s sleep, were all ploys to distract herself from contemplation.
She didn’t want to think about love, in any way, shape or form.
Sex, yes.
But love?
That really was too scary.
Sandra did sleep well, surprisingly well, considering her mental upheaval during the hours prior to her crawling between the sheets.
The questions of the evening, most especially the questions about motivation, were banished by the exciting, erotic dreams that visited her in slumber.
She awoke refreshed, eager to embrace the bright spring morning, and the man who hopefully would be joining her in the retreat by lunchtime.
After a leisurely breakfast of juice, toast and coffee, Sandra switched on the radio, and proceeded to while away the hours by alternately pacing from room to room and staring out the wide front window and along the road leading to the cabin.
He was late.
It was past noon.
Had he changed his mind?
Sandra bit her lip and peered down the driveway.
It was exactly 12:46 when she spied his Jeep; Sandra knew, because she shot a quick look at herwristwatch as she made a dash for the door to greet him.
She stepped onto the deck as Cameron stepped from the Jeep. The sun felt warm on her face. The sight of him made her feel warmer all over.
The Lone Wolfe.
Lord! He looked delicious.
Good enough to eat.
Sandra promised herself a taste.
He was dressed for the outdoors—tight jeans, denim jacket and desert boots. He waved and strode toward her, looking long and lean and dangerous.
Sandra shivered in the sunshine.
“Hi.”
Cameron’s voice, low, intimate, was more dangerous than the look of him. Her pulse leaped. Her heartbeat went thumpety-thump. Her breath fluttered from between her parted lips on a whisper.
“Hi.”
He took the steps in two long bounds.
Nervous as a crab dodging a rake, she skittered sideways to the door. “Come in.”
He was right behind her.
The strains of an old love ballad blared from the radio. She started toward it to turn down the volume. One step, and then: “Oh!” She yelped as a strong arm curled around her waist, turning her around, bringing her hard against his harder body.
“Dance with me, I want my arms about you.” He sang along with the instrumental rendition of the song in a low, seductive voice.
Sandra gave herself up to the moment, and the dance, and the thrill of moving in time with him.
They danced together very well, as if they had been doing it for years. Bemused, beguiled, Sandra found herself thrilling to the prospect of their being so attuned to one another in the more intimate dance of love.
“I’m hungry,” the Lone Wolfe growled into her ear.
She shivered. “I. I’ll make you lunch.”
“I don’t think so.” His soft laughter was pure incitement. “I’ll have you for lunch.”
“M-m-m-me?” Sandra drew her head back to stare at him; the raw passion blazing from his
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