A Season for Love by Heather Graham Page A

his dark scowl. His bronze skin was stretched taut over his features, his brows seemed to meet in a single tight arch, and his lips were thin and white beneath the black curl of his mustache. He was concerned, frightened. . . .
Black Satan began to head her off into deeper water, forcing her to slow down just as a movement beneath her seat made her sickly aware of the word Drake had been saying. The girth was slipping on her saddle. In another few minutes she would be thrown under Scheherazade.
Drake reached for her reins just as she began to pull them in herself. The cinch belt gave entirely, and the polished leather saddle swerved awkwardly off the horse, dumping Ronnie unceremoniously into three feet of saltwater.
Sputtering, she thrashed around to regain her balance, and then stood, shivering despite the late summer heat. She was mortified—her appearance totally undignified—but embarrassment was far preferable to the broken bones that could have resulted had Drake not forced her to slow down in the deeper water. . . .
He leaped off his own horse, mindless of the water that filled his Frye boots and saturated his jeans, and strode toward her, grasping her in his arms as he reached her.
"I'm all right," she protested feebly as he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the white sand. "I'm all right," she repeated, gasping. But she didn't fight him. Her arms curled around his neck, she closed her eyes, unable to deny the pleasure of the stolen moment of being held by him, of feeling the pounding of his heart, of resting her head against the breadth of his chest and having his heat radiate new warmth through her.
All too soon she was lying on the beach. She lay still as his eyes raked over her, with tender caring. . . .
Briefly. Very briefly. A second later he was standing, legs apart and firmly planted in the sand, tight-knuckled hands clenched on his waist.
"Good Lord, woman! What the hell is the matter with you! Why didn't you listen to me? Of all the unmitigated fool things to do . . " He railed on in the same tone, and Ronnie felt the chills—and any sense of grateful tenderness—drain from her swiftly as her own temper rose to match the dark, burning fury in his eyes. She took enough harassment from Pieter! And she took that for a reason! She'd be damned if she'd tolerate another man venting anger in her direction—deserved or not.
Springing to her feet and spraying Drake with water and sand with the the fury of her pounce, she marched straight to him, her own legs spread in a defiant stance, her arms flying with wild vehemence.
"Don't you dare—don't you dare!—speak to me like that! I won't have it. I will not have it! All right, so I should have listened, but how the hell did I know you had something to say that wasn't an insult or a none-of-your-business question? I have had it up to my neck, Mr. Drake O'Hara. You're right—you don't know a damn thing and you have no right on earth to judge me." Ronnie wasn't winding down at all. All the frustration and wrath she had so carefully bottled up rose to the surface and, before she knew it, she was pummeling Drake's chest with tightly clenched fists.
At first Drake was stunned. Then, absurdly, he broke into laughter, and continued to chuckle as he dodged her flailing fists and secured them easily with his own hands.
Then, as she ranted and raved and protested, newly infuriated by his amusement, he picked her up once more, carried her several feet in to the water, and dumped her back in, watching with that dry, sardonic smile as she sputtered again to the surface, gasping and incoherent as she slung a widespread string of oaths in to his face.
"Hey! Cool down," Drake protested, backing away from her with mock terror in his eyes. "I thought one dunking might do it, but another may be necessary."
"You dunk me one more time, Drake O'Hara," Ronnie dared, her eyes flashing with the brilliance of cut sapphires, "and I swear to God, you'll live to regret this day if