AB by André Jensen Page B

passed between them, the secret look that had revealed their
    inner thoughts, bonded the couple in a way James had never experienced with a woman: a
    level of intimacy that disarmed him…even frightened him. And yet he ached for more,
    for a deeper connection.
    He smothered the balmy impulse, however. He could not explore his desire for the
    woman. She was Dawson’s daughter. The brigand had saved James’s father from a
    miserable life of servitude, and James could not return Dawson’s benevolence with
    betrayal. Besides, the witch had already ensnared his senses to an alarming degree. He
    didn’t need to fall even deeper under her spell.
    “Are you thirsty, Black Hawk?” Sophia wiped her lean fingers against her skirt, the
    rubbing movement ever so erotic. “You look parched.”
    She gathered a bottle and two glasses from the wood shelf next to the iron stove. In
    slow and determined steps, she approached the table, giving him the utmost opportunity
    to observe her curvy figure.
    She wanted him. It was so clear in her exotic eyes. He was taken aback by her
    brazenness. He was accustomed to being in control of every situation, but Sophia battled
    with him for dominance. She seemed unabashed by his robust physique, his dark
    expression. In truth, she seemed to like him all the more for it. He was at a loss to
    understand her motives.
    James looked away from the enchanting witch, the blood in his veins pounding, and
    met Dawson’s black and cutting glare. The notorious buccaneer might be wel into his
    fifties, but he still had fists like an iron mallet.
    James sobered.
    “Have you come for my gold?”
    “What?” James frowned. “I don’t want your treasure, Dawson.”
    The mad pirate raked his teeth from side to side. “You can’t have my gold.”
    “He doesn’t want your damned gold, Father.”
    Sophia poured two glasses of white rum and served the men. She pushed the spirits
    across the table, skimming her fingers over James’s wide hand, making him shiver with
    longing.
    Dawson glowered at her. “You can’t have it either, Alvera!”
    “I’m Sophia!” She huffed, as if she’d made the correction a thousand times. She looked
    at James with less heat in her eyes. “My mother is Alvera.”
    Dawson spit. “The jezebel!”
    Sophia rolled her eyes before she returned to the iron stove, and in that moment, James
    sensed the kindred soul within her. She was trapped inside the house as the mad brigand’s
    caretaker. James appreciated the feeling of being trapped, burdened with responsibilities.
    He had so many duties of his own. He comprehended the woman’s motives, too. She was
    strong in spirit and body alike, capable of enduring great hardship, he suspected. But she
    needed a moment of respite…she needed him. And knowing that truth tugged at James’s
    passions, eclipsing his good sense.
    “Luncheon’s ready,” said Sophia.
    The room was brimming with the tasty aroma of her culinary efforts. She ladled the
    spicy stew into the wooden bowls with her left hand, then served the dishes. “It’s
    mackerel in tomatis with onion, thyme, and hot peppers.”
    There was an endearing quality to the way she said tomatis—the love apple—in her
    native patois, making James’s ears prickle with delight.
    He tamped down the rampant emotions in his breast and stared at the food. That he
    was going to devour something she had prepared with her own fingers aroused him,
    quashing all his efforts to remain aloof.
    Dawson cupped the bowl and greedily swigged the soup, making slurping sounds.
    James was a little more mindful of his own manners and reached for a spoon. Slowly he
    tasted the steaming fare…and had to keep from groaning, it was so delicious.
    Sophia positioned herself across the table from him. She folded her fingers into a fist
    and lowered her chin on her hand, watching him as he consumed the stew, an engaging
    expression and a shrewd smile on her lush lips. She didn’t need to ask him if he