Tycoon Warrior. Sheri WhiteFeather

failed, he wanted to say. And we were supposed to be happy. Why not a king and queen?

      She thrust her chin in a stubborn gesture. “This does not mean Queen Nicole is having an affair with Payune.”

      “I didn’t say it did.”

      “But that’s what you’re thinking.”

      “No, it’s not.” He was thinking about his own life, about why Kathy had walked out on him. He wished to hell he knew what he had done wrong. But now wasn’t the time to ask. Dakota had to concentrate on retrieving the stolen necklace, on trapping the revolutionists and sending them to jail.

      This mission wasn’t about the hole in his heart. It wasn’t about the woman seated across from him, messy locks spilling out of her proper hairdo, her long slim body draped in a summer cotton dress. This romantic little cottage wasn’t home, and he would do well to remind himself of that. Every chance he got.

      Three

      Kathy couldn’t sleep. Tired of tossing and turning, she slipped out of bed, then stood before the French doors. She knew her garden was out there, and beyond it a grassy terrain dotted with wildflowers. Below the hills, a midnight ocean crashed upon the shore. She gazed out, but it was too dark to see anything but an eerie reflection of herself.

      A woman in white silk, her hair a long, tousled curtain. She looked like a mysterious shadow. A faded image. The silhouette of a lady longing for her lover.

      Suddenly she could see this woman, this shadow of herself, roaming the hills, the wind whipping through the night, a sheer nightgown clinging to her skin. She was naked beneath the gown, waiting for her lover to come to her. He was forbidden, she knew. But she wanted him. Wanted to tumble to the ground with him, tear at his clothes and feel his mouth ravage hers.

      What am I doing?

      Shaking off a sexual chill, Kathy reached for her robe. A thirty-two-year-old woman should know better.

      What she needed was food. A sandwich might be a poor substitute for a good night’s rest, but it would keep her mind off foolish fantasies.

      Belting her robe, she made her way to the kitchen. She flipped on the light. The room was spotless. The appliances were white, the wallpaper a tiny floral pattern. The appeal was homey, but kitchens usually were.

      Kathy opened the refrigerator and removed a package of ham. After spreading a small amount of mayonnaise on two slices of bread, she reached for the mustard. It was her favorite—a spicy French condiment. In her haste to combine the two flavors, she ended up with a glob on her finger. Lifting it to her mouth, she froze. The chill returned. This time it slid down her spine like a masculine hand brushing her skin.

      She was being watched. She could feel his eyes on her. She hadn’t heard him come into the room, but she felt him there.

      Watching every move she made.

      She squared her shoulders and turned. He stood in the open doorway, tall and silent, his stare dark and intense. He wore a pair of drawstring sweat pants, riding low enough to expose his navel. He looked big and powerful, almost frightening. His eyes were so black, his pupils no longer existed. He had spiked his hair with restless hands, the glossy strands a startling shade of midnight blue. A trick from the light, but it startled her just the same.

      The muscles along his stomach rippled with each breath he took. Hard, barely controlled breaths.

      He was angry. Or aroused. Neither thought gave her much comfort.

      She wanted to leave the kitchen, retreat to the safety of her room. But she couldn’t. Her sandwich was half made, and Dakota blocked the doorway. She had no choice but to continue her task, to convince herself his presence hadn’t unnerved her.

      “I can’t sleep,” he said.

      Turning back to her sandwich, she barely glanced up. “Neither can I. But then we both drank coffee later than we should have.”

      Although she avoided his gaze, she knew it remained fixed on her. He couldn’t know about her fantasy, about what her imagination had conjured, yet she sensed he did. In her mind, she had been waiting for her lover. Her forbidden lover. And now he was here—the man she wasn’t supposed to want.

      The coffee hadn’t kept him awake, Dakota thought. She had.

      It had been three years. Three years since he’d made love, since he’d felt her warm, willing heat. And she stood in the kitchen wearing a silky robe, her hair spilling gloriously over her shoulders—that fire-tinted hair he ached to grasp, lift to his face.

      She didn’t look his way. Instead she continued to make her sandwich. No, he couldn’t sleep. Because he had tossed and turned, remembering every kiss, every tantalizing taste. He had even considered going outside, walking the cliffs as if he would find her there. As if she would be waiting.

      “Maybe I should eat, too,” he said. He wasn’t hungry, but he couldn’t think of another excuse to get close to her, to stand beside her and torture the hell out of himself.

      “Oh, okay.” She moved to allow him room at the butcher-block isle.

      He came forward, grazing her shoulder as he reached for the bread. She slipped by him to rinse a tomato. And when she turned back, her robe fell open.

      He wasn’t a painter, a man who made images come to life, but at this moment, this incredible, breathtaking moment, he sought to immortalize her. Kathy’s nightgown was as filmy as a lace curtain, as sheer as a summer rain. Her nipples brushed the surface, and he imagined the fabric cool and sleek against her skin.

      He lifted his head, and their gazes collided. The tomato fell from her hand and rolled onto the butcher block. And then nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

      “What’s happening?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

      He heard her, yet he didn’t. Her robe was still open, and heat rose between their bodies like steam. He knew they fought to breathe the same air.

      Outside the wind grew angry with lust, forcing its way through the trees. He could hear it rattling the windows.

      He fought the urge to push her to the floor, tumble and roll, tear at the wisp of silk and lace she wore. Wild, forbidden lovemaking. The wind was challenging him to take her. His loins hardened, his pulse quickened, his mouth went dry. He moistened his lips and imagined tasting hers.

      What’s happening?

      The wind howled again, and Dakota gripped the counter. Damn the wind. Damn the ache in his groin. He stared at Kathy; she stared back at him. Her eyes shone like emeralds. Sensual. Catlike.

      Damn her.

      Damn them both.

      “Nothing’s happening,” he said, masking the arousal in his voice, the huskiness that nearly made him hoarse. “Your robe came undone, and…”

      She moved like lightning, a blur before his eyes. When he focused again, her robe was belted, snug and secure. She picked up the tomato as though trying to backtrack, make that other moment disappear.

      She glanced at him quickly, then looked away. She couldn’t meet his gaze, yet only moments ago those green eyes bore brazenly into his.

      This was so damn awkward, he thought. It shouldn’t be, but it was. He had seen every inch of her, caressed her most intimate places. They had showered together, licked beads of water off each other’s skin. They weren’t sexual strangers. Yet they were. Three years spanned between them—an eternity.

      “Maybe we should talk about it.”

      “There’s nothing to talk about.” She studied the tomato she had cut into even little slices. “We’re making sandwiches.”

      “I’m not hungry. I only said I wanted a sandwich so I could get close to you. But I’m okay now. I got through it, and so did you.” He tossed his bread in the trash. “This is only our