He crawled into the sleeping bag Michael had packed him and zipped it up to his neck, hiding the evidence of his lustful thoughts.
The soft glow of the battery lantern cast Emma in a halo of deceptive warmth. Shadows danced beside her on the tarp, which was beginning to sag with the weight of wet snow. The forest had grown eerily quiet, and Ben imagined their little shelter looked like a cocoon of peace in these woods his son called home.
Through half-closed eyes, he watched the woman who had raised Michael. She sat motionless as she contemplated the snowflakes pooling at the entrance of their temporary lodge. Emma Sands also called this place home. She was as comfortable here in a crude shelter in the middle of a snowstorm as a squirrel was nestled in a tree of leaves and downy fur. This beautiful woman, with long, wavy blond hair and a face angels would envy, was the most remarkable woman Ben had ever known.
She held strong convictions toward many things. If she found men driving spikes into trees, she’d try to stop it. If she found men beating up another man, she would step in with her shotgun blazing. When she loved a boy like a son, she would do anything to protect him. And if she gave herself to a man, she would give herself fully.
Would she have let him make love to her today if he hadn’t stopped?
Maybe. But why? Because of her nephew? Because Ben held the power to take the boy away from her?
He would bet his business that Emma hadn’t been thinking of Michael when she’d exploded with a passion so strong Ben had been blinded to everything else, too.
It seemed an eternity before the cause of his lust finally crawled into her sleeping bag two feet away and turned out the lantern. Then she set her shotgun between them, rolled over, and rested one hand on the stock—not at all worried about sharing a tent with him.
Which was the first mistake he had seen Emma Sands make.
There was a very sensuous woman behind the prickly manner she showed the world. All she had to do was give a little sigh, and the throbbing ache of his groin went from fully aroused to solid stone.
It amazed Ben how erotic waiting could be. And how horny the sound of a carefully lowered sleeping bag zipper could make him. And how anticipation had turned into a whole new form of foreplay.
He had to remember he was on a mission—that what he accomplished here could mean the difference between having his son or alienating him forever.
She was an abandoned sleeper, and it made him imagine her being abandoned in other ways. Carefully, knowing the longer he kept her sleeping the more manageable she’d be, he brought her hands together and slowly lifted them over her head. She stirred, but merely mumbled in her sleep and tried to turn over.
Ben moved closer as he pinned her hands over her head and eased his leg over her thighs. She arched against him. He thought she was awake and trying to throw him off, but when he moved more fully on top of her, she mewled deep in her throat.
This isn’t smart, Sinclair.
Ben felt a moment’s hesitation as he softly touched his lips to her cheek. He’d never forced a woman in his life, but his actions were drawing close to that invisible line. What he was doing was dirty pool. It was also erotic as hell, a challenge to his ego, and a means to an end.
Emma came awake with a start just as his lips settled over her mouth.
“Easy, Em. It’s me, Ben.”
“Get … off.”
It was a weak command at best, lacking conviction because she was confused. Ben brushed the hair from her face even as he tightened his grip on her hands. “I want to show you that I’m not an animal, Em. Let me make my mistakes up to you. Come on, pretty lady. Kiss me back.”
With no light to see her face, all he could rely on was what her body told him. And when she sighed and relaxed her muscles, he knew he was nearly home free.
“This isn’t a good idea. It wasn’t smart earlier today, and it still isn’t.”
“We’re two mature adults—and I would very much like to show you how civilized I really am. Just a kiss, and then we’ll stop.” He let go of one of her hands, testing his luck.
That was a mistake.
Her free hand connected with the side of his head with enough force that he actually saw stars. Then she gave him an impressively strong shove, knocking him over and scrambling from the prison of her sleeping bag.
She snapped a light on, and Ben found himself staring down the barrel of her shotgun.
“Get dressed, Mr. Sinclair. We’re heading home.”
Ben squinted at his watch. “It’s not even five in the morning!”
“Which will put us there in time for me to take out my sports. Move.”
She lowered her shotgun to find her boots, and Ben jumped her, covering her mouth with his hand as he pinned her down.
Her eyes widened just before he turned out the lantern—although her shock might have had something to do with the Smith & Wesson revolver in his hand.
“Sshhh. Someone’s out there.”
She quieted her breathing to listen. A truck engine died, and several voices carried down the hill to their shelter.
Emma started to struggle. “That’s the loggers! I’ve got to warn them about the spikes.”
“You can’t know that. We can barely hear them, much less tell who they are.”
She turned the light back on and frantically started making a tangle of her sleeping bag. “Ohmigod. I don’t want them to find me here like this. Someone will surely tell Galen—” She snapped her mouth shut as Ben set the revolver on his sleeping bag. “Where did you get that?”
“I brought it with me.”
