that she associated with most men. Another blessing of his Indian heritage? Pursing her lips, she returned to the numbers beneath her hands. “Perhaps Indians aren’t as concerned with the macho image as most men.”
Jim slid his long, tapered fingers across the dark polished wood of the desk, watching her. They had come so far so quickly. Despite her distrust, Dal was opening up to him. Did she realize it? Probably not. “The Navaho revere their women. As a matter of fact, it’s a matriarchal society. In your present mood, you’d probably feel very secure in that type of environment.”
Dal gave a soft snort and tried to concentrate, but found it impossible. Rightly or wrongly, she was drawn to Jim Tremain’s quietness. He was an island of peace in the dangerous currents of emotion she experienced daily. Listening to his cajoling voice, Dal had to fight a tumult of emotions that surfaced as easily as new life in a wintered land under the tender caresses of the sun.
She raised her head and studied him intently. “I think you’re a cougar in disguise,” she accused.
“Why?”
Dal licked her lips, avoiding his amused gaze. He was stalking her. She could sense it, and her brain was going off in alarm over his veiled statement. “You just are,” she answered stubbornly. Damn, why couldn’t she concentrate? Gripping the pen until her knuckles whitened, she said, “I have to get this done before Rafe gets back tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll say good-night.”
“Good night.” Dal flinched inwardly over her gruffness. Jim made her feel simultaneously uneasy and euphoric. After he had left as silently as he had come, she dropped the pen and rubbed her face with her hands. God, she was so tired. When wasn’t she? The thought of having to close her eyes in the darkness of night leaked through her and she tasted terror. Holding her head between her hands, she wondered if she’d ever feel comfortable sleeping at night again. The nightmares always haunted her. During the day she could remain busy enough to keep them at bay. It was only in the silence of the night that they preyed upon her shredded heart.
Near two in the morning Dal had finally dragged herself from the study, taken a hot bath and slipped into her floor-length flannel nightgown. Taking the sheet and blankets from the hall closet, she made her bed on the orange-colored sofa that sat on a sheepskin rug in front of the fire. The hoot of an owl soothed her fears as did the warmth of the crackling blaze. She closed her thick lashes, dark fan shapes against the tautness of her cheeks, and took a long slow breath, slipping into the darkness where she could forget for just a little while….
Hands…they were strong, viselike hands wrapping around her wrists. Pain flared up her wrists, shooting into her arms as Dal felt her limbs being jerked savagely in order to control her. No, no, it was happening again! She moaned and tossed restlessly, the blankets now acting as something that held her powerless against the attack. In her sleep, she pushed them off and they slipped to the rug below the couch. Sweat glistened against her taut features as she heard Jack’s snarling voice break through her pleading cry.
“You’re staying, you hear me?” he growled. “You think you’re going to leave me, you’re the crazy one!”
“Ow-w! You’re hurting me. Let me go!”
His hands tightened viciously around her wrists as he pinned them above her head. “No way, baby. Your mine. And you’re staying.” His nostrils flared. “You want some attention? I’ll give you some. You keep accusing me of ignoring you all the time….” Anger soared through the sheer terror as Jack straddled her on the bed. It was dark. So dark…and yet, by the fullness of the moon outside of their bedroom window, she could see the glint of wildness in his narrowed green eyes as he watched her with feral intent. This wasn’t the Jack she had married. Where had he gone? Over the years fame and success had become his wife, and she had become nothing more than slave labor for his insatiable appetite to achieve more fame and make more money. Dal tried to throw him off her body, bucking and struggling. Fear gave her even more strength and she screamed. The sounds clawed up and out of her throat, which was now constricted in terror. Even to her own ears, she sounded like an animal that had been stalked and cornered, knowing that it was going to die at any second.
Oh, God, dying…She had died that night. Jack stripped her soul from her and he had done it deliberately, trying to frighten her in order to keep her beneath his control so she wouldn’t leave him. A whimper tore from her lips and she thrashed her head to one side, trying to fight off his powerful attack. No! God, no…
“Dal…wake up…you’re having a dream….”
Dal’s breast heaved with terror as she fought to take air into her lungs and throw Jack off her. He was a large man made of solid muscle. She felt hands on her shoulders and she tried to move away, curling against the back of the couch. Somewhere in her cartwheeling nightmare, part of her was slowly coming awake and telling her they weren’t Jack’s hands. No, these were a man’s hands that were firm with warmth without bringing her more pain.
“Dal, wake up…. Come on, wake…”
She heard his roughened voice soothe the ragged edges of her nightmare. It wasn’t Jack’s voice…no, it was a man’s voice that calmed her instead of instilling more of the revulsion that twisted through her. Dal felt herself being pulled up, felt arms going around her, holding her, rocking her gently within an embrace. A sob escaped her contorted lips as she fought to surface from the nightmare, her fingers digging into warm, hard flesh. Tears squeezed from beneath her tightly shut lashes and Dal was dully aware of them streaking down her cheeks.
“You’re all right, Dal…. Just let it go…. You’re safe…safe….”
Slowly, Jack’s voice and face dissolved into the tears that now flowed unchecked from her. Dal sobbed hard, burying her head beneath his chin, wanting, needing the safety he offered. As she reoriented to the present, the first sensation that struck her muddled senses was Jim’s masculine smell combined with the fresh odor of pine. She cringed like a frightened animal against the tensile strength of his bare, well-muscled chest. A myriad of sensations clashed within her reeling state as Dal tried to separate reality from the dream. Her fist clenched and unclenched, her long, slender fingers tentatively moving across his flesh. Jim was real. What was happening was real. And his voice…Dal’s sobs lessened as she sank against him, allowing the melodic, unknown language to fall over her raw, screaming senses. The thick, dark honey of his chanting tone was healing to her.
“You’re safe, Dal. Nothing’s going to harm you anymore. You’re home and you’re with me…not Jack. It’s all over.”
A shudder tremored through her. Jim’s fingers splayed against her back and he gently began to rub the tension out of her shoulders. Through her nightgown his touch was steadying to her spiraling caldron of emotions as his fingers moved down the deeply indented curve of her spine, freeing all that tension. Dal gulped, aware of the coolness of tears still on her lips as she struggled to gain a complete hold on reality.
She felt him breathing evenly and deeply, and that calmed her more as she forced her eyes open. Gray light filtered through the windows, telling her it was near dawn. A rush of gratefulness coupled with some undefined emotion coursed through Dal as she pushed herself out of Jim Tremain’s embrace. She couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she sat up and buried her face in her hands. He remained close to her.
“I—I’m all right,” she heard herself say. Her voice was unsteady.
“You will be in a few minutes,” he agreed huskily.
Dal felt fresh, hot tears brim in her eyes as he gently stroked her head. She
