In a silky, dangerous voice, he warned, "Don't try it."

Whitney stayed where she was. She didn't think she could get away, knew, in fact, that if she tried, she'd only enrage him further. Besides, if she didn't let him vent his wrath now, he'd undoubtedly go to her father. She steeled herself to endure the rest of his verbal assault.

"You wanted us to have something in common if we were going to be friends. You wanted us to enjoy the same things, didn't you?"

Whitney swallowed convulsively and nodded.

"Pick up the crop!" he clipped.

Cold fear raced down Whitney's spine, and her pulse accelerated wildly. In all her life, she'd never encountered such controlled, purposeful rage. She bent down and picked up the crop with shaking fingers.

"Bring it to me," he rapped. Whitney froze at the sudden, blinding realization of what he intended, and he said in a terrifyingly pleasant tone, "Which will you have, your father or me? Do we settle this between us now, or would you prefer that I take it up with him?"

Whitney frantically considered her choice: physical punishment meted out by this man whom she despised, or the mental anguish of reopening old hostilities with her father. Her choice was really no choice at all.

Rather than give her tormentor the satisfaction of seeing her quaking fear, Whitney reverted to an old girlhood habit of putting her chin up and assuming an appearance of remote indifference. Haughtily, she walked over and held the crop out to him like a queen bestowing the sword of knighthood, her disdainful green eyes clashing with his icy gray ones.

"Now we are both going to share your favorite amusements: Riding, using the crop, and apologizing. You will 'ride' my knee, I will use the crop, and you are going to apologize. Do you understand the rules of our little game?"

Whitney's gaze slid unwillingly to the black riding crop in his hand, then jerked back to his tanned face. She did not deign to reply.

"Lie across my lap, Whitney." He politely extended his hand to assist her, and in her terror, Whitney unthinkingly accepted it. She knelt beside him, glaring at him in stiff hatred. Cocking a dark eyebrow, he nodded meaningfully at his lap.

Drowning in an ocean of mortification, Whitney lowered herself into the humiliating position. His hard thighs pressed against her churning stomach; a beetle scurried through the blades of grass inches from her nose.

Above her, she heard his voice. "I will stop when you apologize. Not before." He raised his arm and Whitney wondered wildly how much protection her riding habit would provide, then had her answer as the crop whined through the air, slicing against her clothing, welting her tender flesh. He paused, waiting. For her apology.

Whitney gritted her teeth; he could beat her senseless but she'd never give him the satisfaction of an apology. Never! His arm came up another time, the crop landed mercilessly across her buttocks. Another pause . . .

Whitney counted through streaks of vivid pain-three times, four, five. By now she was sobbing. The sixth time her body jerked and a strangled cry wrenched from her. His arm lifted, and she screamed "Stop!" then cursed herself because he had already flung the crop away.

He grasped her roughly by the shoulders and turned her in his arms to sit across his lap. Whitney tried to pull away, but Ms arms tightened, and his hand lifted to hold her face pressed to his chest. Her ribs heaved and scalding tears raced down her cheeks, soaking through the front of his shirt as she wept, more from impotent fury than from pain. As if he were soothing a child, he began to stroke her hair. Whitney angrily shoved his hand away, but he ignored her and continued.

The minutes passed, and Whitney had just gotten control of herself when his hand touched her chin, tipping her face up to his. Glaring at him through a haze of wrathful tears, she whispered, "I hate you!"

"I know you do," he said quietly. It registered on Whitney that there was neither triumph nor satisfaction on his face and, since she could find nothing else in his expression to stoke the flames of her animosity, she looked away, staring fixedly off to the left, occasionally wiping at her tear-streaked face with her fingertips.

"Look at me," he ordered gently.

"No!" Whitney retorted. "If I do, I'll scratch your eyes out, so help me!"

"You're not nearly so angry with me as you are with yourself."

"How much would you care to bet?" Whitney snapped, but she could feel her anger ebbing as she looked at Dangerous Crossing, whose satin blackness was now splashed with huge, sweaty white patches. It was a miracle that the horse hadn't injured himself, that the rider had been expert enough to stay on him, and wise enough to continue riding him instead of returning him to the stable. It was amp; double miracle that both horse and rider hadn't been seriously injured.

He was right: she was bitterly angry with herself for what she had done even if her regret was more for the sake of the horse than the man. She finally realized that Clayton was waiting for her to apologize, and since she wanted nothing more than to get away from him, she said tonelessly, "I never meant to hit the horse, I meant to hit you. But either way, I suppose it was irresponsible and dangerous, a childish act deserving of a child's punishment." "Thank you for that," he said almost tenderly. To be guilty and punished, to feel remorse and then be forgiven was a sequence of events totally missing from Whitney's childhood experience. Whenever she had apologized to her father, he had listened and then launched into a fresh tirade about her misbehavior, and Whitney had expected about the same from Clayton. She stared at him, hardly able to believe what she saw and felt. His gray eyes were full of warmth, and he was smiling at her with gentle understanding.

Suddenly, Whitney felt as if they were the best, the closest, of friends-as if there was some special bond between them now. The feeling stunned her, then surged through her, sweeping everything away in its path. "I'm terribly sorry about …"

"No more," he interrupted softly. "It's forgotten." Whitney knew, as he slowly bent his head to her, that he was going to kiss her, but instead of drawing away she shyly lifted her face and met him halfway, somehow seeking proof of forgiveness. His lips came down to caress hers in a long, tender, undemanding kiss.

Even when the kiss deepened and her lips were being sensually shaped and molded to his, Whitney knew he would let her pull away if she tried. Instead her hands crept up his chest, twining around his neck, and everything changed.

His hands tugged the scarf loose from her hair and tangled in the luxuriant tresses. Tenderly cupping her face between both his hands, he gazed down into her melting green eyes. "My God, you are sweet," he whispered. Whitney's heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer as he slowly, deliberately buried his lips in hers once again. He kissed her long and lingeringly, slow, compelling kisses that made her head swim. His tongue flicked over her lips, teasing at first-then urging, insisting that she part them and, the moment she did, plunging inside to intimately explore her mouth while his hands moved down her back, finding the place where the crop had welted, lifting her up and tighter to him, then gently soothing away the sting.

Jolt after jolt of wild sensation rocketed through Whitney from her neck to her knees, leaving her trembling violently and clinging to him. The world tilted as he twisted her halfway around to lie in the grass beside him, wrapped in his strong arms. He leaned over her, and Whitney shook her head in feeble protest: "We can't …"

His mouth came down hard on hers, silencing her objection, taking her lips in a fierce, devouring kiss. He patted her lips, teasing and tormenting her with his tongue as it plunged gently, then retreated, until Whitney, in a fever of longing, touched her own tongue to his lips.

He groaned and crushed her tighter to the hard length of his body, drawing her tongue into his mouth and caressing it with his own. When his mouth left hers it was to explore her ear before tracing its way across her cheek and covering her lips again. His hand left a trail of glowing warmth as it slid down her throat, across her breasts, and he began unfastening her thin shirt, seeking the soft swells beneath.

The touch of his strong fingers on her naked flesh penetrated Whitney's passion-drugged senses, jerking her back to reality. Frantically, she shook her head, trying to tear her mouth from his as he pulled down her chemise, baring her swelling breasts to his hand.

"Don't," he commanded in a throbbing whisper, deepening the wildly consuming kiss while his hand fondled her breasts, pushing them upward, teasing the sensitive nipples until they stood erect and proud against his palm.

And then, without warning, he stopped.

Kissed and caressed into dazed insensibility, Whitney watched his smoldering gaze lift from her ivory breasts to her face. "If we don't stop now, little one," he murmured in an odd, strained voice, "I'm going to be too caught up in finishing what I began, to turn back." Bending his head, he kissed the top of each soft breast before reluctantly drawing up her chemise.

Lying beside her, propped up on an elbow, Clayton touched her cheek with a forefinger, lightly tracing the elegant curve of her cheekbone. He adored her spirit, her freshness; she was warmth and awakening passion, ready to be taken-as the throbbing ache in his loins reminded him. She was everything he had known she would be and much, much more: Headstrong, sweet, fiery-tempered, impertinent and witty … a treasure of exciting contrasts. His treasure!

Whitney basked in the warmth of his slow, lazy smile and reached up, laying her hand against his hard chest. He covered her hand with his, holding it pressed against his shirt over the steady thudding of his heart.

Dreamily, she heard the sounds of the early fall day drifting about them. A squirrel skittered up a tree with a nut to be stored for the winter. Crickets serenaded in hoarse harmony. One of the horses stamped fitfully. Whitney lay there, wondering why she'd never really noticed how extraordinarily handsome he was.

His next words brought her floating spirit plummeting back to earth: "It's time to go-there'll be explanations due everyone as it is." He chuckled at the look of disappointment that crossed her lovely forehead and pressed a bold kiss on the peak of her breast. "Brazen little hussy!" he teased.

Whitney lurched to a sitting position, her face flushed, and he began smoothing her hair. "Of course," she said, surging to her feet. "We-we should have left long ago."

Clayton reached for her but she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away. As she started to climb on her horse, he caught her at the waist and drew her back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her from behind. "Little one," he chuckled, nuzzling her neck, "there will be many times to come when I will hold you much longer, and much closer." Soothingly, he added, "I promise."

Whitney could hardly believe her ears! After calling her a brazen hussy, he had sympathetically promised to provide further intimacies to satiate her lust! How could she have forgotten how utterly amoral, how supremely conceited he was? She pulled away and glanced at him over her shoulder. With as much disdain as she could muster in her humiliated confusion, she said, "Do you think so?"

Clayton's grin was tigerish. "Indeed I do."

"Don't depend on it," she said, turning her face away and gathering Khan's reins. He lifted her effortlessly into the sidesaddle and let his hand boldly rest on her thigh. Whitney's voice shook as she asked, "Where is the picnic?"

"At the little clearing between Sevarin's place and mine," he replied, swinging up onto Dangerous Crossing's back.

More than anything, Whitney wanted to gallop Khan away, to put as much distance between herself and Clayton Westland as possible. At the same tune, she wanted to conceal how deeply she was hurt. So, with brittle gaiety, she called, "See you there," and turned Khan into a tight circle, urging him into a hinging gallop. She rode with her hair tossing wildly behind her, letting the wind cool her flushed face.

She could have wept with shame. "Brazen little hussy" he'd called her, and hussy she'd been! Letting him kiss her in such a way-and oh, God, touch her like that. And that bastard thought he was rewarding her by promising to hold her much closer and much longer in the future! Where was her pride, her sense of right and wrong, to have allowed him such liberties? She fete like such a horrid fool for lying there desiring him. And he had known exactly how she felt. He was undoubtedly an expert at making women desire him.