he peck kept Hannah tossing and turning a good portion of the night. She wouldn't go so far as to call it a kiss. She had experienced Drew Coryell's kisses in the past. They were long, passionate, ravenous events that stirred her juices and left her hungering for more. This was nothing like that. This had been brief, passionless, and indifferent. He'd no more than brushed his lips across hers. He hadn't stopped to nibble, hadn't paused to savor. He certainly hadn't coaxed his way inside with that talented tongue of his.

A peck, not even a smooch. He might as well have been kissing his sister.

Hannah couldn't help but feel a bit insulted, especially since The Peck had been but the first of a number of such assaults to her confidence in her feminine charms.

During supper he'd never once made a suggestive remark about the two of them "stewing." He'd talked to her about fishing and the sailing trips he'd taken over the years. He'd even gone so far as to politely ask after her father. Then, claiming the role of gentleman, Drew had given up his bed for the night, stringing up a hammock outside between two trees in which to sleep. He never once suggested he share her bed, never tried to charm his way past her defenses. Never even acted as if the idea had occurred to him.

He should have kept his bed. Hannah might as well have been plopped into the kettle and hung over the fire, so much did she stew. Why didn't he want her? Never mind that she should be glad of the fact. That had nothing to do with her current insecurities.

From eleven until midnight, she fretted about her physical appearance. From midnight until one, she brooded that men found her intelligence off-putting. From one to two, she wept over the loss of her womanly allure. Then, somewhere around three the light dawned in the darkness, and she realized he'd played her for a fool.

Nothing was wrong with her. She wasn't unattractive or unlovable. The man wasn't immune to her. That daunting display at the beach upon her arrival put that particular anxiety to rest.

No, Drew was up to something, and she suspected it involved this contest he'd proposed. A fishing contest for a piece of Texas history. How very bold of him.

"Bold, hah," she grumbled into the darkness. She'd show him bold. He likely thought to lure her into complacency, then net her when she wasn't looking. She'd bet her own favorite fishing pole that Drew Coryell still wanted her in his bed.

If she were smart she would forget about the declaration, appropriate his rowboat, and head for home. But she wouldn't do that. Historical documents aside, she felt the need to discover what motivated the man to make his wicked demand. She refused to believe he'd go to the trouble to scheme if all he wanted was to bed her. The Drew Coryell she'd fallen in love with was not that shallow and callous a person. Surely he hadn't changed that much.

No, Drew was up to some bit of mischief, so she would remain on her guard. He wouldn't catch her unawares. She would make certain of that. She would simply out-angle the angler.

With that pleasant thought uppermost in her mind, Hannah finally drifted off to sleep. She dreamed of mermaids and pirates and treasure chests filled with riches. She awoke to the stink of dead fish.

"Rise and shine, my little Kidney Spoon," Drew said in a sing-song tone. A match scratched and lamplight flared.

Hannah wrenched opened one eye and worked up the energy to glare. In a voice raspy with sleep, she repeated, "Kidney Spoon?"

"It's a bait. Kidney-shaped blade with a treble hook. J. T. Buel out of Whitehall, New York, filed the patent on it originally."

"What time is it?"

"Four A.M. Time to fish. I've already cut your bait." He sent the bait bucket swinging from side to side. "You can thank me later."

"I’ll thank you to leave me alone."

"Leave you alone? Why, Hannah, what's this? Are you trying to welch on our bet?"

She sighed heavily and started to sit up, but remembered just in time she had slept naked after washing out her underclothes before turning in. Clutching the sheet to her chest, she grumbled, "I in not welching on anything. I need privacy to dress."

"Just be quick about it or you'll miss the boat. This contest starts at five A.M. sharp whether you're on the water or not." He sauntered out the door, bucket in hand, whistle on his lips.

"That blasted whistle of his," Hannah muttered, throwing back the sheet and padding across the room to the fireplace where she'd hung her clothing to dry. It was probably the real reason he didn't kiss her. Likely he'd used up all his pucker power on his silly little ditties.

Her pique mellowed when she spied the mug of steaming coffee sitting on the table. She sipped it while she dressed in one of Drew's shirts and a pair of his pants that she appropriated from a trunk placed at the foot of the bed. The clothes all but swallowed her, the shirt-sleeves and pants legs rolled up, the waist gathered and tied with a rope belt, but they served the purpose. The coffee stole through her, chasing the fatigue from her bones. Soon she felt better. Despite the lack of sleep, by the time she donned her shoes she looked forward to the upcoming contest.

"Musky Wrigglers and Throbbing Bobs," she murmured as she quickly made up the bed. No matter what bait he pulled from his tackle box, she intended to win this competition. She had no reason to fear a loss. Hadn't she always been a more successful fisherman than he? Besides, the man intended to fish with artificial lures. Did he honestly think a peculiar-shaped piece of metal would attract more game than a nice, smelly piece of fish flesh? Especially when the woman wielding the rod was as experienced as she? "I sincerely doubt it."

And so, determined to go out and win the priceless Declaration of Independence away from the man so foolish as to put it up as stakes in a scheme, Hannah exited the cabin.

Half an hour later, they were drifting in a rowboat in the middle of the bay. They'd bickered over details of the competition on the trip out, mainly because Hannah had tried to toss out her line and troll while Drew was busy rowing. She hadn't honestly expected to succeed at that gambit, but she had enjoyed needling the man. Now as he stowed the oars and picked up his rod, she waited impatiently to signal the contest's official start. Finally, he nodded toward her and she said, "Begin."

For Hannah, "begin" didn't mean start talking. Drew apparently didn't see it that way. The moment her shrimp-baited line hit the water, he opened his mouth and gave her an unsolicited inventory of the contents of his tackle box.

"In addition to my Musky Wriggler, I've got your Blue-Headed Spinning Squid Bait, the Musky Minnow, the Perfect Plug, the Ball Bearing Trailer, the—"

Hannah interrupted. "Hush, Coryell. You'll scare away the fish."

"Don't be silly. This isn't some calm, quiet lake where every sound echoes." He lifted an artificial lure from his tackle box and held it by its two-pronged hook. "I think I’ll start off with my Texas Doodle Spring Hook. I've always had good luck attracting live ones with it."

Hannah wrinkled her nose, seeing only a long, thin hunk of black metal with a dangling hook. "That's an ugly piece."

''Ugly! Why, I beg to differ. This fella is a beauty. The design is an improvement on the Sockdolager and it works like a charm."

"Uh-huh," she drawled. "If that's the case, then why don't you quit talking and start fishing." At that moment, she felt a tug on her rod and a grin split her face. "You are already behind."

For the next few minutes, Hannah worked to land her fish. He was a fighter, and she enjoyed the battle, but when she brought him to the boat, she had to bite back a groan of dismay.

Drew eyed the small trout and smirked. "Maybe you should keep it for bait."

"Very funny," she replied, tossing the fish back. She only momentarily considered keeping that particular catch. Terms of the contest declared the winner to be the one with the most weight from the combined poundage of five fish caught in a two-hour period. Giving up the two-pounder was a risk Hannah felt compelled to take, a bold declaration to the man seated in front of her. She had no fear of not catching her quota in weights sufficient to beat his socks off.

Her gaze dropped to his feet. Not that the man bothered to wear socks. "What is it you're wearing on your feet?"

Grinning, he held up a sandaled foot. "Like 'em? A friend brought them to me from the South Seas. They're made from the hide of a wild boar, and they're perfect for the beach. Sand slides in, then right back out again. Why, I—" Drew broke off abruptly as the rod in his hand bowed. "Well… well…well. Looks like my Texas Doodle Spring Hook has done its job." Minutes later, he boated a redfish. "What do you think, Hannah? Six pounds? Seven?"

She scowled at him and turned her attention to her line, willing something big to bite. Over the next two hours Hannah pulled in her share of fish, but to her dismay, Drew always managed to bring in one a little bigger, a little heavier. As the dock counted down to the last fifteen minutes, she felt herself growing desperate. While Drew switched out his lures, attaching the Perfect Plug to the end of his line, she baited her hook with an extra big chunk of cut gizzard shad. Five minutes later, she puffed in what she guessed to be a ten-pound snapper. "Hurrah," she shouted. "That'll win it for me. I just know it."

Drew frowned and for the first time that morning looked a little worried. After casting and reeling in four more times, he said, "Hmm… I think I'd better pull out the big guns now."

She mocked. "You mean the eight-inch Throbbing Bob?"

He glanced down, then back up at her, a strange, strangled expression on his face. "No. It's better suited to beach fishing. I think I'll use my Musky Wriggler."

Her stringer weighted down with her catch and the time limit quickly approaching, Hannah indulged in a smug moment. "Go ahead, Coryell. Try to beat me. Show me what that Musky Wriggler can do."

"Honey, that's been my fantasy for years."

Casting his line, he smiled at her, and that, along with the warmth in his eyes, made her feel rather like prey herself. Hannah found the sensation reassuring. He wasn't so indifferent to her. Now that the pressure of the contest was behind her, she had a little time to spare to remind him of the fact.

She lifted her hand to the placket of the shirt she wore and flapped the material briskly. "With the sun up, it's getting hot, don't you think?"

The man was so easy.

Drew dragged his gaze up from her bosom. "Hot. Yeah."

"I'll be glad to get off the water, won't you?" She leaned over and the shirt gaped. Slowly, she rolled up the bulky leg of the pants she had donned, displaying her leg halfway up the calf. He nodded, his attention focused on her, and Hannah reveled in her feminine power.

"My rod is wiggling," he murmured.

Good, she thought wickedly. Then, seeing his fishing pole bow toward the water, immediately exclaimed, "Oh, no!"

The fishing pole bowed toward the water as Drew took it firmly in hand. Hannah watched the fight between man and fish with alarm.!!!Please let it simply be a fighter like my first one. Please let it be a little one.

The water bubbled as the fish surfaced, then dove once more. Hannah prayed the brief glimpse she got of it would prove wrong, but as Drew won the battle and lifted his prize from the bay, she saw her prayers had not been answered. The fish assuredly topped twelve pounds.

She'd lost the bet.

Smiles wreathed Drew's face as he held up his fish. "God bless that Musky Wriggler. He never lets me down."

Afternoon sun dappled the rope hammock hung between two live oaks outside the fishing cabin on Wild Horse Island. Drew lay sprawled in the contraption, his fingers laced behind his head, elbows akimbo, one leg dangling, his bare big toe digging into the gritty sand beneath him just often enough to keep him swinging. Having awakened from a nap a few short moments ago, he watched his one-time wife hang wet laundry along a makeshift rope clothesline. He believed he could lie there watching her forever.

Sunlight caught streaks of red in her golden hair, causing it to shine like old gold. Her day outdoors had painted her cheeks pink, and as he watched her profile, he was struck by her appeal. Prettiness had matured into true beauty during the years they'd been apart The woman had good bones. She would age with grace and style and undoubtedly turn men's heads until the day she died.

Drew's gaze drifted down her body, savoring the sight of her full, high bosom, her tiny waist, and the flare of shapely hips as outlined by a dress dampened by contact with wet laundry and clinging to her form. Her shape stirred his lust, but when she turned to look at him, her mouth flattened in a frown and her eyes narrowed into a blue-fire glare.

Drew bit back a groan. The woman's body stirred his lust, but it was her spirit that inflamed his passion.

He wanted desperately to rise from his hammock, march across the yard and sweep her off her feet. He needed to lay her on his bed and strip away her clothes. He ached to bury his body deep within hers and slake the hunger she'd roused within him.

Patience, Coryell, he told himself. She's not ready yet.

So he set about making her so. He set the hammock swaying with a push, then settled into the contraption like a lazy pasha. "Hey, honey?" he called. "Would you bring me a glass of lemonade?"

What he got was a sopping pillow case thrown at his face. He caught it just before it slapped him and he chuckled. It was just the sort of response he'd hoped for. "Now, now, Hannah. Don't be a poor loser. I beat you fair and square."

"I'd like to beat you," she grumbled just loud enough for him to hear.

He watched her struggle to get a sheet hung evenly on the line and figured a gentleman would offer his help. However, since it was in his best interests to keep her temper up, he stayed right where he was. He wanted her own passions aroused, her emotions aflame. He wanted her worked up to the point of explosion because he knew that when Hannah lost control he'd have his opportunity to get her into his bed.

The wedding night due him. The honeymoon stolen from him. Sex. That's what he needed from Hannah Mayfield. But is that all you need? asked a little voice in his head.

Drew firmly quashed that voice and turned his attention to the matter at hand. He needed to turn up Hannah's annoyance heat a little higher. This day was ticking away and she'd be leaving tomorrow. The time had come to quit playing this catch. It was time to bring her to boat.

Drew climbed from the hammock and approached Hannah, silently offering a hand with the laundry. She accepted his assistance with ill-concealed bad humor.

"So," he said, throwing one end of the bed sheet over the rope. "Tell me about your life in San Antonio. Are you happy there?"

Suspicion clouded her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"It's a simple question, really. I thought it would be good to get to know you a little better."

She gave an unladylike snort. "Why would you want to get to know the laundress?"

"Oh, Hannah, you're more than a laundress."

In the middle of pinning his shirt to the line, she paused and sent him a questioning look.

"You're also a cook and a charwoman, are you not?"

"Funny, Coryell. You are very funny."

It was in his mind to say something unpleasant about her father, something to get her hackles up, but instead he was distracted by the purse of her pink, pouty mouth. Reaching out, Drew traced a finger across her luscious lower lip. Words appeared from out of nowhere in his mind, and he allowed them to roll off his tongue. "You, Hannah Mayfield, are as pretty as sunrise after a storm."

And then, dammit, he kissed her.

Really kissed her. Not a brief brush of mouths like before. Completely unplanned, without prior thought, this was a kiss with a capital K.

He put his hands around her shoulders and slowly pulled her toward him. As the inches separating them disappeared, the air surrounding them thickened. Her tongue snaked out and wetted her bottom lip, and all Drew's plans and schemes took flight like seabirds from the shore, leaving behind only the truth that dwelled within his heart.

Lowering his head, he moved his lips against hers, wet and soft and gentle. It was a tender Helo again, I've missed you that quickly became more, so much more.

He wrapped his arms around her, their bodies touching, remembering, sighing. Eager and edgy, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, seeking entrance. Demanding it. She yielded to him on a little moan of pleasure and he thrust his tongue inside.

Hannah. She smelled of sand and sea and sunshine, of happy days long ago and dreams long denied. She tasted of lemon drops. She must have found his store of candy in the kitchen.

Hannah. Hungry now, Drew deepened the kiss, plundering her mouth, stroking his tongue roughly against hers. Desire, heavy and hot, pooled in his loins and he pulled her closer. Her arms lifted and slipped around his neck. She opened her mouth wider, her tongue dancing with his.

Drew shuddered at her response and clasped her even more tightly. Oh, God, he ached for her. How long had it been? How long since he last experienced this extreme degree of need? Ten years, that's how long. Not since Hannah.

He released her mouth just long enough to steal a breath, then he was back sucking and nipping and nibbling at her lips. His hands swept down her back, cupping the sweet curve of her buttocks and pulling her dose, agonizingly close, but not nearly close enough. Instinctively, he pushed himself against her, seeking, throbbing, needing to claim.

Her hands drifted down from his neck, sweeping across the breadth of his shoulders, drawing circles down his back. When her hips joined in the rhythm, rocking with his, Drew discarded all pretense of control. He gathered her skirts in great, impatient handfuls, pulling upward, desperate to bare her skin to his touch.

Ahh. She was naked beneath her skirt, and he remembered seeing her laundered chemise and drawers hanging next to the sheets. He slid his fingers across the silk of her skin, touching her, kneading her, teasing her. So intent was he upon the taste of her, the scent of her, the experience of her, that at first he didn't register her resistence. It took her stammered "No!" to break through the sensual fog clouding his mind.

He loosened his hold and Hannah tore away from him, stepping backward. She stared at him, a tormented light haunting her eyes, cutting him like a bowie knife. Then she blinked. Once. Twice. She shut her eyes and visibly shuddered.

Time spun out like spider's silk. Drew's heart pounded; the heat in his loins provided a constant ache.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said softly.

"Hannah," he said in a rough, ragged tone. "I don't know… I didn't mean…" How had things gotten so out of hand so fast? When had he lost all control? Why had he veered so completely from his scheme? What had happened?

Hannah happened.!!!Oh, hell.

In that moment Drew again heard that nagging voice ask, Is a wedding night all you need from this woman? This time, he couldn't deny the answer. No. He did want more from Hannah Mayfield than simple, uncomplicated sex. Damn it all, it was true. Despite the hurt and heartache of years gone by, despite the mistakes they'd both had made, he wanted more than the honeymoon that hadn't happened.

Drew still wanted the life she had promised him a decade ago. He wanted the feeling of completion he'd lost and never found again in another woman's arms. He wanted the laughter and the bickering and the love. Oh, God, the love.

He wanted the marriage.

The realization left him raw and reeling. Wonderful. Just wonderful. Didn't he remember the lessons of the past? Didn't he remember the pain? Only a dolt would want any more of her than what she owed him beneath the sheets. Only a masochistic sap-skull would open himself up to the same pain she'd caused once before. Damn me for an idiot sonofabitch. He muttered softly, "To think I thought this was just about sex."

He didn't know he'd said it aloud until he saw her body stiffen. Her chin came up, her shoulders went back. Fire lit her. eyes.

"What is this all about, Drew?" she asked, her voice icy and betraying a slight tremble. "Tell me. It's about more than a silly honeymoon, isn't it? You have some secret agenda, so tell me what it is."

He all but quit listening after the words silly honeymoon. How could she deny what they'd had together that way? His temper flared, red-hot and steaming, and he struck out, wanting to hurt her as she had hurt him. "I told you what I wanted, dammit. Sex. That's it. Nothing more. Just sex."

The words echoed on the breeze swirling between them. Hannah's eyes went wide and wounded. "I don't believe that," she whispered.

Now Drew was running on pure emotion, thought having little to do with anything that came out of his mouth. "Well, you should, because it's the truth. You hurt me when you left. I wanted to get back at you. I'm a damn fine lover, Hannah Mayfield, and I intend to ruin you for any other man. You'll look back on leaving me as the biggest mistake of your life."

She sucked in an audible breath. "Revenge. That's what this was—the contest, the kiss. It was a game for you, wasn't it? A mean-spirited game of Pay Hannah Back." Before he could respond, she added, "I never thought you could be so cruel."

Then she turned and fled to the cabin, slamming the door shut behind her.

Drew's stomach sank like a Brass Minnow bait and he pushed both hands through his hair in exasperation. What the hell had just happened? How had everything gone so awry so quickly? If marriage to Hannah Mayfield was what he wanted, he and his vile temper had just set it back at least a dozen years. "You are smooth as a starfish, Coryell."

He stood staring at the cabin door, his heart pounding, his breathing hard. Damn him for his lies, curse him for speaking from emotion rather than thought.

If he had taken a moment to think about it, he could have told her the truth. He could have explained what a fishing trip, a kiss, and a bowl of hoop stew had taught him.

"I could have told her that I've never stopped loving her."

Hannah shut the cabin door behind her, then leaned back against it and exhaled a shaky sigh. Her knees went watery and the tremble in her heart worked its way out to her arms and legs, and she slid to the floor in an undignified heap.

Curse Drew Coryell. He had fooled her hook, line, and sinker. "That slimy eel. That barnacle. The man belongs on the sea floor sucking up silt like the other bottom feeders."

And she should be boiled in fish oil for letting him get the better of her.

As quickly as it came, her temper dissipated, leaving despair in its wake. He'd never had any intention of handing over the declaration. He'd set out to seduce her from the start. The Peck, the gentlemanly behavior, the hoop stew, the fishing contest, his goading superiority guaranteed to stir her passions—he'd formatted a battle plan and set it into motion like a West Point general. And she, fish-brained woman that she was, fell without a fight.

Agitated, Hannah pushed to her feet and started pacing the room, her mind spinning like a whirlpool. What should she do now? Should she stand and fight back? What did she want?!!!His love.

"No!" The denial burst from her lips like a cry of pain. She wouldn't think that. She would not allow her mind to go in that direction.

She had come to Wild Horse Island as a representative of the Texas Historical Preservation Society. She'd made this trip for one reason alone: to obtain on behalf of the citizens of Texas the only known surviving copy of the Republic of Texas's Declaration of Independence.

If that's the case, whispered that wicked little voice in her head,!!!then why did you lie to your father about where you were going?

Hannah shut her eyes and pressed her palms hard against her forehead. "No. No. No. No. I won't. I won't think that." Drew admitted to being out for revenge. He was nothing more than a predator. He was a shark who did his swimming on land, and she'd better remember it.

Seconds ticked by as she debated what to do. Until now she hadn't believed he'd send her away from here without the declaration—contest or no. The young man she'd married had been proud of his heritage, proud to be a Texan, and she had felt in her bones that he'd be honored to present the document to the State of Texas on behalf of the Coryell family.

Apparently, she'd been wrong. Apparently, the man cared more about avenging the blow she'd dealt to his masculinity by recognizing him for the beach ne'er-do-well he was, than about preserving the history of Texas, of honoring the men who fought and died for the ideal of independence.

Or did he?

The question whispered through her mind like a gentle ocean breeze. As the minutes ticked by, Hannah stopped trying to ignore it.

Was Drew being truthful when he made those hurtful claims? Did he feel nothing for her but lust? If so, why all the passion in his kiss, in his words? Why all the emotion?

Maybe his attempted seduction was more than coldblooded revenge.

Hannah pondered the question a moment, then shrugged. Her mind was a muddle. She needed to clear it before she could do any proper thinking. To that end, she decided she'd finish up the laundry and then go swimming. She also decided Drew deserved to donate a shirt to the cause.

Hannah crossed the room to Drew's trunk and threw open the lid. She dug to the bottom for the pristine white silk businessman's shirt she'd spied and wondered over earlier. Removing it, she held it up before her. Saltwater would ruin this beautiful cloth.

Hannah smiled. Sometimes a girl simply had to take her pleasures wherever she could find them.