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  Dedication

  When my sister-in-law moved from the West coast to Florida, I thought she’d lost her mind. As a lover of mountains and forests, I naïvely thought I’d hate humid Florida. Then my husband and I visited. Granted, the humidity still kicks my butt, but it’s an amazing place. I fell in love with the swift and sometimes violent weather swings, the great variety of birds, the bajillion lizards, and even more seashells. “I want to see the Everglades,” I declared. Because my sister-in-law and her husband couldn’t take the time from work, Dick and I headed across what’s called Alligator Alley. I drove, gaping and then gaping some more as the world turned purple and rain came at us sidewise. In true writer fashion, even as I fought to keep the car on the road, the “what ifs” started. What if a man on a black motorcycle locks eyes with a woman one storm-tossed afternoon? What if he loses controls and slides into the Everglades? What if, when the woman goes looking for him, he isn’t there?

  So Mern, this one’s for you. I couldn’t love you more if we shared the same genetics. Thanks for giving me a reason to call Florida the home of my heart.

  Chapter One

  The storm flung itself at Mala Bey’s car. Attacking, sometimes shrieking, it buffeted her small vehicle until Mala was forced to slow to thirty miles an hour. Her windshield wipers were all but useless.

  Blue-black, the cloud-choked sky dominated everything. Occasionally, Mala glimpsed a sliver of gold on the horizon which gave her hope that the entire world wasn’t locked in this furious Florida afternoon storm, but she had little time to reflect on anything except making sure she didn’t skid off the highway and plunge into the Everglades lurking on either side.

  Alligator Alley. If she got out of this alive, she’d get in touch with whoever was responsible for naming highways and tell them they hadn’t gotten it right. This too-thin thread of civilization cutting east to west through southern Florida should go by something like Hell’s Back Yard. Dark Deception. Thunder—

  Crack!

  The explosion worked in harmony with the fingers of brilliant light erupting on the sky. As a native of a state regularly attacked by violent weather, she should be used to the power and overwhelming energy. But, except for a handful of vehicles plowing through the deluge, she was alone in a savage and primal land. The storm wouldn’t last long, and the sun would return to bake and steam the earth. She should have waited to travel from Naples to Fort Lauderdale, but a huge chunk of her future lay at the end of this highway.

  The sky became both beautiful and powerful as lightning slashed and scarred. It seemed to hold, then grow and shudder, sending out endless fingers of fire. Although she’d told herself to be ready for the next cannon shot, when it came, she barely stifled a squeak. The car shuddered. She would swear it briefly lost contact with the road. She wanted to pull over and wait out the anger and energy, but if she did, she’d have to park near the encroaching Everglades. For reasons she didn’t want to examine, that frightened her more than driving through lightning and thunder and punishing downpour.

  Frightened…or something else?

  Creatures that should have never been spawned dwelled in the Everglades. Alligators, panthers, snakes—massive, slithering, silent snakes. That’s what upset her, not the sense that she was about to be challenged, changed.

  Once again lightning rent the sky. The incredible display called her to it.

  Now going little more than twenty miles an hour, she headed arrow-like toward the blue and black horizon. A moment ago she’d been terrified. Terror now turned into fascination. This monster of energy and might held her in its grip. She gave herself up to it as she’d long dreamed of giving herself, totally and without will or thought, to a man and became nothing except nerves and sight and hearing.

  In that secret dream she walked naked and hot with need toward a dark, faceless man. His powerful body hummed, challenged, promised. Urged by his silent command, she’d dropped to her knees before his spread legs and lowered her head in submission. Waiting for him to claim her.

  When he gripped her hair and forced her to look up at him, her body heated even more. Became less hers. She immediately arched her back and offered him her breasts which he took in his large, rough hands. The work-hardened paws claimed her breasts, flattening her swollen nipples against his palms. He began a demanding, slow circular motion that brought her to a place somewhere between pain and climax. Her clit swelled and became wet, and with breath and eyes, she begged him to thrust his cock into her. To end the wanting. He wore only tight black briefs, and his hard penis filled them. But she knew not to touch him until he gave her permission.

  But then…then…

  Movement on her left pulled Mala back from the brink of madness and ecstasy, burying but not killing the fantasy and her unchecked reaction. She was being passed, not by a car, but a death-black motorcycle. Its rider crouched low over the beast like an Indian riding a wild stallion—or a man riding a woman. Maybe her. He wore a helmet so dark it was nearly impossible to determine where it left off and the thunder-born landscape began. If it hadn’t been for the clear face mask, she might not know whether a man or woman was on board.

  A man.

  He passed slowly, not cautiously so much as if he was determined to get an intimate look at her and didn’t care how long it took, or whether exceeding her speed put him in jeopardy. She tried to take her eyes off him, but the man held her with something, maybe nothing more than an extension of the forces which existed around and above and beyond them.

  She took in his bulk, the power and size and agility of him, and wondered if any woman had ever tamed the wildness she sensed in him. If she might be that woman. The motorcycle, lean and sleek and dangerous, seemed hard-put to battle wind and rain. A lesser man would have been forced to stop, or been blown off the road before he could.

  Not this panther-man.

  Her gaze didn’t waver from him until he’d passed. Nothing else mattered during those seconds when their eyes met and locked and communicated something which now rode deep and hot in her belly.

  It couldn’t be. She wasn’t feeling sexual excitement! Yeah, right.

  He was a stranger, a damn fool risking his life on an all-but-deserted highway in danger of being overtaken by the ravenous jungle. He couldn’t possibly sense that he embodied her secret and unattainable fantasy.

  He was arrogant and self-confident, a physical creature who leaped from one adventure to another, one sexual partner after another, seeking release for his boundless energy. Whether there really were such men, or whether they simply existed deep and untapped and usually unacknowledged in her subconscious, she didn’t know, didn’t care.

  He was man. Animal. Sex. Storm and darkness, woven seamlessly into the environment.

  Now he was ahead of her. He’d eased up a little as if he’d sensed her speed and easily matched his to hers the way her dream master-lover knew how to bring her to the brink of climax again and again—to extend the awful, sweet torture. She could tell he was a large man, well over six feet, with shoulders so wide that if she tried to wrap her arms around them, she’d be hard pressed to do so. A man like that could never be controlled. He was a master of control.

  Get a grip, right now!

  He wore nothing to protect himself from the liquid spear points slamming into him. The lack of a coat didn’t surprise her. Even in the midst of a storm, the temperature seldom dropped below eighty degrees. Still, his bare hands and arms and throat must be taking a terrible beating. It occurred to her that her vehicle would provide him with protection and wondered why he’d passed instead of remaining behind her.

  He looked over his shoulder. Again those eyes, all but hidden under their Plexiglas protection, reached for her, grabbed hold of the hungry woman in her an
d said something silent, and elemental, and undeniable.

  She took in several open-mouthed breaths and tried to force her attention on what had brought her out here today, but the case filled with silver and abalone jewelry which rode on the seat beside her no longer mattered. Only this rain slickened highway, the dark unknown on either side did. The panther-man ahead of her.

  Mostly the man.

  She was now going just under twenty miles an hour, her speed determined by the motorcyclist. He must have realized he’d made a mistake by passing and wanted back the scant rain-break her car provided. After several minutes of indecision, she pulled into the passing lane. Keeping far to the left to reduce the amount of water her tires threw at him, she touched the gas pedal.

  He was looking at her again, those shadowed eyes sealing them together. Something that tasted too much like fear invaded her. She absorbed it until it changed into need which found a home at the joining of her legs. The heat she now felt had nothing to do with outside temperatures and everything to do with desire and fantasy.

  Fantasy.

  The rain would cease. He’d stop his motorcycle. She’d pull over next to him and get out. He’d dismount, take off his helmet, revealing ebony hair and eyes which carried the same compelling color and spear her with his gaze. He’d reach out his hand, not in question, but command. She’d place hers in it, warm and strong and wet, leather against silk. With him leading the way, they’d step into the jungle. The jungle would absorb them.

  “Strip,” he’d say. “Now.”

  And she would. The civilized woman whose days were filled with trying to earn a living would cease to exist. Instead, she’d allow herself the heady freedom of focusing totally on her body and on his. To hell with responsibility. Her heart would beat like a drum in a hard-rock band. She’d stare at his totally naked body, not a quick and furtive glance, but bold and open because he belonged to her—just as she belonged to him. It would be night, endless night and endless sex.

  That’s enough! Get a grip!

  She was ahead of him. Feeling less in control than she imagined possible, she concentrated on the complex task of herding her car back to the right. After a moment, she again saw him in her rear view mirror. The storm showed no sign of exhausting itself, and she told herself that the least she could do was run interference for this reckless rider. He’d be grateful for her thoughtfulness. He’d—

  This wasn’t a man ruled by gratitude. Not gentle. Confident of his power over women.

  How she’d come to that conclusion didn’t matter. This was her fantasy. Hadn’t her creativity always been ignited by the colors and sounds and messages of nature?

  Only today, a man who was both stallion and panther, not nature, held her. She tried to imagine him in suit and tie responding to voice mail and faxes, hunched over a computer, corporate decisions an everyday occurrence.

  No. This was a physical man. What she’d seen of his shoulders and back and arms and legs told her that. He earned his living with the strength in that work-honed body.

  The possibility that he shared his world with a woman nearly made her scream. Hands locked around the steering wheel, she entertained the image of ripping out that woman’s throat. Reminding herself that he wasn’t hers to claim, she tried to imagine where he lived, whether he walked into an empty house at the end of the day or—why should she feel this way about a man she didn’t know?

  Not a house. A boat.

  Where that thought came from she couldn’t say, but it fit with what her imagination was creating. He’d fall asleep lulled by waves and the sound of seabirds. He knew and loved and accepted the rhythm of the ocean. Maybe he was the descendant of pirates.

  A pirate took what he wanted. Armed with knives and confidence, he’d seize a woman and throw her, bound and helpless, onto his boat. He’d stand over her, legs widespread to reveal the awesome size of his penis. Fear would weaken his captive’s limbs and when he knelt and straddled her, she’d beg for mercy.

  Mercy? He didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  Mala was telling herself she’d taken the fantasy over the edge when she realized she couldn’t see him. She panicked, terrified he’d hit something or been knocked off balance by a powerful gust of wind and was being slammed to the pavement.

  When he emerged from her blind spot and began to pull alongside again, relief washed through her. That and an appetite for what he was which clawed and demanded. She looked over at him, nodding casually in the hope he wouldn’t suspect what was taking place inside her. He didn’t return her lying nod, and it seemed as if his gaze was a little less remote and disturbing. More knowing.

  The rain served as a filmy curtain between them. When lightning burst, she was momentarily blinded. Blinking, she now perceived him as an outline, still strong and competent, too dark. He and the motorcycle had become one. The pavement beneath and wilderness behind and beyond all blended into a nearly indefinable whole.

  Crack! Crack!

  The twin thunderclaps reminded her of how wrong she was to think she could exert any control over the weather. She waited with a concentration that separated her from the reality of the man she shared the road with. When she looked for him again he was—

  Sliding. Motorcycle out of control! Too-thin tires fighting to grip slickened pavement. Plowing into the Everglades.

  “No!”

  Chapter Two

  Mala slammed on her brakes. The car jerked to the left and away from what she could still see of the rapidly disappearing motorcycle, but she fought until her vehicle once again obeyed her command. Although some portions of the country between Naples and Fort Lauderdale were little more than swampy prairie, along here the Everglades were everything tourists and residents alike expected of one of the few truly wild areas left. Great moss-hung cypress, saw palmetto stands, pools of dark swamp water, endless muck, all that and more waited for the out-of-control motorcycle and its hard-muscled, helpless rider.

  What had happened didn’t matter. Neither did why. Metal and rubber and flesh and bone were being sucked into the wilderness, not by accident, but because some force dwelled in that vastness of water and vegetation. Whoever, whatever it was had snared her fantasy man and was bent on claiming it.

  “No!”

  Although everything remained a blur coated by the raging sky, she knew he was gripping the handlebars with every ounce of strength in his body. His foot massaged the brakes as he sought that delicate balance between a hard slam and a controlled slowing. If the pavement hadn’t been greased with water, his expert handling would have won the battle, but nature had lined up with the opposition. Nothing he did or might do was enough.

  She watched him slide almost gracefully out of view, dense foliage and more swallowing him. Although her own squealing brakes and the blood pounding in her temples made a disturbing jumble of sound, she half believed she heard him yell in defiance and denial.

  Then he was gone.

  “No!” she screamed again. Even before her car stopped rocking, she’d killed the motor and hurtled herself out into the deluge. She was instantly soaked, rain running off her hair and chin and arms. Her sandals were meant for carrying her through a humid day of peddling her wares, not entering the Everglades. Even if they were, could she bring herself to put civilization behind her?

  Trapped by indecision, she danced on her toes on the graveled shoulder and stared at where she’d last seen the motorcycle and its rider. Although she weighed just 120 pounds, she was already sinking into the rain-saturated sand. How much worse it must be for the man if he’d landed in swampy ground.

  Of course he had. She had no doubt that his forward movement would take him into this living, breathing wilderness.

  Shaken, she took a few more cautious steps. She tried to walk beyond what a highway crew had deposited in an all-but-futile effort at providing a barrier between road and jungle, but the sodden ground gripped her shoe, and she jerked back.

  “Can you hear me? Please, can you
hear me?”

  Nothing.

  “Where are you? I’ll—I’ve got to get help. Please! Answer me. Please!”

  Silence.

  No, not really silence. The rain, wind, and thunder, even the erratic lightning created a noise that was more essence than sound. Woven into that was the music of the Everglades, a constant deep hum. She knew this highway, understood a little about how hard it had been to wrestle a thin, firm strip from the wilderness, but she’d never imagined herself walking into that wasteland.

  Until today.

  “Can you hear me? Please! Are you all right?”

  Darkness. The stench of things wet and rotting. A humming which seemed to grow and expand until his body felt as if it might explode. Mosquitoes which drove him half mad with their insistence. He lay on his side in a bog, his right leg burned from where it had struck the motorcycle’s exhaust pipe, and his mind searching, questioning. The cycle was gone now, maybe a victim of quicksand. Laird Jaeger fought back the icy taste and touch of something he refused to claim, but the effort left him without the strength for anything else. He was alive! Lost. Scared.

  No, damn it, not afraid! He became aware of liquid seeping around him, but whatever he’d landed in, it wasn’t about to suck him down to where he couldn’t breathe or see.

  Knowing he didn’t immediately have to fight the swamp allowed him to gain a small measure of control. Warning himself not to panic, he took in his situation.

  He’d been riding his motorcycle through Alligator Alley. It had been raining, the deluge accompanied by a display of light and sound that had filled him with reckless abandon, an emotion he knew as well as he did the restlessness that was part of his nature. The percussion which accompanied the thunder had actually lifted him off the ground, and he’d been hard pressed to see the divider strip, but then nature had always exerted her control over him. He’d never thought to fight it.

  Drawing in a deep and steadying breath, he identified the smell as swamp gases. Bottom line was that his mode of transportation was gone. He had no idea how far he was from the road or what direction he needed to head in order to find it. At least nothing felt broken. It was still raining, a curtain of water only partially deflected by the trees that draped themselves over and around and beyond him.