Free Torrid Nights by Lindsay McKenna Page A

desire. Slowly, she melted beneath his caressing gaze, her lips parting. A hazy magic was being spun between them, and through it, in those few seconds, Mackenna was suddenly very aware of Brock`s feelings for her. Then, as quickly as he had allowed that impenetrable wall to crumble, he built it up again, his eyes becoming hooded, unreadable. Trying to recover from the shock, she stammered, “I’m not most women.”
    “So I’m finding out,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
    Panic tore at Mackenna’s heart. She made an effort to sit up. This time, he didn’t stop her. Running her fingers through her short-cropped hair, she tried to quell her boiling feelings. Brock glanced over at her.
    “You have beautiful hair. You ought to let it grow a little longer.”
    Heat swept her neck and face. She avoided his gaze, nervously moving to the other side of the cab. “Long hair out here? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    “I’ve never seen such dark red hair, with such amber highlights. It’s as rare as you are, I guess.”
    Mackenna reeled from his sudden change. One moment he was icy; the next, personable. She cast him a confused look. “What is this? Has Sully been telling you to go easy on me?”
    “Do you think I said that because I feel sorry for you?”
    “I don’t know,” she admitted slowly. She recognized one of the many villages along the road. They had at least another hour of driving before they made it back to camp. Looking at her watch Mackenna saw it was six-thirty.
    “I’ve told you, I never feel sorry for anyone.”
    “There’s a difference between compassion and pity,” she countered, leaning back on the seat, drawing one leg up against her body.
    He gave her a sour look. “Not to me there isn’t. If you show a man pity, he has no incentive to rise above his troubles. If you ignore his crying, he’s forced to stand on his own two feet.”
    “That’s important to you?” Mackenna asked softly. “Standing on your own two feet?”
    “It’s the only way to survive.”
    “Tell me, did your father rule your family with an iron hand?”
    Brock gave her a cautious look. “Why?”
    Mackenna rubbed her eyes, trying to force herself awake. “It’s been my experience that kids from very strict homes do one of two things.”
    “Which are?”
    “They either rebel, and become the exact opposite of their parents…”
    “Or?”
    She met and held his challenging blue eyes. “Or they become the epitome of what they hated while growing up. If your father ruled with an iron hand, so will you.”
    Brock gave her a disgruntled sidelong glance, but he remained silent. Some ten minutes later, he asked, “Where’d you get all this insight, Mackenna?”
    The way he rolled her name off his tongue was like a physical caress, and Mackenna warmed to it. Gathering her scattered thoughts she said, “From life. Where did you get yours?”
    He managed a grin. “Same place you got yours. But we came up with different views.”
    “That’s obvious.”
    “An understatement,” he agreed.
    Grudgingly, she returned his smile. “There’s always room for improvement, though.”
    “The perennial optimist.”
    She shrugged, resting her chin on her knee as she stared out the dusty windshield. “Once I was and then…” she stopped, remembering.
    “And then what?” he prodded.
    “Ryan’s death changed all that. Just in the past day or so I find I’m not looking at things so glumly. It’s nice, believe me. I can remember as a kid waking up in the morning bursting with joy. I wanted to take the world by storm. I could hardly wait to get out of the house and start the day. This last year, though, I didn’t even want to crawl off the cot and leave the tent. I forced myself to work despite how I felt emotionally.”
    She gave a long sigh, lifting her shoulders as if to get rid of a great weight she had been carrying for too long. “It feels nice to hope again.”
    Brock snorted softly. “How you’ve