Chain of Love by Anne Stuart Page A

ringing was
    quite furiously angry, a supposition that was borne out as a loud pounding began.
    “All right, all right, I’m coming,” she shouted crossly as she fiddled with the various locks and bolts. Before undoing the final one she
    peered through the peephole, encountering a broad, blue-clad chest.
    “If you don’t open this door, Cathy,” Sin MacDonald’s voice came unbelievably from the other side, “I swear to God I will
    break it down.”
    Hesitating no longer, Cathy slid the final bolt on the door and opened it. Standing there in all his towering six foot four glory stood a deeply tanned,
    furiously angry Sin. The last few days on the deck of the Tamlyn had turned his golden skin mahogany color; his hair was streaked by the sun, and his eyes,
    blazing as they were with anger, looked more green than hazel. He was still dressed in sailing clothes—faded denims, sneakers and a collar-less white
    knit shirt opened at his darkly tanned throat. His teak arms were crossed on his broad chest, and the expression on his face was enraged.
    If this man had been handsome before, the added days in the sun had made him well-nigh irresistible, Cathy thought dazedly, backing away from his panther
    stalk. “I—I thought you were halfway to the Caribbean by now,” she stammered, cursing herself for showing how unnerved she was.
    “I was, and still would have been if it weren’t for your self-centered foolishness,” he shot back.
    “When Charles called Meg last night she couldn’t stop crying. Of all the selfish, adolescent gestures.” He ran an exasperated hand
    through his thick brown curls. “Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself? Meg needs you right now.”
    “Meg has Charles,” she snapped. “And I fail to see what business it is of yours, or what you’re even doing here, for that
    matter.”
    “I had to fly up for an important meeting, and I promised Charles I’d get you on that plane if I had to drag you kicking and screaming through
    Dulles Airport. If it were up to me I wouldn’t give a damn what you did, but Meg and Charles need you.” His voice was grim. “Now are you
    going to go pack your bags or will I have to do it for you?”
    “If you take one step toward my bedroom I’ll scream,” Cathy replied furiously. “How dare you come in here and tell me what to do?
    Meg knows perfectly well why I’m staying behind, why I can’t leave.”
    “And why is that? Because you’re afraid to be around me?” he taunted with uncomfortable accuracy.
    “Of all the conceited-!” Words failed her. Determined to calm herself, she took three deep, slow breaths. “I don’t think we have
    anything more to say. I was in the midst of cooking dinner,” she lied. “I’m going to continue, and when I come out I want you to be
    gone.” Turning her tall, straight back on him with all the dignity she could muster, she strode into the kitchenette, praying, hoping, and dreading
    for the door to slam behind his retreating figure. Her nerves were strung taut as a wire, and when he came up behind her, his strong hands grabbing her arm
    and pulling her to face him with too much force, she grabbed the first thing she could to ward him off. Which happened to be a rather small, dull, and
    completely ineffective paring knife.
    It happened so fast her mind blurred. One moment she had turned on him, brandishing the tiny knife, in the next he had spun her around and shoved her
    against the wall, her arm twisted behind her, the knife dropping from numb and nerveless fingers. For a moment she was dizzy from the pain, convinced her
    arm was about to be dislocated. And then she was released as Sin moved away, breathing rapidly in the tiny kitchen.
    “That was a very stupid thing to do,” he said shakily. Slowly she turned around to face him, her face paper white in the fluorescent light, her
    breath coming as rapidly as his.
    “Yes,” she agreed in a whisper. “It was.” The look of the panther was back about