Cowboys 08 - Luke by Leigh Greenwood

her and drank. She wouldn't have admitted it for the world, but it was the sweetest tasting water she'd swallowed in many a month.
    She'd drunk most of the water before she realized her lips were touching the inside of Luke's palm. Then she became aware she was holding his hands. There was something intimate about her lips touching his skin. She hadn't intended it to happen-she'd been so angry, so goaded, she hadn't considered what she was doing-but what could be more intimate than holding a man's hands, her face lowered to drink the water caught in his palms?
    She'd never had any discernable reaction to the casual touch of the many men who'd danced with her or held her hand. But Luke's touch, his presence, gave rise to a very strong feeling. She couldn't describe it exactly, but she did know it was an attraction. It would be hard for any woman not to be attracted to a man like him, but Valeria hadn't expected herself to feel this tug, this curiosity to know what it was like to touch him, to be near him, to be held in his arms. He was rude, rough, and completely lacking in any respect or consideration for her. His clothes showed signs of heavy wear and too much washing. But for everything about him that repelled her, something attracted her more strongly. And it was not just his provocative good looks.
    She figured it must be the heat. Nothing else could cause her to feel so peculiar.
    "Have another drink," Luke said. "We won't stop again until dark."
    He withdrew his hands from her grasp and turned back to the river before she could reply. She felt abandoned. Stupid. No woman in her right mind could feel abandoned with the man practically within arms' reach. But it wasn't his physical nearness that affected her so strongly. He had brought her water. He had waded into the river, caught the water in his hands, and brought it to her. That might seem ordinary to other women, but it had never happened to her. Servants brought her food and water. No man of her rank had ever been concerned enough with her needs or wants to take care of them himself. Luke Attmore had, and he didn't even like her. These Americans were a strange breed.
    "We're lucky the winter rains lasted longer than usual this year," Luke said as he returned, water dripping from his hands. "I didn't look forward to digging for water every night for the next hundred miles."
    Valeria chose to drink rather than respond to Luke's statement. She felt like a peasant drinking from an ordinary man's hands, but she preferred it to water drunk from the finest teacup in her uncle's priceless collection. Which just went to show how desperate a person could be when thirsty. She preferred that explanation to the alternative.
    That she was attracted to Luke Attmore.
    She didn't want it to be true. She was a princess, he a hired gun. There was no common ground between them.
    She finished drinking and looked up into a blinding smile.
    "You've got water dripping from your chin," Luke said. "What would the secretary of royal etiquette say about that?"
    Before she could look for a handkerchief, Luke touched her chin with his finger, brought it all the way up until it reached her lips. Shivers chased each other through her body until she felt her legs grow weak. When he put his finger to his lips and drank the drop of water, Valeria was certain her legs would go out from under her.
    "Do you have a handkerchief?" he asked.
    She couldn't answer, not even nod her head. "It's a good thing I do."
    He dug his hand into pants she had been certain were too tight to allow access to his pocket. He withdrew a handkerchief and wiped the moisture from her chin. "We can't have a princess dripping water from her chin," he said. "What would the servants think?"
    Anger flooded through her, and she slapped his hand away. He was making fun of her. "They wouldn't think anything," she snapped.
    "American servants would."
    "I didn't think you had servants in this country." "We do, but we don't think of it as