Guarding the Princess by Loreth Anne White

ground and an explosive roar. In their headlights they saw a wall of chocolate-brown water streaked with foam come crashing down the river, swallowing up logs, fallen trees spinning, dead cattle bobbing, along with an old tire and other unidentifiable debris. Waves licked and churned and danced up the banks, pulling in great blocks of sand that crumbled away into the flood. On the far side of the river, the flames ate at the blackened trunks of trees, the orange glow of the fire casting a coppery sheen over the churning brown water.
    Finally Brandt doused the headlights.
    Neither spoke as they listened to the roar of the floodwaters, watching the strange interplay of ghostly orange light on the raging river. A few more minutes and they would have been swallowed by it, too.
    In silence, Brandt reached into the backseat, found the whiskey bottle, uncapped it. He held it out to her. Dalilah hesitated, then took the bottle from him. She took a deep swig and coughed, eyes watering.
    She handed the bottle back to him, and he took a deep drink himself.
    For another few seconds they sat like that, stunned, the adrenaline still humming through their bodies as the severity of what had almost happened sank in. She reached for the bottle, took another sip, put back her head and laughed. Husky, deep, real gut-laughter, a little crazy.
    “Dalilah?” He touched her, worried. “You okay?”
    She wiped tears from the corner of her eyes. He wasn’t sure whether they were tears of laughter or not. Or both.
    Then she looked at him, really looked at him, her eyes black and luminous in the faint coppery light being cast by the fire on the opposite bank.
    “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive as right now. Even though the pain is killing me.” She took another swig, handed him the bottle, wiped her mouth. Then closed her eyes as she let the whiskey do its thing.
    Brandt was startled by a dawning realization—this woman was fired by adrenaline, adversity. It fueled instead of cracked her. He got this. He got her —she was like him. And the knowledge gave him a deep twisting feeling in his chest, a sense of kinship. A bond he didn’t want. With it came a whisper of fear—they had a long way to go yet.
    She laughed again, softly, more sadly, her eyes still closed. “God, when did drinking get to be so good?”
    And now all he wanted to do was kiss her, so badly he thought he’d burst. He wanted to feel her lips against his, rip her out of that torn, wet cocktail dress, hook his fingers into that scrap of a G-string and just bury himself in her, have those firm dusky thighs wrapped around him. Become one. Defy death, affirm life—an urge as old as time.
    Her eyelids fluttered open as she sensed a shift in him, and something in her features stilled as she registered the look on his face. Their gazes held as something dark swelled between them, the pent-up emotion almost tangible. Raindrops plopped onto the canopy above. Brandt could smell the smoke, the mud in the churning water, the heat of the jeep’s engine. And he leaned forward, inexorably pulled toward her by some undeniable force. He could detect the faint scent of coconut in her wet hair. Their mouths were so close he could taste the whiskey on her breath. Her lips opened.
    The water rumbled and there was a dull boom as a tree thudded into the bank below. Another grumble of thunder growled far over the plains.
    He began to throb, ache, in places so deep he didn’t know they even existed anymore. His vision narrowing, he leaned in closer and gently cupped the side of her face. She tilted her chin to him.
    Their lips touched, brushed, lightly as feathers. A volcano of lust erupted fierce into his belly, molten desire firing into his chest, quickening his breathing. She arched up into him, her hand touching his waist as he pressed his mouth to hers and her tongue found his. Brandt stroked his palm down the length of her arm, his fingers softly covering hers, kissing her harder,