Water Witch by Jan Hudson Page B

China.
    For what seemed like eons to her, Sam just stood there, eyes closed, sucking in great gulps of air. After a while he chuckled.
    “Love, you do strange things to my body and my good sense. In another minute I’d have had you stripped and on the rocks.” He refastened her jeans, straightened up, and stepped back. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away.” He ran shaky fingers through his hair. “Not with you. Not here. Not now.”
    She looked up at him and blinked. Now she was even more embarrassed. And irritated. Not with her, he’d said. A mountain of old insecurities teetered, threatening to crush her. Did he think she was beneath him? She fought the old feelings, stiffened her spine, and glared at him. Wasn’t an out of work geologist good enough for a retired millionaire sheep tender cum lousy artist? Well, he could just–
    He cupped the side of her face and rubbed a gentle thumb across her lips. “I have other plans for you, Angel. Long-range plans. And softer places in mind for the first time we make love.”
    As she gazed into river-green eyes filled with tender yearning, with warmth and laughter, Max was mesmerized. Her thoughts fled. She couldn’t have strung enough words together to make a coherent sentence if her life were at stake. Compared to Sam, Svengali was a neophyte.
    “Right now, my lovely water witch, we need to get this show on the road.” He slapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I figure that the sooner we can get somebody up here to start drilling, the sooner we can get on with”—he shot her a licentious grin—”more important things. How deep do you think we’ll have to drill? Most wells around here are seven or eight hundred feet. That’s as deep as my crew drilled any of the holes. Maybe we can go down to nine hundred or a thousand. It’s worth a try.”
    His words were like a bucket of ice water. The spell broke and her chin came up. “We? We? Where did you get this we? It’s my project, Sam. I can handle it without any help. But thank you for offering,” she added stiffly.
    “Do you have your own crew and equipment?”
    She shook her head. “No, but I’ll arrange for it today.”
    “Sweetheart,” he said, draping an arm around her shoulders, “do you know how much per foot it costs to drill through solid rock?”
    There was that condescending tone again. It made her hackles rise. “Certainly,” she said, shaking off his arm. “I’m not stupid. But I won’t have to drill a thousand feet. Or even seven hundred. The water is less than a hundred feet down.”
    “A hundred feet? Hell, Max, nobody hits water around here at a hundred feet.”
    Her chin lifted even higher and her black eyes narrowed. “Well, I’m going to hit water at a hundred feet. Even less than that, I expect. Maybe nearer seventy-five. And furthermore it’s going to pump enough to keep Honey Bear’s swimming pool, and half the swimming pools in Kerrville,” she added, waving her hand toward town, “full to the brim.”
    With that, she stomped off toward the truck and climbed in. Damn Sam Garrett! With him about, her emotions bounced around like a paddleball. He was making her crazy. She revved the engine a couple of times before she spun out, spewing gravel in her wake. In her rearview mirror she could see Sam standing where she’d left him, hands on his hips, shaking his head and talking to Dowser.
    Dowser. Damn. She slammed on the brakes, opened the door, and whistled. The Doberman looked up at Sam, licked his hand, then dashed for the truck.
    *    *    *
    Well, he’d done it again, Sam thought as he stood on the hill watching Max roar off. He winced when she almost collided with a juniper stump, then breathed relief when she whipped around it. Was he ever going to learn? Every time he tried to help her—and he knew she damned well needed some help—that little chin came up and she got stubborn as a mule and madder than the dickens.
    Why was she determined to be so