Time and Again

snapped the words out, but he couldn't help it. She flicked out her tongue to catch a crumb at the corner of her mouth. He nearly groaned. "I didn't wake up on the wrong side of anything."
    "Well, I suppose it could be your nature to be surly and you've managed to repress it lately."
    "I'm not surly." He all but growled it.
    "No? Arrogant, then. Is that better?" Her slow half smile was meant to annoy, but it provoked a different emotion.
    Trying to ignore her and what was going on inside his own rebellious body, he looked at his watch. "You took a long time in town."
    "My time's my own, Hornblower."
    His brows arched. If she hadn't been so smug about her own control, she might have noticed that the eyes beneath them had darkened. "You want to fight?"
    "Me?" Her lips turned up again. She was the very picture of innocence. "Why, Caleb, after meeting my parents you should know I'm a born pacifist. I was rocked to sleep with folk songs."
    He muttered an opinion, a single two-syllable word that Libby had always thought belonged to the slang of the twentieth century. Intrigued, she cocked her head.
    "So, that's still the response when someone doesn't have a clever or intelligent answer. It's such a comfort to know some traditions survive."
    He threw his legs off the edge of the bed and, his eyes on hers, slowly unfolded himself. He didn't step toward her, not yet. Not until he could trust himself not to plant a good clean jab on her outthrust chin.
    Strange, he'd never noticed the stubborn set of it before. Or that I-dare-you look in her eyes.
    The worst of it was, the arrogance was every bit as arousing as the warmth.
    "You're pushing, babe. I figure it's only fair to warn you that I don't come from a particularly peaceful family."
    "Well-" Carefully she chose another cookie. "That certainly puts the fear of God into me." After rolling up the bag, she tossed it at him so that his defensive catch crumbled half the contents. "I don't know what's gotten under your skin, Hornblower, but I've got better things to do than worry about it. You can stay here and sulk if you like, but I'm going back to work."
    She barely managed to turn around. He grabbed her arms and had her pressed into the wall, his fingers digging in. Later she would wonder why she had been surprised that he could move that quickly, or that beneath the easy disposition there lurked a fierce, raw-edged temper.
    "You want to know what's wrong with me?" His eyes, so close to hers, were the color that edged lightning bolts. "Is that what all this button-pushing's about, Libby?"
    "I don't care what's wrong with you." She kept her chin up, though her mouth had gone dry. Libby knew that for her offering an apology would always be easier than sticking with a fight. Sometimes it wasn't pacifism but cowardice. She straightened her spine and drew in a deep breath. She was sticking.
    "I don't give a damn what's wrong with you. Now let me go."
    "You should." He wrapped her hair around his hand to pull her head back, slowly exposing her throat.
    "Do you think that every emotion a man has toward a woman is gentle, kind, loving?"
    "I'm not a fool." She began to struggle, and she was more annoyed than afraid when he didn't release her.
    "No, you're not." Her eyes were on his, fury matching fury. He thought he felt something break inside him, the last bolt that had caged the uncivilized. "Maybe it's time I taught you the rest."
    "I don't need you to teach me anything."
    "That's right, there'll be others to teach you, won't there?" Jealousy clawed deep, drawing thick, hot blood. "Damn you. And damn them, every one of them. Think of this. Whenever anyone else touches you, tomorrow, ten years from tomorrow, you'll wish it was me. I'll see to it."
    With his words still hanging in the air, he pulled her to the bed.

CHAPTER 11
    She fought him. She refused to be taken in anger, no matter how deep her love. The bed sank beneath their combined weights, molding to them like a cocoon. The music drifted, calm and beautiful. His hands were rough as they dragged at the buttons of her shirt.
    She didn't speak. It never occurred to her to beg him to stop, or to give in to the tears that would surely have snapped him back to his senses. Instead she struggled, trying to roll away from his ruthlessly seeking hands. She fought, furiously bucking, pushing against him, waging a private war against the traitorous response of her body, which would betray her heart.
    She would hate him for this. The