Out of pure reflex, Whitney raised her crop to send Khan bolting ahead, then checked herself and dropped her arm.

She would stay here and face the man, admit her fault-a lot of good it would do to deny it anyway!

As Clayton drew abreast, Whitney beheld a face of such dark, menacing rage that she shuddered. In one fluid motion, Clayton swooped down, grabbed Khan's right rein, end hauled both horses to a sharp stop. "You can let go of my rein," Whitney said softly. "I'm not going to run."

"Shut up!" he hissed. Since he maintained his hold on Khan's rein, Whitney had no choice but to ride quietly beside him while he let Dangerous Crossing cool. In the oppressive silence, she tried to think cf something to say to break the tension, but the only thing she could think of was to comment on how well Clayton had managed the stallion. Under the circumstances, however, she didn't think this was an appropriate time to say, "Well done, Mr. Westland!"

At the remains of an old stone wall a few yards from where they'd first met beside the stream, Clayton halted the horses and dismounted. He tied the stallion with swift, precise movements then strode to Whitney, jerked Khan's left rein from her hand, and tied him on the opposite side of the wall from the stallion. He tamed on his heel, snapped, "Get down!" to Whitney, and stalked toward the old sycamore tree atop the knoll.

Whitney took judicious note of the taut set of his jaw, his long, purposeful strides, and felt the first tendril of fear coil in the pit of her stomach. "I prefer to stay here," she said unsteadily, watching him over her shoulder.

As if he didn't hear her, he flung his riding gloves to the grass and jerked off his jacket. He sat down with his back against the tree and drew one leg up at the knee, resting his arm across it. In a voice like the crack of a whiplash, he said, "I told you to get down off that horse."

Whitney reluctantly did as she was bidden and slid awkwardly down from Khan, stepped onto the boulder next to her, then gingerly to the ground. She waited there beside her horse, enduring the icy blast of his gaze. It dawned on her that he was striving for control of his anger, and Whitney prayed be would gain it. His eyes raked over her, riveting on a spot just below her right hand. Following his stare, Whitney realized she still held the crop, it slid from her numbed fingers.

"I believe there are several things which you enjoy as much as riding," he remarked with scathing sarcasm.

Whitney nervously clenched and unclenched her hands.

"Come, come, don't be shy," he prodded in a soft, menacing voice. "You're a young woman of many pleasures -you enjoyed humbling me into an apology, did you not?"

Whitney nodded, then winced at the blaze of fury her answer ignited in his hard features. Quickly she tried to shake her head to cover the admission she'd just made.

"No, don't deny it. You enjoyed it tremendously. And I think we can assume that besides riding and apologies, you also enjoy using the crop. Correct?"

How could she answer these questions? Whitney thought frantically. She flicked a glance at Khan, longing to flee.

In a silky, dangerous voice, he warned, "Don't try it."

Whitney stayed where she was. She didn't think she could get away, knew, in fact, that if she tried, she'd only enrage him further. Besides, if she didn't let him vent his wrath now, he'd undoubtedly go to her father. She steeled herself to endure the rest of his verbal assault.

"You wanted us to have something in common if we were going to be friends. You wanted us to enjoy the same things, didn't you?"

Whitney swallowed convulsively and nodded.

"Pick up the crop!" he clipped.

Cold fear raced down Whitney's spine, and her pulse accelerated wildly. In all her life, she'd never encountered such controlled, purposeful rage. She bent down and picked up the crop with shaking fingers.

"Bring it to me," he rapped. Whitney froze at the sudden, blinding realization of what he intended, and he said in a terrifyingly pleasant tone, "Which will you have, your father or me? Do we settle this between us now, or would you prefer that I take it up with him?"

Whitney frantically considered her choice: physical punishment meted out by this man whom she despised, or the mental anguish of reopening old hostilities with her father. Her choice was really no choice at all.

Rather than give her tormentor the satisfaction of seeing her quaking fear, Whitney reverted to an old girlhood habit of putting her chin up and assuming an appearance of remote indifference. Haughtily, she walked over and held the crop out to him like a queen bestowing the sword of knighthood, her disdainful green eyes clashing with his icy gray ones.

"Now we are both going to share your favorite amusements: Riding, using the crop, and apologizing. You will 'ride' my knee, I will use the crop, and you are going to apologize. Do you understand the rules of our little game?"

Whitney's gaze slid unwillingly to the black riding crop in his hand, then jerked back to his tanned face. She did not deign to reply.

"Lie across my lap, Whitney." He politely extended his hand to assist her, and in her terror, Whitney unthinkingly accepted it. She knelt beside him, glaring at him in stiff hatred. Cocking a dark eyebrow, he nodded meaningfully at his lap.

Drowning in an ocean of mortification, Whitney lowered herself into the humiliating position. His hard thighs pressed against her churning stomach; a beetle scurried through the blades of grass inches from her nose.

Above her, she heard his voice. "I will stop when you apologize. Not before." He raised his arm and Whitney wondered wildly how much protection her riding habit would provide, then had her answer as the crop whined through the air, slicing against her clothing, welting her tender flesh. He paused, waiting. For her apology.

Whitney gritted her teeth; he could beat her senseless but she'd never give him the satisfaction of an apology. Never! His arm came up another time, the crop landed mercilessly across her buttocks. Another pause . . .

Whitney counted through streaks of vivid pain-three times, four, five. By now she was sobbing. The sixth time her body jerked and a strangled cry wrenched from her. His arm lifted, and she screamed "Stop!" then cursed herself because he had already flung the crop away.

He grasped her roughly by the shoulders and turned her in his arms to sit across his lap. Whitney tried to pull away, but Ms arms tightened, and his hand lifted to hold her face pressed to his chest. Her ribs heaved and scalding tears raced down her cheeks, soaking through the front of his shirt as she wept, more from impotent fury than from pain. As if he were soothing a child, he began to stroke her hair. Whitney angrily shoved his hand away, but he ignored her and continued.

The minutes passed, and Whitney had just gotten control of herself when his hand touched her chin, tipping her face up to his. Glaring at him through a haze of wrathful tears, she whispered, "I hate you!"

"I know you do," he said quietly. It registered on Whitney that there was neither triumph nor satisfaction on his face and, since she could find nothing else in his expression to stoke the flames of her animosity, she looked away, staring fixedly off to the left, occasionally wiping at her tear-streaked face with her fingertips.

"Look at me," he ordered gently.

"No!" Whitney retorted. "If I do, I'll scratch your eyes out, so help me!"

"You're not nearly so angry with me as you are with yourself."

"How much would you care to bet?" Whitney snapped, but she could feel her anger ebbing as she looked at Dangerous Crossing, whose satin blackness was now splashed with huge, sweaty white patches. It was a miracle that the horse hadn't injured himself, that the rider had been expert enough to stay on him, and wise enough to continue riding him instead of returning him to the stable. It was amp; double miracle that both horse and rider hadn't been seriously injured.

He was right: she was bitterly angry with herself for what she had done even if her regret was more for the sake of the horse than the man. She finally realized that Clayton was waiting for her to apologize, and since she wanted nothing more than to get away from him, she said tonelessly, "I never meant to hit the horse, I meant to hit you. But either way, I suppose it was irresponsible and dangerous, a childish act deserving of a child's punishment." "Thank you for that," he said almost tenderly. To be guilty and punished, to feel remorse and then be forgiven was a sequence of events totally missing from Whitney's childhood experience. Whenever she had apologized to her father, he had listened and then launched into a fresh tirade about her misbehavior, and Whitney had expected about the same from Clayton. She stared at him, hardly able to believe what she saw and felt. His gray eyes were full of warmth, and he was smiling at her with gentle understanding.

Suddenly, Whitney felt as if they were the best, the closest, of friends-as if there was some special bond between them now. The feeling stunned her, then surged through her, sweeping everything away in its path. "I'm terribly sorry about …"

"No more," he interrupted softly. "It's forgotten." Whitney knew, as he slowly bent his head to her, that he was going to kiss her, but instead of drawing away she shyly lifted her face and met him halfway, somehow seeking proof of forgiveness. His lips came down to caress hers in a long, tender, undemanding kiss.

Even when the kiss deepened and her lips were being sensually shaped and molded to his, Whitney knew he would let her pull away if she tried. Instead her hands crept up his chest, twining around his neck, and everything changed.