Drew's feet pounded against the sand as he ran along the edge of the lapping surf. Emotion rolled through him, providing fuel for the physical exertion he demanded of his body. Anger, bitterness, disappointment—each were part of what drove him. But the underlying energy, what added the most fuel to his fire, was self-disgust.

Damn him for a fool for thinking she might regret having left him.

At various times throughout the past decade he had indulged in fantasies in which Hannah spent her life pining away for him. Whenever he got to feeling lonely, missing her and wondering about her, he'd tell himself she undoubtedly spent the majority of her days regretting her choice. He'd imagined meetings with her at which she'd fall at his feet and beg his forgiveness. He'd daydreamed of reunions at which she threw herself into his arms and begged him to take her back. He'd visualized coming home from the office one day and finding her naked in his bed, naked in his bath, even naked on his boat, pleading with him to save her from a sorry life by taking her and making her his own.

Instead she showed up wanting not him, but his family heirloom.

"Idiot," he puffed out. You'd think a man would outgrow childish fantasies. You'd think he'd put the ache of a broken heart behind him. "Sap-skull."

Drew picked up his pace, running full speed to keep from thinking, until his lungs gave out and forced him to slow to a walk. Finally he stopped, bent over, and breathed deeply, collecting both his breath and his thoughts.

This was ridiculous. All these feelings were ten years old. It was foolish to allow them to plague him still. Of course, seeing Hannah again had stirred them up, but it was time to put them to bed.

Bed. The word hit him like a sailboat's boom.

Slowly, he straightened. He focused his gaze on an ungainly brown pelican taking flight from the beach in front of him as a deliciously wicked idea took root in his mind.!!!Why not? Why the hell not?

Turning around, he headed back toward his cabin. He turned the notion over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons, debating the sense of the entire idea.

It was mean. Ungentlemanly. Contemptible, even.

But the woman owed him.

Hannah Mayfield owed him for the broken ribs, the broken dreams. She had cured him of falling in love. Since he'd never fallen in love again, he'd never married again. Never fathered children. He liked children, liked them a lot. Hannah had cost him a family. She owed him.

"And I know just how to make her pay."

Approaching his cabin, he saw her sitting primly atop the three-legged stool he liked to sit on while whittling. When she saw him, she stood and faced him. Looking at her without a fog of anger clouding his vision, Drew was caught by surprise at the picture she presented. Hannah could easily have been a mermaid come ashore.

Her wet dress clung to her like a second skin, outlining her generous, eye-candy curves. Her blue eyes sparkled like sunlight on the surf. Her chin was up, her shoulders back, and her lips… oh, her lips… were pursed in a delicious little pout that shouted to a man,!!!Kiss me!

It took all Drew's strength not to comply that very instant.

She licked those lips and said, "Drew, please. Can we talk?"

Talk. Yeah, they could talk. That could be part of it. Talking was good. Touching was better. Lots of touching was lots better.

Because that was his price.

The woman owed him that much. She owed him the touching and the wedding night he'd been denied and the honeymoon that had been stolen from them. Maybe then, finally, he could get her out of his system once and for good.

It was, he thought, an inspired idea.

Drew sauntered over to the water-filled washtub where earlier he had dropped the wooden creel containing the speckled trout he'd caught that morning. Removing the wooden box from the water, he carried it and his polished oak tackle box down toward the water. Only then did he condescend to speak to his former wife, calling over his shoulder, "All right, Hannah. If you want to talk while I'm cleaning my lunch, feel free.'

She followed him to the board propped between two rocks at water's edge where he set down his slight burdens. He threw back the creel lid, revealing the fish, then from the tackle box he removed a razor-sharp fillet knife. Glancing up at her, he said, "Well?"

Hannah inhaled a deep breath that attracted his gaze to her bosom. This time, Drew licked his lips.

"About the declaration," Hannah said. "I knew it was special to you, but I admit I didn't realize how special. I bet we could come up with a way to make it palatable for you to turn it over to the state if we put our heads together and gave it some thought."

Heads wasn't what Drew had in mind to put together.

"Actually, I've already figured it out," he told her, lifting the fish from the creel.

Hope, relief, and the flash of another emotion he couldn't put his ringer on bloomed in her expression. "You have? What is it? Are you going to give me your copy of the Republic of Texas's Declaration of Independence?"

"That depends." He placed the trout on the cutting board.

"On what?"

"You, Hannah. On how bad you want it. On the price you are willing to pay."

The intelligent woman took a wary step backward. "Price?"

Drew nodded. "I heard your sailor say he would return in three days. I'm curious as to why you thought you needed that particular amount of time, but all in all, it suits my purposes."

"Purposes?" she said with a squeak.

He nodded and waited, drawing the moment out, savoring the sweet taste of retaliation mixed with anticipation until she put her hands on her hips, blew a frustrated sigh, and demanded, "What purposes?"

He buried the fillet knife in the board. "It's my price, Hannah. I want you to be my wife—in every sense of the word—until that sailboat comes back to get you."

Her chin dropped and her arms fell to her side. Shock rang in her voice as she asked, "Are you saying you want…?"

"Sex, Hannah. I want three days with you in my bed."

For a long moment, she simply stared at him. Then, seconds before she reacted, her eyes flashed a warning. Hannah reached for the cutting board, but surprisingly, she didn't go for the knife. In one fluid motion, she lifted the speckled trout by the tail and drew back her arm.

Drew didn't believe she'd actually do it so he didn't move at first, and then it was too late.

She slapped him in the face with the fish. "All in all, Mr. Coryell, I'd rather sleep with a shark."

Hannah didn't run along the beach like Drew had, but she certainly walked hard. She stopped once just long enough to strip off her wet and dinging petticoat, then continued on her way. Fury fueled her pace and worry plagued her mind. She couldn't believe Drew actually proposed such a scandalous liaison.

She was ashamed at how badly she'd wanted to accept his offer.

"Hussy," she muttered. "Strumpet."!!!Woman.

Hannah groaned and sank down onto the sand, gazing out at the bay. What was the matter with her?

Other than the fact that you're a twenty-seven-year-old virgin?

She groaned and buried her head against her knees. The damp, gritty material of her dress plastered against her forehead, reminding her she had another problem with which to deal. She'd forgotten to get her satchel off the sailboat. She didn't even have a change of clothing with her.!!!If you were to take Drew up on his offer, you wouldn't need any clothes.

"Aargh!" She flopped backward on the sand and closed her eyes. Sunlight wanned her face. "Hannah Mayfield, you are staring down the barrel of a real dilemma."

Her thoughts darted back and forth like a school of minnows. She could not play the wife to Drew Coryell. She could not share his bed. How dare he make such a proposition. How scandalous. How disgraceful.

How delicious.

She groaned.!!!What did you expect, Hannah? What were you hoping far?

Unprepared to answer that question, Hannah sat up. She scooped up a handful of sand and let it drain in a narrow stream from her closed fist. Over and over she repeated the action while she consciously worked to wash her mind free of troublesome thoughts. Eventually, she succeeded and slowly, she relaxed.

She'd finally made it back to Wild Horse Island, a spot she'd dreamed of for a decade. No matter what happened or didn't happen between her and Drew, she would enjoy this moment out of time here in this place of such beauty.

Standing, she brushed ineffectually at the sand clinging to her dress, then continued her walk, angling her path off the beach. She threaded her way into and around the dunes for a time, then aimed for the line of trees growing atop a rocky embankment. Finding herself back at the water, only this time some twelve feet or so above it, she halted beneath a partially shaded grassy spot that appeared so inviting she couldn't pass it up.

And so, refreshed by the peace of her walk, her face shaded by the trees, her body warmed by the sun, and her spirit soothed by the sound of the surf, Hannah slept.

Darned if she didn't dream of Drew Coryell.

Wild Horse Island was little more than a spit of sand, rocks, and trees marking the main passage to the brackish water of Wilson's Lake, where a fresh water bayou yawned into the Gulf of Mexico. Marine life occupied the waters in abundance, making the island an avid fisherman's little slice of heaven. It was also the perfect place to test Drew's most recent designs—personal and professional. He had both in mind as he followed his former wife's trail.

He'd gone about this all wrong, he could see that now. His goal was to bed Hannah. He didn't want to destroy her spirit, and forcing her surrender would do just that. Therefore, if he wanted a willing woman in his bed and not a hellcat or a martyr, he needed to take a more subtle approach. He must convince her that bedding him was the right thing for them both. In other words, he needed to seduce her.

Drew knew just how to go about it.

She'd walked a quarter of the way around the island before veering away from the beach. As he climbed the rise and spied her slumbering beneath the shade of a salt cedar tree, a grin cracked his face. For all her wandering, she'd ended up back within a hundred yards of the cabin. Drew doubted she'd done that intentionally.

Approaching the slumbering, soppy beauty, he nudged her with a bare foot. "Wake up, woman, and take off your dress."

Her eyes flew open and she sat up. "What!"

"Take off your dress." The shock on her face was priceless, and Drew couldn't help but chuckle. "You're all wet, Hannah. I think you should change."

She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. "Go away. I'm not ready to talk to you again yet."

His mouth settled into a grin. She'd always been cute when grumpy. "You need to get out of that dress. Wouldn't want you to catch a chill and fall ill."

"A chill?" She rolled her eyes. "It must be ninety degrees this afternoon. I'm not going to catch a chill. Really, Drew. If this is your idea of trying to get me to fall in with your wicked scheme, then you need a lesson or two in subtlety."

"I'm simply watching out for my guest. You can't be comfortable in that dress. Doesn't the saltwater make it stiff and scratchy?"

She grimaced and plucked at her skirt. She mumbled as she stood. "I left my satchel on the sailboat."

He'd known that, of course. It was part of what made this so much fun. "What did you say?"

Her chin came up. "I left my satchel on the sailboat."

Drew studied his fingernails. "You mean you don't have any clothes to change into?"

"No, I don't. As you undoubtedly have realized."

"Hmm…" Drew dragged a hand along his jaw and studied her. "Well, that's a problem. I'm afraid that just won't do. I need you naked from the knees."

"Excuse me?" She blew a sigh filled with frustration. "Drew, I know I didn't say it in so many words, but surely you understood I refused your proposition."

"Oh, yeah. I got that. But I still want you to get rid of that skirt. Here, you can wear this." He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to her. "You'll be more comfortable while we're negotiating an agreement about my document and demands."

"Negotiating?" She glanced down at the shirt, then back up at him. "Drew, I won't change my mind. What would that make me, agreeing to such a thing? You must understand—"

"I understand everything I need to," he interrupted. "You may have changed some over the past ten years, but you can't have changed that much. I know you want the thrill and the excitement. You want your pulse to pound." He stepped toward her, reached out, and trailed a finger down her cheek.

She visibly shuddered. "No. Really. I—"

"I know you, Hannah Mayfield," he said, his voice low and soft as the surf on a windless night. "You may claim to have made this trip on behalf of Texas, but I know another reason why you've come to my island."

"You do?" she breathed.

"Yep, so get out of that dress, sweetheart." He flashed her his pirate's grin and gestured toward the bay. "We can't go fishin' till you do."

Fishing. Hannah tugged on the tail of Drew's shirt and wished herself three inches shorter. In her younger days, she'd often bared her calves and sometimes even her knees when she waded into the surf with pole or net in hand. Never before, however, had she shown this much thigh. She couldn't believe she was doing it now, especially with Drew acting so strangely.

Fishing. He'd spoken no more about the declaration or his shameful proposition as they returned to the cabin and set about gathering up gear. When she tried to bring it up, he started talking hot spots and bait varieties and casting methods, and half of what he said sounded downright… fishy. Who ever heard of a lure called an eight-inch Throbbing Bob?

No, the man was pulling her leg, all right.!!!And he has plenty of leg to pull, considering the shortness of his shirttail.

Hannah bit back a groan. A modest woman wouldn't be seen wearing something this scandalous. But then, a modest woman wouldn't jump at the chance to wade knee-deep in brackish water to wet a hook or sling a hoop. And when it came to angling, Hannah Mayfield was never modest.

The best times of her life had been spent with a baited hook in the water. Curse the man for knowing her so well.

The road to sin, in Hannah's case, was paved with fish scales. She'd been six years old when she landed her first snapper, and from that moment on, she was hooked. She spent all her free time down on the piers, and when she grew older she saved up enough money to buy her very own rowboat. Her parents had considered fishing un-feminine, but relatively harmless, and they didn't object to their daughter's spending an occasional evening in pursuit of bounty from the sea. Of course, busy as they were with social life on Galveston Island, they didn't know that "occasional" was actually every day.

Nor were they aware when a certain young man took to tossing out a line on the pier at Hannah.

What began as innocent competition for red drum quickly changed to something else. Drew and Hannah talked over trout, flirted over flounder, and stole quick kisses while filling their nets with blue crab. Still, things didn't heat up until he gave her a firsthand lesson on how to cook hoop stew.

Now it was the memory of that fire between them that filled Hannah with a combination of longing and regret as she watched him test a fishing rod's feel. How filled with emotion she had been back then. How empty she had been ever since.

Some of what was running through her mind must have showed in her expression because she saw speculation in the look Drew drilled her way. "So," he said, canting his head to one side. "Did you do much stewing after you left me?"

She froze. "What?"

"Do you make hoop stew very often?" he said, his expression filled with innocence.

Hannah sucked on her lower lip and considered him. The man was driving her crazy. He used to call the kisses and caresses they shared "stewing." Did he remember? Of course he did. He was a man, and men didn't forget such matters. At least, that's what Hannah had been told.

Besides, she was far from oblivious to the undercurrents eddying between them. The look in his eyes when he'd tossed her his shirt had been downright… challenging. The gleam in his smile when she approached him wearing it over her damp underwear had been an out-and-out leer.

But with this latest question she sensed a darker emotion flowing beneath the affable facade. Did she make hoop stew very often? She'd best step carefully here with her answer. "My family moved inland to San Antonio. Freshwater fish makes a different tasting stew, so I called it something else."

His lips twisted as he added, "Besides, you left your hoop net back on the island, didn't you?"

She heard a taint of bitterness in his tone and decided it was advisable to change the subject. Knowing Drew, she asked about the snapper fishing of late.

He gave her a look that said he recognized her purpose, but agreed to go along with it. "Haven't done much with the snapper. Day before yesterday, though, I saw a flounder leap."

"You did?" Envy washed through Hannah. She'd heard of such a phenomenon, but she'd never seen it herself. "What was it like?"

His eyes took on a faraway cast and he slowly shook his head. "I've seen smaller schools do this, but never one this big. They'd fly into the air, fish after fish after fish, must have been hundreds of them. It was like they were part of some aquatic-air ballet. Damnedest thing I've ever seen." Glancing out toward the water, he added, "Didn't even try and catch any that day. Spent all my time looking at them. I want to change that today."

Suddenly, Hannah couldn't wait to get her line wet.

Drew loaded his arms with tackle, then motioned for Hannah to get the hoop net. The contraption consisted of a billowy sock of light rope netting laced to the perimeter of a large metal hoop some four feet in diameter. She grabbed the metal with one hand, the coiled retrieval rope with the other, and lifted.

The net smelled briny and fishy and familiar, and the scent brought a smile to Hannah's lips. Contentment descended upon her. She felt a rightness with the world she had not experienced for a very long time. She had missed the salty tang of the air, the cries of the gulls, the hissing foam of a surf as it washed against a sandy beach. San Antonio lay over a hundred miles from the coast, and while she'd found it a nice place to live, she'd never called it home. Home was the beach, the gulf, the pelicans, and crabs.

Home was where Drew lived.

She started at the thought.

Why would she think something silly like that? She had never made a home here with Drew. This had been their dream, but not their reality. The reality was that she'd left him before they had a chance to make a home.

A pang of emotion stabbed through her chest and she closed her eyes as the peace she'd so briefly enjoyed evaporated. It was true. She'd been a coward and a fool and a child afraid to take a stand against her parent. She'd vowed to love Drew forever, and the first chance she got she broke that promise. She'd thrown him away, thrown them away. It was the single most shameful thing she'd ever done.!!!I'm lucky all he did was throw me in the water.

"What's the matter, Hannah?" he asked. "You're looking a little green just when the time has come to bait your hook. Don't tell me you've gone and gotten queasy in your old age."

"No, I'm fine. Just thinking."

She tugged yet again at the shirt she wore and Drew took note of her actions. "You surprise me," he said, eyeing her legs. "What would your father say if he could see you now?"

Her staid and very proper father wouldn't say anything. Roger Mayfield, current president of the Texas Historical Preservation Society, would just kill her. "I don't care to discuss my father."

Drew shrugged and changed the subject. "Follow me, Hannah. There's good wade fishing off the point just up the beach. I keep a stewpot handy there all ready to go. There's a freshwater pond a short walk from here and a patch of wild onions a little beyond that. I'll gather the water and greens if you want to get to hooping."

Hannah frowned. She'd been looking forward to fishing, not tossing the hoop. She gestured toward the load he carried in his arms. "I was hoping to give your fancy reel a try."

"I sort of figured that when I saw your eyes stroking my rod," he said dryly.

"I did not stroke. I simply studied."

"My mistake." Drew shrugged. "Sometimes I get fantasy mixed up with reality."

She cut him a suspicious look.

He smiled blandly and said, "How about we get the stew on first? I'm working up a powerful hunger, and we'll have better luck hooking them later in the day. Besides, if you're interested in using my E. F. Meek reel, I've a whole selection of lures to show you."

"Lures?" she replied. "I don't use lures. I've always used live bait."

For a moment he watched her as if debating a question with himself. Then he wrapped his fingers around the handle of the stewpot and shrugged. "Be daring, Hannah. Try something a little different. I promise you you'll be glad you did." Tossing her a wink, he turned and headed off into the trees.

Hannah frowned as she watched him go. What a strange exchange that was. In fact, nothing had made much sense to her since he'd dropped her in the water this morning. That she understood. The rest of it… well… she might as well be a rowboat missing its oars, and Drew the strong current carrying her toward an unknown destination.

"Oh, quit being a fool and just fish," she muttered.

With hoop net in hand, she waded out into the briny water. Ten years having passed since she'd last handled the bulky contraption, Hannah found it difficult to maneuver at first. It took a few attempts to get a feel again for the motion, but once she did she was able to give the hoop a good throw.

Drew was correct about the abundance of sea life at this spot. The first throw netted a red drum and a sand trout. The second, a croaker, a flounder, and three blue crabs. The third toss captured so many fish that Hannah had a devil of a time pulling it up. But she laughed with delight when she finally landed her haul, and by the time Drew returned she had seafood to fill three kettles and a pair of tired arms. She was having the best time she'd had in years.

"Uh, Hannah," he said when she drew back her arm to let fly another toss. "Don't you think you have enough already? We'll be cleaning fish until dark as it is."

Glancing at her catch, Hannah grinned ruefully. "I'd forgotten, Drew. It's like a treasure hunt. You never know what bounty you'll pull from the sea."

"Well, it looks like you have about a galleon of oysters, there."

She groaned at the joke and set the hoop net aside. Despite the wit—or lack thereof—he was right. It would take some time to clean all this fish. And she still wanted to try out that reel. She eyed her catch, then judged the size of the stewpot. Before Drew had a chance to stop her, she'd dumped two thirds of her haul back into water. Shrimp sank and flounder fled. Drew let loose a groan. "Why in the world did you do that? No, wait. Let me guess. You're still Love-to-catch-'em-but-hate-to-clean-'em Hannah, aren't you?"

Hannah flashed him a smile and spoke without thinking. "That's why I fell in love with you, Drew. You always cleaned my catch for me."

"Love? If that's what it was it lasted about as long as a fish in the summer sunshine."

Her smile faltered. How did she reply to that?

Thankfully, he didn't appear to need a response. Instead he picked up a trout and went about the task of cleaning. "There's another knife in my knapsack if you want to peel the potatoes."

Soon the fish were cleaned, the oysters shucked, and the shrimp and potatoes peeled. Hannah added ripe tomatoes and a pound of rice to the stewpot hung from a steel hook off an oak limb. As Drew knelt on one knee and set about starting a fire, Hannah excused herself to change into her stiff but dry dress. She'd felt the need for the protection. Traditionally, after they hung the pot was when Drew and Hannah got to "stewing".

She suspected that was why she nearly jumped from her skin when he rose, turned to her, waggled his brows and said, "So, Hannah. You ready for me to show you my Musky Wriggler?"