A group of four had rented the larger cabin: mother, father, and two young children. A pair of college girls were staying in cabin 3; a middle-aged couple celebrating their anniversary in cabin 4; and Mateo in cabin 5, the one farthest away, fitting, from what Gage had told her about him.

Mateo Morales was waiting for them in the dining room, an attractive man in his thirties with high cheekbones and smooth dark skin. He had slightly wavy, shoulder-length black hair and a lean build, with sinews that stood out in his arms and neck. He looked tough and capable, as she had expected from Gage’s description.

“Mateo, this is Abigail Holland,” Gage said. “I told you about her when we spoke on the phone.”

“Ms. Holland.” He made a polite nod of his head, his words tinged with a Spanish accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well, Mateo.” She smiled. “Please . . . call me Abby.”

Mateo’s return smile held approval. Gage explained that the man was a trusted friend, one who had saved his life on more than one occasion. Abby figured they were fortunate to have him along.

Supper was served: roast beef and gravy, carrots, potatoes, and homemade bread, with apple pie for dessert. Mae, a silver-haired, wide-hipped woman, was indeed a “durn good cook.”

When the meal was over, Mateo quietly set off for his cabin. Gage walked Abby to hers, then stood patiently on the porch as she unlocked her door.

“Want to come in for a nightcap?” she asked. “I brought that bottle of scotch we were drinking.”

Gage’s lips edged into a smile. “Smart girl. I brought one myself, though once we’re in the bush, there’s a strict no-drinking policy.”

“Then I guess we should indulge ourselves while we can.”

The heat was back in his eyes. “One drink,” he said and followed her into the cabin. “More than that could be dangerous.”

As the door closed, she set her camera aside and turned to look at him, realized how close they were standing. With his thick dark brown hair, solid jaw, and piercing blue eyes, dear God, the man was handsome. She flashed back to Gage in her living room, naked to the waist, the muscled shoulders and thick biceps, the ladder of muscle down his flat belly.

She rested her palms on his chest and looked up at him. “Dangerous for me? . . . Or for you?”

Gage’s blue eyes seemed to burn. The hands that locked around her waist felt like bands of steel as he dragged her against him. He was aroused, she realized, the hard heavy length of him pressing against her, the message clear.

He wanted her.

Abby’s mouth went dry while dampness slid into her core. One of Gage’s big hands dug into her hair, holding her in place as he tipped her head back and his mouth crushed down over hers.