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placed in a situation where she could be killed. As he stepped out of the breezeway into the sunlight, Culver knew in the depths of his aching heart that he would still step between her and an oncoming bullet—as he had once before. He walked slowly toward the arena.
          He felt a certain satisfaction in knowing she didn't realize he was here. Pilar was at the other end of the arena, having just finished a series of jumps. She had brought the thoroughbred from a canter to a walk. As Culver placed one booted foot on the fence's lowest railing, he saw her dismount. Frowning, he watched her intently. At five foot three, she was short next to the giant horse she rode. He laughed to himself, remembering their height difference. The first time Pilar had seen him, her dark eyes had widened enormously and she'd said in Spanish, "You must be a giant from a special place on earth."
          Her low, breathless voice had sent tingles through him. Pilar had never met someone from Scotland , and the awe combined with curiosity in her gaze had made him feel special and powerful. At the time, Culver had been expecting to work with a hardened veteran woman agent. Instead, he'd found this wild, exotic orchid bud preparing to burst open to the world at large, and he'd wanted to be the one to watch each of her beautiful petals unfold, to reveal the honeyed depths of her womanhood.
          Culver shook his head. In the eight years since, he'd waited for the memory of Pilar to disappear. But as he stood at the fence, watching her pat the thoroughbred, he realized with a terrible, sinking feeling that every emotion he'd had eight years ago was just as brilliantly alive within him today, burning fiercely and without apology. Running his fingers through his short dark hair, he wondered what he would say to her. Blazing anger paralleled an aching need.
          Something happened. Culver felt it before he actually saw Pilar react. She had been petting the horse, praising it, when suddenly she turned on her booted heel and looked down the length of the arena—toward him. His heart thudded once in his chest to underscore, even at this distance, the intensity of her gaze. How he wished he could see her expression. Culver shook his head. To hell with it; the time had come. Bending down, he climbed between the rails. Sand and sawdust covered the arena, and his rough-out boots sank into the mixture as he straightened to his full height and squared his shoulders.
          Pilar gasped, her hand contracting on the reins. She had to be seeing things! But she wasn't. Her eyes widened as she realized Culver Lachlan was walking down the arena—toward her. Her heart skipped a beat as panic set in. Her breathing became ragged. Culver! The word shot through her like an arrow—striking straight to her soul. An ache began to pool in her lower body with memories of Culver's strength and incredible tenderness as he moved deeply within her, branding her his for all time.
          Tears raced into her eyes, but just as quickly, Pilar forced them away. Culver must not see her cry. He must not know how she really felt. Her hands grew sweaty as she stood by the horse, rigid with an unsettling mix of anticipation, fear and need. As he walked slowly toward her, so much came careening back to her. The sound of his laugh, low and deep, like the reverberation of a medicine drum. His pale, sky blue gaze, which sent heat jagging through her like bolts of lightning teasing the jungle canopy above her village during a storm.
          The color photo of Culver she'd studied was no match for the real thing. He was still a giant to her, built sturdily, of good strong bone, as he used to say. How many times had she lain against him? Felt the weight of him upon her like a warm, secure blanket? No feeling in the world matched that of Culver on top of her, his body a shield. He always felt more stable, more solid than she. Pilar gulped as each step brought him