Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(36)

Somehow, she needed to shock him out of this blind, persistent belief in destiny.

She cast a brief glance sideways, over the edge of the outcropping. “Perhaps it’s my destiny to fall into that pool.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous about it? You said yourself, if it’s meant to happen, it will happen. I’ll fall into that pool. And what then?”

He retreated a pace, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I—”

“What then, Rhys?” Her eyebrows rose. So did her voice. “Should I just be still and wait for my destiny? Would you just sit back and wait to see if I’m fated to drown?” She inched away from him, closer to the edge. “After all, it’s pointless to resist.”

Recognition flashed in his eyes. “Merry Lane, don’t you dare—”

“Fate is fate,” she said.

And then she took a large, retreating step … into nothing.

Chapter Nine

Meredith wasn’t there anymore. Rhys’s bones weren’t, either.

And what he rationally knew must have passed in an instant, seemed a bloody eternity. An eternity during which, of all absurd things, he found himself pondering science.

He’d never understand the principle of gravity. How was it that his heart soared into his throat, at the same time the earth was tugging her body down?

For that matter, the earth was taking its damn sweet time with the tugging.

Splash.

Finally. Oh, thank God. Splash was good. Splash was much, much better than thud. Or crack.

He was jarred into motion. Maddeningly, his first motion was to sink to his knees with relief. But a half-second later, he’d scrambled to the edge of the overhang and stuck his head over, scanning for a glimpse of her in the darkened pool. If she’d drifted left, been caught beneath the falls … she’d be churned and tumbled by the force of the cascade, with no escape.

But no. He caught sight of her to the right. The light fabric of her dress billowed beneath the clear surface, like the reflection of a cloud. She’d been spared the rocks and falls. But the pool was deep there.

Damn teasing woman. She knew how to swim.

Didn’t she?

Without tearing his eyes from the pool, he tossed his coat aside and began yanking at his boots. Surely any moment now he’d see her break through the surface. She’d smile up at him, taunting and triumphant, those silver eyes flashing like flints.

Any moment now.

“Meredith,” he bellowed, pulling his right boot free. “That’s enough. You’ve made your point. It isn’t funny.” He faltered with the left boot. Damn stiff knee always made it harder. Still she didn’t surface. Perhaps she was tangled in weeds. Or maybe she’d hit her head on the way down.

He wanted to curse, but he didn’t. No breath to waste. By the time he finally had off with both boots, exertion and panic were driving the air from his lungs. With a ragged gulp to refill them, he dove after her.

The cold smacked him first. Then the wet seeped in. He fought the impulse to flail about the surface, instead letting the weight of his body pull him deeper.

Into the dark.

He opened his eyes to the stinging water, straining to make sense of the murky shadows. With Herculean effort, he forced himself to be still and turn a slow circle in place.

Rocks.

More rocks.

Shaft of sunlight, bubbles from the falls.

Empty darkness.

Meredith.

In one stroke, he was at her side. Throwing an arm about her waist, he powered their way up with the other, until they broke the water’s glassy surface from beneath. From her first splash to their surfacing, the entire ordeal had probably lasted thirty seconds. Rhys felt like thirty years had been added to his age.

Kicking fiercely, he pushed them to the pool’s edge, where it was shallow enough for him to stand. He set Meredith on a boulder submerged just below the water’s surface, cradling her head and shoulders in his arms while the water did what it would with her billowing dress.

She did not move. Her eyes were closed.

Sputtering, he pushed the hair back from her face and bent his head to check for breath. Warmth puffed against his cheek.

“Meredith.” He gave her a shake. “Meredith, wake up.”

Some vestige of his battle mentality asserted itself. There was once a time when he’d been cool and collected in such situations. He checked her for obvious signs of injury, looking in vain for signs of swelling or blood.

When that yielded no discoveries, he resorted to frantic shaking again. “Jesus, Meredith. Don’t do this to me.”

Her eyes fluttered open. Straightening her arms, she brought herself to a sitting position on the boulder. Her legs dangled free in the water.

A faint smile nudged the corners of her lips. “If that was a test of faith,” she said evenly, “I think you failed.”

“You … You …” Rhys shook a finger at her. “Damn it, you know that was—”

“Fate?”

And now he swore. Violently, crudely, punching at the water as he did. Rhys knew anger. He’d lived angry, to one degree or another, nearly all his years. But never before had he felt so enraged and so relieved in equal measures. The combination was so dizzying, so confusing … he couldn’t even speak, or think.