over again. You never wanted me.
SHE WAS SO WRONG, so damn wrong. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman. And it made no sense. He didn’t like her family or her problems or the confusion she made him feel.
She’d passed out cursing him. Typical of Virginia to fade out while raising hell.
He smoothed his hand over her head, which lay in his lap, her cheek against his expanding fly. He knew it was only his imagination, but he thought he could feel the soft warmth of her breath there.
He was a sick bastard, kidnapping a woman and then getting aroused over her sleeping body. But he couldn’t help himself. Everything about her excited him, and he was helpless against her. He wouldn’t violate her, never that. But he had taken advantage. He was the one who’d pulled her so close. And even as he drove, trying his damnedest to distance himself from what he’d done, he was pulling the pins from her hair and smoothing it with his fingers. He’d told himself he only meant to make her more comfortable, but he knew it was a lie.
Her flaming hair now lay thick and full and shiny over his lap and his belly and his thighs. He shuddered, feeling in his mind and body how it would be if he and Virginia were naked. He tangled a fist in the sinfully sexy mass and pulled it carefully away from her face.
Thick brown lashes lay over her pale cheeks, her lips slightly parted, all arrogance and dominance washed away. She didn’t look like a virago or a witch. She was simply an incredibly enticing woman. But he knew better, and he could only imagine how she’d react when she awoke. It would be a while yet. She’d been sleeping for only an hour. Still, he hadn’t given her that much of the drug, just enough to make certain she couldn’t figure out where they’d gone. He hadn’t wanted her to know where they’d be staying.
The sun was trying to show itself on this hazy winter morning and they’d almost reached their destination when he felt her fingers move, clasping weakly at his thigh. She made a small moaning sound and he stilled. He wanted her to sleep just a little longer. There was one more thing he had to do—one more precaution to take—once they reached the cabin, and it would be easier for both of them if Virginia slept through it.
Because he knew without a single doubt, Virginia would never willingly give up her clothes.
He didn’t plan to give her a choice.
chapter 6
VIRGINIA OPENED her eyes and accepted the feeling of dread that swirled around her. Cautiously, not sure what was wrong or why she felt so disoriented, she lay perfectly still and peered at her surroundings. Her head pounded as she took in the rough plank walls and bare floor. She was in a narrow bed piled high with quilts, cozy and warm, but the air on her face was cool. The cabin, or more like a shack, didn’t appear to have modern conveniences, but the fireplace across the room blazed brightly, the flames licking high and casting an orange glow over the otherwise dark room.
Memories returned in bits and pieces, and with them came a deep ache in her heart. She closed her eyes and bit her lips as the emotional pain swelled.
That rotten, deceiving conniver. That miserable creep. He’d kidnapped her! He’d played her for a fool, pretending to want her, when in truth it had all been a game. She opened her eyes and willed away the tears that threatened. Virginia Johnson did not cry.
After taking several uncertain breaths, she worked up the nerve to turn her head and look for Dillon. She didn’t see him anywhere. The minuscule cabin had only one separate room, not much bigger than a closet. Through its open door she could see it was a bathroom, butting up next to the kitchen area. There was one narrow counter, a stove, small freezer and refrigerator situated around a metal sink. The cabin’s one and only window, mostly blocked by snow on the outside, was situated over the sink.
There were two chairs, one a wooden rocker, the other a threadbare armchair, facing the fireplace. The bed she was lying in—a cot, really—hugged the back wall. Beside the cot was a small dresser that served as a nightstand, holding a clock and a tiny lamp with no shade. In the middle of the room was a badly scarred pine table and two matching chairs.
There was no sound other than the snapping and hissing of the fire. She swallowed, wondering if she might have a chance to escape.
Damn the cold and the snow and whatever distance they’d covered. She would not accept being a victim without choices. It didn’t matter to her if she had to run all the way home.
But as she cautiously sat up in the bed and the quilts fell to her lap, she realized something that had escaped her notice thus far.
Dillon had taken all her clothes.
She stared, appalled, at her barely covered breasts. She had on her teddy, thank God, but other than that, she was as bare as the day she’d been born. Her nipples, stiff now with the washing of cold air, could be plainly seen through the material. Her nylons were even gone, but it didn’t matter.
Mortification hit her first. He’d removed her clothes! He’d viewed her imperfect body, no doubt in minute detail. He’d looked at her at his leisure and found the evidence of her extra pounds—her rounded hips and thighs, the softness of her belly, the fullness of her breasts. She wondered if he’d chuckled as he stripped off her clothes; had he been amused by her attempt at seductiveness?
She felt queasy, sick with embarrassment. Her face flamed and her vision blurred. It was more than a woman could accept, more than she could bear.
Thankfully, outrage hit next, bringing with it a bloodcurdling scream of rage that erupted from her throat and resounded through the tiny cabin again and again.
The door crashed open and Dillon came charging in, his body strangely balanced as if for battle, his gaze alert as he made a quick, thorough survey of the room. He held himself in a fighter’s stance, his black gaze steely and bright. Virginia could only stare.
Oh my. Closing her mouth slowly, she looked him over. He’d shed his civilized demeanor and hadn’t left behind a single trace. His long hair, held off his face by a red bandanna rolled and tied around his forehead, gave him a pagan appearance. The bruise shadowing his nose and the corner of his mouth, discolored even through his sun-browned skin, added to the impression of savagery. His jeans were faded and torn, displaying a part of one muscular thigh and two bare knees. The material over his fly was soft and white with age and cupped him lovingly. His heavy coat was gone, and his flannel shirt lay open at the throat, the sleeves rolled high over a gray thermal shirt. Incredibly, he seemed to be sweating.
His black eyes lit on her, then perused her body, lingering on her throbbing breasts and the shadowed juncture of her legs. Belatedly, Virginia grabbed the quilt and snatched it to her throat. Her insides seemed to curl up tight.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
Virginia stared at him. His chest heaved from whatever activity had made him sweat, and possibly the fright she’d given him. She realized that he must have come charging in prepared to rescue her from some unknown threat. She wanted to laugh—after all, he was her only threat—but she couldn’t manage it.
When she remained mute, he firmed his mouth into a grim line and headed back to close the door he’d left hanging open. “Stupid question, right? Do you always screech like a wet cat when you wake up?”
She was taken aback by his uncharacteristic sarcasm, and it took her a moment to gather the wit to speak. “Where
