startled her. Was he going to seal their presumed truce with a hug, or a kiss? A dizzying heat rushed through her at the thought.
His callused hands swept down her arms, brought her wrists together…and held them fast in one large palm while he reached beside him for the handcuffs. “I know you don’t like being cuffed,” he said in the same warm, amiable tone in which he’d apologized, “but it’ll only be until we leave port and clear the channel.” The cuffs locked around her wrists with an annoying click.
That effectively dispelled her stupor. “I thought you said we were going to act civilized. Do you call this civilized?” she demanded, lifting her bound wrists for emphasis.
“Until I know you won’t try to escape, I have to take precautions.” He somehow managed to make that seem reasonable. “Once we’re at sea, I’ll release you.”
Annoyance stirred in her, and she wondered if he’d keep that promise. “I won’t try to escape. I want to see the judge as much as you do.”
“Good.” He flashed her another smile, and she noticed the whiteness of his teeth against the bronze of his skin, and the golden highlights in his hair. Before she knew what he was about, he hooked his hand around her waist and scooped her up into his arms.
“I can walk!” she protested.
“No need.”
She glared at him, resentful of the handcuffs, distrustful of his new friendliness and flustered by his physical closeness. With iron-strong arms, he held her tightly against his chest as he carried her. He smelled of sea salt, the summer Gulf breeze, exotic places and clean male sweat—an intensely masculine scent, somehow. Enticing.
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