His Stolen Bride. Barbara Dunlop
* * *
Crista reached and twisted. She stretched her arms in every direction, but no matter how she contorted, she couldn’t push the tiny buttons through the loops on the back of her dress.
“Come on,” she muttered. Then she whacked her elbow against a small cabinet. “Ouch!”
“You okay?” came Jackson’s deep voice.
He was obviously only inches from the other side of the small door, and the sound made her jerk back. Her hip caught the corner of the vanity, and she sucked in a sharp breath.
“Fine,” she called back.
“I’m getting changed out here.”
“Thanks for the warning.” An unwelcome picture bloomed in her mind of Jackson peeling off his dress shirt, revealing what had to be washboard abs and muscular shoulders. She’d clung to him in the ocean and again climbing onto the boat. She’d felt what was under his dress shirt, and her brain easily filled in the picture.
She shook away the vision and redoubled her efforts with the buttons. But it wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t get out of the dress alone. She had two choices—stay in the soaking-wet garment or ask him for help. Both were equally disagreeable.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror. The wedding gown was stained and torn. She crouched a little, cringing at the mess of her hair. It was stringy and lopsided. If she didn’t undo the braids and rinse out the mess from the lake water she’d probably have to shave it off in the morning.
“Are you decent?” she called through the door.
“Sure,” he answered.
She opened the small door, stepped over the sill, and Jackson filled her vision. The cabin was softly lit around him. His hair was damp, and his chest was bare. A pair of worn gray sweatpants hung on his hips. As she’d expected, his abs were washboard hard.
“What happened?” he asked, taking in her dress.
“I can’t reach the buttons.”
He gave an eye roll and pulled a faded green T-shirt over his head. “I’ll give you a hand.”
She turned her back and steeled herself for his touch. The only reason she was letting him near her was that it was foolish to stay cold and uncomfortable in a ruined dress. She told herself that if he was going to kill her, he would have just let her go under. Instead, he’d saved her life.
His footfalls were muffled against the teak floor as he came up behind her. The sound stopped, and he drew in an audible breath. Then his fingertips grazed her skin above the top button, sending streaks of sensation up her spine. Her muscles contracted in reaction.
What was the matter with her? She wasn’t attracted to him. She was appalled by him. She wanted to get away from him, to never see him again.
But as his deft fingers released each button, there was no denying her growing arousal. It had to be some pathetic version of Stockholm syndrome. If she’d paid more attention in her psychology elective, she might know how to combat it.
The dress came loose, and she clasped her forearms against her chest to keep it in place.
“That should do it,” he said.
There was a husky timbre to his voice—a sexy rasp that played havoc with her emotions.
“Thanks,” she said before she could stop herself. “I mean...” She turned to take the sentiment back, and her gaze caught with his. “That is...”
They stared at each other.
“I don’t usually do this,” he said.
She didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t usually kidnap women, or he didn’t unbutton their wedding gowns?
She knew she should ask. No, she shouldn’t ask. She should move now, lock herself in the bathroom until her emotions came under control.
But he slowly lifted his hand. His fingertips grazed her shoulder. Then his palm cradled her neck, slipping up to her hairline. The touch was smooth and warm, his obvious strength couched by tenderness.
She couldn’t bring herself to pull away. In fact, it was a fight to keep from leaning into his caress.
He dipped his head.
She knew what came next. Anybody would know what came next.
His lips touched hers, kissing her gently, testing her texture and then her taste. Arousal instantly flooded her body. He stepped forward, his free arm going around her waist, settling at the small of her back, strong and hot against her exposed skin.
He pressed harder, kissed her deeper. She met his tongue, opening, drowning in the sweet sensations that enveloped her.
Good thing she didn’t marry Vern today.
The thought brought her up short.
She let out a small cry and jerked away.
What was the matter with her?
“What are you doing?” she demanded, tearing from his hold.
Her dress slipped, and she struggled to catch the bodice. She was a second too late, and she flashed him her bare breasts.
His eyes glowed, and his nostrils flared.
“Back off,” she ordered, quickly covering up.
“You kissed me too,” he pointed out.
“You took me by surprise.”
“We both know that’s a lie.”
“We do not,” she snapped, taking a step away.
“Whatever you say.”
“I’m engaged.”
“So I’ve heard,” he drawled. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
She couldn’t seem to frame an answer.
If not for Jackson, she’d already be married to Vern. They’d be at the reception, cutting the enormous cake and dancing to Strauss’s Snowdrops, Delores’s favorite waltz. Crista’s knees suddenly felt weak, and she sat down on the padded bench beside her.
“The thought of being married makes you feel faint?” Jackson asked.
“I’m worried about my mother-in-law. I can’t even imagine how she reacted. All those guests. All that planning. What did they do when I didn’t show up? Did they all just go home?”
“You’re not worried about Vern?”
“Yes, I’m worried about Vern. Quit putting words in my mouth.”
“You never said his name.”
“Vern, Vern, Vern. I’m worried sick about Vern. He’s going through hell.” Then a thought struck her. “You should call him. I should call him. I can at least let him know I’m all right.”
“I can’t let you use my phone.”
“Because then they’d discover it was you. And they’d arrest you. And you’d go to jail. You know, sooner than you’re already going to jail after I tell the police everything you did.” Crista paused. Maybe she wouldn’t tell them everything. Better to keep certain missteps off the public record.
“I’ve got five guys working on this.” Jackson lowered himself to the bench opposite, the compact table between them.
“Five guys working on what?” Her curiosity was piqued.
“Vern’s infidelity.”
“Vern wasn’t unfaithful.”
Jackson smirked. “Right. And you never kissed me too.”
Crista wasn’t about to lie again.