Captive Star: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс
her face. She’d lost her mind.
Had she fought him? No. Had she been filled with outrage, with disgust? No.
She’d enjoyed it.
She rocked herself, berated herself, and damned Jack Dakota to hell.
She’d let him kiss her. There was no pretending otherwise. She’d stared into those dangerous gray eyes, felt the zip of an electric current when that cocky mouth brushed over hers.
And she’d wanted him.
Her muscles had gone lax, her breasts had tingled, and her blood had begun to swim. She’d let him kiss her without a murmur of protest. She’d kissed him back, without a thought for the consequences.
M. J. O’Leary, she thought, wincing, tough gal, who prided herself on always being in control, who could flip a two-hundred-pound man onto his back and have her foot on his throat in a heartbeat—confident, kick-butt M.J.—had melted into a puddle of mindless lust.
And he’d tied her up, he’d gagged her, he had her handcuffed to a bed in some cheap motel. Wanting him even for an instant made her as much of a pervert as he was.
Thank God she’d snapped out of it. It didn’t matter that bone-deep fear of her feelings had been the motivation for stopping him. The fact was, she had stopped him—and she knew she’d been an instant away from letting him do whatever he wanted to do.
She was very much afraid that if she’d had both hands free, she would have flipped him onto his back. Then ripped off his clothes.
It was the shock, she told herself. Even a woman who prided herself on being able to handle anything that came her way was entitled to go a little loopy with shock under certain circumstances.
Now she had to put this aberration behind her and figure out what to do.
The facts were few, but they were clear. She had to contact Bailey. Whatever her friend’s purpose in sending the stone, Bailey couldn’t have had any idea just how dangerous the act would be. She’d had her reasons, M.J. was sure, and she thought it was likely to have been one of Bailey’s rare acts of impulse and defiance.
She didn’t intend for Bailey to pay the price for it.
What had Bailey done with the other two stones? Did she have them, or… Oh God.
She dropped back weakly on the bricklike pillow. She would have sent one to Grace. It had to be. It was logical, and Bailey was nothing if not logical. There’d been three stones, and she’d sent one to M.J. So it followed that she’d kept one, and sent the other to the only other person in the world she’d trust with such a responsibility.
Grace Fontaine. The three of them had been close as sisters since college. Bailey, quiet, studious and serious. Grace, rich, stunning and wild. They’d roomed together for four years at Radcliffe and stayed close since. Bailey moving into the family business, M.J. following tradition and opening her own bar, and Grace doing whatever she could to shock her wealthy, conservative and disapproving relatives.
If one of them was in trouble, they were all in trouble. She had to warn them.
She would have to escape from Jack Dakota. Or she’d have to use him.
But how much, she asked herself, did she dare trust him?
In the bathroom, Jack studied his mutilated lip in the mirror. He’d probably have a scar. Well, he admitted, he deserved it. He had been a pig and a pervert.
Not that she was entirely innocent, either, lying there on the bed with that just-try-it-buster look in her eyes.
And hadn’t she pressed that long, tight body to his, opened that soft, sexy mouth, arched those neat, narrow hips?
Pig. He scrubbed his hands over his face. What choice had he given her?
Dropping his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror, looked dead-on, and admitted he hadn’t wanted to give her a choice.
He’d just wanted her.
Well, he wasn’t an animal. He could control himself, he could think, he could reason. And that was just what he was going to do.
He’d probably have a scar, he thought again, grimly, as he touched a fingertip gingerly to his swollen lip. Just let that be a lesson to you, Dakota. He jerked his head in a nod at the reflection in the spotty mirror. If you can’t trust yourself, you sure as hell can’t trust her.
When he came out, she was frowning at the hideous drapes on the window. He glared at her. She glared back. Saying nothing, he sat in the single ratty chair, crossed his feet at the ankles and tuned into the movie.
Hercules was over. He’d probably triumphed. In his place was a Japanese science-fiction flick with an incredibly poorly produced monster lizard who was currently smashing a high-speed train. Hordes of extras were screaming in terror.
They watched awhile, as the military came rushing in with large guns that had virtually no effect on the giant mutant lizard. A small man in a combat helmet was devoured. His chicken-hearted comrades ran for their lives.
M.J. found the candy bar from her purse that Jack had tossed her earlier, broke off a chunk and ate it contemplatively as the lizard king from outer space lumbered toward Tokyo to wreak reptilian havoc.
“Can I have my water?” she asked in scrupulously polite tones.
He got up, fetched it out of her bag, handed it over.
“Thanks.” She took one long sip, waited until he’d settled again. “What’s your fee?” she demanded.
He took another soda out of his cooler. Wished it was a beer. “For?”
“What you do.” She shrugged. “Say I had skipped out on bail. What do you get for bringing me back?”
“Depends. Why?”
She rolled her eyes. “Depends on what?”
“On how much bail you’d skipped out on.”
She was silent for a moment as she considered. The lizard demolished a tall building with many innocent occupants. “What was it I was supposed to have done?”
“Shot your lover—the accountant. I believe his name was Hank.”
“Very funny.” She broke off another hunk of chocolate and, when Jack held out a hand, reluctantly shared. “How much were you going to get for me?”
“More than you’re worth.”
Now she sighed. “I’m going to make you a deal, Jack, but I’m a businesswoman, and I don’t make them blind. What’s your fee?”
Interesting, he thought, and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “For you, sugar, considering what you’re carrying in that suitcase you call a purse, adding in what Ralph offered me to turn you over to the goons?” He thought it over. “A hundred large.”
She didn’t bat an eye. “I appreciate you trying to lighten the situation with an attempt at wry humor. A hundred K for a man who can’t even take out a single hired thug by himself is laughable—”
“Who said I couldn’t take him out?” His pride leaped up and bit him. “I did take him out, sugar. Him and his cannon, and you haven’t bothered to thank me for it.”
“Oh, excuse me. It must have slipped my mind while I was being dragged around and handcuffed. How rude. And you didn’t take him out, I did. But regardless,” she continued, holding up her free hand like a traffic cop, “now that we’ve had our little joke, let’s try to be serious. I’ll give you a thousand to work with me on this.”
“A thousand?” He flashed that quick, dangerous grin. “Sister, there isn’t enough money in the world to tempt me to work with you. But for a hundred K, I’ll get you out of the jam you’re in.”
“In the first place—” she drew up her legs,