The Rebel's Return

“It belongs to a friend. He won’t mind if I borrow it.”

Maddie’s moment of indecision obviously prompted Dylan to assume she wouldn’t reject his request. By the time she managed to form her thoughts into words, he had raced over to the car, jumped in and started the engine.

Oh, no. Now what? She was not going anywhere with him. Not even in a Porsche. Her mother would be appalled if she ever found out that her daughter had even talked to Dylan Bridges, let alone taken a ride with him.

Dylan eased the car around to the front of the club, flung open the passenger door and grinned at Maddie. “Come on, Red. Live dangerously for once in your life. You know you’re dying to come with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, Dylan, really, I can’t. I wish you’d stop pestering me. You get me all confused and I don’t like it.”

With that confession, Dylan hopped out of the Porsche, grabbed Maddie’s hands and dragged her toward the car. She skidded across the sidewalk, her efforts doing little to halt Dylan’s determination. She realized that she really did want to go with him, so her protest was only halfhearted. When they reached the car’s passenger side, Maddie jerked her hands back, but Dylan held tight.

“Come on, honey. Don’t chicken out on me now.”

“I—I…Oh, all right. But—”

Dylan swept her off her feet. She cried out in surprise, barely able to believe that he’d lifted her up into his arms. He deposited her in the bucket seat, then bolted around the hood and got behind the wheel. As he sped down the circular drive, the wind whipped Maddie’s long hair into her face.

I’ve lost my mind, she thought. A niggling sense of uncertainty fluttered inside her. What was she doing here, flying down the highway with Dylan in a borrowed car?

About fifteen minutes later, Dylan turned off on a bumpy dirt road. After pulling under a tree several yards from the highway, he killed the motor, then threw his arm across the back of Maddie’s seat as he leaned toward her. Before she realized his intention, he kissed her. A quick brush of his lips over hers. She gasped.

“What’s the matter, honey? You’ve been kissed before, haven’t you?”

“Of course, I’ve been kissed,” she told him. “And much better than that.”

Without warning, Dylan grabbed her, lifted her up and over the console and into his lap. She was jammed between the steering wheel and Dylan’s lean body. When she felt his erection pressing against her bottom, she panicked and tried to pull free. He manacled her wrists and held both in one hand while he lowered his head and kissed her again. But this time, he took her mouth hungrily, shocking her with the fury of his possession. She trembled. She felt hot. She ached between her thighs. Oh, mercy, this can’t be happening.

Maddie knew that she had to stop him now, before he went any further, before she wouldn’t have the power to resist. But he kept ravaging her mouth, his tongue seeking entrance. She wriggled and squirmed, but he seemed to enjoy it and moaned into her mouth. She immediately stopped moving. Finally, he lifted his head so that they could both breathe again.

“I didn’t tell you that you could kiss me!”

He grinned. A cocky, self-assured smile that created a flurry of butterflies in her belly. “But you wanted me to kiss you, didn’t you? You’ve been wondering what it would be like, the same way I’ve been wondering.”

“No, that’s not true, I haven’t…”

She looked into his eyes, an earthy moss green, and recognized a kindred passion unlike anything she’d ever experienced with Jimmy Don or any other boy. Was it possible that he could see the same overwhelming emotion in her eyes?

They stared at each other for an endless moment. Maddie tugged on her bound hands, and he loosened his hold. She lifted her arms up and around his neck, then moved against him, her breasts pressing against his hard chest. When she leaned forward, he watched her, waiting for her to make the next move. She kissed him. Softly. Sweetly. But suddenly that wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted a lot more.

Taking charge, Dylan deepened the kiss.

Just as he undid the top two buttons on her blouse and kissed the swell of her breasts spilling over the top of her bra, she heard the sirens. But she disregarded them. By the time she had Dylan’s shirt undone and her fingers were caressing his chest, she realized the sirens came from two police cars that were turning off the highway onto the dirt road.

“Damn,” Dylan muttered under his breath.

Within minutes two uniformed policemen had parked and were approaching the Porsche.

“What’s going on?” she asked Dylan.

“Both of you get out of the car, nice and slow,” one of the officers said.

“Dylan?” She stared at him.

“Do what they say, Maddie.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The guy I borrowed this car from must have called the police.”

“You stole this car?”

“I borrowed it, dammit.”

“You stole it!” Maddie flung open the door and got out. Glaring at Dylan, she shouted, “I hate you, Dylan Bridges. Do you hear me? I hate you and I never want to see you again as long as I live.”

That had been six weeks ago. Six long, agonizing weeks. Jimmy Don hadn’t spoken to her for days afterward. All her girlfriends had asked her a hundred and one questions about Dylan. Her mother had all but disowned her. Only her daddy had comforted her. But she suspected that he’d spoken to Carl Bridges about Dylan. She had wanted to ask her father to intervene on Dylan’s behalf—and he could have. With one word from Jock Delarue, Flynt Carson, the owner of the silver Porsche would have dropped the car-theft charges against Dylan. But she didn’t dare let anyone, least of all her daddy, know that she cared about Mission Creek’s bad boy.

Wasn’t it for the best that Dylan was being sent away to Amarillo for two years? At least now she would be safe from him. And safe from her own confusing emotions.

One

Dylan Bridges removed his coat and tie, tossed them on the bed, then slipped out of his Italian loafers and padded across the lush carpet to the closet. He removed a pair of faded jeans from a wooden hanger and retrieved a Texas A&M T-shirt from the top drawer of a built-in dresser. After all these years, he still preferred casual wear to hand-tailored suits and five-hundred-dollar silk ties. He supposed that at heart he was still just a middle-class guy from Mission Creek.

As he changed clothes, he chuckled, thinking about how surprised the good folks in his old hometown would be if they could see him now. Seventeen years ago he’d been shipped off to the Texas Reform Center for Boys in Amarillo, and when he’d walked out of that hellhole after serving his full two years, the last place on earth he’d wanted to go was back to Mission Creek. And the last person he’d wanted to see was his father.

Yeah, his feelings for his old man had only grown more hostile during his incarceration. And even a sweet little letter from Maddie Delarue while he was serving time hadn’t lessened his resentment toward her.

Dear Dylan,

I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that you were sent away to reform school. I know I should have tried to help you in some way, but at the time I didn’t have the courage to speak to my father on your behalf. Please know that I think about you. Stay strong and keep out of trouble while you’re there. I’ve learned the hard way that life isn’t always fair and can throw you some cruel punches.

If you want to write to me, send your letter to the post office box address on the outside of the envelope.

Maddie

Figuring that she’d written the letter either as some do-good, philanthropic club project or simply because she had a guilty conscience, Dylan hadn’t responded. And he never received another letter from her. But truth be told, he’d never forgotten Maddie Delarue. In a totally illogical way, she remained the ultimate, unattainable goal.

Dylan made his way into the living room of his luxury penthouse apartment, poured himself a drink—Jack Daniel’s, straight—and relaxed in the overstuffed, tan leather easy chair. Why was he thinking about Maddie, a girl he hadn’t seen since he was sixteen? It wasn’t as if he’d been pining away for her all these years. He hadn’t. In his twenties women had come in and out of his life like tourists through a revolving door at a New York hotel. And now, at thirty-three and the wealthiest stockbroker in Dallas, all he had to do was snap his fingers and the lovely ladies came running.

The only reason he’d thought about Maddie was that he planned to return to Mission Creek. He was going to do something he’d thought he would never do—go home to see his father. And who knew, he’d probably run into Maddie while he was there. Maybe he’d make a point of it.

Nothing would please him more than to show her—and everybody in Mission Creek—that the town bad boy had turned out all right. Actually better than all right.

After leaving Amarillo, he’d bummed around the country for a couple of years, had attended some night classes at several community colleges and then had come home to Texas and settled in Dallas. The odd thing was that when he finally channeled his energy—including his anger and aggression—into something productive, he discovered he had a talent for finances, the stock market in particular.