One Wild Wedding Night

“Where does it look like I’m going?” She nodded toward the ladies’ room door in the back corner of the dusty old store, empty but for a dozing man behind the counter.

He frowned, offering a brief nod. “Be quick.”

Oh, she’d be quick all right. Quick to make a phone call to Mia—anybody—to get her out of this mess. Because while she appreciated Dean getting her to safety, there was no way she was spending the next day and a half alone with him.

A tiny voice of doubt told her she’d be smart to go along. Smart and safe. But she knew that little voice meant safety in the physical sense. Emotionally, she would not be safe being closed up with Dean for thirty-six seconds, let alone hours.

As soon as she’d shut the ladies’ room door behind her, she grabbed her cell phone out of her purse and dialed Mia’s number. Mia was not only a lawyer, she was a serious, no-nonsense woman. She wouldn’t go nuts like Gloria might and she wouldn’t worry herself into a heart attack like Bridget’s parents would.

But after three rings, Mia’s cell phone was answered by a voice that was much deeper than her beautiful cousin’s. “Hello?”

“I’m sorry…I think I might have dialed the wrong number,” Bridget admitted, knowing her cousin hadn’t been seeing anyone since she’d moved back to Chicago just before Christmas. “I was trying to reach my cousin, Mia Natale?”

“You’ve got the right number,” the smooth, deep voice said.

Whoa. Mia had picked up a man for the night. A sexy man, judging by the deep, slow voice. “Can I speak with her, please?”

“Sorry,” he replied, “Mia’s in the…middle of something.”

Oh, great. She was having sex with a stranger when Bridget needed her to come bail her out of her predicament. Though she hated to do it, she was going to have to play the it’s-an-emergency card. But before she could do it, before she could say another word, in fact, the connection ended.

The jerk had hung up on her.

A knocking on the ladies’ room door told her Dean was growing impatient. “Come on, we need to hit the road.”

Damn. She hit redial and got Mia’s voice mail. “It’s Bridget. I’m in trouble. Call me the minute you get this.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody,” she called, turning on the faucet and letting the water run loudly. That was the first time she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Bridget was shocked to see the wide-eyed, pale-faced, wild-haired woman staring back at her.

She was a mess. The hair nightmare had probably been caused by being dangled upside down over Dean’s big shoulder. Her makeup was smeary, her eye shadow gone and her mascara runny because of the few tears she’d allowed herself to shed over the thought that somebody wanted to kill her.

And her lipstick…had been kissed off.

Well kissed off.

She kept staring at her lips, her moist, parted lips. Then she focused on her eyes, which sparkled in the dim lighting cast by the bare overhead bulb. There was something in them, even she could see it. It wasn’t exactly fear—though she was, in fact, afraid. Rather, she realized, it was excitement.

“Not at being chased,” she murmured, knowing it was true, “but at being rescued.” By a man she’d once wanted desperately.

That excitement—anticipation—made her stop and really think for the first time since Dean had grabbed her at the club. She had the chance to spend the rest of the weekend alone with a guy who was like sex in a jar. Far from home, with no possible future between them after he made sure she got safely to the courthouse on Monday. Which meant she couldn’t get her schoolgirl hopes raised as she had last August. She knew this was a one weekend event and would go nowhere else.

Hmm. How would they spend their time?

As always, when faced with a dilemma, Bridget played the What Would Izzie Do? game. And without a doubt she knew what her gutsy cousin would do. She’d seduce Dean and get the most fabulous sex she could. Further, she’d keep her heart out of the equation so there’d be no false expectations. Then walk away next week with some incredible memories and absolutely no ties.

“I can take him and get him out of my system once and for all,” she whispered, wanting so much to do it. To stop hurting, to stop wondering. To stop fantasizing in her bed late at night when she thought she’d die from the hollow emptiness between her legs, knowing he was the only one who could fill it.

He’d wanted her once. He might have kissed her only to shut her up tonight, but there had been no denying his physical response when he’d kissed her at work that day. If someone hadn’t come into the dealership, he might very well have taken her right on her desk. Being honest, she’d pushed him to that point, wearing provocative clothes, flaunting herself, letting him know what she wanted.

What would happen if she did so again?

She didn’t know…she only knew she wanted to find out. And luck seemed to be smiling on her, because beside the sink was one of those bathroom vending machines. And it carried condoms.

She bought six. That seemed like a good number, one for every six hours they’d be together. Optimistic, but not slutty.

“Open the door,” he growled with another hard knock, “or I’m breaking the lock. And if I find you climbing out a window I’ll tie you up for the rest of the ride.”

Well, that did it. Because instead of feeling threatened by Dean’s words, a sharp stab of excitement shot through her. With one last look at the almost unfamiliar, hungry-looking woman reflected in the mirror, Bridget grabbed for the knob. Flicking the lock, she swung the door open. She met Dean’s surprised stare, quirking a brow. “Kinky,” she forced herself to say.

He gaped. “What did you call me?”

Channel Izzie, she reminded herself, squashing her instinct to pretend she’d been asking for a Twinkie. “I wasn’t calling you that.” Bridget cleared her throat, plunging forward. “Just saying bondage is pretty kinky. Especially for you FBI types.” Tapping her fingertip against her cheek and ignoring his shocked expression, she continued. “Though, I suppose you guys are probably good at using handcuffs.”

Dean’s jaw clenched into something that resembled granite and Bridget could see the pulse raging in the side of his throat. It was just below a tiny, errant curl of blond hair…one small reminder of the friendly, laid-back guy she’d fallen so hard for.

She didn’t want those reminders or that guy who’d hurt her so badly. She wanted the one she could have for the next thirty-six hours, then walk away from and completely forget. So she tore her attention from the curl and onto the jutting jaw, the blazing blue eyes, the slashing line of his full lips.

Better. Much better.

“I think you’d better stop talking now.” He shifted closer, until his foot brushed the bottom hem of her gown.

“Or what?” she asked with a sweet smile. “Going to get out the chains and whips to go along with the cuffs and rope?”

Towering over her, he opened his mouth as if to retort, but quickly snapped it shut. His eyes flashed, his breath audible between his lips. Awareness and heat erupted off him.

He was angry. He was worried. And he was interested. No matter what his silence said, his body language made it clear.

Yes, this was definitely better. This angry, wildly sexy man would take what he wanted and not plan to give anything more than a few hours pleasure. Which was all she’d expect.

Now she could forget all about the nice, smiling guy she’d fallen for. And focus on the sexy, dangerous man she was going to be getting to know much better before the night was out.

HE MIGHT HAVE MADE a very serious mistake.

Dean hadn’t planned on physically hauling Bridget out of danger tonight, he’d acted on instinct. He’d seen red when she’d come sauntering back into the club, heading down a dark, silent hallway where anything could have happened. And when the surveillance team had radioed that her room at the hotel had been broken into and the suspect’s car was in the vicinity, he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to what he was doing.

He’d taken her and run

Still high on adrenaline, as well as fury that she might have walked into her hotel room and into the arms of a killer, he’d headed out of Chicago, aiming for anywhere that took her out of the line of fire. Eventually, he realized that anywhere was a small, old fishing cabin a buddy of his owned. It was off the main road and had little in the way of amenities. Though he remembered there being adequate plumbing, he wasn’t even sure it had heat. But it had a woodstove and firewood. And they had the food he’d just picked up at the convenience store. Most importantly, nobody could connect either of them with the cabin so there was no way anybody could track them—her—down.

They could rough it until Monday. At that time he’d deliver Bridget to the courthouse, then go back to the office to lay his head on the chopping block.

Sounded like a plan. A bad one, maybe, but better than leaving Bridget in the city and giving some armed scumbag an extra thirty-six hours to get to her. So he’d stick with it.

But he’d known by the glint in Bridget’s eyes when she’d exited the ladies’ room that she was going to do something to screw with that plan. And to screw with his head.

When she climbed into the front seat of his SUV and took off her coat, he knew he was in trouble. She claimed it was too warm—as if their breath wasn’t fogging up the interior, which had grown frigid in the brief time they’d been in the store. Dean, however, knew what she was really doing.