One Wild Wedding Night

The woman was tormenting him. Laying herself out like a rich, delectable dessert in front of a diabetic, just daring him to take a bite. And she’d be just as dangerous to him as a deadly overdose of something sweet.

He couldn’t be sure about her motives. She was almost certainly trying to drive him crazy with lust as she crossed her legs, the red fabric of her dress parting at the slit to reveal her long, slim thighs. She didn’t relent, leaning over to adjust the radio, coming close enough for him to feel her body’s warmth and see the soft line of cleavage revealed by her low-cut gown. Yeah, it was definitely intentional.

But why she was doing it was another matter. It could be that she already knew he couldn’t act on that lust and she wanted him to sit with an uncomfortably full lap. Or she hoped he would act on it so she could shoot him down as some kind of revenge for what had happened between them four months ago.

Either way spelled trouble for Dean.

“Are we almost there?” she asked.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Where exactly is ‘there’?”

“A friend of mine owns a fishing cabin near here and I know where he keeps a spare key.” The place wasn’t far at all, if he remembered correctly. He kept his eyes front, watching for the small side road. Not just because he was afraid he’d miss it, but also for pure self-preservation.

“Does your friend stock warm women’s clothing?”

He couldn’t help casting a quick, corner-of-the-eye glance at her. Bridget smoothed her hand over her gown, trailing her fingers across the deep V-neck then lower, over her midriff and down to her hips. Dean glanced at her, as she’d obviously wanted him to. She caught him looking and smiled.

Yeah. He was definitely in trouble.

“I remember there being some old clothes there.”

“Size eight?” she asked sweetly.

A throbbing started in his temple.

“And 34 C?”

It turned into a pounding.

“I can’t very well go around in this tiny little red bra I have on. It was meant to push up, not really cover anything.”

Give me strength.

“And the thigh-high stockings I’m wearing won’t do a thing to keep my legs warm.”

The woman intended to torture him. She knew he wanted her—had wanted her for a long time. Playing sexual games she had no intention of following through on would make him uncomfortable physically and would test the limits of his control.

Because if she pushed him too far, he might just push back. As he had that day in her office when he’d almost banged her brains out right on top of her desk.

“And it’s not like I can just wear my wool coat. It’d be much too rough against my bare skin.”

“Knock it off,” he muttered.

She ignored him. “I certainly can’t be expected to walk around naked for the next day and a half, now can I?”

“Enough, Bridget,” he snapped.

“Enough what?”

“Enough of the sexy come-ons.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” The glittering eyes and self-satisfied expression made a lie of that statement.

“Yeah, you do. Look, I know you’re angry because I used you to get information on Marty….”

“Don’t forget the kidnapping part.”

He sighed heavily. “I know. But you can get even with me another time, after this is all over, okay?” Swallowing, he added in a low voice, “Don’t do it like this.” Don’t.

“Like what?” she asked softly, her smile fading, like she really wanted him to answer.

So he did. “Don’t throw yourself out as sexual bait with no intention of being caught.”

She said nothing for a long moment, but she didn’t look away. Then, finally, she licked her lips and slowly smiled. “But Dean…I do intend to be caught.”

4

DEAN HAD REMEMBERED correctly—there were some clothes in a trunk in the small, remote cabin, which they reached about thirty minutes after leaving the store. But Bridget didn’t grab the neatly stacked sweatshirts or pants when they arrived. Nor did she go for any socks, though her feet were freezing. Dean had carried her through the snow from the SUV to the door, but her toes still felt numb.

Being in his arms had warmed at least the rest of her up, especially since steam had practically been rolling off the man ever since she’d flat-out said she planned to let him catch her. He’d barely said a word since and Bridget had been too busy wondering how to get caught to force him into any more conversation.

Now, however, they were alone, inside, with nothing between them but some cold stale air that smelled of pine and earth…and Dean’s own stubborn, protective nature.

Not for long. He would not be resisting her for long.

The cabin might be a half hour from the nearest telephone and lacking electricity, but it was no shack in the woods. Clean and comfortable, this was a wealthy man’s idea of roughing it. The pine floors sparkled, the butcher-block table gleamed, and the leather furniture looked like it’d stepped off the pages of an Ethan Allen catalog. She’d bet there was a generator and probably a portable heater. But she didn’t mention that to Dean.

She wanted low lighting and an excuse to demand body heat.

“I’ll get a fire going.” Dean lifted some logs from a pile by the hearth and put them in the woodstove. “You hanging in?”

“Yes.”

And she was. Remarkably, she really was. If anybody had told her twenty-four hours ago that she’d be spending the night in a rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere with Dean Willis, she’d have asked what they’d been smoking. But it was true, she was here…for the next thirty-six hours, at least.

The question returned: what shall we do to fill our time?

Those condoms were singing a siren’s song from her purse.

“Why don’t you just go to bed?” Dean asked, not looking up at her. “There’s a futon in the loft. I can take the sofa.”

Bridget shook her head. “I’m not leaving this woodstove.”

“Heat rises, it’ll be fine up there in a half hour.”

Lowering herself to the edge of the plush, dark leather sofa, she smiled sweetly. “Then I’ll wait a half hour.”