Captive Star: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“Because I don’t like having some gorilla try to break me in half, I don’t like getting shot at, and I don’t like being hosed by some skinny woman with an attitude.” He leaned closer, until they were nose-to-nose. “I’ve got debts to pay on this one, sugar. And you’re the first stop.”

She grabbed his wrist with her free hand, shoved. “Threats aren’t going to cut it with me, Dakota.”

“No?” He shifted gears smoothly. His hand came back to her face, but lightly now, a skim of knuckles along a cheekbone that had her blinking in shock before her eyes narrowed. “You want a different approach?”

His fingers trailed down her throat, down the center of her body and back, before sliding around to cup her neck. His mouth hovered, one hot breath away from hers.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned.

“Too late.” His lips curved, and his eyes stared straight into hers. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since you swaggered up the apartment steps in front of me.”

No, he’d been thinking about it, he realized, since Ralph shoved her photo at him. But he’d consider that later.

He skimmed his mouth over hers, drew back fractionally. He’d expected her to cringe away or fight. God knew he was ruthlessly pushing all those female fear buttons. It was deplorable, but he’d consider that later, as well. He just wanted the pressure to work, to get her to spill before they both got killed. And if he got a little twisted pleasure out of the whole thing, well, hell, he had his flaws.

But she didn’t fight and she didn’t cringe. She didn’t move a muscle, just kept those goddess green eyes lasered on his. A dark, primitive thrill rippled down to his loins.

What was one more sin on his back, he thought, and, clamping his hand on her free one, he took a long, deep gulp of her.

It was all heat, primitive as tribal drums. No thought, no reason, all instinct. That surprisingly lush mouth gave under his, so he dived deeper. A rumble of pure male triumph sounded in his throat as he moved into her, plunging his tongue between those full, inviting lips, sinking into that long, tough body, fisting his hand in that cap of flame-colored hair.

His mind shut off like a shattered lamp. He forgot it was a con, a ploy to intimidate, forgot he was a civilized man. Forgot she was a job, a puzzle, a stranger. And knew only that she was his for the taking.

His hand closed greedily over her breast, his thumb and forefinger tugging at the nipple that pressed hard against the thin cotton of her shirt. She moved under him, arched to him. And the blood pounded like thunder in his brain.

She moved fast, all but twisting his ear from his head while her teeth clamped down like a bear trap on his bottom lip.

He yelped, jerked back, and, certain she would saw off a chunk of him, pinched her chin hard until she let him loose. He pressed the back of his hand to his throbbing lip, scowled at the blood he saw on it when he took it away.

“Damn it.”

“Pig.” She was vibrating now, scrambling to her knees on the bed to take another swipe at him, swearing when her reach fell short. “Pervert.”

He spared her one murderous look, then turned on his heel. The bathroom door slammed shut be hind him. She heard water running. And, closing her eyes, she sank back and let the shudders come.

My God, dear God, she thought, pressing a hand to 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.