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

“Is this where you bring all your dates, Dakota?”

He smiled at her, a quick flash of teeth that was unexpectedly charming. “Only first class for you, sugar.”

He knew just what she was thinking. The minute he cut her loose, she’d be all over him like spandex. And if she could get out of the car, she’d be sprinting toward the check-in as fast as those mile-long legs would carry her.

“I don’t expect you to believe me.” He said it casually as he leaned over to unlock the cuff from the door handle. “But I’m not going to enjoy this.”

She was braced. He could feel her body tense to spring. He had to be quick, and he had to be rough. She’d no more than hissed out a breath before he had her hands secured and locked behind her. She sucked in air just as he clamped a hand over her mouth.

She bucked and rolled, tried to bring up her legs to kick, but he pinned her on the seat, flipped her facedown. He was out of breath by the time he’d tied the bandanna over her mouth.

“I lied.” Panting, he rubbed the fresh bruise where her elbow had connected with his ribs. “Maybe I enjoyed that a little.”

He used the torn T-shirt to tie her legs, tried not to appreciate overmuch the length and shape of them. But, hell, he was only human. Once he had her trussed up like a turkey, he looped the slack of the handcuffs around the gearshift, then wound up the windows.

“Hot as hell, isn’t it?” he said conversationally. “Well, I won’t be long.” He locked the car and walked away whistling.

It took her a moment to regain her balance. She was scared, she realized. Really, bone-deep scared, and she couldn’t remember if she’d ever felt this kind of mind-numbing panic before. She was trembling, and had to stop. It wouldn’t help her out of this fix.

Once, when she’d just opened her pub, she’d been closing down late at night. She’d been alone when the man came in and demanded money. She’d been scared then, too, terrified by the wild look in his eyes that shouted drugs. So she’d handed over the till, just as the cops recommended.

Then she’d handed him the fat end of the Louisville Slugger she had behind the bar.

She’d been scared, but she’d dealt with it.

She would deal with this, too.

The gag tasted of man and infuriated her. She couldn’t push or wiggle or slide it out, so she gave up on it and concentrated on freeing the loop of the cuffs. If she could free her hands from the gearshift, she could fold herself up, bend her legs through her arms and get some mobility.

She was agile, she told herself. She was strong and she was smart. Oh, God, she was scared. She moaned and whimpered in frustration. The handcuffs might as well have been cemented to the gearshift.

If she could only see, twist herself around so that she could see what she was doing. She struggled, all but dislocating her shoulder, until she managed to flip around. Sweat seemed to boil over her, dripped into her eyes as she yanked at the steel.

She stopped herself, closed her eyes and got her breath back. She used her shaking fingers to probe, to trace along the steel, slide over the smooth length of the gearshift. Keeping them closed, she visualized what she was doing, carefully, slowly, shifting her hands until she felt steel begin to slide. Her shoulders screamed as she forced them into an unnatural position, but she bit down on the gag and twisted.

She felt something give, hoped it wasn’t a joint, then collapsed in an exhausted, sweaty heap as the cuffs slipped off the stick.

“Damn, you’re good,” Jack commented as he wrenched open the door. He dragged her out and tossed her over his shoulder. “Another five minutes, you might have pulled it off.” He carried her into a room at the end of the concrete block. He’d already unlocked the door, and he’d paused for a minute to observe, and admire, her struggles before he came back to the car.

Now he dumped her on the bed. Because her adrenaline was back and she was fighting him, he simply lay flat on her back, letting her bounce until she was worn out.

And he enjoyed that, too. He wasn’t proud of it, he thought, but he enjoyed it. The woman had incredible energy and staying power. If they’d met under different circumstances, he imagined they could have torn up those cheap motel sheets like maniacs and parted as friends.

As it was, he was going to have a hard time not imagining her naked.

Maybe he lay on her, smelled her, just a little longer than necessary. He wasn’t a saint, was he? he asked himself grimly as he unlocked one of her hands and secured the cuff to the iron headboard.

He rose, ran a hand through his hair. “You’re making this tougher than necessary for both of us,” he told her, as she murdered him with a scalding look out of hot green eyes. He was out of breath and knew he couldn’t blame it entirely on the last, minor skirmish. That tight little bottom of hers pressing against his crotch had left him uncomfortably aroused.

And he didn’t want to be.

Turning from her, he switched on the TV, let the volume boom out. M.J. had already ripped the gag away with her free hand and was hissing like a snake. “You can scream all you want now,” he told her as he took out a small knife and sliced through the phone cord. “The three rooms down from here are vacant, so nobody’s going to hear you.” Then he grinned. “Besides, I put it around at check-in that we’re on our honeymoon, so even if they hear, they’re not going to bother us. Be back in a minute.”

He went out, shutting the door behind him. M.J. closed her eyes again. Dear God, what was going on with her? For a moment, for just one insane moment, when he pressed her into the mattress with his body, she’d felt weak and hot. With lust.

It was sick, sick, sick.

But just for that one insane moment, she’d imagined being stripped and taken, being ravaged, having his mouth on her. His hands on her.

More, she’d wanted it.

She shuddered now, praying it was just some sort of weird reaction to shock.

She wasn’t a woman who shied away from good, healthy, hot sex. But she didn’t give herself to strangers, to men who knocked her down, tied her up and tossed her into bed in some cheap motel.

And he’d been aroused. She hadn’t been so stupid, or so dazed with shock, that she was unaware of his reaction. Hell, the man had been wrapped around her, hadn’t he? But he’d backed off.

She struggled to even her breathing. He wasn’t going to rape her. He didn’t want sex. He wanted— God only knew.

Don’t feel, she ordered herself. Just think. Just clear your mind and think.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, took a survey of the room.

It was, in a word, hideous.

Obviously, some misguided soul had thought that using an eye-searing combo of orange and blue would turn the cheaply furnished, cramped little room into the exotic.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The drapes were as thin as paper, and looked to be of about the same consistency. But he’d pulled them closed over the narrow front window, so the room was deep in shadow.

The television blared out a poorly dubbed Hercules movie on its rickety gray pedestal. The single dresser was ringed with interlinking water-marks. There was a metal box beside the bed. For a couple of bucks in quarters, she could treat herself to dancing fingers. Whoopee.

The yellow glass ashtray on the night table was chipped, and didn’t look heavy enough to make an effective weapon. Even over the din of Hercules, she could hear the roaring sputter of an air-conditioning unit that was doing absolutely nothing to cool the room.

The print near a narrow door she assumed was to the bathroom was a garish reproduction of a country landscape in autumn, complete with screaming red barn and stupid-faced cows.

Reaching over, she tested the bedside lamp. It was bright blue glass, with a dingy and yellowing shade, but it had some heft. It might come in handy.

She heard the rattle of the key and set it down again, stared at the door.

He came in with a small red-and-white cooler and dropped it on the dresser. Her heart thumped when she saw her purse slung over his shoulder, but he tossed it on the floor by the bed so casually that she relaxed again.

The diamond was still safe, she thought. And so was the can of Mace, the can opener and the roll of nickels she habitually carried as weapons.

“Nothing I like better than a really bad movie,” he commented, and paused to watch Hercules battle several fierce-looking warriors sporting pelts and bad teeth. “I always wonder where they come up with the dialogue. You know, was it really that bad when it was scripted in Lithuanian or whatever, or does it just lose it in the translation?”

With a shrug, he walked over, lifted the top on the cooler and took out two soft drinks.