Naked In His Arms

“Do that again,” he said, his voice a warning growl, “and I’ll be forced to retaliate. I repeat, Ms. Prescott. Do as I tell you and you’ll be all right.”

He had her on her toes now, her head tucked against his shoulder in an ugly parody of a lover’s embrace. Water streamed down on them both and still she fought him, hands clamped around his wrist, using up whatever air was in her lungs in a desperate attempt to save her life.

Alex released the pressure, let her drag in a breath, then covered her nose and mouth again.

“Listen, damn it,” he said, putting his lips to her ear. Her skin was cool and wet; a strand of hair fragrant with the scent of lilacs drifted across his mouth. “Behave yourself and I’ll take my hand off your nose. Fight me, and I’ll keep it right where it is until you pass out. Understand?” She didn’t answer, but her struggles were growing frenzied. “Understand?” he repeated, the word a hard demand.

She gave a frantic nod.

“Good. Just remember. One sound, one false move, and I won’t give you a second chance.”

He moved his hand so it covered only her mouth but kept his arm right where he wanted it, hard around her throat. She was on tiptoe, off balance physically as well as emotionally, and that was the way he intended to keep her for a while.

Her nostrils flared as she gulped for air; the sound of her breathing was harsh. Her body trembled against his.

“Easy,” he said softly. “Calm down, and listen.”

She shuddered, but he could feel some of the rigidity easing from her body. When it did, he slackened the pressure of his encircling arm just enough to show her he was pleased with her response.

“I’m going to take my hand from your mouth. I don’t want you to scream. I don’t even want you to talk. Do this right, you’ll be fine. Yell, bite, come at me—whatever you try, I’ll stop you. And I promise, Ms. Prescott, you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Her eyes widened; he knew his use of her name had finally registered.

“Understand?” he said again.

She gave a jerky nod. Alex waited a few seconds. As he’d hoped, a clap of thunder roared overhead. He took his hand from her mouth, half expecting her to scream despite his warning, but she didn’t.

Good, he thought, and swung her toward him.

He told himself to remember that her nudity gave him a psychological advantage but that it meant nothing to him sexually.

Still, only a eunuch wouldn’t have noticed that her skin was the color of rich cream. That her breasts were full and round, her nipples the soft shade of pink you might see within a delicate seashell.

And only a eunuch, or maybe a saint, wouldn’t have wondered if her breasts would feel silken against the roughness of his palms, if her nipples would taste like honey on his tongue.

Her face, as white as paper, grew two patches of crimson under his scrutiny. Shaken, she put one arm across her breasts and the other over her loins in an instinctive, age-old female posture of defense.

A useless defense, had he chosen to force himself on her.

He didn’t like that she’d think him capable of that. He was a lot of things, had been a lot of things in his time with the Agency, but he wasn’t a rapist.

When he took a woman, he wanted her eager for his possession. For the hard thrust of his body, the demanding caress of his hands and mouth.

Yeah, but who gave a damn what Cara Prescott thought? Her fear would work to his advantage. Deliberately, he let his gaze move slowly down her body. Taking in the flat belly and patch of gold-tipped curls she tried to hide was just a way of reminding her that he held the power.

And, goddammit, if he was getting hard, it wasn’t anything personal. Danger created an adrenaline rush. A natural high that far surpassed any drug.

Add a beautiful woman, a hint of sex, and you had one hell of a mix.

He understood all that. If only his body would get the message.

He was seconds away from being fully erect. Already, he could feel his engorged flesh pressing almost painfully against the denim of his fly.

His reaction infuriated him. He didn’t like being out of control, not even for a heartbeat. That this woman, one step up from a whore, should exert sensual power over him made it even worse.

Concentrating on that did the trick. His erection went south and his brain came online.

Towels hung from a plastic rod near the sink. He grabbed one and thrust it at her.

“Cover yourself,” he snapped.

Her hands shook as she clutched the towel to her wet body. It didn’t hide much—he’d somehow plucked a hand towel from the rack, not a bath towel. Just as well. It was enough to let her feel a little less exposed but not enough to make him lose the psychological edge.

Her breasts, full and beaded with water, rose above the towel’s skimpy folds.

“I’m not a burglar. And I don’t work for your lover.”

Still no response. The smell of her, soap and water, lilacs and woman, rose on the humid air.

“I don’t want to hurt you. Do you understand?”

She didn’t respond for what seemed a long time. Finally, she jerked her head in assent.

“Good.” A muscle knotted in Alex’s jaw. “Now, step out of the stall. Nice and slow. No quick moves.”

She did as he’d ordered, her eyes never leaving his. He tried to do the same but it was impossible. The towel wasn’t just small, by now it was soaked. It clung like a second skin, drawing even more attention to her wet, naked body, and to hell with eunuchs and saints.

Only a dead man wouldn’t have let his gaze drift down those curves again.

No wonder Gennaro had wanted her, he thought, and forced his eyes back to her face.

“My name,” he said softly, “is Alexander Knight.”

He saw her throat move as she swallowed. “What—what do you want?”

Progress. At least she was talking. It was time to ease up.

“I want to help you.”

She made a sound that would have been a laugh if she weren’t so scared. He couldn’t blame her.

“I know about you and Tony Gennaro.”

The color in her face heightened but her voice was surprisingly steady. “Who?”

Alex’s mouth twisted. He had to give the lady credit. She was stark naked and scared witless but she was starting to pull herself together. That was good—but he didn’t want her thinking she could outsmart him.

Time to up the ante.

“Don’t play games, Cara. I don’t like them.”

The use of her first name was supposed to remind her that he was in charge. It didn’t. The pulse in her throat still leaped, her eyes still shone with fear, but something about her had changed.

She was starting to plot a way past him.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her chin lifted. “Give me my pajamas.”

His eyebrows rose. “What?”

“My pajamas. My sweats. There, on top of the toilet. Give them to me.”

She wasn’t begging. She wasn’t even asking. She was giving orders in an attempt to assert some control.

He understood that. It was what he’d have attempted, if the tables had been turned.

He also understood that there wasn’t a way in hell he could let her get away with it. That she was smart and tougher than she looked only meant he had to make sure she understood that he was a lot tougher.

Alex reached out. Deliberately, eyes locked to hers, he cupped her buttocks and drew her against him. His erection was instantaneous. Good, he thought coldly, as he brought one hand around her and ran his knuckles lightly across the swell of her breasts.

The flicker of defiance he’d seen lighting her eyes gave way to naked terror.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me, sweetheart. I told you not to play games.” His mouth curved in a cold smile. “Or maybe you figure you’re a tempting enough package to get away with this crap. Well, you’re right about being tempting.” He moved against her, just enough so she could feel the heavy weight of his arousal. “You’re very tempting.” His smile faded. “But I’m not interested.”

The look on her face called him a liar.

“Okay,” he said softly, almost agreeably, “you’re right. Under other circumstances, I might be.” The wet towel clung to her breasts; he reached out, cupped the warm, rounded flesh and told himself to ignore the quick pull of lust in his belly. “But these aren’t other circumstances, and I’m not interested in buying what you sold old Tony.”

“I don’t—” Her voice quavered, then steadied. “I don’t know any Tony.”

“Yeah, you do. You’re gonna have to trust me here, baby. If I worked for the man, you’d be dead by now…but only after I first had you on your back, with your legs spread.”

He’d wanted to make her flinch and it worked. Good. This wasn’t a time for subtlety. Besides, a woman who slept with a Mafia don wasn’t a woman with delicate sensibilities.

He needed her to be obedient. If he felt a twinge of regret at the way she was trembling, it was only because he’d been a long time out of this business, not because she was so heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Hell, what did her beauty have to do with anything? The truth was, a woman who knew how to use her looks could be incredibly dangerous. You learned that fast in the cloak-and-dagger world.

Alex grabbed the sweats and gave them to her.

“Get dressed,” he growled. “Then we’ll talk.”

Talk?

Cara bit back a crazed laugh.

A madman broke into your apartment, dragged you from the shower, looked at your naked body with eyes like lasers, touched your breasts, God, touched your breasts, and she was supposed to believe he wanted to talk?

She sank her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from screaming and pulled on the sweats, hunching over as best she could to keep him from seeing more than he already had.

The sweats were old and ratty and oversized. The “oversized” part was good. At least, she felt less vulnerable. Standing in front of a brutal stranger, naked, had put a lump of fear the size of a boulder in her belly.

It had to be a good sign, didn’t it, that he’d decided to let her dress?

“Okay,” he snapped. “If you have questions, ask them fast.”

If she had questions? She really was going to laugh any minute now…or pass out at this madman’s feet.

How come he didn’t look like a madman? If she’d seen him on the street, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

What a lie, Cara. You know damned well that you would.

What woman wouldn’t look at a man like this? He was tall, well over six feet. His hair was an inky black. His eyes were the deep green of a northern sea, his cheekbones so high they were like slashes in his hard, handsome face.

And his body.

Long. Lean. Taut with muscle….

“Do you like what you see, baby?”

Her eyes flew to his. He was smiling, a knowing smile that made heat bloom in her cheeks.

“I want to be sure I know what you look like,” she said coolly, despite the slamming of her heart against her ribs, “so I can give the police an accurate description.”

“Ah, Cara,” he said softly, “that’s not very bright.” His smile tilted, became something that chilled her to the marrow of her bones. “If I were here to—how shall I put this? To do you harm, your sad little threat would make me think twice about leaving you alive.” His smile faded. “I asked you if you had questions. If you do, you’re running out of time to ask them.”

She swallowed hard in an attempt to bring saliva into her dry-as-cotton mouth.

“You said you don’t work for—for this man you think I know. Then, who do you work for?”

“The government.”

She took a step back. “I told the FBI I don’t want anything to do with—”

She clamped her lips together, but it was too late. Another of those feral smiles spread over his lips.

“Now, isn’t that interesting?” he said softly. “You don’t know Tony G but you’ve been talking with the FBI.”

What was that old saying? The best defense was a good offense. Ignoring what he’d just said was a start.

“If you work for the government, let me see some proof.”

“Like what? A badge? A photo ID?” His smile twisted. “A letter from J. Edgar Hoover?”

“Hoover’s dead.”

“Yeah, and guys like me would be, too, if we went around carrying ID. You’re just going to have to take my word for it. I don’t work for the FBI. I’m with a government agency that doesn’t advertise.”

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