One Wild Wedding Night

The contact was electrifying. His arms cradled her, his breath falling on her cheek and her hair. Bridget lost all sense of time and place, not even noticing the cold until he carefully set her down on the cleared sidewalk.

Finally, with the gift of distance, she could breathe again, think again. Calling herself a fool, she yanked the door open and strode inside.

He was right behind her. “Where are you going?”

“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.

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.”

He mumbled something under his breath but she ignored him. Bridget watched his every move, knowing he had to feel her hot stare on him but not really giving a damn. The man was so powerful, the thick muscles in his arms and chest flexing and rippling beneath his long-sleeved black shirt as he worked. He was also so obviously uncomfortable around her. All because she’d made her intentions clear.

In Bridget’s opinion, it was about time someone did. Because Dean certainly hadn’t. Not when he’d been pretending to be Mr. Nice. And not tonight, when he’d grabbed her and bolted.

“So what is it you plan to do with me?” she asked, both because she wanted to know and because she liked the way the tips of his ears turned red when she said something outrageous. Asking him what he planned to do with her—with the emphasis on the word do—probably sounded outrageous to his strict FBI ears.

“I’m going to sit on you here until Monday morning, deliver you to the courthouse, watch you testify, then let you go.”

She knew what he meant but played dumb. Smiling as she leaned over from the couch, knowing her red gown gapped away from her chest, she murmured, “Sit on me? Sounds uncomfortable.”

Dean, who’d been squatting as he stuck bits of kindling into the woodstove, jerked his head up and stared at her. His eyes blazed with more intensity than the struggling flames and his mouth pulled taut. “Just what is it you’re trying to do here, Bridget?” he asked, sounding not only angry but intensely curious. As if he truly didn’t know.

How could he not know? Was he really ignorant to the fact that she was absolutely dying for him? Would give anything to have him, if only for a few hours?

Maybe. And if so, she really ought not to keep him in the dark any longer. So without another word, Bridget rose to her feet. She reached around to the back of her dress, slowly drawing the zipper down, letting the sleeves loosen and slip off her shoulders until the tops of her breasts were gradually revealed.

With a gulp of air for courage, she let the gown go, until it dropped to the floor at her feet.

“I’m trying,” she finally replied, “to finish what you started that day last August.”

THOUGH THE AIR hadn’t changed and he hadn’t moved a muscle, Dean began to sink down under an almost tangible weight on his entire body. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could only sit in shocked silence while Bridget let her wicked red dress fall away. Beneath it she wore even more wicked lingerie. Skimpy, tiny panties, wickedly seductive stockings and a red demibra that, as she’d threatened in the car, plumped her luscious breasts up rather than making any effort to cover them.

His hands clenched into fists and his mouth went dry. The heat blasting every inch of him had nothing to do with the fire he’d just started in the woodstove. And everything to do with her. How she looked. How she smelled. How she stared down at him with pure hunger in her eyes.

How he’d felt around her since the day he’d met her. Off balance, breathless, confused.

Captivated.

“I know you’re doing your job,” she whispered, “and I know there’s nothing personal about it and after Monday, we go our separate ways again. But we’re adults, we’re alone. We’re here for the next day and a half…and you wanted me once.”

He shook his head, denying that last part. “I have always wanted you, Bridget.”

He could have said more. Could have told her that he’d been attracted to her since the first time he’d gone into the dealership last summer. Or that he’d become addicted to her smile, intoxicated by her laugh as every day had passed. That on the day he’d kissed her, he’d been so out of his mind with desire for her that he’d walked around with a hard-on for two days.

And more…that it had infuriated him when his colleagues had badgered her for hours after Marty’s arrest. That it had killed him to stay away from her since.

But none of that needed to be said now. Not while Bridget was watching him with glittering wide eyes and moist, parted lips. Offering herself. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he murmured, watching her from below, sitting on the faux bearskin rug in front of the stove. He devoured her with his gaze, coveting the delicate curves of her breasts, dying for a taste of the dark nipples peeking through her bra.

She shook her head. “I’m not beautiful.”

He rose to his knees. Lowering his hands to her ankles, he fingered the straps of her high-heeled sandals, then moved his palms up her stocking-clad legs. “No, you’re stunning.”

She didn’t deny it this time, merely hissed in a breath as he reached the top hem of her sultry, thigh-high stockings. The breath was released with a tiny whimper when his fingertips transitioned from silky nylon to the silkier skin of her thighs.

“So soft,” he murmured. The skin was creamy and delicate, the limb slender and supple. He couldn’t wait to feel those legs wrapped around his hips as he finally plunged inside her the way he’d wanted to for so long. “I love the way you feel.”

She swayed on her feet. The movement brought her hip close to his mouth and Dean leaned forward to brush his lips against the lacy edge of her panties. “I’ll love the way you taste.”

“Oh, my,” she whispered, dropping her hands onto his shoulders, as if needing his support to stay up.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered, spreading his fingers around to grip her hips. Then he rocked her close to his mouth again until he was breathing directly onto the silky triangle of fabric covering that intoxicating spot between her legs.

“Dean…”

“Shh. Let me experience you. I’ve waited a long time and I want you in every way I can get you.”

She said nothing else, but sighed and lifted her fingers to tangle in his hair. Dean leaned into her again, brushing his lips over the elastic edge of her panties, then tugging at it with his teeth. Pushing them down to fall at her feet with the dress, he stared for a long moment, admiring her femininity, his mouth watering for more.

When he grazed his lips across her soft curls, he felt her quake in response. “I’ve still got you,” he whispered, seeing the way her skin quivered and flushed beneath the heat of his breath, the contrast from the cold air of the cabin.

“Good. I won’t be able to stay on my feet if you—”

He cut her off by opening his mouth on her, covering her mound and licking deep into her sweet, wet crevice. Fortunately, he had a good grip on the delectable curves of her ass because Bridget’s legs did give out. She cried out in stunned delight, collapsing back toward the sofa, Dean helping her down.

He remained on the floor. Kneeling between her spread legs.

“If this is how you start, I can’t imagine how you finish.”

He laughed softly. Staring at her soft body, cast in pools of light and shadow from the flames in the woodstove, he murmured, “Oh, Bridge, we started months ago.”

She glanced down at him and nodded. “I know.” Tangling her hands in his hair, she tugged him. “Come up here and kiss me.”

“I was kissing you,” he teased, dropping his mouth to the V of her thighs again. He flicked his tongue out to sample her pert clit, rewarded with her delighted gasp and the thrust of her hips toward his hungry mouth.

Dean devoured her, knowing there was so much more to be done but not ready to give up this particularly intimate pleasure until, hearing her frenzied cries and seeing the tensing of her muscles, he realized she was close to climaxing. “Come on, beautiful,” he murmured, wanting to take her there.