by Kresley Cole
He struggled to rein her in, almost methodically attempting and rejecting hold after hold. It would only be a matter of time before he bested her, but she fought on. Until unexpectedly, he shifted her in his arms, one hand groping for some means of holding her.
And then...the unthinkable.
His hand slipped through her open cloak and up her shirt until...it landed on her breast.
Aside from her heavy breaths, she grew perfectly still. She didn't know why: Because he had stilled? Or because she couldn't think of anything but his--hand?
Big, scratchy, ablaze with heat, it left an imprint on her skin. Was that his finger tumbling over her nipple? His hand seemed to move over her, his grip shifting from brusquely covering her breast to gently, curiously...cupping her. No, now it was his thumb.
She should begin kicking again. She should. But he'd rendered her body boneless. Captain Derek Sutherland had his hand on her breast, her mind repeated like a mantra.
His hand on her breast.
Did she hear him mutter a curse? Her skin felt chilled when he tore his hand from her shirt as if he had been burned. He spun her around, and the whole front of her body rubbed against his.
Nicole made a vain attempt to marshal her scattered thoughts. Her father's worst rival held her in a back alley, alone with him, so why didn't she fight? Because she was weak. Breathless.
Then he ran his hands down her arms and placed them on her hips. Warmth flooded her body anew and pooled in her belly.
She'd been around men most of her life, had lived in close quarters with them for extended periods of time, but she had never experienced this unexplainable yearning that seized her so suddenly and so forcefully.
Nicole shook her head, wanting to deny the feeling. She'd simply been so frightened, and he held her safely, or rather, safer, in his arms. The man warmed her, she reasoned, like a cocoon in the stinging night air. And his cleanly crisp smell tickled her nose. Male. His scent was...male. Not like the liquor and cheap perfume she expected from a blackguard like him, but so alluring that she wanted to bury her face in his broad, hard chest and breathe him.
Even as her face inched closer to his body, a part of her mind argued that he might not have gotten a good look at her face. Her hood was still on her head. She could run--
As if he could read her mind, Sutherland enclosed her more tightly in his arms. With a gasp signaling part disbelief, part something else she couldn't begin to name, she felt his hardened arousal pressed high against her belly. Startled, she twisted away, which only caused her to brush more closely against that part of him.
He inhaled sharply in response, and his whole body went rigid around hers. "Easy," he said. The word rumbled like lingering thunder after a storm.
"Let me go--I have to...go," she pleaded. She couldn't manage more than standing there panting, her body a mix of tension and a melting flow. She stared at him, this unyielding man who gave no indication that he would release her. When one of his large hands loosened its hold, she sensed he was about to remove her hood. She didn't want that, couldn't have that, but her body was immobile, drawn by the warm strength of his.
Not quite in resignation, she studied his cruel-looking face, saw the skin pulled taut except where it crinkled into a scowl. His eyes found hers and held. She'd known from the night before that his eyes were cold. Now she could see more than that.
Sutherland looked like a man aboard a sinking ship--who suffered no delusions.
A whisper of air fluttered over her face when his hand sought the hood of her cloak. As he untied it and pushed the fabric back over her hair, his fingers brushed her cheek as if in a caress. Her whole body quivered from the sensuality of that sheer touch. She still trembled when he studied her face...and when he stroked her hair...and even when he effortlessly lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder.
Chapter 3
N othing surprised Derek anymore. He expected the worst outcome, the worst in everyone, and most times they didn't disappoint. But when he'd detected the girl from the Mermaid beneath the hood, everything inside him went a little crazy.
And outside, too. His blood-pounding erection was raw and swift, like that of a rutting animal scenting a ready mate. He didn't know if his surprise came more from finding the prostitute again or from this aggressive reaction to her.
She was dumbfounded, of course, to be draped over his shoulder with her backside pointed up in the air and her face buried in his spine. It wasn't long before she began kicking and scratching with as much spirit as before.
"Down! Now!" she ordered, punctuating each command with a swat or a kick. "Put--me--down--this--instant!"
He scoffed at her continued attempts to hurt him, smug because she simply hadn't the power to do so. A stab of pain pierced his moment of gloating--the Valkyrie had sunk her strong little teeth into the back of his arm.
"What the hell?" He shook her loose. "Damn it, I'm trying to help you. I don't see those men around here, but that doesn't mean they've gone."
When she had stopped struggling long enough to listen, he continued, "I'm taking you somewhere safe, and if you fight me you'll only prolong the inevitable."
She huffed, "I'll humor you. For now."
His lips nearly curved at her attempt to keep her dignity even though she hung over his back with her cloak bunched around her waist. But he became tense and alert when he reached the corner and searched the area. Confident the men had run ahead, he strode in the opposite direction, toward the Southern Cross.
"You could let me down now. I won't run away," the girl offered after bouncing along for a few steps. He should let her walk, but he didn't want her to try to get away again. Not until she explained some things.
"We'll go quicker this way." As an afterthought, he added, "Aren't you done in?"
When she inhaled deeply and sighed, he felt it on his back. "Yes," she admitted reluctantly.
Fury fired in him as he pictured those men running down this small, defenseless young woman. Yet he became angrier with himself--he'd come so close to leaving her--and his tone was harsh. "Who chased you, and why?"
She stiffened. "That's none of your business."
"It is now, since I just saved your hide."
When she didn't say anything, he jostled her a little with the arm under her backside. "Tell me now."
"You'll have to shake a lot harder than that to get me to talk. Since I know you won't--let's not waste each other's time," she said in a nasty voice from behind him.
The girl was...provoking him?
"I wouldn't wager on that, sweet." His ire, always considerable, rapidly banked. "You obviously lack the sense to be afraid of me."
She rose up off his back. "Should I be afraid of you?" she asked in a sensible tone.
No mincing questions for this one. "That depends on whether or not you keep me happy. And right now I'm not happy."
"You don't look as if you've ever been happy," she mumbled, her cheek resting on his back again.
He slowed. "What do you mean by that?"
Derek could feel her as she took another deep breath and rose up again. "You've got a deep groove between your eyebrows from scowling, but no matching ones around your eyes like you'd get from laughing. You scowl a lot, don't you? I bet you are right now."
Hell, he was. He despised it when people analyzed him. "You don't know a damn thing about me--"
"Clearly, I know you don't laugh."
Enough. He purposely swung her down as if he was dropping her.
"Wh-whoa!" she squealed as she fell, but he caught her just before she tumbled to the ground.
After steadying herself, she pushed her thick, tangled hair out of her face and tilted her head. With a hurt expression, she asked in a genuinely confused voice, "What'd you do that for?"
He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. The wench had a great mane of hair. He took in the piles of curls tousled from the night, curls that couldn't quite decide if they wanted to be red or gold.
They framed her oddly pretty face and curved along her slender neck. His lips itched to kiss that neck....
He shook his head at such driveling thoughts. "I'm not sure I want to take you anywhere safe. You have a barbed tongue on you and don't know the meaning of gratitude. You belong at the Mermaid."
Her chin jerked up. "You," she said in a rising voice, "were there right along with me. Or were you too drunk to remember?"
"Lady, you're on your--" he began, but saw her eyes dart toward the sound of a fight breaking out not twenty yards behind them. Her face fell, and her body shook. For all her bravado, she was truly afraid.
Before she could run, he grabbed her waist and tossed her over his shoulder once again. Marching toward his ship, he felt a curious satisfaction as he carried her along.
He didn't know what it was about the girl. Perhaps it was that no one had ever looked at him the way she had in the Mermaid, like a siren.
Like she'd die if he didn't bed her.
Derek had told himself he wanted to find her simply to settle his curiosity. It mystified him why a young woman, a young woman who obviously sold her body at the Mermaid and consorted with Lassiter, no less, would look at him the way she had that night. First with desire, later with fury.
Plus, he'd needed to know if he could want her that badly, or if it had been the drink that night.
It wasn't the drink. What was the matter with him? She was a sharp tongued, insulting prostitute who dallied with his worst enemy. And she had peculiar features. Overblown ebony eyes, too dark and large for her small, gamine face, contrasted with the pout of her lips. It was as though one artist, vivid and wild, was unleashed to paint her eyes and hair, while another labored over the faultless bow of her lips....
The wench began working up her pique once again. She must have thought at that point that he posed the greater danger to her, because she began writhing on his back, straining to break his hold. She weighed so little, he easily held her firm.
Then she twined her fists together and pounded his back. The force of the hit surprised him, but his stride didn't falter. It simply earned her a light slap on her shapely backside, so plainly outlined in her snug trousers.
"You! Oooh, you can't--"
He rested his hand there. "Clearly, I can," he said, using her word. She sputtered in outrage, and his lips crooked up. Then it was his turn to be shocked when she called him names that would make his most hardened sailors blush. It wasn't just the creativity of her curses or the venom dripping from every word that surprised him. He could expect that with her background.
No, he'd noted before that she didn't have a dockside English accent, but in her fury, her words became crisper and less like what he'd expect. In fact, he couldn't place her accent at all. With a twinge of unease, Derek realized he could determine nothing about her speech except that, barring the colorful phrases, it sounded very cultured and very affronted.
He dismissed his misgivings. He had seen her in a tap house known for its whores, leaving for the night with a man twice her age. Not exactly the nocturnal activity of a lady.
Whoever this girl was, he would take her repeatedly this night and enjoy figuring her out later, sharp tongue and all. This couldn't have worked out better, with the race in five days. Just enough time to enjoy her.
And then, as always happened with him...to tire of her and sail away.
With Nicole easily draped across his shoulder, Captain Sutherland stepped onto the deck of his ship and waved casually as he strode past two bewildered guards posted outside. Nicole's position embarrassed her, but the sight of the Southern Cross was enough to make her suck in a breath and briefly forget about cursing him. She'd never been so close to his ship, and as they boarded, she couldn't help but look around in awe.
She'd always scoffed at the sailor's fancy that a captain resembled his ship. But massive, bold, and dark, the Southern Cross was a credit to the idea. It was hard-planed and sharp-lined.
And forbidding.
Just when she'd decided she would attempt another escape, Sutherland reached the companionway. He dropped her to her feet and looked her over, as if making a decision about her. Finally, he said, "Go down the steps."
She answered him with a disbelieving look. Of course she wouldn't. Did he think she was insane? She didn't know why he'd taken her back to his ship, hadn't determined whether he'd realized who she was by now, and, most important, she didn't like taking orders, especially from a man like him. She was opening her mouth to decline, thank you, no.
"Do it now."
"No."
"No?"
She guessed from his look of open surprise that the word was seldom used with him. "N-o," Nicole spelled out. "Not until you tell me why you've brought--"
"Now," he boomed, and all thought of rebellion ended. His tone made her jump to the stairs to get to the belly of the ship.
He didn't scare her, she assured herself; he'd just startled her.
Swinging down easily after her, he walked to her slowly, assessing her. He bent down deftly to miss a rafter in the ceiling, reminding her of his great height. She should be nervous after he'd just yelled at her. Afraid after all she'd heard of him. Chancey, her father's first mate, would say she had too much pluck for her own good. She supposed he'd be right, because she just couldn't make herself be wary.
Yet Sutherland didn't look as though he'd hurt her. No, he looks like he wants to eat me for dinner. His gaze stroked her like a physical touch, and she shivered. Those eyes, gray and dark, could easily be called cruel, but they held no anger toward her. She convinced herself that she could detect the promise of something more in their cold depths. Could that be the reason he'd taken her back to his ship? To kiss her?
For most of her life, Nicole had been uniformly rewarded whenever she'd done something forbidden. And if kissing Sutherland wasn't forbidden...
Irrationally, a part of her was thrilled at the prospect. But all this was crazy--Sutherland, the rogue who'd probably bedded a legion of beautiful women, desiring her, a scrawny girl with strange looks?
Nicole backed away, absurdly keeping some polite distance between them. She passed a door, and before she could prevent herself, she curiously scanned it. She did the same at the next door down, taking in the details of the ship.
He saw her flitting eyes, and then, seeming to realize what she must be anxious about, he assured her in a soothing, low tone, "Rest easy, sweet, I don't share. It'll be only you and me tonight. Aside from the guards on deck, we have the whole ship to ourselves." He reached out to smooth away a curl along her face and said huskily, "I'll reward you well for the night."
Reward her? An idea surfaced in her mind, but she shook it away.
Whatever he read in her expression made him narrow his eyes. "I will warn you once," he said in a menacing voice. "Do not think to play games with me."
She grappled with confusion. She couldn't account for what he was talking about or why he was so angry.
He grabbed her upper arm. "Why were you being followed?"
"Why did you bring me here?" she replied, tugging to regain possession of her arm.
He all but grinned. "I brought you here because I want you."
Well, that explained either everything or nothing. She had to know. "For what?"
Irritation flashed in his eyes, and she barely curbed a wince. Before she could voice another question, his other hand grasped the back of her head. "For what? For this." He pulled her to meet his lips.
Nicole resisted and pushed against his chest, more out of instinct than any real desire to get away. But then he ran his hand up her neck and under her hair. She couldn't remember ever being stroked on her neck, and the sensation was so unfamiliar, so pleasurable, she stilled.
He must have sensed her surrender; his lips pressed against hers even more forcefully. Unconsciously, her whole body softened and drifted into him. His tongue stroked at her lips, demanding entrance, fueling her curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat, Nicole.
>
But what a way to go...
She boldly obeyed by parting them. He touched his tongue to hers and that feeling arose again--hot, liquid, and undeniable. His breathing became ragged. She could feel his heavy arousal against her belly--oh, Lord, he pressed it against her, and her head fell back in pleasure and shock, her mouth opening in a silent cry. She couldn't allow him to touch her like that. She would make him stop.... But she already throbbed where their bodies met. Her breasts ached. In the clash between her wanting and her will, the wanting took over. And ruled her.
She grabbed his shoulders, pulling herself up on her toes to get closer, deeper into his arms. Her body began shaking as the movement drove her breasts into his chest. She was coming out of her skin, frenzied to be near him. Was she making that low keening sound?
With a curse, he released her and deliberately set her away from him. "This will be over before it begins," he grated in a strained voice. He was out of breath, and when he ran his palm across the back of his neck, she could swear he battled surprise.
He watched her in a searching way, and even though he seemed tense as a tightly wound coil, Nicole thought that she pleased him. With the tip of her tongue, she tasted him on her lips, and brought her hand to her bruised mouth, reveling in how she could still perceive the seeking pressure of his kiss.
She studied his mouth, staring, captivated by how warm his lips had been, since they appeared to be chiseled out of stone. He fascinated her. His behavior fascinated her. And she knew there was more.
She stood there, unable to take her eyes away. Even though he was her enemy, his kisses helped her past that detail. If only for a night. Why not use him to finally know what her schoolmates whispered about in the dark?
"Tell me your name."
Wait! Sutherland didn't know her. She hesitated for just a second too long.
"Of course, I don't expect you to give your real name...but I'd have thought you would have picked out a working name."
Working name? What the devil--All questions ceased. He was angry again.
"Christina. My name is Christina," she hedged, supplying him with her middle name.
Was he amused? She got the impression that her "working name" was not what he'd expected.
She knew she couldn't come up with a reasonable excuse for why murderous cutthroats had followed her without letting him know her identity. Especially since all she could think of were his lips. Nervously she took a deep breath and forced a tremulous smile, though that was the last thing she wanted to do.
