Caught!: Taken! / Say Yes. Lori Foster

small freezer and refrigerator situated around a metal sink. The cabin’s one and only window, mostly blocked by snow on the outside, was situated over the sink.

      There were two chairs, one a wooden rocker, the other a threadbare armchair, facing the fireplace. The bed she was lying in—a cot, really—hugged the back wall. Beside the cot was a small dresser that served as a nightstand, holding a clock and a tiny lamp with no shade. In the middle of the room was a badly scarred pine table and two matching chairs.

      There was no sound other than the snapping and hissing of the fire. She swallowed, wondering if she might have a chance to escape.

      Damn the cold and the snow and whatever distance they’d covered. She would not accept being a victim without choices. It didn’t matter to her if she had to run all the way home.

      But as she cautiously sat up in the bed and the quilts fell to her lap, she realized something that had escaped her notice thus far.

      Dillon had taken all her clothes.

      She stared, appalled, at her barely covered breasts. She had on her teddy, thank God, but other than that, she was as bare as the day she’d been born. Her nipples, stiff now with the washing of cold air, could be plainly seen through the material. Her nylons were even gone, but it didn’t matter.

      Mortification hit her first. He’d removed her clothes! He’d viewed her imperfect body, no doubt in minute detail. He’d looked at her at his leisure and found the evidence of her extra pounds—her rounded hips and thighs, the softness of her belly, the fullness of her breasts. She wondered if he’d chuckled as he stripped off her clothes; had he been amused by her attempt at seductiveness?

      She felt queasy, sick with embarrassment. Her face flamed and her vision blurred. It was more than a woman could accept, more than she could bear.

      Thankfully, outrage hit next, bringing with it a bloodcurdling scream of rage that erupted from her throat and resounded through the tiny cabin again and again.

      The door crashed open and Dillon came charging in, his body strangely balanced as if for battle, his gaze alert as he made a quick, thorough survey of the room. He held himself in a fighter’s stance, his black gaze steely and bright. Virginia could only stare.

      Oh my. Closing her mouth slowly, she looked him over. He’d shed his civilized demeanor and hadn’t left behind a single trace. His long hair, held off his face by a red bandanna rolled and tied around his forehead, gave him a pagan appearance. The bruise shadowing his nose and the corner of his mouth, discolored even through his sun-browned skin, added to the impression of savagery. His jeans were faded and torn, displaying a part of one muscular thigh and two bare knees. The material over his fly was soft and white with age and cupped him lovingly. His heavy coat was gone, and his flannel shirt lay open at the throat, the sleeves rolled high over a gray thermal shirt. Incredibly, he seemed to be sweating.

      His black eyes lit on her, then perused her body, lingering on her throbbing breasts and the shadowed juncture of her legs. Belatedly, Virginia grabbed the quilt and snatched it to her throat. Her insides seemed to curl up tight.

      “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

      Virginia stared at him. His chest heaved from whatever activity had made him sweat, and possibly the fright she’d given him. She realized that he must have come charging in prepared to rescue her from some unknown threat. She wanted to laugh—after all, he was her only threat—but she couldn’t manage it.

      When she remained mute, he firmed his mouth into a grim line and headed back to close the door he’d left hanging open. “Stupid question, right? Do you always screech like a wet cat when you wake up?”

      She was taken aback by his uncharacteristic sarcasm, and it took her a moment to gather the wit to speak. “Where the hell are my clothes?”

      “Gone.”

      That flat answer caused her heart to skip in dread. “What do you mean, gone? Damn it, Dillon, what’s going on here?”

      He walked over and sat on the edge of the cot, prompting her to scurry back as far as she could. The wall felt cold against her shoulder blades, but the alternative would have been to touch him, and that was out of the question. She could already smell him—a cold, fresh-air scent mixed with raw masculinity and clean sweat. His dark eyes had never looked more intense as he took his time gazing at her features.

      In a low, awe-filled voice, he asked, “How the hell did you manage to hide so much hair in that tight little knot you usually wear?” His gaze followed the length of one long curl as it rippled over her shoulder, almost to her lap. Words beyond her, Virginia squirmed under his scrutiny.

      He reached out and twined a thick strand around his finger. “I’ve never seen hair like yours.”

      Virginia jerked, then winced at the tug on her hair. Dillon released her.

      He chewed the side of his mouth, all the while studying her. “I was outside chopping wood. I meant to be in here when you woke up so you wouldn’t be frightened. But as you can see, the only heat we’re going to have here is from the fireplace and stove.”

      “Let me go.”

      “No.” He pulled the bandanna off and used it to wipe his face. His long hair fell free and she caught another whiff of that enticing scent unique to him. “After I finish splitting the wood, I’ll put on some soup or something and you can eat. I’ll have you comfortable soon enough.”

      No longer was he the man she knew. He didn’t act or move or speak like the old Dillon. There was no feigned deference, no show of politeness. He told her what he would do, and seemed to think she’d simply accept it.

      But her mind shied away from that, from the ramifications of being stolen away by a man she didn’t know—this man. So she skipped the questions clamoring uppermost in her mind and concentrated on another, more immediate one. “Where are my clothes, you bastard?”

      He made a tsking sound, amusement bright in his eyes. “Such language, and from a lady of your standing.”

      Without thought, she swung at him, her burst of anger overshadowing her better judgment. When he caught her fist, he was grinning with genuine humor. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am you’re not wailing and crying and shivering in fear.” He moved, flipping her down on the bed and catching her other fist, too, as she swung it. He leaned over her, his big body hot and hard, covering her own. In a whisper, he said, “Don’t fight me, Virginia. You can’t win.”

      His gaze bore into hers, and he was so close she felt his every breath. Then, suddenly, he sat up and moved away. The racing of her heart and the jumping of her stomach refused to subside. She didn’t move, too intent on trying to calm herself from what felt like a tussle with a large male animal. Which wasn’t far from the truth.