His Stolen Bride. Barbara Dunlop

      

       “I don’t usually do this,” he said.

      He didn’t usually kidnap women or unbutton their wedding gowns?

      Crista knew she should ask. No, she shouldn’t ask. She should move now, back away, lock herself in the bathroom until her emotions were under control.

      But he slowly lifted his hand. His fingertips grazed her shoulder. Then his palm cradled her neck, slipping up to her hairline. The touch was smooth and warm, his obvious strength couched by tenderness.

      She couldn’t bring herself to pull away. In fact, it was a fight to keep from leaning into his caress.

      Jackson dipped his head.

      She knew what came next. Anybody would know what came next.

      His lips touched hers, kissing her gently, testing her texture and then her taste. Arousal instantly flooded her body. He stepped forward, his free arm going around her waist, settling at the small of her back, strong and hot against her exposed skin.

      She didn’t move away.

      * * *

      His Stolen Bride is part of the Chicago Sons series: Men who work hard, love harder and live with their fathers’ legacies…

      His Stolen Bride

      Barbara Dunlop

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      BARBARA DUNLOP writes romantic stories while curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood and clear the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website, www.barbaradunlop.com.

      To Mom with love

      Contents

       Cover

       Introduction

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

One

Two

Three

       Four

       Five

       Six

       Seven

       Eight

       Nine

       Ten

       Eleven

       Extract

       Copyright

       One

      A heavy metal door clanged shut behind Jackson Rush, echoing down the hallway of the Riverway State Correctional Institute in northeast Illinois. He paused to mentally brace himself as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. Then he walked forward, his boot heels clacking against the worn linoleum. He couldn’t help thinking the prison would make a perfect movie set, with its cell bars, scarred gray cinder blocks, flickering fluorescent lights and the scattered shouts from connecting rooms and hallways.

      His father, Colin Rush, had been locked up here for nearly seventeen years, ever since he was caught stealing thirty-five million dollars from the unsuspecting investors in his personal Ponzi scheme.

      His dramatic arrest had taken place on Jackson’s thirteenth birthday. The police rushed the backyard pool party, sending guests shrieking and scattering. Jackson could still see the two-tiered blue-and-white layer cake sliding from the table, splattering on the grass, obliterating his name as it oozed into a pile of goo.

      At first, his father had stridently proclaimed his innocence. Jackson’s mother had taken Jackson to the courtroom every day of the trial, where they’d sat stoically and supportively behind the defense. But it soon became clear that Colin was guilty. Far from being a brilliant investor, he was a common thief.

      When one of his former clients committed suicide, he lost all public sympathy and was sentenced to twenty years in jail. Jackson hadn’t seen his father since.

      Now he rounded the corner to the visiting area, prepared for stark wooden benches, Plexiglas partitions and hardwired black telephone receivers. Instead, he was surprised to find himself in a bright, open room that looked like a high school cafeteria. A dozen round red tables were positioned throughout, each with four stools connected by thick metal braces directly to the table base. The hall had high rectangular windows and checkerboard tile floors. A few guards milled around while the other visitors seemed to be mostly families.

      A man stood up at one of the tables and made eye contact. It took Jackson a moment to recognize his father. Colin had aged considerably, showing deep wrinkles around his eyes and along his pale, hollow cheeks. His posture was stooped, and his hairline had receded. But there was no mistaking it was him, and he smiled.

      Jackson didn’t smile back. He was here under protest. He didn’t know why his father had insisted he come, only that the emails and voice messages had become increasingly frequent and sounded more and more urgent. He’d eventually relented in order to make them stop.

      Now he marched toward the table, determined to get the visit over and done with.

      “Dad,” he greeted flatly, sticking out his hand, preempting what would surely be the most awkward hug in history.

      “Hello, son,” said Colin, emotion shimmering in his eyes as he shook Jackson’s hand.

      His grip was firmer than Jackson had expected.

      Jackson’s attention shifted to a second man seated at the round table, half annoyed by his presence, but half curious as well.

      “It’s good to see you,” said Colin.

      Jackson didn’t respond, instead raising his brow inquiringly at the stranger.

      Colin cleared his throat and released Jackson’s hand. “Jackson, this is Trent Corday. Trent and I have been cell mates for the past