Cajun Hot (14 page)

Her confidence buoyed. A man who fed his captive breakfast didn't have evil on his mind.

Not that she'd ever really thought he'd hurt her.

She stacked the bed pillows and curled against them, watching him prepare the meal. She toyed with the paper wedding band on her finger. Too bad he wasn't nude as usual.

She gave herself a mental kick and tried to make herself think of a way to escape instead of studying his delectable body. Going down that road was much too dangerous. Pretty soon she'd be dreaming about what they could be doing while she was chained to his bed instead of fighting.

Bad idea.

When breakfast was ready, he filled a plate with pancakes and bacon and wordlessly set it on the nightstand for her along with a steaming mug of coffee, fixed just the way she liked it.

"Butter and syrup?” His question was belligerent.

"Yes, thanks.” She decided not to say anything else, unwilling to further increase or endure his anger.

He sat silently at the table and ate, occasionally looking up to glare at her when she stopped chewing. She cleaned her plate. Afterwards, he washed the dishes and went to a small roll-top desk in the corner, where he opened a compartment and produced a black box that looked suspiciously like a laptop computer.

"What's that?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

"What's it look like?"

"A laptop."

"I always said you were a smart woman."

"But how—?"

"Rechargeable batteries. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to do my e-mail, which I haven’ gotten to yet dis mornin'.” He shot her an accusatory glare so she knew exactly whom he blamed for that.

"But how—?"

She winced when he gripped the edge of the desk. “You ever hear of cell phones? Now, if you don’ mind?"

She shut up while she was still ahead, her mind moving lightening fast.
She could use this to escape.
Get an e-mail to someone; send for the FBI or something.

"And don’ get any ideas, they won’ work. Everythin's pass-coded. You won’ even be able to turn it on."

She made a face at him when he turned away, sinking sulkily down on the pillows. Well, it had been a nice thought while it lasted.

"Who're you writing to anyway?” she mumbled. “The Society for the Capture and Subjugation of Innocent Women?"

He pinned her with a scowl. “Yeah. That and my stock broker. I wan’ to add a chain manufacturer to my portfolio."

"Very funny.” She watched him for a few minutes, wondering if he really did have a stock portfolio. That would certainly explain the roll of hundred-dollar bills at the wedding. Funny, as close as they'd gotten, he'd never told her what he did for a living. She'd just assumed he set fishing traps or was a poacher or something equally disreputable. He definitely looked the part of an outlaw.

Unfortunately, right now wasn't the time to ask. She huffed impatiently. “I don't suppose you have a book lying around I could read?"

"No."

Fine. All right. Two could play this game. Not only was she tired of sparring with him, she was just plain tired.. She'd gotten up early and her lack of sleep for the past several nights was catching up with her. She could take a nap. She stretched and yawned. Before she knew it, she fell asleep.

When she woke, the clock had advanced a couple hours. She glanced around. Jacque had put the laptop away and was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her moodily. There was a half-full glass in his hand and a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the table next to him. She checked the clock again. Barely noon.

She looked at him and he stared back, his sullen mien daring her to speak. His beautiful, sculpted lips were poised in an arrogant snarl, his sexy mustache drooped sinisterly, his broad shoulders were hunched in a surly slouch.
Oh, dear.

"I need to pee,” she croaked past the foreboding lodged in her throat, hoping to throw him off whatever he was contemplating.

She should have known he wouldn't miss a beat. As if he'd been expecting her request, he rose and walked to the bed, released her cuff and stepped aside. She hurried past him into the bathroom and turned to shut the door.

He blocked it. Handing her a small box, he planted his feet firmly across the threshold and crossed his arms over his massive chest.

The box was a pregnancy test. Her eyes shot to his. He gazed back at her impassively.

"Okay,” she said nervously. She didn't know what she'd do if it was positive, but it was best to know either way. “Good idea.” She waited for him to leave, but he didn't move. “What? Are you going to watch?” she asked, scandalized.

"Jus’ makin’ sure you tell me the truth."

Stung, she lifted her chin. “I've never lied to you, Jacque. I never would. It wouldn't be right."

For a moment, he appeared taken aback and, for a split second, guilty, then his face resumed its scornful expression. “Let's jus’ get dis over with, eh?"

Determined not to be embarrassed, she ripped open the package, glanced over the instructions and sat down. Glaring mutinously into his eyes, she did the deed. Holding her breath, she lifted the stick so they could both see it. She couldn't explain the illogical disappointment that filled her when she realized it was negative.

She covered it quickly with a veil of triumph. “There! You see? I told you it was the wrong time of month."

She thought Jacque would be relieved. Instead, his glower grew darker and more menacing. “Dese things, they're wrong all the time,” he hissed. With a curse, he spun and strode away.

Since he seemed inclined to leave her alone, she seized the opportunity to shower and brush her teeth. When she emerged, she felt renewed and in a much better mood.

Too bad he wasn't. Face like a thundercloud, he'd taken his place at the kitchen table, and already the level of the bottle at his elbow had lowered.

She glanced at the sofa. “I don't suppose you'd let me—"

"Not a chance,
ma femme
. Back in bed.” He rousted himself from the table and herded her to the bed. “In."

After he'd locked the cuff back onto her wrist, with a grunt, he tossed her a book she hadn't noticed sitting on the nightstand.

Iris Johansen. A historical she'd read about a decade ago. She almost choked. “Just happened to have this in your collection?"

"
Non
.. A wedding present from Lisette."

Figured. The woman had a warped sense of humor. “Be sure and thank her for me."

She settled down to read the story of a kidnapped woman who falls in love with her sexy captor while Jacque returned to the kitchen. Immediately, he started banging pots and pans, throwing ingredients into three separate sauce pans and cursing a blue streak. At least she assumed it was cursing since he muttered exclusively in Cajun so she couldn't understand more than the odd word.

He pointedly ignored her, but she had an inkling it wasn't his cooking he was swearing about.

Continuing to refill his glass with bourbon, his bad mood escalated until; finally, he threw a pan full of dark sauce out the door and into the bayou.

"I'm goin’ fishin'."

With that, he stomped outside. A minute later, the sound of bare feet slapped to the end of the jetty and the quiet plink of a glass float hit the water. She knelt in bed and peered through the front door, and was just able to see him, lying with his back on the wooden planks and his feet dangling over the side, tipping a bottle into his mouth.

Well, she hoped the local fish species went for kebab sauce and bourbon.

"Fucking hell. I'm a goddamn fucking idiot,” Jacque told a seagull patiently watching him re-bait his hook from a few feet away.

Fucking woman.
What was with him anyway?

She'd completely ruined his objectivity, his composure and his life. What right did she have to mess with his mind? He'd only been interested in her body. When had that changed?

He shook his head woozily and recast the line into the water, leaned back and took another swill from the bottle.

Bon Dieu.
When had he fallen in love with the obnoxious
fille
? Obsession he could handle. Love was quite another matter.

He groaned deeply, bemoaning his cursed luck with females with another streak of French invective. It didn't change things, but it made him feel marginally better. He'd been feeling like shit all day.

Because he knew what he had to do.

How had everything gone so wrong so fast? What he'd envisioned as a cozy week of mindless sex had turned into something very different. He was engaged in the battle of his life. One, it seemed, he was about to lose.

She didn't want to stay. She didn't want to love him. She didn't want to be his wife.

She
didn't
love him. But he loved her.

So he had to do the right thing. Regardless of the cost to his own heart.

He gave a long sigh, letting all his longing and disappointment sough out with it.
Damn.
Fucking damn.

He had to let her go.

It was almost dark by the time Jacque returned. Clouds hung low and black over the swamp, threatening to burst into a torrent of heavy rain. The air was thick with honeysuckle-scented moisture along with the sizzling tension that arced between Sahara and Jacque.

Sahara followed his impatient movements as he prepared supper from some huge, ugly fish he'd caught, swallowing a sigh when he continued to pointedly ignore her.

She didn't like it this way between them. She was tempted to promise not to escape again, just to see his handsome smile once more.

During supper, she tried speaking with him, complimenting his cooking, talking about the rainstorm that had begun to plink on the metal roof and splash through the screen door. Anything to draw him out of his foul mood. But he just glowered and sucked down the last of the bourbon as he ate and cleaned up the dishes. Then he spent an hour glaring at her from his roost at the kitchen table.

Rain water pooled on the floor in front of the door and windows, but Jacque didn't seem to notice, his eyes glued on her every move as she tried to read. Her nerves became jumpier for every minute that ticked by.

A bolt of lightning cracked, thunder exploding so loudly that she cried out in fright. Before the echoes had died, Jacque rose to his feet and began stalking the bed where she sat shivering, ripping off and discarding his clothes as he went.

He was wickedly, brazenly aroused.

She gasped. It was all too clear what he intended to do.

She scuttled backwards, but he easily caught her and yanked her across the mattress, instantly pinning her beneath his large, muscular body. His black eyes stared down at her, male and ravenous. A rush of conflicting emotions surged through her.

"I can make you do anything I want,” he declared in a voice razor-sharp with cruel certainty.

"Yes.” It was true in so many ways it scared her.

Rain pelted the roof. Wet wind whipped through the trees, and the shack creaked and vibrated under nature's onslaught. The smell of ozone mingled with the sweet, fecund odors of the swamp. Even the insects ceased to hum. But all Sahara was aware of was Jacque's weight pressing hotly into her.

His mouth came down hard on hers, crushing her lips, his tongue the front line in his battle to conquer her. Her chain tinkled merrily as she grasped his shoulders, incongruous against the ferocity of his assault.

He grabbed her hands and held them in an iron grip over her head, thrusting a knee between her thighs. His free hand seized her breast, kneading it to swollen, stunning attention. Another bolt of lightning lit the room. His mouth plundered as thunder rattled the copper pots hanging against the wall. She moaned, writhing beneath him, unsure whether it was a moan of protest or encouragement.

He was rough. Very rough. She was already panting from her efforts to resist him, calm him down. But the more she struggled, the hotter he got. He laid bruising kisses down her neck, to her breasts, suckling furiously. He bit her tender flesh and she cried out.

"Jacque! No—"

"Shut up,” he growled. “Don’ talk, jus’ fuck."

He let go of her wrists and ran his hands over her, feeling her, grasping her, claiming her. She'd never witnessed such torrential emotion as poured forth from his hands and mouth as he subdued her. Their bodies, sweat-slicked from the humid, blistering heat, slid together erotically, skin to skin.

She grabbed his hair and hung on. “No!” she repeated, more urgently.

"
Yes
,” he snarled.

Suddenly, she realized she was pulling him closer, making fervent, needy sounds, urging his hands with sinuous movements against them.

Oh, Lord!
She
liked
it.

She was horrified. And hopelessly excited. There was no doubt in her mind what he'd do to her. The thought of being overpowered by this huge male, taken against her will and forced to accept him into her body, thrilled her with an electricity that shocked her to the quick. With anyone else, she would have been sick with nausea, but with Jacque she felt inexplicably safe. Desired, rather than violated. Taken in a brute excess of love, not antagonism.

"Spread your legs for me,” he commanded harshly.

"No!” She fought him, caught in her dangerous fantasy. “You can't make me,” she spat, wanting nothing more than for him to do exactly that. Her body was a bundle of nettles, stinging with arousal, dancing with spikes of desire. “If you want me, you'll have to force me!"

"You're my wife. Do as I say!"

The sky turned bright orange and a pylon at end of the dock splintered in a deafening shower of sparks. Lightening licked along the jetty toward the gallery, burning in a flash of smoke and flame at the very door to the cabin.

Jacque was as wild as the storm. Her parries were ineffectual pitted against his superior size and strength. He easily parted her thighs and moved between them. She bucked, playing it to the hilt. Wetness drenched her between her legs, her breasts burned for his touch. Goose bumps shivered across her whole body, sending hot chills through her bones. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for his brutal entry.