Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart (41 page)

"I slipped away from them to
come to you."

"But the Crimson Hand?"
There, she said it without laughing. Almost as if she believed he was being
followed by terrorists.

"Have never attempted to kill
me," he clarified. "Only you."

His crazy was air-tight; she had to
give him that. "Something you said confused me."

"Just one thing?" He gave
her a half smile as he turned off the water and began to wipe every drop of
moisture off her fingers with the softest towel she'd ever felt. She didn't
have to do anything but hold her hands out.

"You said we met for the second
time in the Dominican. Where was the first?"

The effect of her question was
immediate. His hands and body froze. That muscle in his jaw ticked with raw
emotion. After the barest instant, he threw the towel back on the rack like it
disgusted him, and stepped away from her. "That's not important. I
shouldn't have said it."

She looked up in the mirror and
smiled at him, pretending to accept what he said. It seemed to her if she could
make him tell her, and figure out where she knew his name from, she could help
him with his mental illness.

He rolled handsome grey eyes. "You
can't even lie when you say nothing. You won't let it go, will you?"

"Sure
I will." She did her best to act offended. It didn't even sound authentic
to her own ears.

* * *

Max didn't kid herself that he
would uncuff her for bed. Nope, she'd be sleeping with him for sure. At least
she'd be fully clothed. And he hadn't restricted her to the chair again.

Of course that meant that she'd
been attached to him, forced into intimacy as they moved around the cabin. He
insisted on washing the dishes, though he'd tried to use the hand soap on the
plates and glasses. She'd shown him how to squirt the dish soap into the water,
thinking he really had this "Arab Prince" act down pat. Of course a
Middle Eastern sheikh would have servants to do this stuff for him.

Then, he'd declared it was time to
sleep. They'd gone into the bedroom to find the sheets carefully folded on a
mother-of-pearl inlaid chest at the foot of the enormous bed. Seductive mouth
turned down in a frown of grave distress, he'd admitted he had no idea how to
make up a bed.

"Lucky I'm here, then,"
she'd said, laughing.

Way too seriously, he'd agreed. "I'm
very lucky you're here."

Cuffed together, they'd had a hard
time tucking in the fitted sheet, which kept coming off on the other side. She
didn't bother suggesting it would be easier if he unlocked her. He might be insane,
but he wasn't stupid.

So they muddled it out and she
showed him how to make a hospital corner with the flat sheet. He mastered the
technique just by watching, and tucked the sheet under the mattress flawlessly
on the other side. The way he crossed his arms and nodded his great
satisfaction at his work made her smile.

She felt hyper-aware of his every
move. The way his thighs flexed in the legs of his low-slung jeans. His chest,
solid as the massive mahogany headboard. Most of all, his gaze all over her. He
didn't bother to hide his interest, to play it cool. He didn't wait for her to
look away. He just drank her in.

Even when she wasn’t looking, she
sensed him watching her, and blushed to the tips of her ears.

To distract herself, she travelled
back in her mind, searching for when they'd met before.

There were a few Arabic men at her
software company. Programmers, mostly. Kalil was the most devout, going into
one of the small meeting rooms to pray at specific times of the day, while some
of the others didn't even observe the Ramadan fast. None of them were anything
like Sayd.

She racked her brain for guys she'd
known in college, but none of them were hot as her abductor. She definitely
would have remembered him.

The only other candidate was the
first boy from the Middle East she'd ever met. But that couldn't be him. It had
been kindergarten, for crap's sake. The poor kid's parents had shipped him to
Newark when he didn't speak a word of English. He hadn't been a bit like Sayd.
Not handsome and confident. Definitely not motorcycle material. He'd been
skinny and miserable and alone.

The bullies from fourth grade had
picked up on his coffee-colored skin like sharks scenting blood in the water.
He'd been too little, too different. Alone, he was an easy target. He'd tried
to talk to the bullies in his native language, sending them into spasms of
laughter.

The worst part of it was that on
the first day he'd come, her six-year-old self had just been grateful the
bullies had someone else to pick on instead of chanting "Maxi-pad" at
her all lunch hour long. The thought of her relief still filled her with sick
shame.

The day they'd dumped him in the
mud was acid-etched into her brain. That was the day her strong sense of
justice had been born. It had been so unfair. About six of the big boys had
cornered him and shoved him down into a puddle.

Even now she burned at the cruelty
of it. She'd hated those boys even then, and hated that she couldn't do
anything about it. Hated their pointing and sadistic laughter.

But that day, the little boy hadn't
fought back, as he'd done before. Weeks of teasing had finally killed all
emotion in him. That was the thing more unfair than anything else. Even then
she sensed some light inside him going out. He'd sat in the puddle, doing
nothing, until they'd gotten bored and left.

She still didn't know why she sat
down next to him, soaking her jean overalls, but she had. That morning, her
granddad had given her a roll of Butter Rum Life Savers, which she'd brought
out and shared with him. One by one, sitting in the cold mud, they'd silently
eaten the whole package. She gave him the last Life Saver of the pack. When the
bell rang, they walked back to the classroom together.

The next day, she heard he'd
transferred to another school.

That boy's name was not Sayd, she
knew. Besides, she could never imagine the big, masculine man prowling like a
lion around the bed putting up with teasing. The idea was ridiculous. Plus that
little boy hadn't been a prince. The bullies had called him something cruel.
Something feminine. What had it been?

She would like to remember that
boy's name, though. For his own sake. She hadn't thought about him for years. Part
of her hated herself for forgetting. She should have kept up with him. Maybe
she could now. If she had someone good at stalking people handy.

"Sayd?" she asked. "Are
you really a king?"

"No."

Well, at least his delusion had
limits.

"Not while my father lives,"
he clarified.

Or maybe not. "So your family
has resources and power."

He looked into her eyes, searching
for something there. "Do you need resources and power?"

"Maybe the resources,"
she said, for once hoping there was something to his fantasies. "There's
someone I'd like to find."

He set his jaw. "A man? Should
I be jealous?"

She shrugged. "Just this boy I
used to know. I shouldn't have lost track of him. But I was really young at the
time."

He smoothed a wrinkle in the sheet.
"Sometimes it is best to leave the past where it lies."

It seemed like an odd thing to say
for a man who was desperate for her to remember these years he said she'd lost.

"Come,"
he said. "It is time for bed.

* * *

Max stared at the three skimpy lace
nighties Sayd had laid on the bed.

"I like the blue one best,"
he told her. "It matches your eyes."

"Well, I think you'll look
fabulous in it. I'm not wearing any of these, buddy."

He lowered his lids in a classic
smoldering look. "You're welcome to sleep nude. I like that even better
than the blue one."

She snapped her fingers in front of
his nose. "Wake up. You're dreaming already."

"Very well," he conceded,
pointing to the drawer where he'd found the tiny excuses for sleepwear. "There
is another."

The silver silk pajamas were more
acceptable. Except there was the problem of getting into them while wearing
handcuffs. He seemed to read her mind and brought out the key. With one hand,
he unlocked her. The other held her wrist in place, one thumb caressing the
sensitive pulse point where her palm met her arm. Warmth spread through her
body, touching places she didn't know were connected to her wrist.

As soon as she was free, she ripped
her hand away and grabbed the pajamas to hold like armor in front of her. "I'll
just be a second."

She took a step toward the door—and
found a too-handsome sheikh in her way. "What now?" It dawned on her.
"You don't expect me to change in here?"

"You have no need to be shy. I
have seen your body hundreds of times."

Yeah, through binoculars.
Just when she started to think he was sane, out came the crazy. She
sighed. At least he seemed devoted to this marriage fantasy, to a slow
seduction.

As if to encourage her, he pulled
his shirt over his head.

Damn, it should be illegal to have
shoulders like that and belong in the loony bin. And with such a pretty
hallucination—that he loved her more than anyone in the world. What woman
wouldn't be tempted to indulge in a little Stockholm syndrome with this guy?

Then he pulled the leather strap
out of his hair, letting it fall in a soft, sexy wave. She whimpered
mindlessly.

When he began to unzip his jeans,
she came back to herself and turned away, volcanic magma rising to her cheeks.
Not letting herself think twice, she scooted off her own jeans and stepped into
the bottoms. She dashed off her tee shirt and mashed the pajama top down over
her head. Once she had it on, she maneuvered her bra off through the sleeves.

"You do not normally sleep
wearing panties," he said, his voice a low rumble.

She turned back to see him lying
under the covers, one shackle still around his wrist. The other lay open,
waiting for her. She couldn't see any way out of it. If she went for the door,
he'd be on her before she got there.

Max climbed onto the bed and offered
her wrist. "You're right about the panties. But I think I'll wear them
tonight."

He fastened the cuff around her
with as much gentleness as possible. Then he looked at her from under dark
lashes. "Doesn’t matter. I can take them off as easily as anything else."

With her suddenly dry throat, she
couldn't make a peep. All her thoughts focused on what he was wearing under
that sheet. Clearly he didn't wear a shirt at night. Bottoms or not?

Trying to put it out of her mind,
she rolled on her side and faced the wall. Her eyes just didn't want to close,
though. So she just listened to the sound of the blood thrumming in her ears.

It didn't get better when he rolled
against her back and whispered. "No goodnight kiss for your husband?"

"You're not my husband. You're
suffering from insanity."

"Truly, I am suffering. But I'm
also your husband, though I don't expect you to believe that now." His
masculine scent enveloped her. His hand flattened on her belly. "I will
get you help, Max. We will find out what has been done to you, and the Crimson
Hand will pay."

She rolled her eyes. The Crimson
Hand again. "Tell you what, Sayd. I'll kiss you if you promise to stop
talking."

"A bad bargain," he said.
"I enjoy talking to you almost as much as I enjoy kissing you. And I haven't
seen you for three months. However, if it pleases you, I agree. I assume we can
talk again in the morning."

No way would he be satisfied with a
fast peck on the cheek. Her blood heated at the thought of another kiss like
the one they'd shared earlier.

She had to try anyway. She turned
her face to give him a quick kiss. He was quicker. He untangled from her and
lay on his back. Clever boy. This would force her to lie on his chest to reach
his mouth.

Well, she was clever, too. She got
on her knees and bent over him, minimizing contact. Or at least that was the
idea.

His hands cupped her jaw, drawing
her toward him. Despite her doubts, she let it happen. Their lips met, soft and
sweet.

The kiss was almost—but not
quite—chaste. He moved his mouth, catching her bottom lip between his for the
barest instant. It came close to being less of a kiss and more of a promise of
one. That kiss revved her body like nothing else would have. Her heart
thundered under her ribs. Her thighs went weak. Every part of her ached for
more
.

Then he let her go, rolling away
without a word, leaving her dazed and spinning.

Bastard, bastard, bastard
, she cursed when her brain started working again. He seemed to know
how to get her hormones humming—and leave her wanting.

Frustrated to the point of
insanity, she slapped him on one hard pec with an open hand. "You jerk.
What the hell was that?"