Blackwolf's Redemption

“Oh, God,” she whispered, and she slammed the door, locked it with trembling fingers, fell back against the cool wood and took a long, ragged breath.

How dare this man do this to her? What gave him the right to try to frighten her to death?

Lock your door. What was she supposed to be? His slave? And for what? Did he honestly think he’d needed to tell her to safeguard herself against him after that take-no-prisoners kiss?

A man who kissed a woman as Jesse had kissed her was dangerous.

And a woman who responded to such a kiss was in deep trouble.

Sienna swallowed dryly.

No. She had not responded. She was—she was in pieces, emotionally. He knew it. He’d taken advantage of her but it would not happen again.

Really? How many times can you kiss him back and still tell yourself it’s not your doing, that you’re not actually responding?

The whisper inside her was sly. And brutally honest.

Okay. What she had to do was get control of things. Calm down. Take deep breaths. In. Out. Good. And again. Very good. See? It was working. Her heart was slowing. Only a thousand beats per minute instead of a million, she thought on a nervous laugh.

Laughing was good, even if it was shaky. It meant she was thinking again instead of simply reacting.

If only the storm would stop. If the lights would come on. At least she had the lantern and its bright glow. The only thing wrong with that was that it cast such a brilliant glow that it made the darkness pooled beyond it all the more absolute. She could see nothing beyond the bed. The windows were blank and black.

Not good.

Resolutely, she crossed the room, put the lantern on the night table, hurried to the windows and shut the vertical blinds.

Much better.

There was something about the night pressing in that was disturbing…but not as disturbing as Jesse Blackwolf. He was the proverbial enigma wrapped in a paradox, a beautiful, sleek, powerful mystery. He thought she’d trespassed on his property, that she’d come to steal artifacts, but he’d still risked his neck getting her down that mountain. He’d brought her here, taken care of her, fed her…

And kissed her.

He could have done more.

For a moment, for a heartbeat, he could have done anything he’d wanted. She’d known it. So had he.

But he hadn’t. Why? Why had he let her go, let her put a locked door between them? Not that a lock would stop him. If he came for her, the door would be a meaningless barrier. And once he’d broken it down, she’d be defenseless. He’d strip her of the oversized clothing, carry her to his bed, take her again and again and again….

Excitement shimmered within her.

Was that what she wanted? To be ravished? To have no choice except to give in to him? To have his mouth hot on her skin, his hands exploring her? To feel his hard body against hers?

Possessing her.

Sienna sank down on the edge of the bed and pressed her fingertips to her temples. Maybe she really was going crazy. A kiss. That was all it was…though, when you came down to it, maybe it hadn’t been a kiss at all. Maybe it had been a raw declaration of power. Men were still into those things in the 1970s….

Assuming this was the 1970s and not some white-walled room in an Intensive Care Unit. Or the local psycho ward.

“Enough,” she said, and sprang to her feet.

She wasn’t going there. It was enough to understand why he’d kissed her. Never mind the decade or even the century. Men were men. The I’m-male-you’re-female-and-that’s-that routine was in their DNA and would probably remain there forever.

The key to sanity was to think logically. Concentrate on practicalities. Like the fact that she knew her name even if she wasn’t so sure about the date. Or that if she pinched herself—“Ouch!”—if she did, it hurt.

So, she was fine with the basics.

She was also in one piece. She had hot soup in her belly. She was dry. And warm. Well, fairly warm, not outside in the cold and the wet.

And the door was locked against Jesse.

He couldn’t get to her. Couldn’t take her in his arms again. Kiss her. Caress her. Make her blood run thick and hot…

She drew a long breath. What she needed was sleep—but not in this bed. Not under Jesse’s blankets or with her head on his pillows. No way. Damned if she understood why that seemed so important, but it did.

There was a big armchair by the window. All she had to do was turn it so it faced into the room, like that, then settle into it, like this. Shut her eyes and sleep. When she awoke, it would be morning.

Things had a way of looking lots better by daylight.

But the chair, while big, wasn’t comfortable. Not as a substitute bed. She couldn’t stretch out or do anything with her legs except tuck them up under her, and that wasn’t so good because her thighs and calves ached. The climb down the mountain had taken its toll. She couldn’t lean her head back, either. The final insult was that after a few minutes of sitting still, the sweats and socks she was wearing didn’t feel quite so warm.