His Stolen Bride (Chicago Sons) by Barbara Dunlop

without words that they were in each other’s arms.
    She quickly pulled back, wriggling to get away from him.
    A pained expression came over his face. “Uh, Crista, don’t—”
    “What?” Had she hurt him?
    “The way you’re moving.”
    And then she realized what he meant. They might be mostly dressed, but she could feel every nuance of his body. Raw arousal coursed through her all over again. She felt her face heat in embarrassment.
    “However you have to move. Whatever you have to do. Just do it,” she demanded hoarsely.
    He cupped a palm under her knee, lifting her leg from his body and lowering it to the mattress. But his hand lingered on her thigh.
    She closed her eyes, steeling herself. What was the matter with her? “Please,” she whispered.
    “You’re going to have to be more specific.” His husky voice amped up her arousal.
    “We can’t.” But she wanted to. She couldn’t remember ever wanting a man so intensely.
    “We won’t,” he said and gathered her into his arms all over again.
    She didn’t protest. Instead, she reveled in the security of his strength. Yesterday had been a nightmare of fear, disappointment and confusion. It had all been Jackson’s fault. But for some reason that didn’t seem to matter. He was still a comfort.
    “Mac will be here in a few minutes,” said Jackson.
    “Is he going to swim?” she asked.
    “I docked the boat last night after you fell asleep.”
    “You mean I could have escaped?”
    “You’d have had to get out of my bed without waking me. But, yeah, you could have escaped.”
    Crista heaved a sigh. “This isn’t normal. My reaction to these circumstances,” she said.
    “It doesn’t feel normal to me, either.” He scooted to the end of the bed and stood.
    “Jackson?” A man’s voice came from beyond the small hatch door.
    She jerked back, quickly adjusting her jersey over her thighs.
    “We’ll be right out,” Jackson called. To Crista he said, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
    “Yes, I did.”
    He was right about one thing—she should stop lying to herself. She might love Vern, but she’d just kissed the heck out of another man. Maybe fear and stress had combined to mess with her hormones, but what she’d done was absolutely, fundamentally wrong.
    Jackson slipped a T-shirt over his head. “Forget about it.”
    “Are you really going to let me go?” She forced herself to think ahead.
    If she could make a phone call, Vern would pick her up. She didn’t have her purse, no cash or credit cards or her phone. She’d have to change back into her ruined wedding dress before he got here. Man, was he going to be ticked off about that.
    “After you look at what Mac found, yes, I’ll let you go.”
    “Good.” She struggled to summon her pride as she rose from the bed.
    She followed Jackson up a couple of steps and ducked through the hatch to the main cabin. There she found Mac, a tall, bulky man with broad shoulders, who had a heavy brow and a military hairstyle. Jackson looked almost urbane by comparison. The contrast to Vern would be startling.
    “Mac,” said Jackson with a nod. “This is Crista Corday.”
    “Miss Corday,” said Mac. His voice was as rugged as his appearance.
    “I think we can skip the formality of Miss Corday, since you participated in my kidnapping.”
    “Mac had nothing to do with it,” said Jackson.
    “He does now,” said Crista. She was telling Vern and the police everything. Jackson and his gang of men should not be allowed to roam free.
    “I’ve got the photos,” said Mac, stepping forward.
    He held out his phone so she could see the screen. The first one was taken on a busy street. It was Vern, all right. Despite herself, she leaned in for a closer look.
    He walking side by side with a woman, presumably Gracie. They seemed to be exiting a restaurant. The woman was tall, with a bouncy mane of wavy blond hair. Her makeup was dark—thick, sparkly liner and a coating of mascara emphasizing her bright