What Price Love? by Stephanie Laurens Page A

still, then she transformed into a wildcat, twisting sinuously beneath him, hands rising, claws extended for his face.
    He wrenched his arms free, caught her hands half a second before she made contact.
    She swore at him in Gaelic, bucked, kicked, fought him like a heathen. He had to shift, twist; he only just managed to avoid her rising knee, to block it and press it back with his thigh.
    â€œHold still, damn it !”
    She didn’t listen. He could hear her ragged breaths, almost sobs, but she seemed beyond the reach of his voice.
    Ruthlessly, he exerted his strength, pressing her hands to the ground on either side of her head, relentlessly using his full weight to subdue her.
    It wasn’t—definitely wasn’t—his idea of a wise move. He could feel every undulation of her supple body beneath his, every caress of her remarkably feminine, sinfully suggestive curves as she writhed beneath him.
    His body had reacted instantly—painfully—to the feel of hers. Now…
    â€œFor God’s sake !” He bit off a curse. “Unless you want me to take you here and now, be still !”
    That got through to her; she froze—totally and utterly.
    He waited; when she remained quiet, rigid beneath him, he dragged in a breath, braced his arms, and eased his weight onto his elbows, enough to look down at her face—not enough for her to have any hope of dislodging him.
    They lay in the open, their faces inches apart, but her features were shaded by his head above hers; looking up, she wouldn’t be able to see his expression any more than he could see hers.
    He had to fight not to glance down at her lips, and farther, at her breasts, still heaving, repeatedly brushing his chest. He forced himself to concentrate on her eyes, wide and framed by the dark curve of her lashes. “What are you doing here?”
    For one instant, she stared up at him, then she flung another Gaelic epithet at him and tensed—but she didn’t try to buck him off. Possibly because he now lay between her slender thighs. Then she spoke. “Is this how you entertain yourself, then? Accosting ladies in the woods?”
    She’d poured scorn and more into her sultry voice, but there was a hint of panic edging it…
    The accusation seemed singularly inapt.
    Dillon frowned. He stared into her wide eyes. Despite not being able to see their expression, he suddenly understood. Suddenly realized on a wash of sensual heat just what was causing her to lose her grip on her wits.
    Realized what it was keeping her lovely eyes doe-wide.
    Keeping her breathing skittish and panicky.
    Beneath him, he felt her quiver, recognized the response as involuntary, something she would die rather than admit to—something she couldn’t suppress or prevent.
    He could feel his heartbeat heavy in his loins, could feel the heat of hers trapped beneath him, pressed against him. He felt the telltale tension thrumming through her, resistance combined with a reaction she couldn’t control.
    One that left her weak.
    He would never have a better chance of getting her to tell him all she knew. Deliberately, he let his hips settle more definitely between her thighs.
    Her breath caught; alarm flashed through her. “Get off me.”
    The last word hitched, caught.
    He froze. Inwardly swore. She was one step away from outright panic. Damn —he couldn’t do this.
    He was about to tense and lift from her when a crashing in the wood captured both their attentions.
    Turning his head, he watched Barnaby stagger from the trees. He was holding his side and had clearly failed to capture the Irishman.
    Very much the worse for wear, Barnaby slumped against the bole of a tree. “Thank God.” He dragged in a painful breath. “You caught him.”
    Dillon sighed. Without releasing his captive’s hands, he pushed up, got his feet under him, and rose, hauling her unceremoniously up before him.
    He looked over her head at