Love's Prisoner

  MaryJanice Davidson

  From Secrets Volume 6 , by Red Sage Publishing

  Copyright © 2000 by MaryJanice Davidson

  ISBN 0-9648942-6-2

  To my reader:

  I've always been intrigued by good guys who have to do bad, and werewolves are prime examples of that. It's tough to be a sensitive, 21st century guy when you turn furry, howl at the moon, and crave raw meat once a month. It's even worse if you're in love with someone who not only thinks you're delusional, but at times actively despises you. Stick two people like this in an elevator, add one power outage, and watch the sparks fly . . .

  I hope you'll email me or visit my website to tell me what you thought about Love's Prisoner. I love to hear from my readers, and I like getting suggestions on what you think I should write next.

  Chapter One

  Engrossed as she was in Glamour's Do's and Don'ts, Jeannie Lawrence scarcely noticed when the elevator jolted to an abrupt halt. She did notice when the lights went out.

  "Oh, come on!" she cried, slapping her magazine shut. Getting stuck in an elevator during a power outage was nowhere on her to-do list. Today, anyway.

  "Not now," a voice muttered, and she nearly shrieked. She hadn't known anyone else was in the elevator with her. When she had her nose in a book or magazine, she wouldn't have noticed if Barney the Dinosaur was in the elevator with her.

  "Well, this is a fine fix, huh?" she asked the voice. "Of all the days to drop my ad copy off early! I guess it's true—no good deed goes unpunished. What are you going to be late for? Me, I'm trying to beat the rush hour traffic to the bridge. I can't stand it when—"

  "Hush."

  The voice was a pleasant baritone, one she liked despite its abruptness. She hushed, not offended.

  Some people didn't like talking to strangers. Or maybe this guy was claustrophobic. Or—what was fear of the dark? Darkophobic? Whatever it was, he was clearly unhappy to be trapped in an elevator for who knew how long. Poor guy. She hoped he didn't get the screaming meemies. There was nothing worse than a grown man having hysterics.

  "Sorry," she said, then added, "I'm sure we won't be here long."

  She heard a sound and recognized it immediately: the man trapped with her had taken a couple steps back. Almost as if he was trying to put as much space between them as he could.

  Exasperated, she said, "For crying out loud! I don't have cooties. Anymore," she added, hoping to lighten the mood.

  "Be quiet. And step into the far corner. Now."

  "The hell I will!" She turned toward the voice. "Look, just because you're feeling antisocial doesn't mean I—"

  " Don't. " No pleasant baritone that time. That one sounded like a growl, like he'd forced the word out through gritted teeth. "Don't come near me. Keep away. When you move, you stir around the air currents and I get more of your scent."

  "And that's bad , right?" Great, she thought with grim humor. Trapped with someone who skipped his medication this morning. Why didn't I take the stairs?

  "No. It's not bad." His voice, low in the dark, was a throbbing baritone she could feel along her spine.

  "It's . . . extraordinary."

  "Gosh, thanks." Uh-huh. Clearly a nutcake, sexy voice or no. She hadn't had time to put perfume on after her shower. He couldn't smell a damn thing, except maybe a lingering whiff of Dial soap. "Do you have a special doctor you tell these things to? Someone you should call when we get out of here?"

  He barked laughter. "I'm not insane. I'm not surprised that's the conclusion you've drawn, though. What is your name?"

  "Jane Doe."

  He chuckled softly. "What harm could it do to tell me your real name?"

  "All right, but only if you promise not to freak out on me. More than you already have, I mean. It's Jeannie Lawrence." There were a million Lawrences in the greater St. Paul area, she comforted herself, so if he was a serial killer he likely couldn't track her down when this was over. "Now remember, you promised . . ."

  "Actually, I didn't. Not that promising would have done any good." He sighed, a lost sound in the dark.

  Absurdly, she felt sorry for him, this perfect crazy stranger who talked so oddly and in the sexiest voice she had ever heard. "You smell wonderful."

  "Don't get started on that again," she warned.

  "The moon's coming. I can feel her." She heard him swallow hard. "There isn't much time."

  "Boy, have you got that right." She put her arms out in front of her, feeling in the dark, then stepped forward and banged on the elevator door. "Hello!" she shouted. "Anybody up there? A nice girl and a raving lunatic are trapped in here!"

  "You're ovulating," he said directly in her ear, and she shrieked and flung herself away from him, so hard that she bounced off the far wall and would have fallen had he not caught her. Even in her startlement, she was conscious of the easy strength of his hand, in his scent, a crisp, clean, utterly masculine smell that she liked very much, despite her sudden fear.

  "You—" Her mouth was dry; she swallowed to force moisture and finished her rant. "You scared the hell out of me! Don't sneak up on me like that, for the love of—and you can let go of me, too." She yanked her arm out of his grip, her heart yammering so loudly she felt certain he could hear it. And what was that absurd thing he had said? Had he really said—

  "It's too late. You're ovulating," he said, his voice a low rumble in the dark. "You're . . . in heat, to put it a little more crudely. And I'm too close to my change."

  "Then empty your pockets," she said rudely. "Let your change out."

  "You don't want me to do that," he said softly. "Oh, no."

  She supposed some women would be reduced to panic at this turn of events, but this weirdo with the sexy voice and strong hands had no idea who he was dealing with. She had a black belt in karate, could drill a dime at fifty yards, and had once put a would-be mugger in the hospital with cracked ribs. If this guy tried anything with her, he was going to have a very bad day.

  "Look, I'm sorry you're feeling . . . uh . . . unwell, but if you just stay calm, they'll have us out of here in no ti—"

  With that same shocking suddenness, his hand was behind her neck, tilting her face up, and she could feel his mouth near her temple, heard him inhale deeply. "You're in heat," he murmured in her ear, "and the moon's coming up." He inhaled again, greedily. Frozen by his actions, she waited for his next words.

  "I'm very sorry."

  Then his mouth was on hers. Pressed against the far wall of the elevator, she could feel his long, hard length against her body, could feel his hands on her, could hear his rasping breath. She had the absurd sense he was wallowing in her scent, glorying in it. And she came absurdly close to relaxing in his embrace, to kissing him back. Instead, moving independently of her brain, her hands struggled up and pressed against his chest, hard, but it was like trying to move a tree.

  "Oh, Christ," he groaned into her hair.

  "Don't—"

  "I'm sorry."

  "—stop it—"

  "I'm very sorry."

  "—before I break your—"

  "Do you believe in werewolves?"

  "—big stupid—what?"

  "I'm a werewolf. And my change is very near. Otherwise I might be able to—but the moon's too close.

  And so are you."

  " What are you talking about?" she cried.

  "I'm trying to explain. Why this is going to . . . why this must happen. Don't be afraid."

  "I'm not afraid," she hissed, shoving at his chest again. This time, it worked. Or he stepped back.

  "You're a liar." Odd, how he could make that sound like an endearment. "I can smell your fear."

  "I'm not sure how to break this to you," she said through gritted teeth, "but I'm not afraid of any man.

  And I don't smell. "

  "Not afraid. Anxious, then," he soothed. "I don't blame you a bit. If I was trapped in a box a hundred feet off the ground with a werewolf an hour from his change, I'd be out of my mind."

  "About the werewolf fixation," she said, striving for a note of humor—she'd always had a perverse need to make light of any seriousness. "I confess this concerns me a bit. Perhaps there's a support group that can help. Men-who-love-werewolves-and-the- women-trapped-in-elevators-with-them."

  He laughed, a throaty chuckle.

  "Couldn't you have waited another hour to have your nervous breakdown?" she complained, pleased that she amused him. If she could keep him distracted, off balance, maybe the power would come back on and she could—

  Then she felt his hands on her arms, gently pulling her forward. "I am sorry," he said, his voice heavy with regret. Again, she caught his pleasant, utterly masculine scent, and again she fought her unwitting attraction. Jeannie didn't plan to let him do anything he'd be sorry for. She took a deep breath and prepared to strike him, palm out, with all her strength. A crippling blow, and, if she nailed him on the bridge of the nose, a killing blow. She hoped she would get him in the forehead or cheek. She didn't want to kill the lunatic. That was her thought as she smashed her hand into his chin and felt him rock backward with the blow.

  "Ouch," he said mildly.

  She felt her mouth pop open in stunned surprise. She hit him, she knew she hit him! Her hand was numb from the force of it. He should be unconscious, or at least groaning on the floor.

  "That was some punch," he continued, as if commenting on a drink and not a blow it had taken her four months to learn. "You've had training."

  "You
're out of your mind," she whispered. Or she was. Could it be true? Was he a—ludicrous thought—werewolf? She felt for him in the dark, sure he had to be bleeding, and her fingers encountered his smooth cheek. She jerked her hand away. "You're completely crazy, you know that?"

  "No." She sensed him step close to her and threw another punch, no more fooling around—and her fist smacked into his open palm.

  He had blocked her punch. In itself, almost impossible unless he was also a black belt. And what were the chances of being trapped in an elevator in the Wyndham Tower with a crazy man who was also a black belt? More worrisome, he had seen her strike coming. Whereas she couldn't see her hand in front of her face.

  She felt his fingers curl around her small fist, felt his thumb caress the knuckle of her first finger. Her knees wanted to buckle, either from sudden, swamping fear or the sensation his warm fingers were calling forth. "Brave Jeannie Lawrence," he murmured, his voice so low it sounded like tearing velvet.

  "What a pity you didn't wait for the next elevator."

  Then he deftly swept her legs out from under her and she was falling—but he was coming down with her and cushioned her fall and was on top of her in an instant, his mouth on her throat, his hands busy at her blouse. She shrieked in anger and dismay, raining blows on his shoulders, his chest, his face, and he took them all without being deterred from his task. She heard a rending tear as he ripped her blouse away, tugged at her bra . . . then felt the shock of it to her toes as his warm mouth closed over her nipple.

  She tried to lunge away from him but he pinned her easily with one hand on her shoulders, while the other tore at her clothes. "I'm sorry," he was groaning against her breast, "don't be afraid, I won't hurt you . . . ah, God, your scent is driving me out of my mind. " That last ended on a growl, an ominous rumble that filled the dark elevator.

  She drew in a breath to scream the building down—and sobbed instead. He was too strong for her, she was punching him and clawing him and kicking at him and he was barely noticing. This . . . thing he meant to do, it was really going to happen. To her. Daughter of a cop and a Special Forces veteran, a man and woman generous with their teaching, who never wanted their daughter to be a rape or murder statistic.

  Jeannie could pick a lock and knock out most men with one punch. But she couldn't stop this man from taking her by force. Never mind the fact that her mind kept shrieking that this wasn't happening to her, this was not, was not, was not. It was.

  "Don't cry," he begged, and she could feel his hands shaking as he gathered her against him. "We'll be done soon. It won't hurt. I'm so sorry to scare you."

  "Please don't," she whispered, hating the way she sounded—so helpless, so frightened—but unable to do anything about it. "Please don't do this."

  He groaned again and squeezed her in a rough hug. "I have to. I'm not mated, I don't have any control over this, just like later I won't have any control over—but you don't believe me, so we won't talk about that." His voice was still soothing, and now his hands were beneath her, stroking her back, forcing her chest up, and his mouth was buried in her throat, kissing and licking and even—very gently—biting.

  She could hear his breathing roughen in the dark, heard another rip as her skirt was torn. She remembered herself and struck out at him again, blindly, connecting hard but with no apparent effect. He shredded her linen skirt like it was paper . . . Christ, he was strong! But his hands on her bare flesh were gentle, almost languid. They were everywhere, stroking her skin, sliding across her limbs, and she felt her nipples harden so much it was almost painful. When his lips brushed across one she almost wept with relief, even as she was pushing against his shoulders with all her strength. He rubbed his cheek against that same nipple, his stubble rasping across the sensitive bud, and her fingers curled into fists so she wouldn't touch him with tenderness. She couldn't give in to him, no matter how—

  Stubble?

  He had been clean shaven two minutes ago.

  She shoved that thought away, hard. His rough tongue swept across her nipples, a blessed distraction that made her want to scream, made her want him, and she hated wanting him. She tried to remind herself that this man was raping her, but the only thing she could really understand was that he was making her feel as no one had ever made her feel. She was no stranger to sex, but the only man she had ever been intimate with was her college boyfriend, and that was almost three years ago.

  In the back of her mind, a constant refrain: this isn't happening. It's not real. Ten minutes ago I was on my way home; now I'm having sex in the dark with a stranger. Thus, this is a dream. It can't be happening, ergo it's not happening. Tempting to believe that voice, to give in to the pleasure he could so skillfully offer her, to . . .

  She realized she hadn't hit him in quite a few seconds. That she no longer wanted him to stop. That traitorous thought alone galvanized her into raining more blows on his head, until he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand.

  "Enough," he said hoarsely, and she cringed, wondering if he was going to hit her back. "I don't blame you one bit, but . . . enough, Jeannie."

  He pinned her knees apart with his own, kept her hands out of his way by keeping them above her head, and bent to kiss her. He jerked back and her teeth snapped together, bare centimeters from his mouth.

  He could apparently see in the dark like a cat.

  Or a wolf.

  She put the ridiculous thought out of her mind as quickly as she could. That way lies madness. That way lies . . .

  His thumb was stroking the soft cotton of her panties. And moving lower. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her knees were flat against the carpet, forcing her thighs wide apart, and now his damned fingers were—were—inside her panties. His breathing was so harsh in the dark, almost panting, and she could feel his body thrumming with tension, could hear his teeth grinding together as he fought—what? It was clear he was in the grip of urgent lust, that he wanted to surge inside her and thrust until he could no longer move, but something was holding him back. And now his fingers were delicately brushing the plump lips between her thighs, stroking so sweetly and tenderly . . . and then his thumb slipped between her nether lips while his tongue thrust past her teeth and she nearly shrieked, so intense was her pleasure.

  He groaned into her mouth and then his fingers were spreading her plump folds apart and his thumb was slipping inside her and his tongue was licking, darting, and she sobbed with frustration and strained against him. His fingers danced across her slick flesh, sweetly stroking, probing, oh so gently rubbing a circle around her throbbing clit, a circle that got smaller and smaller . . . and then his thumb was dipping inside her again while his fingernail flicked past her clitoris, and she shivered so hard she nearly bucked him off.

  He growled. The sound did not frighten her. It kindled her blood, made her want to growl back, made her want to sink her teeth into his flesh while his flesh sank into her again . . . and again . . . and again . . .

  She realized dimly that he wasn't growling, he was saying her name, but his voice was so thick and deep she could hardly understand him. "Jeannie—let your—hands go?"

  "Yes!" she screamed, wild to touch him, to feel his flesh against hers, to rip off his clothes as he had ripped hers. He released her wrists and in a flash her arms were around him, pressing him closer, she was tearing at his shirt, frantic to get the damned cloth off him and he was helping her and now her clothes weren't the only ones in shredded ruin, after all, what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the werewolf, and—

  His hands were beneath her buttocks, raising her to him, and she could feel that long, hard, hot part of him nudging for entrance. For an instant, reason reclaimed her. Was she really going to do this? This crazy thing? She had no protection and without it, in this day and age, she was taking her life in her hands. And why was she cooperating in her own rape, for the love of God?

  "Wait—" she said in a thin, high voice, but he drove forward, thrust into her with power and searing heat and her good sense left her; she threw back her head and screamed until she thought her throat would burst, screamed at him to never never stop and still he came, that hot hard length parting her, filling her, and it should have hurt, it should have, he was very large and she hadn't known a lover in years, but her need for him was as great as his for her, and instead of hurting, she needed more.