“All right,” I choke out as if every word coming from his lips isn’t stoking a fire deep within me. Electricity zaps through my veins at the thought that nothing but a shower curtain stands between me and the man from my dreams. I arch my back, closing my eyes and absorbing the sensation his voice releases in me. The wetness between my legs is from more than just the shower. I picture his hand where my hand is, his tongue.
I hear the door open like he’s leaving. “Fiona…” His rough, growly voice travels up my spine, along my throat.
“Yeah?” I try not to sound breathless, but it’s all I can do not to get myself off right here, right now.
“I’m trying my best to keep my hands to myself out of deference to you and your situation, but I can smell your arousal, and if you keep teasing me, I’m going to bury myself in you so deep you’ll forget we were ever two separate people.”
I yank my hand from between my legs. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
His low laugh rumbles from the room and the door closes behind him.
Could he actually smell my arousal? Shit, I guess he is a dragon. My cheeks blaze with embarrassment even as my nether regions throb with unmet need.
I finish showering, angry and sexually frustrated, and pull back the curtain to reach for a towel. A stack of clothes and toiletries waits for me near the sink. I check the labels. My size. The pair of wide-leg jeans is buttery soft and stretchy and goes perfectly with the lightweight long-sleeved gray sweater he’s left me. He even bought me underwear and a matching bra. A man like him, especially one who’s shown some attraction to me, might have picked something for his pleasure. Black lace, flimsy, with wires. Maybe a thong. But this is sporty, simple, and comfortable. There’s also some makeup, hair-care items, and the complete skin-care line of an expensive brand I only sometimes splurge on because the cream alone is three hundred dollars.
I take a deep breath.He abducted you, Fiona.He’s a criminal and possibly insane. An alien creature.Stop crushing on him! With a huff, I decide then and there to end this nonsense of fantasizing about the dragon. Yes, he’s hot and the first man to make me feel anything below the waist since the accident, but he’s a criminal, a kidnapper, a wedding ruiner.
Leisurely, I make use of all the items and emerge from the bathroom feeling like a new person, resolved to do what I have to do to get out of here.
Which brings up an even bigger question. It’s been five days since I was taken. Why hasn’t Romanmoved heaven and earth to get me back? Does he even know I was ill? Unless he has and Connor hasn’t told me for some reason.
Connor, my kidnapper, whom I’m picturing in my dreams and when I touch myself in the shower. God, this is fucked up.
I leave the bathroom and pull up short when I see an Apple Store bag on the bed. I rush across the room to rifle through it. What. The. Hell? It contains a new MacBook Air and a selection of notebooks, pens, highlighters, and sticky tabs in various colors. I pull the laptop box out and carry it to the desk by the window, ripping it open. My hands shake as I plug it in and go through the steps to get it up and running. The Wi-Fi is called DragonsLair5G, but of course I don’t have the password. But I don’t need it. The unit is already set up for me, fully charged and preloaded with word-processing software. I’ll be starting from scratch onMilkmaidanyway. Nothing I’ve written so far was worth saving.
I sit down at the desk and open a blank Word file.
Alex appears in my head in her military police uniform. She salutes me.Let’s go, Ms. Morrow. The Milk Cult isn’t going to stop itself.
My fingers hit the keyboard and fly.
Chapter after chapter flows out of me. It’s like a river of words has been dammed up in my brain for twelve months and finally, finally that dam has burst. The story behindMilkmaidis crystal clear to me now. After the thirteen-year-old daughter of a fellow investigator from her stint as an MP goes missing, Alex traces a chemical in the girl’s best friend’s blood back to a rave where othergirls were similarly drugged. Alex poses as a drug seeker at the same party the following weekend and witnesses a man spray something on a young woman’s arm. The drug makes the woman extremely compliant, and Alex has no trouble getting her out of there and to the lab of close friend and former lover Henrik Angel. Henrik’s people isolate the substance on her arm, and after some highly illegal research, identify it as a military bioweapon called M1LK, an abbreviation for the chemical compounds used in the formula. Nicknamed Milk, the chalky white chemical produces an instant high. With its other attributes, it’s a nearly perfect date-rape drug. Armed with that knowledge, Alex returns to the rave and follows the man she saw using the drug. She links him to a secret society called the Milk Cult.
When my hands start to cramp, I take a break and check my word count. It’s one p.m. I’ve written eleven thousand words. I jump from the chair and dance around the room. It’s the most I’ve ever written in four hours. Hell, the most I’ve ever written in a day. My stomach growls and my mouth is dry as a stone, but Alex is back, baby. Alex. Is. Back.
I stop spinning when I notice the door is open. Has it been open the entire time? No, I don’t think so. Someone’s been in here. Shit, I must have been too engrossed in the story to notice.
My stomach growls again, and I go in search of food. And if I’m being honest with myself, I wouldn’t mind seeing Connor either. I should loathe him. I should fear him. But I find him strangely compelling and undeniably interesting, plus I should say thank you for the laptop.
I do a cursory check of the hallway and then walk toward the back of the house where I spot a sunroom with a wall of windows. My eyes catch on Connor in the backyard. Oh hell do they catch. In the light of a crisp spring day, he’s shirtless, his jeans riding low on his hips, with pine trees and snowcapped mountains framing him like some sort of majestic work of art. He’s chopping wood. I watch him set up another log, raise the axe over his shoulder and bring it down in a perfect arc, splitting the piece in a single blow. I sigh, noticing that tendrils of steam are curling off his skin. He’s sweating. My eye moves to the snow on the trees. It can’t be more than forty degrees out there, and he’s sweating.
“You must be Fiona.”
I jump and twirl around to find a middle-aged Indian man with a short beard standing behind me.
He smiles. “I’m sorry to startle you. Would you like something to eat? I came into your room to offer earlier, but Connor told me not to disturb you if you were writing.”
“Oh yes.” I’m starving. So that’s why my door was open.
His gaze assesses me quickly. “I’m relieved to see everything fits. Connor was very specific, but one never knows with women’s clothing.”
“You bought this for me? And the other things?” The man looks familiar, but I can’t quite place who he reminds me of.
He laughs. “No. Connor ordered them. I simply picked them up on my way here. I’m Zaire. I work for Connor.”
He extends his hand and we shake. When he smiles, I realize why he looks familiar. “Zaire. You aretheZaire. The reclusive artist Zaire. My friend Vivian owns one of your paintings—Rhapsody in Red. Absolutely gorgeous.”
A blush stains his cheeks, and he has to look away. “You flatter me. I remember that painting. It was a joy to complete.”
