LITMIR.BIZ

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      Mindful of the terrifying show of speed and strength he’d put on just minutes earlier, she quickly stepped back out of reach. And waited.

      Nothing. He continued to sit perfectly still, head slumped, eyes shut, broad shoulders rigid.

      “It’s ibuprofen. My first aid book says that’s okay for someone in your condition.”

      Still no reaction. With an inner shrug, she decided that if he wanted to imitate a boulder there was nothing she could do about it. She’d give it one more try; then she was done.

      “If you think a cold compress would help, let me know. The fridge hasn’t been on long enough to make ice, but there’s plenty of snow outside.” Silence. “Hokay then, J. T.” With a shrug, she started to turn away. “I’ll just give you some space—”

      “Don’t call me that.”

      Turning back, she found his gaze fixed on her, his eyes hooded and impossible to read. “What?” Her response was automatic even though she knew perfectly well what he was referring to.

      “J. T.,” he gritted out. “Don’t call me that. I don’t like it.”

      For a second she was speechless. Of all the things she might’ve expected him to object to, her flippant abbreviation of Just Taggart wasn’t even on the list. Still, given that she had the upper hand, she supposed she could afford to be gracious. “All right. Plain old Taggart it is then.” She felt a fleeting flash of amusement as she considered what he’d say if she called him by that acronym.

      Moving carefully, and looking as if he hadn’t smiled about anything in years, he reached for the pill bottle and thumbed off the cap. To her dismay, he proceeded to toss back considerably more than the recommended dosage. Setting down the water glass, he eased back farther on the bed, then sliced her a sharp look. “What?”

      “I—nothing.” She wiped the concerned look off her face, telling herself not to be foolish. He was a grown-up, and bigger than average, and if he wanted to suck down the entire bottle of pain reliever, it was none of her business. While she obviously hadn’t been ruthless enough after the accident to shove him out of the truck and abandon him to his fate, she was neither stupid nor naive enough to think anything had changed.

      He was her enemy.

      A crucial little fact she couldn’t afford to forget, she reminded herself, turning away. Sure, she was lonely. Sure she was dying to talk openly to somebody. And yes, the sight of anyone injured or hurting tended to trigger what Seth had always claimed was her overdeveloped nurturing streak.

      But she’d be grade-A certifiable, lock-me-in-the-asylum-and-throw-away-the-key crazy to let down her guard even an inch where the man on the bed was concerned.

      And it wasn’t only the risk he posed to her freedom, his obvious mental toughness, killer physique or ability to handle himself that she found so threatening, she mused as she walked over to the kitchen and began methodically putting away the groceries.

      No, there was something else, some intangible quality he possessed that made her feel off balance and not quite herself. Something that tugged at her senses and alarmed her recently awakened sense of self-preservation all at the same time.

      Uh-huh. That’s called the thrill of danger, the call of the wild, Genevieve. Women have been drawn to dangerous men like moths to the flame since the beginning of time.

      Add to that the fact that he wasn’t exactly ugly and it was perfectly reasonable that he inspired such conflicting feelings in her. Not that he was pretty-boy handsome. Far from it. Along with that dark hair and those pale eyes, he had the strongly sculpted, slightly ascetic face of a medieval warrior.

      But she wasn’t attracted to him, for heaven’s sake. She absolutely was not. Even if she’d met him under different circumstances—say, when he wasn’t doing his damnedest to hijack her life—he was so far from her type it wasn’t even funny. He was too big, too tightly wound, too…male.

      Plus he had an air of watchfulness, of being apart, that troubled her. Most people had a need to be liked, to connect with others, to smooth their path through life with at least a pretense of mutual experience or interest.

      Not him. He seemed walled off, although she had a feeling she didn’t question that beneath that carefully controlled surface there were strong emotions at play. Perhaps that was why, even chained and hurting, he filled the cabin with his blatantly masculine presence, making her aware of him without ever saying a word.

      Why even now, as she dragged a large cast-iron pot out of the cupboard, set it on the stove and busied herself with sautéing meat and chopping vegetables for the soup, she could feel him watching her. Just as she’d sensed him observing her earlier.

      She gave a rueful little sigh. God. What she wouldn’t give for her earlier foreboding to have been caused by a good old killer squirrel, mutant or not.

      Instead, she was stuck with a much more terrifying human male.

      Of course, she supposed things could have turned out worse—far worse. She’d gotten incredibly lucky with that deer. And Taggart, for all his aura of imminent threat, hadn’t hurt her despite having had plenty of opportunity, not even in retaliation when she’d struck him first. In all fairness, she supposed she had to give him points for that—and consider the possibility that he was more civilized than she imagined.

      “You don’t really think you’re going to get away with this, do you, Bowen?”

      Then again, maybe not. Despite her prisoner’s uninflected tone, she recognized a threat when she heard one. Which, she reflected, as she added a can of tomatoes, broth and seasonings to the meat, really did take an incredible amount of nerve given their respective situations.

      “Do yourself a favor. Undo these cuffs. I swear I’ll go easy on you.”

      Oh, right. Like she believed that. And even if it was true, what exactly did it mean—that he’d use velvet ribbon to truss her up when he delivered her back to Silver?

      Rolling her eyes, she transferred the raw carrots and potatoes she’d sliced into the pot. She put the lid in place, turned down the heat on the burner and moved to the sink to wash her hands.

      “Okay, I get it now. This—tying guys to your bed—is how you get your kicks.”

      She turned off the water and dried her hands. Surely she hadn’t heard that right?

      “Normally, I don’t go for the Suzy Homemaker type. But I suppose I could make an exception. Of course, first I’d want to see you nak—”

      She swiveled around. “Are you out of your mind? Are you trying to tick me off?”

      Propped up against the headboard, his legs stretched out, he hitched his shoulders a scant half inch. “Got your attention, didn’t I?”

      “Oh, yes, you did do that.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “And to think three hours ago I was actually pining for the sound of another human voice.” She leveled her gaze at him. “So what is it you want to say that I just have to hear?”

      “How long do you plan to keep me chained like this?”

      “That depends.”

      “On what?”

      She gave a little shrug. “A variety of things. Your health. My mood. Whether you persist in making any more objectionable personal comments.”

      One level black eyebrow rose. “Is that a threat?”

      “More like a promise,” she said sweetly.

      “What am I supposed to do when I need to use the facilities?”

      “Bathroom’s right there.” She indicated the door some four feet down the wall from the bed. “The chain will reach.”

      “What are you going to do?”

      “There’s a half

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