Page 2 of Forbidden Heat

The command in his voice stirs something deep inside me. But the words … those are another matter.

“Obeyed?” I repeat. What century does he think we’re living in?

“Respected, if you prefer.”

I can’t argue with that without being utterly ungracious, the very thing I’m trying to avoid. “Far be it from me to disrespect any reasonable rule,” I say with hands spread.

He gives me a look that says he spotted my mile-wide loophole. And then he moves, with a sensual grace that tightens my skin. “Who decides what’s reasonable?” he says when he’s right next to me.

Every cell in my body starts to quiver. Up close, he’s overwhelming. This man is a force of nature, and if I’m not careful he’ll steamroll right over me. “Well, that’s the crux, isn’t it?”

“My house, Haley. My rules.”

I somehow manage to keep my voice steady and neutral-sounding. “Perhaps you could explain the rules. And if I can’t agree to them, I’ll go find a hotel.”

“That’s unacceptable.”

My composure vanishes. “What?” I can’t believe he just said those words.

“Your father put you under my protection.”

“Mr. Thorne.” Hands on hips, I glare up at him. “Neither you nor my father seems to have noticed that I’m a legal adult and can do as I damn well please. I appreciate that both of you have good intentions, but we’re not living in medieval times.”

He regards me for a long moment. Then he stoops down and hoists me over his shoulder. “Hey!” I yell, pounding his back with my fists. “Put me down!”

Thorne ignores my outburst. “Mrs. Jameson, if you could send up some sandwiches, please.”

“Of course, Mr. Thorne.” The housekeeper sounds utterly unperturbed, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. Maybe it does.

My captor carries me out of the foyer and up a broad, curving staircase. “I can’t believe this,” I fume, unable to keep silent. “Except I totally do. No wonder he sent me here.”

Thorne doesn’t answer. I’m left to stare at the floor, or, alternatively, at his legs and his excellent ass. Watching the play of muscle under his clothes is so enthralling I forget to be angry for a few moments.

The arm he has clamped across the backs of my thighs doesn’t help. By the time he opens a door and goes through it, my panties are getting damp. Then he lays me down on a bed and sits beside me, his arm braced on the other side of me, penning me in.

That fast, my temper snaps back. I start to sit up, determined to jump off the bed and be somewhere else — anywhere, so long as it’s not where he put me.

“Lie still.”

Did I say he was commanding before? Oh, no. This voice makes that one sound like a croon. It cracks across my nervous system like a whip, putting me flat on my back as effectively as if he’d severed my spinal column. Stunned, furious, I clamp my lips together and wait.

“Here are the rules for your time in this house.” He speaks softly now, but his words are tempered with steel. “Number one: your well-being is my responsibility. I don’t care how antiquated a notion you think that is; I will take care of you.

“Number two: never, ever, lie to me. About anything.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, I review the scene in the foyer. By saying I wasn’t hungry when I was, I violated both his rules. On the face of it, they sound completely rational and benign, except that they’ve led to me being carried upstairs and pinned to a bed within five minutes of my arrival here.

“And if I break a rule?” I challenge him.

“Then you’ll be over my knee.”

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