Bethany's Rite by Eve Jameson Page B

no wonder
women said men were crazy. They made them that way.
    He gritted his teeth and stifled the urge to growl. Instead,
he took her face in his hands and held her still while he smacked a hard kiss
on her lips. “You have nothing to worry about. An Ilyrian male can’t impregnate
a woman until she’s taken him as her mate.”
    She looked at him, doubt clear in her eyes. “We didn’t just
mate in there?”
    The growl he had been repressing escaped. “No. When an
Ilyrian woman takes a mate, there’s more to it than fucking.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, babydoll. I’m sure. Now will you please get in that
shower?” He leaned down and gave her another quick kiss. Wrapping his large
hands around her waist, he lifted her over the edge of the tub and placed her
in the middle of the pelting water. He immediately withdrew his hands before he
followed through with the urge to slick them down her hips and join her in the
shower. “Don’t worry. We will get to the mating part. Soon. When you’ve settled
down some.” He whipped the shower curtain closed. “You’re down to four and a
half minutes.”
    By the time she was done in the bathroom, he had found a
duffel bag in the bottom of her closet and stuffed enough clothes in it to last
her several days.
    “What are you doing with my stuff?” she asked.
    He zipped the bag closed. ”I told you. We’re
leaving.”
    “And I told you, I’m not going anywhere.” Her stubborn
statement was reiterated in her posture—chin lifted, fists propped on her hips
and feet braced apart. The corners of Wyc’s mouth tugged upward. It
was hard to look intimidating when one was only dressed in a skimpy little
towel, but Bethany was giving it her best effort.
    He advanced toward her until he was within an inch of
touching her, forcing her head to tilt back to keep eye contact. He
glanced down at the top of her towel. Her defiant posture had her breasts
nearly popping out of their restraint. He hooked a finger in the terrycloth
at her cleavage and tugged. The towel opened and slid down until it was
stopped at her waist by the hands still on her hips.
    “I suggest you put some clothes on, otherwise I’ll be
hauling your pretty ass buck naked to Colorado.”
    Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t move. “I won’t be
threatened into doing something.”
    “Would it make a difference if I said please?”
    “No.”
    “I didn’t think so.” With his hands under her arms, he
picked her up and moved her out of the way. Before he set her down, he
kissed her left nipple. When she gasped and dropped the towel to take a
swing at him, he let go of her and ducked into the bathroom, closing the door
behind him.
    He waited. Nothing but silence. He yanked the door open
to find Bethany leaning over the unzipped bag, pulling clothes out. Many
were already strewn around the room. Caught, she looked up at him, anger
snapping out of her eyes.
    “With or without clothes, I’m taking you with me when I
leave here. If you want to meet my family in your birthday suit, you just keep
unpacking that bag. I won’t be packing it again.”
    He closed the door and started the shower. The rushing
water did little to drown out her barrage of epithets that greatly
maligned his character and birth. Her verbal assault was interrupted
only by heavy thuds that sounded like she was pelting the bathroom door with
her never-ending supply of paperback books.
    He sighed and stepped into the shower. Was nothing
going to be easy with this woman? Ten minutes later, he was finished and
relieved that her temper tantrum had apparently ended.
    Then she screamed. A high-pitched, fear-filled scream.
    His heart clutched, and he followed her cry into the
kitchen. Backed against the little, two-person dinette table, Bethany was
twisting and scratching, trying to pull out of a Predator’s grip. A broken vase
and flowers lay scattered across the kitchen floor. As Wyc came through the
door, the Predator