Trapped by a Dangerous Man Read Online Free Page B

were encased in a bulky, scratchy fabric. I wasn’t quite sure if I could feel my fingers or if they were just tightly wrapped.
    Impotent sobs rose in my throat, and I turned on my side, unfamiliar sheets brushing against my bare skin. I thrust my mittened hands under the covers and realized I was naked. My body jerked into fetal position, and as my feet pulled up, I realized that they were wrapped as well, but the rest of me was naked under the covers. I was ashamed that someone had needed to tend to me like I was an infant, but the darkness was eating at the frayed edges of my nerves. “Hello?” I called out, my voice weak. I tried again. “Please turn on the light! Can you hear me?”
    Footsteps hurried up a flight of stairs. A door opened, and light came on. I suspected it was dim, but it burned after the total darkness, and I covered my eyes with the crook of my arm.
    “Sorry.” The man’s voice was barely a grunt. “How do you feel?”
    I latched onto his voice like a drowning woman. “Where am I?” My lips hurt, and when I licked them, they were chapped and jagged.
    “You’re safe. In my home.” He said this last bit with a measure of reluctance. “Do you know what happened to you?” When I didn’t answer, he continued, “You had an accident. I found you collapsed in the road.”
    “I remember,” I whispered, turning away from the voice, my eyes still closed as if opening them would mean committing to this new reality of almost having died because of my stupidity. I knew I should face my mysterious savior, thank him for saving my life, but instead I found myself sobbing. I was ashamed that I’d needed rescue, relieved that someone had come along, and I was supremely disappointed in myself for having risked so much… ultimately for nothing.
    “Gonna bring you some soup,” he said, and even in those five words I could hear his discomfort. His footsteps receded, and I cried even harder, all the while furious that I couldn’t get a grip already. Because I was alive, and what was the point of that if I was just going to cry like a baby?
    Eventually, after a few false finishes and some shuddering gulps, the tears subsided for good. I rubbed my face dry on the pillow, and slowly opened my eyes, adjusting to the light.  
    I found myself in a rather nice bedroom: large bed, beautiful, solid furniture, original landscape paintings hanging on the walls. Everything had a slightly rustic flare. This was someone’s home, but I doubted my mystery benefactor was a farmer. Judging from the quality of the sheets against my skin, I guessed that I’d been rescued by one of the entrepreneurs who maintained vacation homes in the mountains. He probably decided to head up early to ski, get ahead of the powder chasers, and instead of spending his evening listening to jazz and drinking overpriced wine while anticipating a full day on the slopes, he’d gotten stuck playing rescuer.  
    A wave of guilt crashed through me, but I fought it back firmly as I heard his footfalls on the stairs. The least I could do was not embarrass him with another round of tears.
    I dragged myself up to sitting and arranged the sheets to protect my modesty, then plastered what I hoped was a pleasantly grateful expression on my face.
    My hero backed into the room, shoving the door open, and carrying food. I stared at him in shock. This wasn’t some middle-aged, paunchy optometrist on vacation. As he turned, his head was tilted down and his eyes were lowered as he focused his attention on the tray bearing a bowl of soup that spilled with every step, two thick slices of bread, and a mug of tea. I noticed his hands, large and strong. Capable hands that had saved my life. Inappropriately and unexpectedly, I wanted to feel them on me, chasing my worries away with slow and certain caresses.
    He wore a tan flannel shirt—lumberjack style—but the shiny white snap buttons suggested that the shirt had been purchased in an expensive store.