he Lorilie was one of the larger riverboats that plied the Mississippi, double‑decked, with a full‑sized din­ing room, a separate gambling room, a small library, and well‑appointed cabins. The one Tanya had been left in was medium‑sized, certainly much bigger than the room she was used to sleeping in, and much, much nicer.

The bed was covered with a flower‑sprigged quilt, the table beside it with white lace. On the table sat a lovely stained‑glass lamp, already lit when she had been brought inside, since there were no portals in the cabin. There was a thick‑piled rug of Oriental design on the floor, and in a corner an ornate wash­stand painted white with gold leaf, with a fine por­celain bowl. Fluffy white towels monogrammed with an L for Lorilie were stacked underneath.

There was a shelf built into one wall to set things on. And two trunks were stacked one on top of the other against another wall. To put things in? Or did they belong to one of the men? There was also a single well‑padded armchair. Drawn up near the small table with the lamp, it would be an ideal place to sit and read. When had Tanya ever had time for such a luxury since Iris had taught her to read? All that she read now were the account books and the bills that came in.

The door was solid wood, and of course locked. That was the first thing she found out, before looking over the cabin. She thought about banging on it, but that just might bring Stefan that much sooner, so she didn’t.

She sat in the chair now, feeling her apprehension mount as she waited. But she wasn’t completely dis­couraged. So her second attempt to escape had failed just like her first. If she could walk—pounds the hell out of her?—when Stefan was done with her, then she would try again. Vasili’s damned “duty before preference” had ruined the whole plan this time, but next time she wouldn’t make any assumptions about any of them. She had probably even been wrong in thinking that the possibility of missing the boat would deter them from giving chase, since they had already put so much effort into her abduction.

She still couldn’t understand why they had chosen her—unless some brothel owner had hired them spe­cifically to find an exotic dancer. That would explain why they hadn’t given up when she didn’t believe their fairy‑tale story, or when she started causing them difficulty. But still, all this trouble and expense just for one girl? Or were there more, already tucked away in other cabins, girls who had come willingly, believing the ridiculous tales they’d been told?

She’d find out when the boat docked, wouldn’t she? No, she couldn’t wait that long to escape. The farther away they moved from Natchez, the harder it would be for her to get back.

He pounds the hell out of her? she mused.

She had fair warning before the storm arrived. “Not now, Sasha!” she heard just before the door opened and closed quietly behind Stefan.

That soft entrance was deceiving, however. Tanya wished he’d slammed the door like before. The slam­ming of doors at least expended a little of one’s anger. And looking at Stefan, she had no doubt at all about the state of his emotions. He was absolutely livid, eyes filled with that mesmerizing golden glow, jaw and fists clenched, scars whitened, more prominent, body taut with whatever restraint was being prac­ticed—not much, she’d wager.

His boots, cravat, and jacket were gone. Someone had given him a towel, which he’d used on his face and hair, but it now hung around his neck, forgotten. His lawn shirt was clinging wetly, delineating every muscle across his chest and arms, pointing out that she had merely guessed at his strength before. Too tall, too lean and hard, too damn masculine, and much too angry.

Against her will, Tanya dropped her eyes to his hands again, which looked like large iron mallets right now. Pounds? Pounds!!

Panic rose suddenly and drained the color from her face. She shot to her feet and was behind the chair in seconds. But her movement set him in mo­tion, too. Restraint gone, obviously too angry even for words, for he said not a one, he closed the distance between them before she could even think to scream. And then she was so terrified at having her only barrier violently knocked aside, all that came out of her was a gasp, followed by a mere whimper as she was lifted and tossed through the air. But she landed with a soft bounce that told her the bed had caught her fall.

No sooner did her relief register the fact that she hadn’t been thrown through a wall than it felt as if one had dropped on top of her. Stefan—his body fully covering hers.

Unprepared for the sudden weight of him, she had her breath knocked out of her, then stolen further as he took her mouth with fierce demand. It wasn’t a punishing kiss, but it was too impassioned for her, an innocent, to appreciate. She was stunned, and did not understand. Why wasn’t he pounding her to dust with his huge fists?

And then she knew, instinctively, that it wasn’t his fists he was going to pound her with, but his body. Relieved laughter bubbled up in her, but it never got past their joined lips. And the urge to laugh was gone as quickly as it had come. There was no playfulness to this kiss, no sensual exploring, no sense that she could end it if she tried. He was dead serious about what he was doing. He was actually going to make love to her—in anger.

She began to fight him with everything she had. Weighted down as she was, it wasn’t much. But he didn’t seem to feel anything, not her punches, not her yanking on his hair, certainly not the little bit of pushing she managed. He continued kissing her, tak­ing full possession of her mouth, his breath becoming her breath, his taste her taste. It was draining, de­bilitating, but stirring, too. All the emotional energy she’d expended in her struggle left her wide open to his passionate onslaught.

But she was afraid. She had avoided this kind of contact with a man for so many years, and had done everything possible to make herself undesirable to men. Yet this one wanted her despite her looks and was going to take her despite her wishes. She wasn’t even sure he knew exactly what he was doing. That was what frightened her the most. He was too pas­sionate, too out of control in his fury. He didn’t even seem to be aware of her resistance.

And he was so hot! Instead of a cold clamminess from his dunking, heat emanated from him in waves, soaking through her own clothes like wet steam. It made the barrier of their shirts seem like nothing between them... Lord help her, she was starting to feel things other than fear.

It was the first downward thrust of the huge paddle wheels, setting The Lorilie to motion, that was jarring enough to draw Stefan’s attention away from her. Suddenly Tanya’s mouth was hers again, free to let her scream and rail. But she didn’t make a sound, for he was staring down at her, his eyes still aglow, his expression so intense she even feared to breathe, afraid it might disturb his tenuous control. But control of what? She couldn’t tell which emotion he was still in the grip of, which passion he was restraining, the desire to take her or the urge to beat her.

And then he turned his head slightly to look at his hand, which held her hair in a tight fist, then his other hand, holding her wrist tightly. Instantly he released her hand as if it had suddenly become hot enough to burn him. He reared up on one arm at the same time.

“Go!” Stefan commanded. “Get away from me before...”

She needed no more urging and was grateful he didn’t elaborate, for she simply didn’t want to know what came after “before.” However, he wasn’t ex­actly making it easy for her to flee him, still half covering her body as he was, and making no effort to move. But she managed to pull herself out from under him, all but her now sodden skirt, which took some tugging. The moment it gave, she rolled to the side of the bed—about one second too late.

“No, by God!” she heard behind her as his hand caught her trailing skirt to jerk her to a halt. “You’ll at least have what you deserve.”

She took that to mean only one thing. She’d re­ceived a reprieve from his angry lovemaking, but not from the beating she’d been expecting. At the mo­ment, she wished he hadn’t come to his senses.

She wouldn’t beg, however. Begging had never stopped Dobbs. But she wouldn’t just accept this punishment either. She couldn’t. She had to be hale and hearty to get off this boat, not broken and bed­ridden.

As he moved to the side of the bed, she had the leeway to get off it. Her feet were on the floor, but her skirt wasn’t giving, and neither was his grip on it. She tried to twist loose, but turning around she saw how determined he was—and still so very angry. Lord help her, he was going to hurt her.

Instinctively she reached for the knife on her hip, but before she gave her intention away, she recalled that it was no longer there. But she had another one in her boot. Not as long‑bladed and impressive, but it would still serve her purpose, which was just to hold Stefan off until he could be reasoned with. But as she bent for it, she saw his hand come up.

She reared back reflexively, raising her arms to block her face from the coming blow. It didn’t come. He caught one of her arms instead to pull her over his lap into a position that was self‑explanatory.

Tanya’s eyes flared wide. Oh, for God’s sake, he wasn’t actually going to spank her, was he? Unbe­lievable. Was that all she’d had to worry about? But she was forgetting the raising of her skirt, which he did with swift efficiency. No, even that didn’t matter now, not after what Vasili had led her to anticipate. She’d been fearing the worst, and this spanking was nothing in comparison.

She felt like laughing, her relief was so great, but all she did was smile, wince slightly when the first smack came, then smile again. Resisting the urge to tense her muscles, she relaxed to lessen the sting, and busied herself thinking about how she’d like to torture Vasili very slowly for the anxiety he had de­liberately put her through. Her seat got hot, then quickly numb—Stefan took this business seriously and no doubt wouldn’t finish until he’d got some of the anger out of his system. Better a spanking than his other means for expending it, though. Imagine anger making him want to make love. What kind of habit was that for a man to get into?