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spared her one murderous look, then turned on his heel. The bathroom door slammed shut behind him. She heard water running. And, closing her eyes, she sank back and let the shudders come.
    My God, dear God, she thought, pressing a hand to her face. She'd lost her mind.
    Had she fought him? No. Had she been filled with outrage, with disgust? No.
    She'd enjoyed it.
    She rocked herself, berated herself, and damned Jack Dakota to hell.
    She'd let him kiss her. There was no pretending otherwise. She'd stared into those dangerous gray eyes, felt the zip of an electric current when that cocky mouth brushed over hers.
    And she'd wanted him.
    Her muscles had gone lax, her breasts had tingled, and her blood had begun to swim. She'd let him kiss her without a murmur of protest. She'd kissed him back, without a thought for the consequences.
    M. J. O'Leary, she thought, wincing, tough gal, who prided herself on always being in control, who could flip a two-hundred-pound man onto his back and have her foot on his throat in a heart beat—confident, kick-butt M.J.—had melted into a puddle of mindless lust.
    And he'd tied her up, he'd gagged her, he had her handcuffed to a bed in some cheap motel. Wanting him even for an instant made her as much of a pervert as he was.
    Thank God she'd snapped out of it. It didn't matter that bone-deep fear of her feelings had been the motivation for stopping him. The fact was, she had stopped him—and she knew she'd been an instant away from letting him do whatever he wanted to do.
    She was very much afraid that if she'd had both hands free, she would have flipped him onto his back. Then ripped off his clothes.
    It was the shock, she told herself. Even a woman who prided herself on being able to handle anything that came her way was entitled to go a little loopy with shock under certain circumstances.
    Now she had to put this aberration behind her and figure out what to do.
    The facts were few, but they were clear. She had to contact Bailey. Whatever her friend's purpose in sending the stone, Bailey couldn't have had any idea just how dangerous the act would be. She'd had her reasons, M.J. was sure, and she thought it was likely to have been one of Bailey's rare acts of impulse and defiance.
    She didn't intend for Bailey to pay the price for it.
    What had Bailey done with the other two stones? Did she have them, or… Oh God.
    She dropped back weakly on the bricklike pillow. She would have sent one to Grace. It had to be. It was logical, and Bailey was nothing if not logical.
    There'd been three stones, and she'd sent one to M.J. So it followed that she'd kept one, and sent the other to the only other person in the world she'd trust with such a responsibility.
    Grace Fontaine. The three of them had been close as sisters since college.
    Bailey, quiet, studious and serious. Grace, rich, stunning and wild. They'd roomed together for four years at Radcliffe and stayed close since. Bailey moving into the family business, M.J. following tradition and opening her own bar, and Grace doing whatever she could to shock her wealthy, conservative and disapproving relatives.
    If one of them was in trouble, they were all in trouble. She had to warn them.
    She would have to escape from Jack Dakota. Or she'd have to use him.
    But how much, she asked herself, did she dare trust him?
    In the bathroom, Jack studied his mutilated lip in the mirror. He'd probably have a scar. Well, he admitted, he deserved it. He had been a pig and a pervert.
    Not that she was entirely innocent, either, lying there on the bed with that just-try-it-buster look in her eyes.
    And hadn't she pressed that long, tight body to his, opened that soft, sexy mouth, arched those neat, narrow hips?
    Pig. He scrubbed his hands over his face. What choice had he given her?
    Dropping his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror, looked dead-on, and admitted he hadn't wanted to give her a choice. He'd just wanted her.
    Well, he wasn't an animal. He could