by Shirl Henke
“I hate to interrupt a woman in a housekeeping frenzy, but I could use a little help here,” Matt said with a grunt of pain in his voice.
He was still sitting on the bed, hands cuffed behind his back. And she was…buck-ass naked, bent over mooning him as she picked up towels! “I told Pat this was a lousy idea,” she muttered to herself as she made her way across the wet carpet to the open case where she kept her clothes. She stuffed her arms into her robe, then fished frantically in her fanny pack for the key to the cuffs.
My God, his shoulders must hurt like hell! His hands were as white as her Econoline. Ugly red indentations bit deep into his wrists. The circulation in his hands could be permanently impaired and it would all be her fault!
Without saying a word, she knelt behind him and unlocked the cuffs. “Move your arms in front of you—slowly,” she cautioned as he started to stretch them forward, only to curse sharply and let them drop to his sides. Still careful to stay behind him, she began rubbing one wrist, chafing it until the pinkness of circulation returned to his hand. After repeating the process on the other hand, she began massaging his shoulders until he let out a contented, “Mmm.”
As she worked, Sam rehearsed her apology. Better to make it while his back was turned. Chicken shit, Sam, she chided herself. But it would be easier. Just as she started to open her mouth, he broke into her guilt-wracked thoughts.
“Now can we head back to San Diego?” he asked.
Chapter 5
Sam shot off the bed and seized the stun gun from the chest of drawers. “You think…you think just because…” she sputtered, uncertain of how to express her combination of outrage and guilt. “I know I took advantage of you—”
“No, you didn’t, babe,” he interrupted. “I wanted it as much as you, hell, even more. Look what I had to go through,” he said with a grin, illustrating by rolling his shoulders stiffly and holding out his still cuff-abraded wrists. “You have to know now I’m not a cult weirdo. Hell, I’m not even a Hare Krishna. I’d look lousy with a shaved head.”
“What you are is my patient, a sick man who’s been brainwashed into joining a commune and whose aunt has requested that I rescue.” Keep repeating it and maybe you’ll convince yourself, Sam.
“For ten K and expenses,” he added, disgusted that they were back to square one now that the itch had been scratched, scrubbed, or whatever.
“Plus a bonus,” she shot back without missing a beat. Try apologizing to a preppy newsman and you get what you deserve, Sam. Damn, what the hell had she been thinking of? Or with? She knew the answer and it made her madder than ever. Leveling the weapon, she stepped closer, feeling secure not only because she was armed but also clothed while he was still mother naked.
“Time for beddy-by. Put the cuff on your right wrist—”
“I know you get off on having me in your clutches, baby, but the next time we take a roll in the hay—”
She stamped her foot and cursed the way her Uncle Declan did when his rig had a blowout, although the stamping foot sort of undermined the effect of the cussing. “I meant to sleep—alone!”
“Not until we have some food. I don’t know about you, but after a good…” Something in her eyes made him pause, or perhaps it was the sight of the stun gun in her hands. Jeez, he didn’t have a stitch on. She wouldn’t…would she? One look at her blazing eyes and he decided not to chance it. “Oh, hell, it’s only six at night and I’m starving. Please? You can lock me to the sink while you go out,” he wheedled.
Another chance at a gooseneck pipe. He waited expectantly.
Sam finally shrugged. “Why not? Can’t have you complaining to dear old Aunt Claudia that I starved her darling nephew.” She dug a clean set of pj’s out of her bag and tossed them to him. He caught them deftly. So much for his hands being permanently injured! Sam refused to watch his muscles rippling as he pulled on the sleepwear.
“Do I get a clean robe?”
“I’ll bring one from the van when I come back,” she said. “It’s the last extra large in stock, so don’t spew gooey crap over it, okay?”
“You’re the one who bought the ‘gooey crap,’ remember?” She was still attracted to him and mad at herself for it. He liked the idea. Liked it a lot.
Ignoring his leer and the reminder about her ruined van, she said, “Just head for the bathroom.”
They repeated the drill of the night before. But as she backed him over the wet tile floor and had him use the cuffs to lock his right hand to the gooseneck pipe under the sink, both of them were aware of a charged difference after the sex. Her guilt amused him, but since she still wouldn’t release him, he was more frustrated than ever. The thought of spending the next four or five days trussed up like Hannibal Lector while his lead in San Diego went cold made him want to strangle Aunt Claudia. How the hell had she hooked up with Sam Ballanger—and why?
Maybe the thought of sleeping in the same room with sexy Sammie from here to Boston didn’t set too well, either, but he shoved that to the back of his mind. Enough complications in your life already, Granger. What he needed to do was unscrew the pipe on this sink and give Sam a surprise when she returned with dinner.
No luck.
Frustrated, he sat in a fresh robe, gnawing on a chicken leg so tough that the bird must’ve died during a race, not at a packinghouse. He continued to think of a way to convince Sam to let him go.
Sam was still embarrassed about their little “afternoon delight” and shoved a mound of gray slimy coleslaw around her plate, her chicken portion almost untouched. How could I have been so dumb!
“Better eat. You need to keep up your strength.” He took another bite off the leg and nearly lost an incisor. “Didn’t know they raised racing chickens in Kentucky. On second thought, don’t eat. You might break a tooth and cost Aunt Claudia another thou for a crown.”
“In case you forgot, this wasn’t the location where we were scheduled to stop for the night,” she snapped, tossing her napkin over the mess of chicken and biscuits with a side of slaw.
“Now it’s my fault you nearly caused me to choke to death,” he said with a grin.
Sam was not buying his lame attempt at humor. Silently she got up and paced over to the window, careful to stay on the dry part of the carpet. She stared through the grimy blinds at the sunset, arms crossed over her chest.
“Fowl most foul,” he said, failing to suppress a nasty burp. The dinner was definitely not setting well on his stomach. “I hesitate to ask, but could you uncuff me so I can use the convenience?”
Sam forced herself to look him square in the eye. “Never let it be said I abuse my patients,” she replied, tossing him the key and watching, stunner at hand while he unlocked himself from the chair. Resignedly he tossed the key back to her and she laid it on the dresser.
Once she cuffed him in the bathroom and closed the door, Sam quickly shoved the uneaten food into a plastic bag. She was just preparing to take it to the Dumpster outside when a knock sounded on the motel door. Sam peeked out the blinds and saw a girl dressed in a Scout uniform, clutching a box of cookies.
“Friggin’ unbelievable. What responsible parents would let their kid go door to door at a dump like this?” Then she considered the size of the town and decided the kids probably had to throw themselves in front of semis if they hoped to make their sales quota in this burg. Shrugging, she placed the stun gun in her fanny pack with the .38 and zipped it shut, then opened the door with a smile.
The grave-faced little girl didn’t make a sound, just turned and walked toward an expensive dark green SUV parked out front. Two figures dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, wearing ski masks, materialized from their hiding place against the wall. They waved pistols under Sam’s nose and backed her into the room. Then the taller one grabbed her and shoved her onto the bed while the other trained her weapon on her.
“Where’s Granger?” the shorter one demanded in a squeaky voice.
“Check the bathroom,” her companion said gruff
ly, backing away from Sam.
It was apparent in spite of their bulky clothes, masks and attempts to disguise their voices, that both were female. Sam was not certain what to make of this bizarre turn of events. Women with kids? They sure as hell weren’t the Company…were they? Miami-Dade Homicide and Pat’s pals at the FBI would kill her if the CIA got Granger. Then an even worse thought occurred to her. What if they were Renkov’s goons? That sent cold chills down her spine.
The shorter woman strode quickly across the small room and yanked the bathroom door open, then jumped back and slammed it, sputtering in embarrassment. “Excuse m— I mean, hurry up!”
Sam watched them warily. No way could these female bozos be pros—spooks or Russian Mafia. She tried to gauge the distance to her fanny pack, which she had carefully zipped shut. How could I have been so careless? These female versions of Laurel and Hardy were obviously rank amateurs, waving those antique guns around like they were Cracker Jack toys. But when it came to a loaded weapon, nothing could be more dangerous than a pair of nervous neophytes.
“Look,” she said reasonably, sitting up on the bed, “I’m a licensed health-care professional transporting—”
“Just give me the keys to the handcuffs,” the taller woman ordered her, holding out a well-manicured hand.
“If I could only explain,” Sam said, edging toward her fanny pack, “you see—”
“Please, just tell us where the key is and you won’t get hurt,” her companion said.
Before Sam could think of a stall, the shorter woman saw the key laying on the bureau and seized it with an exclamation of delight, her attempt to appear “masculine” forgotten. Damn, normally Sam kept that key in her pocket. While she was deciding whether or not to risk trying to take the taller, more aggressive woman while her pal was freeing Matt, the object of her speculation picked up the fanny pack and hefted it experimentally.
“A medical professional, huh?” she said gruffly. “You carrying a ventilator in here? Or maybe a gun?” She didn’t try to open the pack but studied Sam with eyes narrowed through the round holes of the ski mask as she tossed it into the far corner, well out of reach.
Double damn! Sam could see that ten K plus expenses—not to mention her bonus—going down the tubes. She’d even have to pay for the water damage to the motel room herself! These nutseys had to be from the commune. They must have believed his cover and come to rescue him. By then Matt was free, walking out of the bathroom and grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You’re making a mistake,” she began carefully. “I represent Mr. Granger’s aunt—”
“Put a sock in it, lady,” the taller one said, shoving Sam back onto the mattress and sticking a small white gym sock into her mouth when Sam opened it to protest.
Matt grinned broadly now. This was more like it! He didn’t know who these two wacky dames were, but he would soon be back on his story. As he discreetly slipped into his clothes, he watched his tall rescuer order Sam to lie facedown on the bed and place her hands behind her. When Sam complied, the woman tied her wrists and ankles with strips of her own surgical tape and had her roll onto her back. Then she strapped her victim to the bed with what looked suspiciously like two cords of twisted panty hose, one across her upper body, one across her legs. Whatever it was, he hoped it was strong because Sam Ballanger looked as pissed as David Banner just after he started turning green.
In moments Sam was secured. The final touch was using her own tape to hold that sock in her mouth. He was thoroughly enjoying the show. “Now, Samantha, you be a good girl and go nighty-night,” he said with wicked relish, then turned to his saviors. “Nice work, er, ladies. Might I ask to whom I owe my very timely rescue?”
His smile erased itself when the taller woman trained her ancient machine pistol on him and said coldly, “Mr. Granger, I’ll need you to put your hands behind your back so I can handcuff your wrists. You’re our prisoner now.”
“Wait a minute, dammit! I’m a reporter for the Miami Herald. You can’t kidnap me and expect—”
His protest was cut off when another of those damnable little white socks was stuffed into his mouth. Panty hose? Kids’ socks? What the hell was going on here? He was as baffled as the infuriated Sam, who thrashed impotently on the bed. He would’ve loved to ask her how she liked playing “the patient,” but he couldn’t talk any more than she could answer.
Then the taller woman leveled her gun directly at him and said to her companion, “Lock the handcuffs on him.”
The shorter woman approached Matt, grabbing his cuffed hand, then the other and pulling them behind his back. He felt the old familiar grip of steel on his abraded wrists. Then she tore off a strip of tape and sealed his mouth just like she’d done with Sam.
“Start the car. I’ll bring the prisoner,” the tall woman said.
Utterly perplexed and more than a little frightened by this weird turn of events, “the prisoner” watched her leave the motel room and climb into the driver’s seat of a big GMC Yukon parked next to Sam’s white Econoline. As the engine growled to life, the tall woman motioned a bit too casually with that ancient machine pistol, for him to follow.
By the time he was being shoved into the backseat of the SUV, Matt wasn’t altogether certain whether he’d been tossed from the frying pan into the fire. Climbing up was not an easy feat with hands cuffed behind his back, but the shorter, slightly stocky woman gave him a push of encouragement, boosting her shoulder against his tush. He overbalanced against the backrest of the front seat, then flopped backward with a loud “whump” onto the rear passenger seat. Behind him the back of the vehicle was piled high with what looked like gym bags and backpacks.
He nearly toppled into two little blond moppets who watched him with large overly bright eyes. Not good at guessing the ages of kids, he thought the older one, dressed in a Girl Scout uniform, must be around eight or so. Her companion, wearing shorts and a Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt, appeared to be two or three years younger. She was sucking on a gooey string of red licorice.
What the hell was going on? Was the Russian Mafia using kids as decoys now? At least he could detect no traces of Slavic features in either of their faces and took some small measure of consolation in that. He sure wanted a gander at their ski-masked adult companions. They wouldn’t execute him with two little kids watching…would they?
The vehicle turned out of the nearly empty parking lot and onto the service road leading to the highway. It appeared that his latest kidnappers might be heading back toward San Diego. He didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign. Damn, the way things had been going for the last couple of days, he wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what was a good or bad sign if it were painted in eighty-foot gold lettering across the sky.
“Are you a famous newspaper reporter?” the Girl Scout asked.
Matt shrugged, wondering how they knew he was a reporter. Definitely not a good sign, Granger. He nodded. Not exactly famous, but with a sock in his mouth, there was no way to add the qualifier.
“No, he isn’t, either,” the smaller Goldie Locks pronounced solemnly, clutching her licorice in one grubby fist. Then her expression turned gleeful as she whispered, “He’s our captive and we can torture him if we want to.”
With that disconcerting pronouncement, the little devil shoved the last of the licorice in her red-stained mouth. Looking like a dwarf Dracula on estrogen, she climbed agilely over her companion and thrust two sets of sticky fingers into his midsection.
He tried to flinch away, but in such close confines with his hands cuffed behind his back, there was not much he could do. She tickled him mercilessly, sensing with the unerring instinct only small children possess, that he was deadly sensitive to that particular form of “torture.” Damn, the kid was more diabolical at this than Sam had been! He made a muffled grunt of protest, wondering if a person could die of some sort of internal rupture from unexpelled laughter.
“Mom, Mellie’s bothering Mr. Granger,” Scout said in a singsong voice, making no at
tempt to rein in her smaller cohort.
“Mellie, stop that right now,” the woman driving the car admonished, concentrating on the road and paying little attention to the mayhem in the backseat.
The kid ignored her.
Between grunts of pure misery, Matt wondered how they knew his name and what they planned to do with him. Of course, he might not survive long enough to find out if little Mellie didn’t stop pretty soon. At least they seemed on course back to San Diego. If only he could ask—shit! If only he could stop the infernal tickling, which now—in direct violation of her Scouting pledge—the older girl was joining in on. He cursed through the tape and sock, his face turning the same shade of red as the smaller kid’s licorice-stained hands.
“Mom, Mr. Granger’s turning a funny color and I think he said a bad word,” Scout dutifully reported.
The tall woman in the passenger seat pulled the ski mask from her head and shook out a thick mane of shoulder-length auburn hair, then turned toward the culprits with a stern expression and said, “Stop that right now, Tiffany and Melanie or no Happy Meals when we stop for dinner.”
Girl Scouts? Happy Meals? I’ve been kidnapped by a pair of soccer moms!
Sam worked the strips of panty hose—yes, they’d actually used panty hose to tie her to the bed—loose enough to wriggle her way beneath the ones holding her upper body to the mattress. But the ones binding her ankles were secured more tightly to the bed frame. Could she roll off the bed and kick free? Even if she did, that still left her hands and feet separately bound with tape they’d borrowed from Sam’s bag, not to mention the gag in her mouth.
Nothing ventured nothing gained. With every minute that passed, her snatch was another mile farther away and so was her ten K. She levered herself to the edge of the bed and used her bound hands to push off, tumbling her upper body to the floor and nearly braining herself on a nightstand in the process. How the hell could a sagging motel mattress be that damn high up?