And people thought her airheaded. She’d planned this weekend to a tee.
Example, before fetching Rusty, she’d carted Alex’s computer case to the door, along with the boxes of supplies she’d packed for her short vacation with Royce. However, the case no longer contained Alex’s laptop or cell phone. Back in Seattle, while he’d stood waiting with the pillowcase covering his head, she’d relinquished both devices to Karin’s care.
As added insurance, she had no plans to supply him with the glasses Karin had noticed tucked into the computer case. According to Royce, Alex only wore them for driving, so she wasn’t condemning him to a severely myopic existence.
“Mrrowwr.” Rusty nosed the carrier door.
“Poor fella,” Nikki soothed. “You’ve been cooped for hours. Not to worry, Rusty-mine, I’ll set up your litter box first thing.”
Stepping around the supplies on the stoop, she opened the cabin door. “Oh!” Her dogs had mauled Alex in her absence!
Tied to the chair, Alex lay flat on his back, the chair legs propping his limbs. Santos licked the man’s forehead, while Bernie growled and tugged his socks. Alex swore, and the dog stopped tugging.
Yipping, Bernie scampered beside the chair, lifted his leg... and watered Alex’s khakis.
Nikki gasped. “Bernie, stop that!”
She plunked the pet carrier on the table. Racing to Alex, she shooed away Bernie. With a yelp, the Chihuahua danced off, jumped onto the bed nearest the windows, and barked at Murray the moose head.
Santos continued licking Alex’s forehead.
“Alex, I’m sorry!” Nikki skidded onto her knees beside the chair. “Omigod, what happened?”
His eyes bulged. “Your dog peed on me!”
“I know, I know! I can see that!”
Bernie’s piddle stained the thigh of Alex’s pants a dark soldier-green. An inch away, a tiny puddle polished the floor.
Thankfully, in her hurry to reach her guest, she hadn’t closed the door. Rain-scented air streamed into the cabin, counterbalancing the acrid aroma of Bernie’s tinkle.
“Alex, I’m sorry. I’m embarrassed, and I’m really sorry. He didn’t mean it.”
“Oh, he meant it. He just did it.”
“You don’t understand.” She urged Santos away from the poor man’s head. She ran into the kitchen, grabbed a rag and dampened a tea towel, then returned to kneel beside him. She wiped his forehead with the tea towel and sopped Bernie’s puddle with the rag. “Bernie went outside before we came in. He never has to go again so soon afterward. This...” She plucked the soaked fabric off Alex’s leg. Ick. “... was an act of pure aggression.”
The professor grunted. “That’s what I said.”
“No, you don’t get it. Bernie’s protective of me.” She revisited the kitchen to rinse the rag, continuing to explain, “His first owner abused him terribly. When I adopted him, he was terrified—of me, of everyone he met. I’m the first human he’s grown to like. It took ages before he trusted my roommates, and he’s never warmed up to Royce. He’s pretty much a one-woman dog.” Back in the main room, she dabbed Alex’s pants with the wet rag. “He misbehaves if he thinks someone is a threat to me or if they’re acting irrational.”
“Why doesn’t he go psycho around you then?”
She arched her eyebrows. “Because, he doesn’t think I’m irrational. Apparently, though, he thinks you are. He hasn’t acted out like this in two years. You must have provoked him.”
She pressed the rag to Alex’s pants and wiped. Hard thigh muscles bunched beneath the khakis, and tingles spread through her hands. A most unsettling sensation.
Holding her breath, she glanced at the least-muscled portion of Alex’s body—his sock-clad feet.
Her gaze fell onto his lower pants leg. A four-inch tear marred the khakis.
She peered at him. “What happened here, anyway?” She dropped the rag.
“What it looks like—your dogs attacked me. I was sitting quietly, minding my own business, when Peewee decided my pants and my socks would make a tasty treat. My pants ripped in the battle. Then Santos jumped up to breathe in my face, the chair tipped, and I fell. The rest, as we history professors like to say, is history.”
“Your hands!” She lowered her head to examine the damage.
“Forget my hands. It’s my skull that’s throbbing.”
“I brought ibuprofen.” She peeked into the space between the chair spindles and the floor. A tampered knot and slack rope greeted her.
Rocking back on her heels, she gaped at Alex. “You untied the rope! You said I could trust you! I can’t leave you alone for two minutes—”
“It was fifteen.”
“—and you try to escape. My dogs didn’t attack you. They were guarding you.”
Why wouldn’t he cooperate? Her plan was so simple.
She wiped a hand across her forehead. “Alex, you know how important tonight is to me. I’ve tried my best to explain it.”
“Well, excuse me for not falling in line. This escapade wasn’t my idea.”
He kept throwing the borrowing in her face. He had every right to, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.
“I’m sorry about your pants. I’ll buy you two pairs to replace them, if you’ll cooperate.”
Rusty meowed from inside the carrier while Bernie barked at the moose head. Santos wandered outside.
Retrieving the rag, Nikki scrubbed the stained khakis. It was useless. Bernie’s marking-mix was made of sturdy stuff.
“This isn’t going to work.” She tossed down the rag again. “These pants need soaking. You’ll need to take them off.”
Alex’s neck tendons tightened. “They’ll be opening a ski hill in hell before I remove my pants with that appendage-grabbing mutt hanging around. Who knows what he’ll decide to latch onto next.”
An image of Alex’s... privates sprang to mind. How would he compare to Royce in that department? Of course, she barely remembered what Royce’s “appendage” looked like, so rarely had she seen it.
Her face heated. She stared down her nose at her guest. “My dog is not a pervert.”
“He’s a borderline psychopath. That’s enough.”
“Fine. You have three choices. One, you can wear these smelly pants all night. Two, you can take them off, and I’ll wash them. Or three—” she glanced at the scissors on the table “—I can cut out the stain.”
“Cut it out then. Because I’m not taking off my pants.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know, Alex. It’ll look better for Royce if you take them off.”
“Nikki...” Alex’s voice smoothed as if he were trying to reason with a small child. “I’m in a vulnerable position here. Don’t make this any harder on me than it has to be. The only way I’ll remove my pants is if you let me stay untied afterward. If you want me to take them off so you can strap me back onto this chair wearing nothing but my shirt, socks, and boxers, my answer is no. I’d rather go with the cutting.”
Boxers, huh? That sounded so history-professor-ish. Dependable. Reliable.
So Alex.
A warm-honey feeling flowed through her.
Concentrate.
“But I have to keep you tied,” she explained. “I can’t trust that you won’t try leaving the first time my back is turned.” She wasn’t a mistrusting person by nature—in fact, Karin always cautioned her that she trusted too easily—but Alex Hart brandished a Ph.D.-trained brain and a burning desire to thwart her. Whether he wore traditional boxers, snug boxer-briefs, or a polka-dotted banana-sling, she had no doubt he’d use his considerable intelligence to attempt to trick her.
Besides, she might have disabled the van but she hadn’t yet checked the occupancy status of the neighboring cabins. She couldn’t risk Alex getting away and locating help.
“It’s raining now,” he said mildly. “Where would I go in the rain?”
Good one. “It was raining when you tried untying the knot.”
“Th
e rain’s falling harder now. And I have no shoes.”
Nikki glanced toward the open cabin door as Santos tromped in with flecks of damp earth clinging to his paws. A sprinkle still fell, nothing more.
“Hardly Noah’s-Ark stuff, Alex. You tried taking off without shoes the first time. What’s to stop you from doing so again?”
“I’ve reconsidered.”
“Uh-huh. More likely you think I’ve lost my marbles. Not that I blame you, considering the circumstances. If I were you, I’d try running away from me, too.” She folded the damp tea towel and positioned it under the rear legs of the chair. Traction!
Remaining crouched, she gripped Alex’s closest leg with one hand and the chair back with the other. Her chin grazed his shoulder. The earthy notes of his woodsy aftershave tickled her nostrils. Nice.
Royce often boasted that his expensive body spray smelled like money, which she found crass—both in description and aroma. She’d never succeeded in convincing him to switch to a subtler scent.
“I’m going to lift you up,” she informed Alex. “If you help by leaning forward, I’ll untie your hands for dinner. Or you can lie here and I’ll feed you like a baby.”
A sigh trickled out of him. “I’ll try.”
She’d broken his spirit. Excellent. He’d be easier to handle from here on in.
“All right, here goes.” Straining like a weightlifter, she grunted, yarded, lugged, and hoisted Alex upright. Her muscles burned. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her spine. The gym membership her roommates had given her for her last birthday had come in handy. “Thanks for helping.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll reward you for your efforts. Until it’s time to eat, though, I’m not taking the risk. I need to fix that knot.”
“I’m putty in your hands.”
She smiled. Amazing what the promise of a good meal could do.
She stepped behind the chair and refastened the knot, then brought in the supplies and laptop case. She closed the door.
Rusty wailed from inside the pet carrier. Santos curled up on the floor at the foot of one bed while Bernie yapped at the moose head.
Nikki shushed the dog.
She freed the cat and assembled the covered litter box. After placing the box in a corner, she fetched the scissors and returned to Alex.
“Sit as still as you can. I don’t want to knick you.” Carefully, she clipped a path around the Bernie-christened fabric.
A ragged hole the size of her hand remained, exposing Alex’s hair-dusted thigh... and a hint of gray flannel.
The boxers.
“Hmm.” She studied the hole. “We’ll pretend you spilled sauce on your pants.” She glanced up, meeting his gaze. “For when Royce arrives.”
Alex’s hazel eyes shadowed. “Nikki, have you considered that he might not come?”
“Well, yeah, he might not come tonight. Not if he gets mad at me when he finds the note. But he’ll be here tomorrow.” Holding the patch of wet fabric, she picked up the tea towel, rag, and crumpled duct tape.
“That’s not what I meant. Have you entertained the idea that he might not come at all?”
Nikki frowned. “How can you say that? Of course he’ll come. He loves me.”
Does he?
Stupid inner voice!
She squeezed the wadded tape. She’d always believed in the power of love, the same strong love her grandparents had shared, the forever type of love her parents should share, yet didn’t.
She squared her shoulders. She’d follow her grandparents’ example. If genetic traits could skip generations, then, by God, the makeup of a marriage could, too.
Fie on Alex Hart for compelling her to consider otherwise.
And to think she’d brought along a jar of homemade spaghetti sauce to serve him.
He’d be lucky now if she slopped a tin of ancient sardines onto his plate.
Chapter 4
Foiled Again
“HOW’S YOUR HEADACHE?”
Alex stopped stuffing his face with his second plateful of the best spaghetti and marinara sauce any man this side of Italy had surely tasted. He glanced at his abductor, who sat across the small table. “Better, thanks to the ibuprofen.” He twirled a forkful of pasta. “Nikki, this is great.”
A wide smile brightened her face. “Thanks. I was out of sardines.” She pushed aside her empty plate, then laced her fingers on the table and leaned forward, watching him.
Always watching.
The woman possessed buckets of determination—not to mention the patience of a seasoned bride-in-waiting. Alex suspected that if Royce had it his way, she’d acquire a ton more experience in the patience department before she dragged Royce Carmichael to the altar.
But then Nikki St. James was a force to reckon with in her own right. Stubborn, illogical, a tad the far side of desperate. And cuter than any kidnapper Alex had ever read about.
Royce might be surprised to discover the lengths his fiancée would go to in pursuit of her goals. That was, if Royce bought this nutty setup and came after her.
Alex was surprised, at any rate. More than surprised. Begrudgingly impressed.
However harebrained Nikki’s strategy, she believed in herself and her plan, which was more than he could say for himself these days.
“Sardines?” he echoed, lifting the spaghetti-wound fork to his mouth. Who put sardines in spaghetti? He chewed and swallowed. Yum. “Never mind.”
So what if he couldn’t figure out what she meant? Rather than hounding her for a translation, like he would have a few hours ago, he let the oddball comment slide. After all, she had untied his hands for dinner, allowing him to toddle, the chair strapped to his butt, to the table. Her spaghetti sauce almost made up for the physical discomforts he’d endured.
He tore off a piece of garlic toast. As the crispy layers met his tongue, he groaned.
“You like?” Nikki asked.
“Oh yeah.” He ate the remaining chunk of toast, then resumed his inhalation of spaghetti. His hunger pangs receded.
Funny how starvation forced a man to reexamine his priorities. Or how a stomach filled with homemade chow enabled a guy to achieve a formerly elusive clarity of mind.
Sure, initially the negative aspects of the kidnapping had clouded his brain to the wisest—if truth be told, the only—course of action available to him. But he definitely saw that course of action now.
Earlier, he’d been a fool to try escaping from Nikki and her merry band of misfits. He’d achieved nothing but a near-concussion and her eagle-eye on him every second.
A gorgeous eagle-eye, true, but an eagle-eye nonetheless.
The Nikki he’d come to know over the last several hours would never drop this latest jail-guard routine she had going unless she felt she could trust him. How would he earn that trust if he attempted to flee every time she left the room?
The key to gaining his freedom lay in proving his cooperation—and thereby lulling her into complacency.
Picking up his wooden salad bowl rubbed with spicy oil, he pierced the last tomato wedge with his fork.
“More salad?” she queried, and he nodded.
“Plus more of your homemade dressing, please. Thanks.” He flashed an appreciative smile.
“Coming right up.” She carried his bowl to the kitchen, the dogs trailing her.
That’s it. Alex tracked her movements. The more slack you give me, the better.
But no midnight departure resided on his agenda. No struggling to reason with a desperately determined Nikki. He’d act the model prisoner and agree to whatever she’d planned for tonight. Guilt her into bestowing him her trust and, with it, the run of the cabin. He’d bide his time until daylight, play on that conscience she claimed to own, then make good on his escape tomorrow.
After breakfast.
Nikki leaned against the pillows on the springy double bed. Rusty had coiled into a ball on the worn peach comforter adorning her lap while Bernie, exhausted from yipping at Murray the moose head,
rested at her feet. Santos slumbered on the floor in a chasing-rabbits position.
She pushed up her nightgown sleeve and leafed through a magazine she’d brought along to pass the time. The candle jutting from an old wine bottle flickered on the nightstand between her bed and Alex’s. The flame washed the glossy magazine pages in a muted glow that hopefully wouldn’t disturb his sleep.
Yawning, she glanced over at her snoozing guest.
Her compliant and exceedingly cooperative guest.
She shook her head at the radical change in his behavior. Gram had always assured her that the road to a man’s submission drove straight through his stomach, but Alex Hart had spun a total one-eighty since dinner. Her marinara sauce wasn’t that good, so what was he trying to pull? Could she believe he’d decided to stick to her plan? That he wouldn’t try running off again before Royce arrived?
Judging by how he’d allowed her to shackle him to the bedpost with the fur-lined handcuffs she’d... borrowed from one of her roommates, a lesser woman might say she could.
Yet...
She narrowed her gaze at his quilt-covered body. She’d handcuffed only his right wrist, for comfort, and his arm angled up toward the bedpost. His left arm slung across his middle, on top of the bedclothes. While he’d agreed to remove his belt and shirt—revealing an eyeful of sculpted chest that had jetted her pulse into the stratosphere—he’d insisted on wearing the mangled khakis to bed. The latter choice provided a major clue that, despite his apparently peaceful sleep, his crafty professor’s mind could be devising new ways to foil her.
Even with the guy dead to the world, she couldn’t quite trust him. He was too intelligent and complex, not little-boy charming like Royce.
Plus, she didn’t love Alex, like she did Royce. She barely knew him.
What if, once she fell asleep, he awoke and broke free of the handcuffs? She couldn’t count on Bernie’s barking to alert her. The bushed pupster snoozed as soundly as Alex. And she couldn’t keep her eyes glued to the man’s... passable physique all night, or she’d sport bags the size of Seattle come morning. Not a pretty sight with which to greet her fiancé.
Borrowing Alex Page 5