She chewed her lip. Alex’s candlelit features had slackened with sleep, and two a.m. stubble roughened his jaw. His mouth—strong and sensual now that she thought about it—lifted at one corner, as if he were enjoying a particularly pleasant dream. His chin boasted a small, puckered scar.
She looked closer. A rather captivating scar it was, too. Like that of a rugged high-plains drifter, a man of the wilds, or a man of the wind. A rogue, an adventurer, a pirate—
A dizzying rush swept through her, and she blinked. The “Sexiest Men of the Year” article she’d been skimming had provided ample fodder for her fertile imagination.
Tossing aside the magazine, she fought another yawn. If she wanted to get any sleep tonight, she had to stop thinking in mindless circles and do something. Not only something that would restrict Alex to the cabin tonight, but something that would prove as effective come morning. She was a woman of action now. No more Little Miss Passive.
Flinging back the comforter, she flounced out of bed. Rusty meowed and tumbled off her lap. She petted the cat until he settled again. Then she glanced at Alex.
Still asleep. Perfect.
She padded through the dark cabin.
Her weapon of choice lay in the kitchen.
“Wroof! Rif-rif-rif-rif-wroof! Rwrruff-wroof! Grrr...”
Alex’s eyes popped open. The tortuous dreams of thirteenth-century stretching racks and daggers skipping over his abdomen crumbled beneath the reality of the mosquito-on-stilts atop his bare chest. Chihuahua eyeballs bulged, thin lips skinning back, tiny teeth bared—and zeroing in on his nose.
He jerked up.
Fiery pain gripped his wrist, and his head ricocheted back onto the pillow. Agh, the damn handcuffs!
He shielded his nose with his free hand. The devil-dog yelped, paws scrambling.
“Nikk-iiiii!” Alex clenched his jaw as Bernie the Barbarian bolted. The little dog soared from one bed to the other with the agility of a stuntman jumping rooftops. The cat awoke with a wail and dashed beneath Nikki’s bed.
Nikki’s footsteps sounded on the plank floor. Seconds later, her pretty face loomed over him.
“You bellowed?” she asked in her melodic voice. Behind her, Santos wedged between the beds. His hairy tail whapped Alex’s mattress, and dust motes speckled the morning sun streaming through half-open curtains.
“Damn right I did. Your mutt seems to think I need rhinoplasty!”
Nikki glanced at Bernie now yipping on her bed. “I was in the kitchen. I didn’t see anything. What happened?”
“He tried to bite off my nose.” Alex tugged against the fur-lined handcuffs. “Remove these so I can kill him.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Looking at Bernie again, she scolded the dog, “Time for another session with the animal psychologist, I see. Fella, you’re keeping me in the poorhouse. Why can’t you and Alex get along?”
Bernie whined.
“Uh-uh, boy. Not this time. To the kitchen.” She pointed. “I put out your food.”
The dog’s ears pricked. Yipping, he flew off the bed.
Alex’s captor stepped closer and studied his nose. Santos shoved in beside her leg. As the Saint Bernard gazed at Alex with rheumy eyes, his big tongue lolled... and dripped.
“No harm done,” Nikki said, tapping Alex’s nose. She withdrew the handcuff key from a pocket of her white jeans. “See this?” She dangled the miniscule object out of reach. “The key to your freedom, Alex. But first I need your solemn promise as a history professor that you won’t harm one hair on poor Bernie’s head.”
“Poor Bernie?”
“You heard me. Not one.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “Can I break his legs, at least?”
“I think not.”
“Use his whiskers for dental floss?”
“No!”
“Well, then, considering you’re holding all the keys, Nikki, I’d say we have a deal.”
“Good.” She inserted the key into the lock. “I’m sorry about Bernie’s bad attitude, by the way. I doubt he’s upset with you, though. It’s probably Murray.”
“Who?”
“The moose head.” Forehead furrowing, she wiggled the key. Her pale green T-shirt—the same soft shade as her earrings—clung to her small breasts. As she leaned over Alex, the T-shirt crept up her waist. A tiny, silver hoop winked from the delicate dip of her navel.
Sexual need shot through him, strong, hot, and yearning. Handcuffs, a beautiful blonde, the pierced belly button...
Oh baby.
Too bad Nikki St. James was engaged to another. And not to some anonymous schlep, either. But to Royce, the schlep. Royce, his old pal, the schlep.
“The moose head?” he echoed. He tore away his gaze from her waist, only to find himself eyeballing her breasts again. Plump, perky, and perfect. Sized just right to fill his palms.
He stared at the rafters. “Why the hell would you name a moose head?”
“Why the hell wouldn’t I?” She returned her attention to the handcuffs. “This cabin belonged to my grandparents. When my sister and I visited, we didn’t always get along. Gillian was into playing with her fashion dolls while I liked digging for worms and tracking animals in the woods with Gramps. She and I rarely shared secrets. I would have loved to, but—” Drawing in a breath, she shrugged. “Instead, I shared my secrets with Murray. He needed a name for that.”
She continued fiddling with the handcuffs. “When I was real little, I thought Murray’s body extended beyond the cabin wall. Each summer Gramps told me it wasn’t there, but I didn’t believe him. I always had to check outside to see if Murray had grown a body between visits.” Her lips tilted. “Maybe Bernie thinks the same thing. Maybe he thinks Murray is real, so he keeps barking at him. You happened to be in the way this time.”
Alex nodded. How could he argue with such screwy logic? Besides, he had more pressing matters on his mind—and on his wrist.
He wiggled his hand. “Do you have any clue when you might get me out of these?”
“I’m working on it.” She blew at a silvery-blond curl that had tumbled onto her forehead. “But something’s wrong. Wait, I see.” She examined the handcuffs. “I have to move a switch before the key will work.”
“You mean you’ve never used these before?”
She shook her head. “They belong to one of my roommates.”
“Ah.” So Nikki and Royce had never shackled each other, huh? That knowledge shouldn’t comfort Alex, but it did.
“Not that I want to give you the wrong idea about Lani,” Nikki said. “Her sister, my other roommate, bought her the handcuffs on a lark.”
Alex shrugged his free shoulder. Whatever this Lani did in the privacy of her bedroom was none of his business. However, neither were Nikki’s sexual escapades.
He must remember that.
Nikki thumbed the switch on the handcuff and tried the key again. Click. Music to his ears.
The handcuff fell away, and he lowered his aching arm. “Thanks.” He rubbed his stiff right shoulder and then his wrist. A red impression marked the skin, but the fur lining had prevented the metal cuff from biting deep.
All in all, he’d survive. Agreeing to the overnight shackling was a small price to pay toward encouraging Nikki to trust him long enough to achieve his escape.
“Can I get up now? I need to use the outhouse.” He prided himself on his reasonable tone.
“I’ll take you in a minute. The fridge is open. I should close it first.” Leaving the handcuff dangling from the bedpost, she backed up between the beds with Santos. As the Saint Bernard ambled toward the couch, the cat peeked from beneath the second bed and Bernie trotted out of the kitchen.
“What time is it?” Alex flexed his sore shoulder.
“Eight-thirty.” Nikki turned away. “I’m making Denver omelets,” she said without looking back. “We might have an hour or two before Royce arrives. No sense starving.”
“An omelet sounds great.” Alex’s stomac
h rumbled. If Nikki made eggs with the same gourmet flair as her spaghetti sauce, then he was in kidnapping heaven.
He threw aside the quilt. Cool air wafted over his legs, and khaki strips fluttered.
Shit! Forget the eggs! What the fuck had happened to his pants?
Last night, she’d cut a hole in the fabric. But now—
The material was shredded from mid-thigh down, as if a rabid grizzly had ripped sharp claws through the cloth. Or a demented blonde armed with a pair of rusty scissors had assaulted them.
“Nikk-iiiiii!” He sprang out of the bed. The fronts of his pants hung from his legs in wide ribbons. He swatted a hand behind himself, grazing his rump. Thank God the backs hadn’t met the same fate. “What were you thinking?”
What if he’d awoken mid-snip? One startled move and... instant vasectomy. He shuddered.
She pushed a hand through her curls and faced him. “You noticed.”
“I’d have to be dead not to notice! Why would you do this?”
“Really, Alex, you’re blustering like a bull in heat. All that anger isn’t good for your digestion. Besides, you’re scaring Bernie.” She scooped the whining dog into her arms. “You don’t want me to tie you to the chair again, do you? Or slap on the handcuffs until Royce arrives? I had to find some way to keep you here.”
Her gaze drifted over him, and she smiled. Calm, collected, and infuriating. “I guess you could try leaving, anyway, dressed like that. But I have every confidence that you won’t get far. We’re miles from the highway, and no driver in his right mind would pick you up. Sorry, Alex, but you don’t look very history professor-ish right now. You kinda look like a superhero on crack. You know that huge green guy with the amazing pecs who pops out of his clothes whenever he blows his top? Except his pants are purple.”
Alex flung up his hands. “What did you expect? That I’d take the demolition of my clothes lying down?”
“Well, actually, you were—”
“Don’t say it!” He stalked to the toilet-less bathroom and slammed the door. Knuckles rigid, he gripped the sink. His heart pounded like it might catapult out of his heaving chest. He grabbed the toothbrush the lunatic blonde had provided and scoured his teeth until his gums ached.
After punishing his face in a similar ritual with the washcloth, he stomped back into the main room. Nikki remained standing, cradling the psychotic Bernie. The damn dog growled from the safety of her embrace.
“Shh.” She scratched the mosquito’s ears.
Alex searched the messy quilt on his bed. All he found were the dog-chewed socks.
He sat on the saggy mattress and yanked them on. “Where’s my shirt?”
Her gaze wavered. “Um...”
“My shirt,” he repeated. “I left it on the bottom of the bed last night. Now it’s gone. Where is it?”
“Woof?” Santos seconded from beside the couch.
Nikki stroked Bernie. “How should I phrase this?” She paused. “Last night, after you fell asleep, I noticed your shirt had... taken on a certain aroma. A quasi-canine quality, shall we say. And none too pleasant, let me tell you.”
Alex snorted. “After the way Santos slobbered all over me in the van, I don’t doubt it. That’s the only shirt I have, Nikki. I want it.” He stood.
“Well, that’s a problem.”
“Why?”
“Because I...” mumble, mumble “... in the outhouse.”
His spine seized. “You put my shirt in the outhouse?”
“Woof!”
“Make that down the outhouse.”
“Down the outhouse?”
“Woof!”
“Well, it stunk.”
“You threw my shirt down the outhouse?” He thumped the bases of both hands against his skull. “What kind of twisted kidnapper are you? My cell phone and laptop better not be down there!”
“Don’t be daft.” Bernie squirmed in her arms, and she deposited the mutt onto the floor. The Chihuahua dashed to the bed Rusty lurked beneath. A feline paw swiped out, and Bernie danced back. “Karin has your electronics. She’ll keep them safe. And I’ll buy you another shirt to go along with the new pants I promised,” she stated as if the solution were obvious. “In fact, once Royce and I return to Seattle, I’ll buy however many shirts you need.” She scanned his naked chest. “What’s your size?”
Alex clenched his fists. Royce again. The woman had enough faith to part the Red Sea, and she’d placed it all in a guy who cared more about her society connections than the hallowed state of matrimony she coveted.
“Forget the shirt,” he muttered. “Give me the keys to your van.”
“They won’t do you any good.”
“They’ll do me plenty of good, I assure you.” Like getting him away from this wacky woman and back to his staid, predictable life.
“All right, if you insist. They’re on the kitchen counter.”
He strode to the kitchen and snatched the keys. The tattered pants slapping his legs, he stomped out of the cabin.
The ground had softened from last night’s rain, and dirt clung to the soles of his socks. His loafers were in the van somewhere—unless she’d tossed them in the outhouse, too.
He wouldn’t waste another second finding out.
Climbing into the van, he jammed the key in the ignition.
Nothing.
He turned the key again. S.O.L. The damn engine was dead.
Grinding his teeth, he tromped back into the cabin. Nikki stood at the kitchen counter, humming and chopping green peppers. The animals lounged in the main room, in various stages of grooming and napping.
“The van won’t start.”
“I know,” she replied without pausing in her task.
His teeth wore down another inch. “Would you also happen to know why?”
Still chopping, she smiled. “I misplaced the distributor cap.”
He counted to three. Patience, Hart. She WANTS to drive you nuts.
“Where is it?”
“Alex, I’m not going to tell you.” She glanced up. “Telling you would defeat the purpose behind hiding it.”
Of course. How silly of him.
Frustration was too mild a word for the emotion throttling his neck. He had no clothes, no transportation, not a clue where they were. He didn’t know when Royce would arrive, or even if the jerk would come. Meanwhile, Nikki refused to spare him an ounce of pity.
So much for gaining her trust. He couldn’t even win her compassion. The revenge demon inside him would love nothing better than to hog-tie and handcuff her in the outhouse with that schizophrenic yapper, slobbering mammoth, and spitting feline for the next two thousand years—and see how she liked it.
But retribution wasn’t the answer. He couldn’t reduce himself to strong-arm tactics with this woman. Somehow, he had to outsmart her. Or put her off-balance.
Or both.
“Fair enough.” He tossed the keys onto the counter. “But if you think I’m parading around in this getup, you’re mistaken.” He tugged off the muddy socks. “I’m wearing so few clothes as it is, I might as well strip nude. The Garden-of-Eden look will convince Royce we’re about to have sex better than the hulking green guy, anyway.” He reached for his zipper. “That’s the effect you’re going for, right?”
“No!” The butcher knife clattered to the counter. “I mean, yes, I want Royce to suspect us. But you don’t need to strip, Alex. At least not right now. And definitely not all the way.”
“That’s a switch. Last night, you said I should take off my pants.”
“Your pants, not your boxers!” Her hands flitted like startled hummingbirds. “The stripping isn’t necessary. We’ll wait until we hear Royce’s car, then jump into bed and pretend we’re just starting.”
“Just starting what?” He stared at her. “Spell it out, Nikki. I’m fairly dense.”
“M-making love.”
“Terrific. I get it now. Why wait?” He stepped toward her. “We have to get this right, Nik,
or my old buddy Royce won’t buy it. When he barges in, we can’t waste time giving each other innocent pecks on the cheek. We’ll need to feel at home swapping spit.” Grasping her upper arms, he lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips parted on a gasp, and her warm, sweet breath filled his mouth.
So sweet.
Need pumping, he deepened the kiss. Nikki moaned. Oh yeah.
Cupping her face, he coaxed her tongue to meet his. A moment later, their tongues twisted, and his dick hardened.
“Woof!”
Nikki’s hands clamped his wrists, clutching him closer before pushing him away. “A-A-Alex.” Her eyes were wide, her mouth wet, and her cheeks pink. “I think I heard Royce. Did you?” She darted to the cabin door. Yanking it wide, she stuck her head outside. “Royce?”
Alex grunted. Royce. Again. Who was she trying to kid? Santos had wandered into the kitchen. The old dog’s bark was deep, but easily distinguishable from the rumble of Royce’s flashy sports car.
Obviously, Nikki had grabbed at any excuse to pull away from him.
In contrast, his arousal stood at full mast. Hardly an appropriate reaction, considering his best-man status.
Way to go, Hart. Packing wood without a permit.
While her back was turned, he visualized Bernie about to make mincemeat out of his erection. By the time Nikki closed the door, a respectable deflation had occurred.
Clearing her throat, she faced him. “It wasn’t Royce.”
No duh. “Santos barked.”
“He did? Um, in that case, thanks for the, uh, lip-lock, Alex. We don’t need to try it again.”
“Once was enough, huh?”
“More than enough.” She glanced away. “Not that the kiss wasn’t adequate for our purposes. It was... more than adequate. It was—ahem—quite enough.”
Gee, thanks. What every guy wants to hear.
He jerked a thumb toward his Robinson-crucified pants. “Glad to oblige, Nik, but there’s still the issue of my clothes. It’s not exactly ninety degrees in this place, and I feel and look ridiculous.”
“But I want you to look ridiculous. So you won’t run off.”
“Yeah, I get that. Is there any way you can achieve your objective without giving me pneumonia?”
Borrowing Alex Page 6