Prisoner of Love

by Cathy Skendrovich

  That was when the idea took shape.

  Lucy carefully shut the bathroom door and rummaged under the sink for a roll of toilet paper, batting away spider webs. Her eyes kept returning to that window, that rectangular-shaped gateway to freedom. What if she crawled out and ran down the hill? She might pass a motorist, or a bus.

  She waited before flushing, debating her next course of action. If he heard the flush, he’d wonder why she was taking so long. For all his unpredictability, there wasn’t much that got past him. She dropped the toilet lid down quietly and stood on top of it, shoving at the recalcitrant window to push it open with no telltale squeaks.

  “C’mon,” she whispered when her muscles met with resistance. Gritting her teeth, arms straining under the pressure, Lucy gulped down the sounds she wanted to express. Just a bit more, it’s almost there, she mentally chanted as the window inched higher.

  At last she felt it give, scraping along its track until the opening gaped wide. She put her hands on the sill, pushed her head and shoulders out so she could see the dirt and pine needles only five feet below.

  “You can do this, Luce,” she encouraged herself. The window was small and she had, unfortunately, an ample behind. But still her body made progress out the opening.

  Until she got to her hips.

  They wouldn’t budge.

  She twisted. She turned. She grunted and groaned. She sucked in her gut. Nothing worked.

  Oh, why hadn’t she gone to the gym more often? Why did she insist on double lattes with whipped cream on top? Because of that, she would die here, hanging halfway out of a bathroom window.

  Her butt remained wedged like Winnie the Pooh’s while tears of frustration, pent-up fear, and exhaustion tracked down Lucy’s face and plopped in the dirt below. She coaxed herself to try one more giant pull to force her body through the aperture to freedom.

  And then she heard the bathroom door fly open behind her.

  Chapter Three

  “Good evening, Michael. Come in, come in. That will be all, Sofia. We won’t be requiring your services any more tonight.”

  Michael Delano watched the quiet housekeeper slip away as he stepped into the foyer of Anton Farelli’s Las Vegas home. The older man looped an arm around his shoulders, and Michael resisted the urge to cringe. A hug from Farelli was akin to the kiss of death in the mob world.

  “Sit, sit, Michael. What can I get you?”

  Michael did as he was told, like he’d been doing for nearly two years, and sat in one of the gold velvet pub chairs facing each other within the gilt-colored den of the Farelli mansion/stronghold. Though his personal tastes ran more toward masculine dark woods and earthy colors, Michael decided the ornately furnished room somehow suited the mob boss, whose sense of style seemed stuck in the 1980s. Besides, who in the family was going to step up and tell their boss his home was garishly appointed? Certainly not Michael Delano. He liked breathing too much.

  While Michael seated himself, he studied the glass-backed bar, noted the top quality liquor and crystal glassware reflected in the mirrors. He nodded at the scotch decanter his boss lifted inquiringly and watched him pour a couple of fingers before returning to the pub chairs and handing over the heavy glass. Remaining standing, Farelli raised his and drank deeply, one eye on Michael, as if making sure he followed suit. He did.

  “Nicky Costas escaped from prison this morning,” Farelli announced, turning and pacing the length of the sitting room. Michael blinked and quickly looked down into his glass while he processed this unexpected news.

  My, my. Little Nicky had finally grown a pair. He hadn’t thought the bastard had the smarts to come up with an escape plan, let alone follow through with it. Apparently he’d underestimated Costas. That was his mistake. Michael tuned back in to Mr. Farelli, who was still talking.

  “According to my snitch inside, Nicky got on a road crew and just ran off, the stupid prick.”

  “Actually, that was rather smart of him,” Michael ventured, but the ice-cold look he received withered the rest of his thoughts. He added quickly, “I say that only because it surprises me. I never gave Costas that much credit for brains.”

  Farelli stopped in front of the picture window that looked out on the fall desert landscape, indistinct in the evening twilight. He continued speaking though his back was to the room. “And that surprises me, Michael. You never miscalculate.” He turned around, his expressionless eyes piercing.

  “I want my money back, Michael, and Costas is my best suspect. It went missing after that last bust. Bring him here to me, alive, and I’ll get him to talk. We’ll get him to talk. And while you’re at it, go check out Tommy. Even though he swears he saw Costas in the till when he thought no one was looking, it’s Tommy who’s wearing all the fancy suits and the Italian leather shoes.” Mr. Farelli finished off his own glass.

  An idea began to form in Michael’s mind. “And what if they were dipping together, sir?” he ventured.

  “I don’t suffer traitors mildly, Michael. If you find out they were working together, make the one an example and bring Costas to me. I. Want. My. Money.” His words, though quietly spoken, sliced the air like a scalpel. Michael nodded, mind racing to figure out how best to accomplish the deed. It would never do for Mr. Farelli to lose faith in him. He’d worked too hard for this position to have two small-time criminals ruin everything he’d built.

  Hoping to forestall any criticism, Michael stood, a daring move as it might be construed as dismissive. “I’ve never let you down before, sir. This time won’t be any different. I’ll put a man on Costas’s trail, and we’ll bring him in.” The placating words nearly stuck in his throat, but he was rewarded when Mr. Farelli clapped him warmly on the back, leading him toward the front door.

  “I knew I could count on you. I love you like a son and I’d hate to see work come between us. Just bring me Costas and remember: if anyone kills him, they’re as good as dead themselves.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Michael stepped out onto the brick front porch, nodding stupidly as Mr. Farelli quietly closed the door in his face. A guard emerged from the shadows, ready to usher him to his car, which he was sure had been checked for incendiary devices. Well, the clock was good and truly ticking down now, wasn’t it? It was up to him to keep it from exploding in his face.

  Jake threw the bathroom door open on a hunch.

  Suspended at eye level hung the most perfectly rounded, heart-shaped ass he’d ever had the pleasure to admire. It wiggled and bounced, begged to be grabbed in both hands, held firmly, and either slapped or kissed. Maybe even bitten…

  “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “What have we here?” He leaned against the doorjamb with crossed arms. The butt in front of him wiggled in earnest now.

  This was certainly unexpected. He hadn’t thought the girl had it in her to stage this kind of desperate maneuver. It mirrored his own escape plan, though his had succeeded and hers had not. He grudgingly had to admire her daring nonetheless, even as he congratulated himself on checking in on her.

  Enjoying the view a little too much, and loathe to remove that sublime shape from its place, he resumed talking. “I can just see the headlines now: ‘The Grand Escape of Miss Pussy.’ Probably would make a great title for a kid’s book.” As he stepped toward the clogged window, he muttered, “More likely a skin flick.”

  From what little he’d seen and felt, his hostage definitely had the body for one. Casting one more look of longing at the sweet ass hanging right there, he placed his hands on the girl’s shifting hips, allowed himself a quick squeeze before pulling her backward. She screamed all the way back into the bathroom.

  “Nooooooo!”

  The girl turned sharply in his arms, hair slapping him in the face, fingernails like kitty claws poised to scrape out his eyeballs. “Let me go!” Snapping his head back in the nick of time, he grappled for her wrists in a battle for domination, but Lucy Parker (oh, he remembered her name, all right) would have none of it.
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  Holding on to her was like harnessing a tornado. And all the time she sounded like the warning system for one, screaming and bellowing in his face. She twisted and turned in his grasp, that feminine form brushing up against him with dire results. Not that she noticed. Yet.

  Their bodies careened against the bathroom door, banging it into the wall. First the wildcat tried to shoulder him in the chest, and then she stomped on his foot, screaming hysterically all the while. At last he bent her backward over the sink, momentarily gaining the upper hand. Their gazes locked, inches apart, chests heaving against one another.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Stop. Fighting. Oof—” He barely avoided her raised knee to his crotch, twisting his pelvis to the side at the last minute. With his unbidden erection, a connection would have dropped him to his knees. But the attack lent him the impetus to overpower the hellion, pinning her lower body against the counter with his.

  She froze, her wide, frightened eyes latching on to his. Ah, yes. His monumental hard-on. The sight of her ass and the ensuing scuffle in close quarters left him standing at attention nearly in her sweet spot. With difficulty, he brought his breathing under control even as his arousal raged on. She whimpered, not a muscle moving as she arched back against the sink, totally at his mercy.

  He held her gaze. Debated once again about revealing his true identity just to stop this game of cat and mouse. But Miss Parker didn’t look to be in any condition to believe him. “I apologize for my body’s reaction,” he managed between deep breaths. “That’s not how I usually tell a woman I find her attractive.”

  He felt her start at his comment.

  “I should have shoved you out on that highway when I had the chance,” he grumbled before suddenly making up his mind and picking her up. He strode from the room with her in his embrace as she began screaming again over his shoulder.

  He carried her to a bedroom. As soon as they reached the plaid-covered bed, she redoubled her efforts to break free until he flung her into the middle of it. Bouncing against the lumpy mattress, she bit off more protests while her eyes searched the room—for a way out or a weapon? He slammed the door shut with a shove of his arm. Then he turned to the knotty pine dresser, jerking drawers open and sifting through them roughly, all the while keeping one eye trained on her. She sat up on her elbows, poised for flight. In moments he found a suitable restraint: a pair of thermal underwear bottoms.

  “No,” she pleaded, crab crawling backward to the headboard, unwittingly doing exactly what he wanted her to do. Fueled by self-disgust, he ripped the drawers in half and stalked her across the bed on hands and knees.

  “’Atta girl,” he encouraged. He knew he was scaring the hell out of her. But he needed to take control of this situation again, and she wasn’t helping, not with those big, brown eyes begging him from behind her glasses, or that hasty escape attempt. Clearly, he’d underestimated her and he needed to expect the unexpected where she was concerned.

  Good thing he did. She wasn’t done fighting him. While he advanced toward her, she kicked out at him, nearly cracking him in the chin with one sneakered foot.

  “Get away from me!” She swung her other foot at his head. Shit, it was like battling a windmill. Forgetting his remorse, he threw himself on top of her legs, making the headboard bounce off the wall and her scream even louder.

  As he awkwardly crawled up her body she continued to try and unseat him, pushing at his shoulders with her fists and undulating her pelvis like Elvis in his prime. Which of course, caused another erection. He was coming off as some kind of damn pervert, when all he wanted to do was subdue her for a few hours until he could gather his thoughts and get the hell out of Dodge.

  Ignoring whether or not she felt the hard-on, Jake grabbed her flailing right arm and secured her wrist to the Shaker-style headboard with one of the underwear legs before doing likewise to the other arm. At last he looked down at her and swallowed the painful stab of guilt at seeing her helplessly spread-eagled beneath him.

  In retrospect, he figured he might have overdone the incarcerated asshole role. After all, his treatment of this young woman would likely leave emotional wounds and he was ashamed to be the one to inflict them. One look into her sad face and he hated himself. Hated what he’d become.

  But the bottom line was they were stuck with each other for now. That sky-led search for him would widen overnight, giving him a window of opportunity in the morning to leave. And if he had to scare her into submission, so be it.

  With a cursory nod of acknowledgement to the selfish bastard he’d become, he clambered off the bed and met her frightened gaze. “Believe me,” he said. “I’d rather not tie you up, unless it’s under mutual consent. But since you seem prone to flight, you leave me no choice. I need a shower, as you so delicately stated, and I don’t think you’re going to offer to scrub my back. I promise I’ll untie you when I get out.”

  As he left the room, he heard her begin tugging at her bonds.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” Lucy chanted to herself. Now alone, she redoubled her escape efforts. Jerking on her bindings, she kicked and squirmed, tried to break apart the headboard slats. But the knots were too tight and the old bed as solid as a spruce. Giving one, last, useless yank, she relented with a frustrated huff, dropping her head onto the squashed pillow and staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

  She heard her captor rummaging through other bedrooms, probably looking for a change of clothes. When those noises ceased, she tensed, expected him to return to her room, but she remained alone. The sound of gushing water reached her ears, telling her he’d indeed started his shower. Slowly the tremors wracking her body lessened, allowing coherent thought to seep back into her brain—

  “Goddamnit!”

  Her muscles bunched as the vile invective exploded from the unseen bathroom. More curse words joined the first. She shook in anticipation of who-knew-what, until she heard the convict bark, “No friggin’ hot water? This isn’t any better than the joint, goddamnit all to hell…”

  The swearing became hushed mutterings and the rush of water continued, allowing Lucy to relax temporarily and tell herself her kidnapper had gotten what he deserved. And while he was preoccupied, she took the time to contemplate her predicament, and the man who had put her in it.

  She’d rather not think about her botched bathroom breakout—she’d been so close to freedom!—but her mind kept replaying the incident. And her captor’s reaction. He’d been, well, harder than a bedpost. But he hadn’t raped her. Or hurt her. Even when she was punching and kicking and scratching.

  She knew better than to believe him innocent or incapable of violence. But she couldn’t help but think that another criminal might have treated her so much worse.

  Which brought her to the big question, why had he run in the first place? Wasn’t that more a theatrical gambit in movies than in real life? You never heard about escaped prisoners on the news. Didn’t most inmates fight their sentences in court? So what had made him so desperate that he couldn’t wait? She found herself curious to know the answer.

  She also wondered what he’d do with her when she’d served his purpose, whatever that was. He kept saying he wasn’t a murderer, that he’d set her free, but why? If he hadn’t committed murder, then his sentence couldn’t be so hopeless that breaking out was his only option. None of it made sense.

  With her head beginning to ache from her round-robin thoughts and lack of food, Lucy closed her eyes and willed her mind to go blank. All the willing in the world couldn’t clear the jumble of thoughts flashing around her brain like a laser show. Her life as she knew it was gone forever. From this day forth, she’d be a victim of a violent crime, a name on a police file—

  “I’m on the edge, the edge, the edge—”

  She jerked out of her worries in disbelief. The man was singing in the shower.

  Singing lyrics by Lady Gaga.

  In a cold shower. Slightly off-key.

  While his kidnap vict
im was tied up and spread-eagled on a bed across the hall.

  Maybe she was the one “on the edge,” because this situation seemed to be going from crazy to downright surreal. But before her mind could wrap around the absurdity of this rabbit hole she’d tumbled down, the water shut off with a grating squeak. Her body shivered, muscles contracting one by one. Even her fingers clenched uselessly as she counted the seconds since the water had been turned off…

  “Are you calmed down yet?”

  He spoke from the bedroom doorway and, looking at him, she strangled a breath in response.

  The man straddling the threshold to the room could not be the same one who’d abducted her. This man looked like a male catalog model. He wore loose-fitting jeans and a blue plaid long-sleeve shirt rolled up at the sleeves. And he’d shaved. Gone was the patchy beard that had made him resemble a cousin of the Duck Dynasty clan. In its place was an angular chin and well-formed lips, high cheekbones and a blade-straight nose. His short, wet hair waved back from his forehead, with longer strands dropping over his eyes in an intriguing manner. Intriguing—what the what? She must’ve hit her head when they’d scuffled in the bathroom.

  He plopped down on the bed beside her, his hip brushing hers. She scooted away as far as her bindings would allow.

  “Are you ready to listen to what I have to say?” He looked at her seriously through those strands of sable hair.

  She blinked, but refused to speak, still stunned at his handsome appearance. She would never have guessed the man in the grungy jumpsuit could be this…appealing. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Beside her he heaved an exaggerated sigh. “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and I’m sorry for that.”

  This was just too much. “Gotten off on the wrong foot? Are you serious? Are you even from this planet? You barge into my car, threaten me with a knife, force me to drive you to this Godforsaken cabin, tie me to a bed, call me names, and then have the nerve to say ‘we got off on the wrong foot’? To apologize? Do you really think ‘I’m sorry’ is going to fix this? You belong in the looney bin, not prison.”