Donna Kauffman – Simon Says... (страница 7)

“You go take care of your errand and I’ll be here when you get back. Then we can discuss what you want to use the key for and when you plan to use it.” There. She’d sounded almost businesslike. Like she worked with gun-wielding thieves all the time. She just wanted to get him out of the room so she could get away from him and figure out what her options were. “As you’ve pointed out, running wouldn’t be a very smart move on my part.” Not that she’d made any smart moves thus far this morning, but why stop now?

“The key. Or I secure your presence here in other ways.” He dangled the electrical cords. “Primitive, I know, and my apologies. But your company was unexpected and I’m afraid I didn’t come prepared.”

So damn smooth, that voice, that smile, those eyes. Were ruthless thieves supposed to have kind eyes? And a body made for complete, unadulterated sin?

He wants to steal something from your hotel. Think, Sophie, think. And what she was thinking was that her only defense against his threatened accusations of breaking into his room—which, of course, happened to be true—would be if she somehow managed to thwart whatever mission he was on, thereby saving the hotel from both the robbery, a possible lawsuit from the guest he planned to steal from and the resulting negative media splash that scenario would provoke.

She’d started the morning with a headache from working all night on too little sleep and too much alcohol, and a very real concern for her best friend’s future. Somehow, since then, she’d landed herself in a remake of It Takes a Thief. Complete with devastatingly handsome leading man.

“You said trust was built on mutual blackmail,” she said, scrambling. She couldn’t let him take that key.

“Did I?” The corners of his mouth kicked up in an amused smile that put a little devilish twinkle in his eyes. God, they were so green. Honestly, the gene fairy had just had a field day with this guy.

“More or less. The way I see it, the career I’ve worked so hard for is in jeopardy.” She lifted a hand. “My fault, I know, but other than invading your personal space uninvited, I haven’t committed any real crime or hurt anyone. But you could report me and cost me everything. So I’m inclined to help you. Even if you hadn’t held a gun on me, though that did make an impression, let me tell you. Not only do I want to protect my job and my reputation, but if I were to run, you know where I work. You could track me down pretty easily. And we both know you’re armed and dangerous.”

Her gaze dipped to the cords and she stifled an involuntary shudder. She told herself it was the image of him ripping those cords from the wall that caused the reaction, when, if she were really honest, it was the image of him putting those hands on her, for any reason. Pathetic, really, but there it was. If she got out of this in one piece, the first thing she was doing was getting laid. Clearly she’d neglected that part of her personal maintenance for far too long if she was fantasizing over a guy who was threatening to either shoot her or tie her up.

“You don’t even need to order room service for me,” she went on. Like she could eat anything. But … could it be he was seriously considering her argument? “Probably better we don’t take a chance that any of the staff catches me in here anyway.”

“Another good point.” He cocked his head. “You’re a surprise, Sophie Maplethorpe.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you have an angelic look about you.” His smile grew. “And yet, here you are. Bargaining with an alleged thief.”

“I’m just trying to save my job, my future,” she said, feeling a bit miffed at his characterization of her. Here she was giving him her femme fatale best, going head to head with Bond II, and he thought she was an innocent angel.

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided to break into a guest’s room.” He knelt down. “Sorry, love, but you’re a flight risk. And that’s one risk I can’t take.”

“But—”

“You keep your key. For now. And I keep you.” He nodded. “Palms together.”

She gripped her tags more tightly. “What’s to keep you from taking my key once you tie me up? Where’s the trust here?”

“I suppose you were right about that after all.”

“No trust amongst thieves, then?”

His eyes twinkled. “Most unwise, I’d think. But I operate alone, so I can’t rightly say.”

“So you do admit it, you are a thief.”

“Recovery specialist.”

“That’s clever, but doesn’t it mean the same thing?”

“It’s the truth, actually.”

He moved so suddenly, so smoothly and swiftly she couldn’t react until it was too late. He pinned his weight against her knees, preventing her from kicking out at him, while he took her hands, still gripping the tags on her lanyard, and quickly and quite expertly looped the electrical cord around her wrists, binding them just tightly enough that she couldn’t wiggle them free. The instant he was done with that, and while she was still reeling—much to her own shame—at the feel of his big, warm hands on her skin, he had them on her ankles. He shifted just enough to loop the cord around them in seconds flat, then cinched them together and tied the remaining cord to the wooden cross bar that connected the legs of the chair to each other.

She tried to kick out, but her heels were snug to the wooden bar. She swung her tied hands at his head, as much out of frustration as anything, but he easily caught them in one fist. “Now, now.” He took the loose end of the cord from her wrists and tugged it down, pulling her joined hands between her knees, then, pinning them there, tied the wrist cord to the one at her ankles.

Then he rocked back on his heels, and released her as he stood and moved out of reach. Not that she could swing anything at him at the moment. He walked into the bathroom and came back a moment later with what looked like the belt to a Wingate Hotel bathrobe.

She eyed him warily. “Now what? You’ve already roped me like a prize heifer. I can hardly go anywhere, or do anything.” Which was, unfortunately, quite true. She wriggled against her bonds, but it just made the cords cut more tightly into her skin.

“You still have one weapon left,” he told her, and stepped behind her.

She craned her neck, trying in vain to see what he was doing, then felt him kneel behind her chair, his breath fanning the side of her neck. Only she could have a mostly naked man breathing softly against the tender, sensitive skin of her neck, whispering in her ear … so he could explain why he had to gag her with a bathrobe belt.

“I’m truly sorry, but I can’t have you yelling out for assistance now, can I?”

To his credit, his hands were gentle and he didn’t tie it tightly, just snugly enough that any noise she made was muffled enough not to carry.

He stepped around in front of her.

She glared at him, but didn’t give him the satisfaction of trying to scream or kick, much less beg.

“I am sorry.” A smile played at his mouth. “But you did get to keep your key.”

She might have growled at that. Just a little.

“I promise not to take long.” He disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, she heard the shower come on.

Was he kidding? He’d trussed her up like a holiday turkey, gagged her, and now he was going to take a leisurely shower?

Steam wafted out from beneath the bathroom door. Sophie was pretty certain the same was coming out her ears. What on earth had she been thinking to let Delia talk her into this stupid, cockamamie stunt? Of course, Delia had been crying, half-hysterical and still a little bit drunk at the time, so what was a best friend to do? Get the right room number, for one, her little voice mentioned. Sometimes she hated her little voice. Where was it when she’d really needed it? Like when it should have stopped her from kicking her entire career into the gutter, all to retrieve a stupid cell phone because her best friend’s fiancé was an asshole whom she shouldn’t even be marrying in the first place.

And God only knew what was going on with Delia right this moment. Had Adam called as usual? What was she thinking, of course he had. The man was an android. Had Daniel Templeton, wherever he was, answered the call? Sophie shivered at the very idea. It was quite possible that all holy hell was being wrought right at this very moment—the Wingate Wedding of the Century imploding, media swarming, caterers and florists in three states collapsing. And where was she when her best friend needed her most? Tied to a damn chair in one of her own hotel rooms, while an incredibly hot thief stood naked under the shower in the adjoining bath, that’s where.

Her gaze shifted back to the bathroom door, and she hated herself a little, but even that didn’t stop her from imagining what he looked like, all slick and soapy. It’s not like she didn’t have a pretty good idea, given she’d seen almost all of him already. Almost. God. The mental movie went on for a few more frames before she finally, albeit reluctantly, shut it down.

She sighed and slumped in the chair, as much as she could anyway. Truly pathetic.

Her head jerked up when the door opened and he strolled out in a cloud of steam, a damp hotel towel clinging precariously to his hips, thick black curls matted to his neck.