Donna Kauffman – Simon Says... (страница 8)

“Sorry.” He stepped to the closet, rooted around, grabbed some clothes, then ducked back into the bathroom.

“Don’t mind me,” she muttered through the bathrobe belt, wishing she hadn’t noticed that he’d shaved. The shadow of a beard had actually been sexier. But now he looked downright deadly.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Sex. Seriously, the second thing she was doing when she got loose. Right after she found a new job. Of course, no hotel in the universe was going to hire her once word got out. The Wingates would see to that. So, what if managing a hotel was the only thing she’d ever really wanted to do?

Thank goodness Grandma Winnifred wasn’t alive to witness her downfall. She would be so hurt and disappointed if she could see her favorite granddaughter right now. Sophie glanced upward and sent a silent prayer of forgiveness, remembering the smells, sounds and sights of the family restaurant her grandmother had run, the one Sophie had grown up in after the loss of her parents at age nine. Her world had always been filled with people, and conversation, good food and contented smiles. Everyone loved her grandmother, and Winnie’s was where people came to relax, to get away from their troubles, to enjoy a good meal, a place where they would always be welcome.

Sophie had known early on that she wanted to create that same world for herself, to carry on in her grandmother’s stead, bringing that kind of home away from home to others. She’d also discovered early that cooking was never going to be her forte, but where her palate might fail her, her eye did not. She had a special flair for creating the perfect atmosphere, for managing and hostessing. It was at Winnie’s urging that she’d considered her other options, such as running her own inn, providing a different sort of home away from home. And had known immediately it was the perfect dream. But that took money.

So she’d done it the smart way, gone to school, getting her degree in hotel management, working her way up, putting away money, until the time was right to launch her own place, her own way. She’d had Winnie’s support, and that of everyone at the restaurant. And though both were gone now, her focus had never wavered, and that was in large part due to the confidence they’d all given her. She’d been a night manager of the Chicago Wingate for seven months. The ladder was there, just waiting for her to keep climbing it.

Until this morning, anyway.

She had to get out of here. As things stood, her career was trashed and her life was in danger. If she could get out of this hotel room, she could at least take care of the latter problem. Or give herself a good running start anyway. Maybe she should just give him what he wanted. Would he let her go then? Surely he wouldn’t want the added complication of having to kill someone needlessly cluttering up an otherwise harmless burglary? Then she remembered how swiftly and coolly he’d snapped those cords and tied her up. And there was that gun he happened to carry.

Then he was stepping out of the bathroom again. She hadn’t thought it possible, but he was even better-looking dressed. He was wearing black slacks, nice leather shoes, a crisp white shirt that looked like it had been tailor made for his broad shoulders, and a tie in a muted pattern of black, forest green and gold. He’d combed his hair back off his face, leaving it to kick up and curl around the collar of his shirt.

As if reading her thoughts, he flashed a smile at her. “Back in a jiff.”

She glared at him, but it seemed to have little impact as he strolled to the front hall and snagged a suit jacket from the closet. She didn’t see the gun, which meant he was probably wearing it on his person. Nothing had been tucked in the back of his waistband. Ankle holster, she decided. Right before she decided she really needed to stop watching old detective shows on cable when she got up in the afternoon, before going on night shift.

She watched as he slid on his jacket, then took a slim black case from the nightstand and tucked it in an inside pocket. “Sit tight,” he said, having the grace to look a little abashed as he said it, even with the twinkle still in his eyes.

She glared more fiercely and swore at him around the terry-cloth in her mouth, but he remained unfazed. Despite what he’d said, she’d half expected him to come over and take her key presently trapped between her hands. There was no way, short of head butting his solar plexus, that she could stop him. And that was only if he got really, really close. But, to her surprise, he left the room. The door shut behind him with a solid click. She craned her neck to see down the short hallway to the front door. Sure enough, the Do Not Disturb sign was gone. Any hope of a hotel maid rescue was gone.

It wasn’t until she was truly alone that she began to panic in earnest. Which made no sense. He was gone, now was her time to focus. To channel her inner MacGyver and come up with a handy, homespun solution to getting out of this stupid chair and out of this room. The thing was, all those old detective shows had prop people to handily leave all the right items within reach.

She looked around, thinking if she could find anything that appeared sharp enough to cut through her bonds, she might be able to hop the chair in the direction, position herself accordingly and go to work. Except electrical cords were a lot harder to saw through than flimsy cotton rope.

Maybe if she tipped herself over onto her side, she could somehow get her fingers close enough to her ankle ties to loosen them up, but she then realized that changing position wouldn’t really change the dynamics any. Which was why her degree was in hotel management, not physics. She tried bending forward far enough to see if she could get her teeth anywhere in the vicinity of her lap, but the moment she dipped down too far, the chair threatened to topple forward. Not a great idea since she had no way to protect herself from making a full face-plant. And fat lot of good that position would do her.

Then she remembered. He’d shaved his face. Which meant there was a razor in the bathroom somewhere. Maybe she could body hop the chair over to the bathroom. There was a small coffee table in the way, and she’d have to maneuver around the end of the bed, but it was worth a try.

It took her a few tries to do more than bobble the chair dangerously from one side to the other. The way he’d tied her feet, only her tippy toes touched the ground. Not much for leverage, but if she pushed and simultaneously lifted her butt off the seat, the chair did move a little. The only problem was she had no control over direction. Definitely looked a hell of a lot easier in the movies.

She tried not to get discouraged. She had no idea how long his idea of a “jiff” was, so she couldn’t afford to waste any time. She bumped, leaned and bobbled until she’d managed to move the chair a whole two inches toward the end of the bed. Wonderful. She was sweating a little now, both from panic and exertion, which only served to make the electrical cords feel kind of icky. If only she sweat something helpful, like, say, olive oil, she might have been able to slip her wrists free. But no.

Then she had another thought. Slippery. He’d been in the shower, so maybe he used body soap. At the very least there’d be shampoo in there. Of course, she had no idea how she was going to retrieve these items while tied to a chair, but she wasn’t going to sit there and do nothing. She’d figure that part out when she got in there.

Redoubling her efforts, she bobbled and scraped her way almost a whole foot, before the edge of the chair caught at the foot of the bed and went tottering all the way forward on two legs, before she swung the momentum back. The unfortunate result of that maneuver was that the chair overcorrected and tipped over backward, which she had no way of stopping. Thankfully the bed blocked the chair’s descent, so she didn’t whack her head on anything. But now she was tilted back like she was in some kind of recliner, with her feet completely off the floor, leaving her with no leverage at all.

MacGyver would be so disgusted with her right now. She was disgusted with her right now.

She carefully tried to shift her weight forward to see if she could tip it forward again, but that only served to make the back two chair legs—the only ones presently touching the floor—start to slip. She froze and tried to figure out what to do next.

Which was how Silas found her when he came back into the room. And did he honestly expect her to buy that as his name? Although, maybe it was a popular name in New Zealand. She really didn’t know.

He stood next to her, his head tipped sideways. “How on earth did you manage that position?” Then he smiled. “What are the odds of using that line with a woman in my own hotel room, and we’re both fully clothed?”

She glared at him as fiercely as she was able. Her jaw was sore from having the stupid belt tucked in it, so she didn’t bother trying to swear at him. She did wiggle a bit, but that proved to be a bad idea. The chair legs went out from under her, and it was only his amazingly swift reflexes that kept her from cracking her head on the floor.