“Assuming you’re not here to kill, rob, or rape me? I’m justpeachy,” I whisper, my voice cracking on the lie. I’m so far fromall right, I don’t even have words to convey it.
I think I see a flare of humor in his eyes before they drop away from mine. His hands leave my face and he reaches down to slide a knife from inside his boot. I can’t help flinching when he flicks it open, the lethal blade catching the moonlight like a mirror. My muscles tense up, momentarily petrified by the prospect of my apparent savior carving me into pieces.
“Don’t!” I squeak out mortifyingly.
He registers my sudden panic and goes totally still. Knife held aloft, his eyes find mine in the dark again. When he speaks, his velvet voice is grave. “I’m not here to hurt you, Ms. Hunt.”
My eyes widen.He knows me?
I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t. He merely pauses for a long moment, holding my stare, then says, “You can trust me.”
I don’t know how to explain it — whether it’s that look on his face or the sincerity in his tone that sways my opinion — but I do. I trust him. Possibly because I don’t have any other choice, seeing as I’m stuck in this chair, entirely at his mercy… but mostly because there’s something about his presence that tells me he means it when he says he’s here to help. I look into his dark eyes and for once, my internal bullshit alarm is silent.
If he was going to hurt you, he would’ve done it by now,a small voice whispers at the back of my mind.Why bother removing the duct tape or making small talk if he’s merely here to kill you or rob you blind?
The panic bleeds out of me and I give a small nod of affirmation. With a neat jerk of his blade, he slices through the bonds at my wrists, then bends down to do the same for my ankles. The tape falls away and, eager for freedom after so long in captivity, I immediately rise from my seat… only to sway off balance when blood floods my head in a woozy rush. The room around me is spinning and I’m far too lightheaded to find my feet again.
Shit! Is that the floor, hurling high-speed at my face?
I brace myself for impact, but it never comes. Instead, two arms go around me, catching me midair. Before I can fathom what’s happening, I’ve been swept off my feet and find myself cradled against a broad chest like a child. Head spinning — this time for entirely different reasons — I’m too stunned even to struggle as he carries me out of the dining room, toward the dove gray sectional in the adjacent parlor.
It’s strange but… his arms feel terrifyingly good around me. Safe and solid and entirely unexpected — like stumbling upon a storm cellar in the midst of an emotional tornado. Everything in my life appears to be coming apart at the seams… but he’s holding me. And for just one moment, his arms offer temporary reprieve from the fear and shock and anger swirling inside me in an uncontrollable vortex.
Under normal circumstances, I’d never allow a stranger to carry me like this. To comfort me like some… some…weaklingin need of coddling. Surely, on any other day, I wouldn’t find myself so affected by the feeling of his strong arms looped beneath my knees and back, his broad chest bracing my head like a cushion each time he takes a step.
Even if it has been years since anyone held me this close…
But these circumstances are anything but normal and this day is not any other day. As he carries me, I have to fight the urge to let my eyes slide closed. To absorb his strength, his heat. To set my breaths by his rhythm. To use the steady thrumming of his pulse as a metronome for my own racing heart.
It makes no sense at all, but every inclination inside me is screaming out for me to take comfort in the circle of this stranger’s arms.
This is just transference,the sensible part of my brain chides.You’re redirecting your own feelings of fear and adrenaline into gratitude for this guy, since he saved you. It’ll fade, once you calm down. You’ll see.
If I could, I’d roll my eyes at myself.
How dare I lecture me? Who do I think I am, some kind of adult?
He sets me down on the sofa like I weigh no more than one of the down-stuffed cushions. He’s not even winded. I keep my eyes on his as he steps away, creating a careful distance between us. The feeling of his arms around me still tingles through my bloodstream like whiskey.
“Who are y—” I start to ask, but the question dies in my throat as the stranger abruptly straightens to full height and pulls his gun from its holster.
“I’m going to sweep the house.”
My mouth parts. “But—”
“Keep quiet. And don’t move.”
Though he speaks no louder than a whisper, there’s no denying it’s an order. Clearly, this is a man unaccustomed to being disobeyed. My eyes strain to make out his shape in the darkness as he walks out of the room, his footsteps inaudible. For such a large man, he moves with a catlike grace that speaks to years of training. Everything from his posture to the way he holds his gun — arms extended, barrel pointed to the floor — practically screams law enforcement.
Who the hellisthis guy?!
An undercover cop?
A rogue P.I.?
In either case, I suppose I should feel marginally better that the cavalry has arrived to rescue me. In fact, I should be thrilled to discover I won’t die duct taped to a chair in my dining room, only to be found after days or weeks or months by a concerned letter carrier who notices the Hunts haven’t emptied their mailbox in quite some time…
Unfortunately, it’s hard to be thrilled about much of anything when every square inch of your body aches, you’ve got a killer headache from a full day of dehydration, and there’s an excruciating pressure in your bladder after nearly twelve hours of holding it.