Free Hostage Page 3

  Unsure of what to do with myself, I circle my arms around his middle, my purse strap sliding down to dangle on my wrist as I pull him closer.

  He hikes my leg higher and sends a low groan down my throat.

  Harrumphs sound from the suits. But Frosty doesn’t stop kissing or feeling me up. Nope, not until the doors open on the lobby floor and the suits all but bolt out to flee the heat inside. Obviously, they’re not French. Interpol, maybe?

  Frosty breaks away, slowly.

  My gaze shifts to the side, outside the doors. Neither of the suits so much as glances back, but I notice one of them raises his wrist to his mouth and talks to it.

  “Right. I… I think we’ve convinced them.” My breath is ragged. “I bet now they’re thinking your girlfriend played them. Ha. You’re excellent at improv, by the way. That was thrilling.”

  No response.

  I shift my gaze to him. He is staring down at me with an indecipherable expression. His chest rises and falls, his breathing a wee rough.

  “Do you know them?” I ask. “Are they law enforcement, or bad guys? What if they—”

  I’m cut off when he grabs my wrist and hauls me out of the elevator. And then, as before, he loops his arm around my waist, continuing the act.

  Oh, right. We’re still in the building.

  Yet, even when we are free outside, in cool air under an overcast gray sky, his arm remains around me and his feet keep on moving. He leads me down to the corner of the street, pausing briefly at a rusting lamp post. He goes left, and a black jeep revs up. It brakes at our feet.

  Only then does he release me. Abrupt and swift, as if I’d scorched him.

  “Get in.”

  I know I should not. I know I don’t have to. I know I can run if I want, scream if want. I know I can get away. I know if I get in, it could be the stupidest decision I ever make in my entire life.

  And still, I get in.

  Chapter Two

  I wake up in the air.

  Heading for…God knows where.

  A seat belt is fastened around my waist and voices are mumbling behind me.

  “…’bout the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen him do, man.”

  “No kidding.”

  “What’s he gonna do with her?”

  Three different voices. Three unfamiliar voices. American.

  Good news? Hopefully.

  “Isn’t he the one always reminding us that abduction and hostage-taking aren’t part of our job description?”

  A scoff. “Yeah.”

  A mildly amused, mocking fourth voice. “Our aim is to complete the mission in a neat, clean fashion. Without leaving a trail.”

  The other three voices joined in, reciting those last words in unison.

  “What do we even know about this chick? She could be undercover. She could—”

  The speaker cuts off abruptly.

  A long pause ensues.

  Someone coughs.

  A door clicks open and shut.

  Someone whispers, too low for me to hear.

  I’m guessing a new character has entered. Possibly the subject of their conversation. Or rather, the other subject, considering I’m also a subject of their conversation.

  With nimble hands, I unfasten my seat belt and shove up to my feet. Whoa…too fast. A woozy haze passes over me and leaves me gripping the back of the seat for balance.

  The last thing I remember doing after climbing into that vehicle in Paris was accepting a bottle of Perrier from Frosty.

  Rookie move.

  “Um, excuse me,” I say once my equilibrium is found, my body turning to face a motley cohort of five. “I’m not an undercover anything trying to bust anyone. I don’t even know you. Him?” I point at Frosty, who is standing down the back of the aisle, a pencil and notepad in hand. “I know him. Actually, no. I know his eyes. They are striking and unforgettable, and have been etched in my memory for twelve months. You—” I point to a muscle-bound black bloke with groomed dreadlocks and big lips. “I do not know. You—” I point to a lanky Hispanic bloke with high cheekbones, razor-sharp jaw, and percipient dark eyes. “I do not know. You—” I point to an overly inked and pierced tomboy with jet-black pixie hair and brooding, thick eye-lined eyes. “I do not know.” My finger makes a final jab at a smirking heartthrob with sharp gray irises, platinum-blond hair, and a playboy wink. “Nor do I know you.”

  All stares.

  “Incidentally,” I add, “I was fine with helping Mr. Frosty Blue Eyes down there escape, but I did not ask to be drugged and loaded on a jet and illegally transported to…somewhere else.”

  More stares.

  “That said, I think this is all…pretty thrilling.” The stares turned skeptical, so I kept talking. “I’m excited to see what you band of morons will do next. Where are we headed? Aren’t you freezing? It’s cold as a bat’s arse in here. Rad jet, by the way. I’ve never been inside one this fancy. And I’ve been places. Lots of places. Can I get some water, please? No drugs this time. I’m parched.”

  As if I’m nothing but a big red question mark in a frilly pin-up dress, they all just stare and blink at me, stare and blink.

  The silence is finally broken by the lanky Hispanic. “Dios. Mami didn’t even take a second to breathe.”

  “Did this nerd-face just call us morons?” This from the inked-up tomboy. “Us, morons? You look like a Big Bang Theory reject.”

  I wave her off as if she is but a gnat. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Can someone please get me some water? Even a glass of blood would do right now, I’m so thirsty.”

  All the seats in this section face each other in a semicircular fashion. And all are taken. But no one moves.

  Smirking Playboy is monopolizing an L-shaped sofa that is meant to fit more than one, so I wobble my way over to it and prod his thigh. With an amused grin, he shoots a glance down the aisle to the silent and expressionless Frosty, then shifts over to make room for me.

  I sit primly and cross my legs, ladylike. My dress falls over my knees. Hands clasped in my lap, I sweep my bespectacled gaze around, observing each one in fascination. “So, what do you call yourselves? The Power Five? Urban Takers? Cons on a Plane? What?”

  At this, Frosty moves up the aisle, his lean, towering frame too tall for the jet. He’s ditched his suit jacket and tie, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. His hair, which had been flawless perfection at the gallery, is now an unkempt mess of thick layers, flopping down his forehead and ears.

  As he passes, his eyes flick over me for half a second, then dismiss me, before he disappears behind a sliding partition at the front.

  My ardor has cooled somewhat. He’s odd, that one.

  “So?” I prod the group when everyone just continues to stare at me as if I’m speaking Dothraki. “What are you called?”

  More silence and staring. This was getting old.

  “Nada, mami.”

  I make a face. “Your crew is called Nothing? Well, that’s lame.”

  Smirking Playboy chuckles. “No, we’re not called Nothing. We don’t have a name.”

  I frown. “Why not? You’re more than a duo, and clearly successful professionals. You should have a rad name.”

  “I think so, too,” Smirking Playboy says with another wink.

  “Would you idiots stop talking to her?” snaps the tatted tomboy. “She could be bugged, the law could be listening in, and you’re all blabbing like hyenas.”

  I shift toward her. “Hi. What is your name?”

  “Don’t talk to me,” she spits out.

  “Okay, Don’t Talk to Me,” I say, and Smirking Playboy snickers. “Your ire is understandable. You have every right to be leery of a stranger who was impermissibly drugged and forcibly dragged onto your jet. Your stupidity, however, is confounding. For one, it’s wildly impractical to have anyone ‘listening in’ from well above forty thousand feet in the air. Second, judging from my lingering grogginess, I deduce I’ve been out for a
t least four hours. And during those hours, neither you, nor any of these other four lummoxes, I surmise, took the opportunity to strip me down and search me for possible wires, a chip, or any other disguised recording devices?”

  “Damn,” mutters the black bloke. “You’re kinda obnoxious for a nerd.”

  I’m not. Melanie is. I’m the nice one.

  What will he say when he meets her?

  The partition at the front slides open. All I get is a glimpse of his tall frame before something is hurled straight at my head.

  “Violence is never the answer!” I scream as I duck.

  There’s a thud. Something cold barrels down to my lower back and nestles there. Amid a wave of chuckles, I reach behind me and curl my fingers around the missile.

  A cold bottle of Evian water.

  “All that talk, and she’s afraid of water,” Don’t Talk to Me mocks with a bitter laugh. “Maybe we should torture her with a cold bath.”

  Ignoring the little bitch, I look up to find Frosty’s blank eyes on me. He stands just inside the open partition, and I glimpse something akin to a portable bar behind him.

  I hold up the bottle of water between my finger and thumb. “Seriously?”

  “You asked for water.” He shrugs. “You were supposed to catch it.”

  I let my eyes go wide. “Sorry, but were you all raised by hooligans? I’m not like Don’t Talk to Me, here. Look at me, I’m wearing a dress. When a lady, an intelligent lady, is in your presence, and she asks you for a drink of water, you do not hurl a bottle at her head. You get a clean cup, pour the water, and hand it to her with a polite smile.”

  Frosty inhales a deep, impatient breath but nods at Smirking Playboy beside me.

  Smirking Playboy is reluctant, but eventually he stands, takes the bottle from my hand, and brushes past Frosty to disappear behind the partition.

  Frosty goes back down the aisle, dips his head to get through a door at the back, and closes it firmly behind him.

  I ask the black bloke, “So, what’s your name?”

  He gives me no attitude. Just a smile. “Kavon.”

  “And Don’t Talk to Me?”

  “Jo.”

  Jo throws a pen at him. “Dickhead!”

  “The Hispanic?” I push on.

  “Eduardo.”

  “And Smirking Playboy?”

  Kavon bursts out laughing. “Collin.”

  On cue, Collin returns with a glass of ice water and hands it to me. “Collin Cumberland, at your service.”

  Parched beyond sanity, I down the water in zero-point-five seconds.

  His smirk is no longer there when he reclaims his seat beside me and shoots a displeased glance down the aisle to the door Frosty has disappeared behind.

  “And my abductor?”

  Kavon is hesitant, his gaze flicking to Eduardo.

  Collin answers, a bite to his tone, “Jaxon. With an x.”

  Of course, with an x. Fitting. A name as pretty as his face.

  I pop an ice cube into my mouth and point at each of them, one by one. “Kavon, Jo, Eduardo, Collin, and”—I jab a thumb down the aisle—“Jaxon, yeah?”

  No response.

  “But no name for the gang?”

  “We’re not a fucking gang.”

  “Okay…” I crunch the ice cube with my teeth. “How about we brainstorm a name for you thieves?” I tilt my head to think, tonguing around the crushed pieces of ice. “What about…Incognito? Or…Without a Trace? Or…the Five Disciples? Or…” I keep rattling off possible names, my words getting slower and slower, my mind foggier and foggier.

  Jo’s voice sounds far away when she grumbles, “Is this chick ever gonna shut up?”

  “She will.” Collin’s voice. “In a min.”

  As I attempt to bring another cube of ice to my mouth, it falls from my fingers, along with the glass.

  You’ve got to be kidding.

  A warm arm wraps around me and urges my head to a hard but comfortable chest.

  “Whatever,” I mumble into the person’s chest. “You smell glorious.”

  The last thing I remember before I trip and tumble into oblivion is Collin’s voice whispering at my temple, “Sorry, Nerd Girl.”

  From now on, I’m pouring my own damn water.

  Chapter Three

  I’m loath to welcome consciousness as it revisits. I can’t move. My legs and arms are lead. My eyes, as I blink them open, feel like bags of gravel.

  A cautious squint reveals an unfamiliar room. A bedroom. Masculine, rustic, with exposed brick walls, dark furniture, and a wide dresser littered with a plethora of colognes.

  I’m lying supine in a bed that is big and soft with lots of pillows. I want to roll over to enjoy this big, soft bed, spread my arms, and make pillow angels.

  Unfortunately, my body feels like it’s weighing itself down. Just attempting the simple act of flicking my wrist feels the equivalent of deadlifting a trailer.

  Where am I?

  I hope it’s with— What is his name?

  Right. Jaxon. With an x.

  Anyway. I hope this is his bed, and that is his dresser, and those are his colognes. I hope he barges in and kisses me again. Touches his hand to my bare thigh. Makes me feel all those same weird and tingly things again.

  I hope I’m still his hostage.

  Stricken with inertia, I lie there for thirteen nauseating minutes—yes, I counted—before the room door finally swings open.

  Had I the energy to sigh in disappointment, I would.

  Not Jaxon.

  Nonetheless, Collin, in all his heart-melting handsomeness, will suffice.

  He wears a black wifebeater and red pajama bottoms that bears the Flash symbol on the right thigh. While the pajama bottoms hang low on his hips, the wifebeater, two sizes too tight, doesn’t hide much. He’s holding an enormous bowl of cereal in one hand while scooping spoonfuls into his mouth as he strolls toward the massive bed.

  He doesn’t seem to notice I’m awake, probably because I’m stretched out as stiff as the dead.

  As he climbs into bed, he takes a break from stuffing his face long enough to grab a remote from the nightstand and switch the telly on.

  My head explodes. The noise from the telly is like an automatic weapon. Jarring enough to spur life into my fingers and curl them into fists. Eyes squeezed shut, I press the fists to my temples and croak out, “Lousy bastardous American bastards.”

  The clinking of the stainless steel to porcelain pauses. The volume on the telly drops.

  Much better.

  I crack one eye open and find Collin smirking at me. “Welcome back to the rabbit hole, Nerd Girl.”

  Both eyes open now, I correct my askew glasses. “You fricking drugged me. Again. Do you have any idea the dangers of drugging someone back to back? You idiots! What specific drug did you use? I need to know so I can take immediate precautions to prevent long-term side effects.”

  Collin winces with contrition. “Dunno. You’ll have to ask Jaxon. But you’ll be okay. The drug is legal, safe. We’ve used it many times before.” He sets his bowl aside. “You feeling nauseous? Any memory problems? Confusion, delirium, hallucinations?”

  I take a minute to assess. “Just nausea.”

  “As I thought,” he says. “You’re okay. The heaviness will wear off soon.”

  “I’m really thirsty.”

  Without a word, he hops off the bed, leaves the room, and return minutes later with a tall glass of water. He sets the water down on the nightstand and helps me up so I’m seated with my back against the headboard.

  As he picks up the glass and brings it to my lips, I think twice before drinking, as thirsty as I am. “Is the water drug-free this time?”

  Remorse and apology fill his gray eyes. “Yes. It is. I am sorry for drugging you. Didn’t want to. But Jaxon wanted to shut you up. He’s not much of a talker…or listener—or anything else, for that matter. Just a big, vapid block of nothing, rather than a living being. So, to him,
someone like you, well…”

  He nudges my lips with the glass, and I open and begin gulping, reluctantly trusting him.

  “But I like you,” he confesses. “You’re…entertaining. And cute, too.”

  Huh, how about that? This heartthrob—one I’m positive has already broken a thousand pretty pink hearts—thinks I’m cute.

  Melanie would snort at that through her snobby nose.

  Speaking of which, I wonder how close she is to locating me…

  “How long have I been out?” I ask.

  “About seven hours.” He touches his finger to my nose, then climbs up on the bed, straddles me—Heart, please be still—and…reaches around to fluff the pillows at my back to make me more comfortable.

  Well, that’s… I sigh. Unexpectedly considerate of him.

  Once he’s satisfied, he crawls over me to his side of the bed, picks up his cereal, and resumes munching.

  In all my twenty-two years of living, I’ve never had this much male action. Within twenty-four hours, I’ve experienced my first kiss, my first grope, my first hot-male-arm-around-my-waist, my first sleeping-in-a-hot-man’s-bed, and my first man-straddle…innocent as it all was.

  For me, that’s a lot of male contact. And I’m unsure how to feel about it.

  How it feels, however, is…nice.

  Kind of.

  Breath-catching with Collin. Heart-stopping with Jaxon.

  Except, Collin likes me, and talks to me, and smiles and smirks at me, while Jaxon aims to shut me up—either with his mouth or with drugs.

  Not that I mind him shutting me up with his mouth.

  The drugs, though, not so much.

  Ignoring the lingering warmth of Collin’s strong thighs straddling me, I clear my throat and ask, “What kind of cereal is that?”

  “Honey Bunches of Oats.”

  I love Honey Bunches of Oats. “Can I have some?”

  This gets his attention. He all but hugs the bowl to his chest, and I think he’s about to growl a feral, “No!” but then he sighs, scoops three spoonfuls into his mouth, and begrudgingly passes me the bowl. “Don’t eat it all, all right?”

  It’s not until eating the first spoonful of cereal that I realize how famished I am. The more I eat, the hungrier I feel, so the more I eat.