Simon Says...

3

SOPHIE GULPED BUT COULDN’T get it past the knot in her throat. He’d snapped those cords with such casual violence. She realized, perhaps truly for the first time, even after having a gun aimed at her, just how much trouble she was in. He’d seemed so … civilized. Before.

As civilized as a half-naked man who looked and sounded like he could be in the next Bond movie could seem, anyway. It was the accent. So smooth, so polished. With just that hint of Down Under to roughen up his gorgeous edges.

Now all she could do was stare at the swift way he looped those cords around his hand … and wonder how many women he’d tied up before. “I’m—That won’t be necessary,” she said, forcing herself not to shrink back as he crossed the room toward her. “I’ll stay here.”

He extended his hand. “Your key.”

She instinctively covered it with her hand. “You’re going to use it right now? I thought you said—”

“Consider it insurance. I come back, and you’re not here, I go immediately to hotel security.”

“I could claim you stole it from me.”

“They have cameras mounted in the hallways, do they not? I’m assuming we could prove you entered my room using this key.”

“I could come up with a plausible reason for doing that.”

“One that precludes you wearing your uniform? And not being seen exiting the room for some time? I’m afraid that the only explanations that work won’t paint you in a flattering light. You either snuck in to take something … or you snuck in to get something.”

Damn him for making her cheeks heat up like that. She hated being fair complexioned most of the time, but none more so than right now. He’d probably noticed her almost genetic inability to keep from staring at him—but in her defense, he was mostly naked, and an Adonis to boot—and he was using her … her weakness against her. The cad. Of course, he could be using it against her in a far more nefarious way. He could be trying to seduce the damn key from her. But no.

What it said about her that she felt insulted rather than relieved by that little fact, she didn’t want to know.

“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.

“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.