Page 49 of Veiled Fantasies

She groped around until her fingers closed over a cold, round shape. Willing her eyes open, she found a rusty pipe running vertically along the wall. The handcuffs had been fed behind the pipe, one hand on either side.

No way out.

A quote from a woman’s self-defense class she’d once taken ran through her mind. Never let a man take you from Point A to Point B. He will kill you when you get there.

Like a sheep led to slaughter, she’d let him bring her here, and now that she’d done what he wanted, she was of no further use. Just a witness to his latest crime.

The realization slammed down on her with abrupt clarity.Out! Out!

She yanked her handcuffs in panic, but immediately froze at the clanking sound, feverishly eying the door. Distant, hushed voices reached her ears, along with the whistle of a boiling kettle and the drumming of her heart. But no footsteps.

Yet.

Think!

She scanned the length of the pipe, up the wall to a narrow window, far overhead. There was no glass, just a wrought iron grating that admitted every odor from the souk. Cumin. Turmeric. Fear.

There was no way to reach the window. It was too small for her body anyway, but she could shout for help. She started to inhale for a mighty scream when she realized that it would only draw the men back. She’d be gagged or worse, knifed on the spot. She could already feel the blade sink in and the blood ooze out. She’d fade away clinging to an image of Erik, the way she’d left him. Wounded, alone. She had totally overreacted, acted instinctively, and that’s what got her here. She’d never see him again. She was going to die.

She pulled at her cuffs, desperately contorting her hands.

Thwap!An insect landed in her hair. She bent her head to her shoulder to swipe it off. She was still tilting and shaking her head when she caught a high-pitched squeak from above. Her head snapped up and found two big, dark eyes peering down at her through a narrow grate. Inquisitive eyes. A child. A child with…what?

Another flick in her hair. A pebble. The little brat was throwing pebbles?

The blood seemed to back up in her ears. This was too much! She was about to hurl a curse at the boy when the last thinking part of her brain produced an idea. Instead of cursing him, she tried a sweet, sticky voice.

“Good boy,” she started. Even if he didn’t speak English, he would understand a friendly tone. “I need help. Can you get help?” She forced her voice to stay calm and smooth, like she was offering a treat.

Another pebble bounced off her shoulder and tinked to the floor. What did she have to convince the little monster to help? No candy. No money.

Her watch, maybe? She twisted in the handcuffs and showed it to him, hitting the illumination button. It worked: his eyes grew as he pressed against the grate, attracted like a moth to the glow.

“You like this? You want this?”

The eyes saidyesandyes.

She grabbed the pipe with both hands and tried pulling herself up to the window. But she was a runner, not a weight lifter. She could barely gain a foot, given the short scope of the handcuffs.

So use your legs, idiot!

She leaned away from the wall and started creeping up, inch by inch. It was working. She used every ounce of willpower to reach the lower edge of the window where the big eyes were waiting, wary.

“Take the watch,” she encouraged him, angling that wrist toward the boy. “Take the watch and get help. Help!”

A hesitation, then two thin hands reached through the grate and worked at the watch band.

“Good boy! Good! Get help!” She felt like she was urging Lassie on, but given the language barrier, it seemed the best way to communicate. How she wished it was Lassie and not this brat who held her life in his hands. Or Erik. What she wouldn’t do for Erik! All the things she’d tell him if only she could.

The boy fingered the watch and pulled it close, working the buttons. He smiled to himself. And…was he…sticking his tongue out? The little monster!

The boy disappeared just as she lost her hold and went crashing to the floor. One shoulder slammed hard, as did a shin and her hip as she landed in a twisted heap. She was still struggling to her feet when footsteps and angry voices stormed the room. Two men, yanking her mercilessly.

One was the Armenian—he was on her in a flash, face contorted in anger and shaking her so hard, she thought he’d use that method to kill her and not bother soiling his knife. The other man stood back, fumbling with something. Why didn’t he intervene?

“I did what you wanted! I helped you!” she cried.

The shaking stopped and she found herself facing the arms dealer. Maybe being shaken was better. The man’s face was pure evil, distilled to 100 proof. His lips turned up in a sneer as he slowly looked her over. Her entire body. His eyes promised and threatened at the same time. She couldn’t help but quaking in fear, which only made the sneer greedier.

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