Page 84 of The Vigilante's Lover
“You’ve seen him?” I ask, forcing the tremor out of my voice.
“So many questions.” The hand moves over to the buttons of my pajama top and unfastens the first one.
I keep my eye on the cigarette. It’s about to burn down to his fingers. He’ll have to do something about it, and that’s when I’ll make a move.
Another button comes undone, then another. He moves the fabric aside to brush his fingers across my skin.
Come on, cigarette. Burn.
“Nice,” he says.
I decide it’s best not to goad him or talk, but just wait. Goose bumps pop on my skin from the chill, but I’m definitely not moved by this man. I’m pleased to know that it really was Jax, and that I haven’t become some BDSM love-slave addict.
He finally notices the cigarette and pauses to stab it out on my antique side table.
Asshole!
I jerk my arms from the ropes and pull them to me in one fast move. Before he can totally extinguish the light, I have a timber-hitch tie around his wrist.
He moves back in surprise, but I’ve already locked it down. I use the banister as a pulley to drag him forward and his head cracks against the table.
“That’s for damaging a one-hundred-year-old table,” I tell him.
I snag his free hand and whip a fast rolling hitch around it. Twodifferent knots to confuse him if he gets one undone.
I can’t see a thing now that the cigarette is out, but he’s decently tied with both hands immobilized. Still, I have to assume he’s Vigilante and is trained to escape.
Since I don’t have any ends to work with, only the middle, I go with a clove hitch to secure this jerk to my banister. I jump onto the bed, feeling my way up the pole, and pull the tie down over it. I know this is a knot that can be undone if your hands are free, but luckily, Pale Boy’s aren’t.
“I like to get a little freaky,” I tell him as I feel along his body. “Hope you don’t mind.”
He doesn’t answer, and I know he’s probably got some tech on him that can get him help. For all I know he can use brain waves to send a message.
I have to get out of here.
His pockets are full of lumps. I pull everything out that I can find, take off his watch, and just for fun, pull his pants down around his ankles.
And, because I know the power of shoes, I take those too.
I’ve piled everything on the bed. I extract what I think are car keys and drop them in the little sewn pocket on my top. Since I can’t see what I’m doing, I twist the quilt into a loose bundle. I gather it up and back away from the room until I’m in the hall.
And run.
Through the house, fighting the front door locks, and out onto the porch into the pale moonlight. I don’t see this man’s car anywhere. Damn it. I’ll just take my own.
I dash back into the house, snatch my keys, and race across the yard.
The old Ford growls to life. I back out of the drive, now wishing I’d thought to grab some of the tech from the pantry stash. Doesn’t matter. I don’t know how to use it.
I’m at the end of the driveway when I realize — I have nowhere to go. What should I do?
Damn.
I scan the fields. Did someone just drop this guy off? I pull out and ease along the deserted road.
And I see it.
A car, about two hundred yards away.
