Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (42 page)

He turned around.

Glancing past him, she hoped to pick up a location on Bondage Master or Callahan. Saw neither.

With a look on his face like he had just been shot and was waiting for his body to drop to its death, he stood in the doorway, eyes roaming freely up and down her body, his mouth widening with each swipe.

“Zip me up, please,” she said, smiling politely, turning her back to him.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure,” he replied clumsily, but there was nothing clumsy about his touch. Gallantly his fingers danced across her shoulders and down her bare back on their way to the zipper head parked high at the top of her buttocks.

His hands were warm, touch gentle. Jewels yearned to turn around and start madly kissing every inch of his iron body. But, of course, bridled her desire and instead crossed her fingers and whispered a little prayer asking God to grant this one wish: for Marshall Watters to agree to help her escape.

After a moment of simply
resting
his hands on her buttocks, “I apologize. I couldn’t help myself. I was staring ... and admiring,” he softly confessed.

And palming my ass,
Jewels thought with wanton delight, unable to help
herself
from imagining her hands stroking his mighty maleness.

Pressing the zipper head between his thumb and pointer finger, he slowly slid it to the top of the dress that ended just beneath the bottom of her shoulder blades. “You look absolutely ravishing.”

“Thank you,” she said. Turning to face him, she looked him straight in the eyes, “Marshall Watters, I have to know your intentions. Are you going to turn me over to that lunatic Commander or are you going to help me escape?”

Slanting a brow, he set his jaw.

Not breaking eye contact, Jewels searched for a subtle sign, perhaps just a-wink-and-a-nod, indicating no matter what he
said
, she could count on him.

“Making sure the Commander takes possession of you is my job. And I
always
do my job,” he said coldly, his face stern.

Not the answer she wanted to hear. And he had said it without so much as a twitch of lips or shift of the eyes which might have indicated what he was
saying
was opposite of what he
intended
. So be it. At least now she knew where she stood. No matter how handsome his looks and studly his body, clearly Marshall Watters
was
the enemy.

Time to enact Plan B. With the speed and accuracy of a boxing kangaroo, Jewels struck Marshall at the temple with the spike of the high heel she had kept concealed in her hand.

Blinking a few times like a dazed owl, Marshall fell backward into the hall, his body hitting the floor with a hard thud.

Dammit! Hadn’t planned on him falling
outside
the bathroom. Now she had to lug that hunk of meat that much farther.

Hoping no one had heard the thump of flesh crashing onto the rock floor that would surely cause the camo-clad hoards rushing in, she held her breath and while doing so, eyed Marshall. Had she really knocked out this tough guy with such a simple feat?

With no army invading, and Marshall lying on his back motionless, she was convinced her ruse had gone undetected. Now all she had to do was restrain Marshall, roundup weapons, and escape.

Grabbing Marshall by his ankles, and monitoring the whereabouts of the grimy bottoms of his boots so her dress wouldn’t get dirty, she tugged his body into the bathroom. Good thing the floor was a solid, relatively smooth surface. Had it been carpet, she probably couldn’t have budged him.

Once his entire body was inside the bathroom, she cautiously lowered his legs onto the floor. Didn’t want to just drop them. Might cause him to stir. Scrambling to grab his arms, she glanced at his face, did a double take. Did his eyes flicker? Was he waking up? Or was she just seeing things?

Regardless, her sense of urgency escalated. With as much physical strength as she could muster, she rapidly dragged his hulking body to the first toilet stall. “This is never going to work,” she mumbled to herself, gazing at Marshall’s broad shoulders and the narrow width of the stall. Exhaling forcefully through pursed lips, she picked up the blow dryer she had earlier planted on the floor next to the toilet, slung it around her neck then scooped up the tube of toothpaste and the black T-shirt she had been wearing and placed them on Marshall’s chest.

Resuming the dragging of his body, she toted him to the end of the bathroom to the wider handicapped stall. Once inside, she hiked up the skirt of her gown, squatted down and extended his arms above his head. Grasping his wrists, she pulled with the entire weight of her body to inch him closer to the toilet. His wrists had to touch together if she was to bind them around the toilet base. In the process of getting his wrists to come together, she had unintentionally bashed the top of his head into the toilet with her last vigorous yank. “Sorry,” she whispered, pulling the blow dryer from around her neck to bind his hands together with the cord.

Next, she wadded the tube of toothpaste into a ball, pried open his mouth, and shoved it in as a makeshift gag. Taking her impromptu gag-making lesson from Tank, she folded the black T-shirt, wrapped the ends behind his head, then tied the shirt together over his mouth to prevent him from spitting out the toothpaste tube. For a brief moment, she gazed at his handsome face. Stroked his chiseled jaw with the back of her hand. Lightly waltzed her fingers through his thick hair. “I really thought you’d help me,” she whispered, kissing him on the forehead, as he had done to her twice before.

Dashing out of the handicapped stall over to the counter, she opened the tube of mascara, poured perfume on the tip and held it in her left hand. That would be her stabbing weapon. The perfume would burn an open wound, intensifying the pain in the victim, perhaps buying her more time.

Under her arm she tucked the bottle of hair spray, her makeshift mace. In her right hand, she scooped up the hot curling iron ... a wand capable of sizzling flesh. Over the years she had sizzled herself a few times. Accidentally, of course. She glanced over at Marshall. Whether genuinely conked out or merely faking it, he lie motionless.

Purposely leaving behind the pointed toe high heels, which would only slow her down, she jogged toward the bathroom exit. Passing by the mirror, she noticed her reflection and rolled her eyes at the sight of her
weapons
. Creative, granted. Pathetic, nonetheless. Still, she figured MacGyver would be proud.

Peeking out of the bathroom, Bondage Master—still wearing the leather mask—was seated in the adjoining
waiting room
next to the door leading to the hall. Just moments ago, that seat had been vacant. “Wonder where you’ve been,” she muttered to herself as she watched him thumb through a magazine. A dirty one she assumed.

Doc Callahan wasn’t in sight, but with all the doors closed, he could be in the exam room, his office, or personal quarters.

Extending her head farther around the corner of the bathroom doorway, while keeping her body concealed behind the wall, “Excuse me,” she called out, acting shy. “Uh. I can’t get this zipper up. Will you please help me?”

Bondage Master looked up at her, then around the empty room as if in confirmation she was talking to him. “Sure,” he enthusiastically replied, dumping the magazine on the chair next to him to eagerly scamper toward her.

Retracting into the bathroom, she flattened her body against the wall. Waited.

Bondage Master turned the corner, entered the bathroom.

Jewels thrust her arm forward, pumped his eyes full of hair spray.

“Awwwwhh,” he gasped, recoiling in surprise and covering his eyes with his hands.

Wasting no time, Jewels darted out of the bathroom, ran toward the door leading into the hallway. Crossing the FLOWER POWER etched in the floor, she tossed the bottle of hair spray toward one of the cots lined up against the opposite wall.

Focused on escape, she encircled her hand around the thick metal door knob and was just about to fling it open when suddenly there was a rush of footsteps outside the door. Jewels froze.

From the bathroom: “Get her!”

Cringing, “Marshall sounds really pissed,” she whispered, recognizing his voice.

Stuck between an irate Marshall Watters flying out of the bathroom and whoever was lingering on the other side of the door in the hallway, she had to do something. “Quick Jewels! Think,” she frantically demanded of herself.

The doorknob jiggled. Somebody was coming in! Turning and bolting she retreated, running over FLOWER POWER and through the room’s archway into the dead end hallway. Beelining it for the end of the corridor, “Exam room,” she mumbled, thinking it would be her makeshift
safe room
. Locking herself inside, maybe she could hold off the crazed militiamen with the abundance of edged weapons at her disposal until the MTAF arrived.

Running as fast but as softly as possible, she passed Callahan’s closed office door and living quarters. Still armed with the hot curling iron and mascara brush, she zoomed by the bathroom door, glanced inside, saw Bondage Master working on untying Marshall’s hands.

Marshall caught a glimpse of her, did a double take.

Jewels iced up. Felt doomed. Waited for him to sound a call of alarm.

Nothing happened.

Briefly, she watched in delighted puzzlement as Marshall shifted his gaze to the ceiling, like she was invisible to him. Was he going to help her after all?

Taking advantage of the break, she hurriedly proceeded to the exam room, grabbed the knob, turned it. The door was locked.

Heart pounding, she stole past the bathroom where Bondage Master was still working on untying Marshall’s hands. Once again Marshall caught sight of her but said nothing.

Dashing to the next closed door, she grabbed the knob, turned it. The door opened. Quietly she slithered inside closing the door and locking it. Running her hand against the wall along the side of the door, she felt for the light switch. Found it. Flipped it on. A double one-hundred watt bulb ceiling light fixture illuminated the small room.

Callahan’s office was clean and neat but void of warmth. The stone walls were solid, no windows or doors, and naked. No university degree plaques or pictures. The furniture was plain. A simple metal desk in the middle of the room was flanked by two brown office chairs that looked like the Salvation Army had deemed them unfit. Against the far wall two beige filing cabinets, the five-drawer type. In the corner on the opposite wall, a free standing coat rack. A blue sweater and one white lab coat dangled from the rack’s crooked wooden fingers.

Releasing air through puffed cheeks, “And I thought doctors lived the good life,” she whispered.

Suddenly a ruckus outside. Voices.

“She got away,” someone yelled, a tone stricken with panic.

A bustle of footsteps, moving farther away.

A door slammed.

Silence.

Pressing her ear against the office door, she listened for someone lurking in the hallway.

Nothing.

Hurrying to Callahan’s desk, she abandoned the curling iron and mascara brush on the top, yanked open the desk drawer, scanned the contents. Paper clips, pens, pencils, a bottle of Elmer’s glue, two blue stick-it pads, and a five-by-seven framed photograph of a young girl in her late teens. Probably Callahan’s daughter, the one Tank or SPOF or whoever threatened to kill if the good Doc didn’t toe the mark and walk the line. But no weapon. With a swing of her hip, she nudged the drawer closed.

Flinging open the right hand drawer, she patted the papers.

Nothing. Shut it.

Jerked the bottom drawer. Locked. Snatched a paper clip from the pencil drawer, straightened it, picked the lock.

Scored! A Ruger .357 magnum revolver. She checked the chamber: loaded, six rounds. Closing the cylinder, she sprinted to the door, revolver in hand.

The room filled with the faint patter of her thigh-high stocking-covered feet whisking across the cold rock and her gown’s brush train lightly sweeping the floor’s surface. Other than the sound of her own heart beating, silence. Cautiously, she pressed her ear to the door. Held her breath. Listened.

Nothing.

Unlocking the door, Jewels opened it slowly, observing the stillness. With a two-handed grip on the revolver in the high-ready position—muzzle toward ceiling, barrel parallel to her face—she slinked through the cracked door. Creeping toward the arched doorway leading to the adjoining
waiting room
, her back close to hugging the wall, she warily advanced. Easing her head around the wall, firearm presented in front of her, she cautiously scanned the room employing the classic
cut-the-pie
method often used by law enforcement.

Clear.

Scurrying into the room, she hurried toward the metal door she knew opened into the hallway.

“Gotchya,” a voice boomed from behind.

Freezing with her feet planted in the middle of the FLOWER POWER etching on the floor, she glanced over her shoulder. Bondage Master!

“Come on, Baby, show me what you got,” he said with malicious delight as he crouched low, arms ready to grab like a demon character stalking his good-guy opponent in a World Wrestling Federation arena.