The Heart Has Reasons (14 page)

Crap!
  No matter how freaking hard she
tried, she couldn’t get the cuff off.  Not only was it now wedged in place
halfway down her hand, it was cutting off the blood supply to her
fingers.  She’d just decided to work on the other cuff when shoes
scrunched on gravel just outside the door.  A moment later, a key sounded
in the lock.

He
closed and locked the door behind him, then placed the boxed pizza on the
dresser.  His tread was steady and deliberate as he moved toward the
bed.  He seemed preoccupied — angry even — and avoided making eye contact.

At
least until he saw the handcuff wedged halfway down her hand, and the reddened,
scraped skin.  Blue eyes narrowed and fixed on hers, glinting with
irritation.  She raised her chin defiantly, meeting his gaze squarely and
with frank rebellion, as if to say,
What did you expect?  Of course,
I’m going to try to escape.
 Besides, too much of a pretense of
compliance would only arouse his suspicions.

Except
for an exasperated sigh, he made no comment as he leaned over her to unlock the
cuff.  After that unconscionably imprudent kiss, simply being in his
proximity made her jittery and apprehensive, her senses almost painfully
acute.  He was so big and muscular that he seemed to take up most of the
space in the room.  He seemed to take up most of the air as well, making
it difficult to breathe as he bent over her.  His very nearness was having
a chaotic effect upon her body.  Closing her eyes, she concentrated on her
breathing.

Once
he’d untied her legs, she scooted back and sat cross-legged on the bed, her
back propped against the headboard.  Still not speaking, he sat the pizza
on the bed before her.  She fought the urge to follow him with her eyes as
he got two bottled waters from the cooler.

He
turned the television to CNN and seated himself on the bed beside her. 
There was now something opaque in the eyes behind the ski mast, and a definite
coolness emanated from him, a coolness that didn't bode well.  Although
relieved that his ardor had cooled, she needed him back in the friendly,
playful mood he’d been in earlier.

When
he handed her a slice of pizza, she took a bite and closed her eyes.  “Oh,
this is good.”

“The
motel clerk recommended the place,” he said blandly, still not looking at her.

They
ate, neither of them speaking, as a complete cycle of CNN headline news
played.  It was a bitter disappointment that there was no mention of her
disappearance, although, why would there have been?  Once the police in
Charleston knew she was missing, it would make no more than the local news, if
that.

He
finally broke the uneasy silence.  “So, how long have you been taking
martial
arts?”

Continuing
to deny it was pointless.  “I took a class at the YMCA right after Sparrow
broke into my apartment.”  At the mention of Sparrow, his eyes
narrowed.  “But I was afraid I’d eventually forget what little I’d
learned, so I started taking twice-weekly classes at a
dojo
near
work.  I’ve been going nearly two years.”

“Why’d
you lie about it?”

She
shrugged.  “If you’d known I’d had some training, you’d have been more on
your guard.”

“You’re
quite the devious little bitch, aren’t you?”

The
insult seemed to come from nowhere and she gaped at him, as shocked and stung
as if a beloved dog had unexpectedly snapped at her.  “Did something
happen while you were out?”

“No.”

“Then
why are you so angry?”

The
question seemed to upset him even more, and he replied much too quickly, “I’m
not.”

“Yes,
you are.  Are you pissed because I kicked you in the ribs?”  Not
bothering to disguise the hope in her voice,  she added, “Did I break
one?”

“Don’t
be ridiculous.  You got me good, though, so go ahead and gloat. 
However, that’s the second time you’ve kicked me.  The third time, I’m
taking my belt to your ass.”

“You
wanted
me to attack you — in fact, you pretty much forced me to — and now
you’re
threatening
me for doing so?”  She forced herself to meet
his angry glare without wavering.  “You’re forgetting that
I’m
the
injured party here so, if it’s not about me kicking you, then why the
attitude?”

“I
do
not
have an attitude.”

“Then
why’d you call me a bitch?  That was totally uncalled for.”

He
pressed his lips together and turned away.  After a moment, he
exhaled.  “You’re right.  It was uncalled for and I apologize.”

“Do
you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing’s
bothering
me.”

“Liar. 
Suit yourself then, because I really couldn’t care less.”

“In
that case, I’ll consider the subject dropped.”

Except
for the backdrop of newscasters’ voices from the television, a sullen silence
descended, hanging heavy in the air between them as they finished off the
pizza.  As he moved the empty box to the bedside stand, Larissa picked up
her water bottle and took a sip.  “I know you don’t believe me, but he
really
is
going to kill me.”

“Don’t
fucking start with that again.”

Born
of frustration, a white-hot fury streaked through her and she hurled the water
bottle.  Although he easily fielded it one-handed, water sloshed across
his chest, wetting both his tee and the bed.  He quickly brushed it from
the spread before it could soak in, then rounded on her.  “I ought to take
my belt to your ass for that.”

“Go
ahead, do it,” she shouted at him.  “Since I’ll be dead in a few days,
what possible difference can a beating possibly make now?”

“You
never give up, do you?”

“Would
you?”

There
was a small brass lamp on the bedside stand.  Tempted to grab it and brain
him with it, she hesitated as common sense and self-preservation battled with a
nearly overwhelming rage.  Any satisfaction acquired by striking the
asshole — assuming he didn’t manage to block it — would be short-lived since
he’d most assuredly retaliate.  And since antagonizing him further would
only serve to defeat her purpose, she contented herself by glaring at him,
blinking back tears of frustration.

“Satisfied
now that you’ve gotten that out of your system?”

“I’ll
be satisfied when you’re rotting in a prison cell.”

“Not
gonna happen.”

“Give
me my water back.”

He
handed it to her, then leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms
across his substantial chest, making carved biceps bulge.  “So, back to
our previous conversation.  What degree belt are you?”

“Green,”
she snapped.

“What
stopped you from kicking me in the shower last night?”

“You
realized what I was going to do.  If you hadn’t, I might have had a
chance.”

He
scoffed.  “A chance?  Against me?”

“If
I’d caught you off guard, then, yeah.”

“No
way.”

“If
I’d told you this morning I could kick a gun out of your hand, you’d have said
the same thing.”

He
gave her a prolonged stare.  “I’m just starting to realize what a
smart-ass you are.”

Heedless
of the consequences, she shot back, “Better a smart-ass than a dumb-ass.”

The
corners of his mouth quirked upwards.  “I can’t decide if you’re
incredibly brave, or merely incredibly foolish.”

Relieved
that his mood seemed to have improved somewhat, she picked up the remote and
started channel surfing.  “You men just can’t stand it when the woman’s
right.  Of course, anything that occurs with such regularity
is
bound to get tiresome.”

“Keep
running your mouth.  I won’t hesitate to turn you over my knee and spank
that cute little ass of yours.”

The
thought of him actually doing so sent such a shock of emotion surging through
her that for several long moments she couldn’t remember how to breathe.

He
laughed aloud at whatever he saw in her face.  “You obviously like to live
dangerously.”

“That
comment proves you don’t know squat about me.”

“I
know more about you than you think.”

“Really? 
What exactly do you think you know?”

His
face abruptly closed down as he realized he’d said too much.  Pretending
to return his attention to the television, he swiped a thick forearm over his
sweaty brow.
 
 “It’s sweltering in here.  Mind if I
remove my shirt?”

The
window unit
was
taking its time cooling the room, but his lame attempt
to change the subject didn’t fool her.  Since trying to press him into
revealing more would only put him more on his guard, she shrugged.  “Why
not?  It’s not like you haven’t already put everything on display.”

When
he stood to peel the damp tee shirt over his head, she swallowed and tried to
look anywhere but at him.  Unsuccessful, she focused on the small, round
scar on his shoulder.  “Is that from a gunshot?”

“Uh-huh.”

When
he turned to retake a seat on the bed, she touched a fingertip to the
corresponding larger scar on his back.  “Is this the exit wound?”  At
his nod, she added, “Were you shot by the police?”

His
terse “
No
” brimmed with pained indignation. 

A
long, silvery scar slashed diagonally from the top of his shoulder to mid
back.  She lightly traced it with a fingertip, making his breath catch
audibly.  “And this one?  Were you shanked by another inmate?”

His
scowl deepened.  “I’ve
never
been in prison.”

“Yet.”
 Although keeping her tone carefully neutral, she still managed to imbue a
wealth of smug significance into that single word.

The
scowl turned into a glower, but the corners of his mouth twitched.  “You
must like wearing that gag.”

“I
assure you I do
not
.”

“Yet
you’re practically begging for it.”

Ignoring
the comment, she picked up the remote and absently surfed through numerous
channels.  He’d never admit that he'd acquired the scars in combat
because, from his perspective, the less she knew about him, the better. 
When she paused on one of the
Terminator
movies, he said, “Larissa?”

Deep
in thought, she absently responded, “Yes, honey?”  When he arched his
brows at the unexpected endearment, heat flamed into her cheeks.  “I did
not
mean to say that.”

“Now
you’ve hurt my feelings.”

“I’m
from the South.  We call everyone ‘honey’.”

The
roguish grin was unwavering.

“It’s
a habit.  It doesn’t mean anything.”  She nervously licked her dry
lips and instantly regretted it when his gaze dropped to her mouth.  In an
attempt to change the subject, she asked, “What were you going to say?”

“I
just wanted to apologize for kissing you earlier.  Under the
circumstances, it was inappropriate and unprofessional.”

She
made no attempt to blunt the sharp edge of sarcasm.  “
Unprofessional?
 
You’re telling me kidnappers have a code of ethics?”

“This
one does and … well, I’m sorry.  We have to stop getting physical with
each other.  You know how it affects me when we wrestle.”

“You
were the one who provoked it!”

“As
I recall,
you
provoked it by kicking a weapon out of my hand.”

Which
she’d only been able to do because she hadn’t been hobbled at the time. 
She doubted she could talk him into eliminating them, but she might persuade
him to increase the play in the rope.  Since there was no time like the
present, she swung her legs off the bed and stood.

His
head jerked around so fast it was a wonder he didn’t give himself
whiplash.  “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom.” 
Ah, crap, this was going to hurt.

She
deliberately tried to take a large, quick step forward, as if she’d forgotten
the hobble.  As the rope caught and dug into her ankles, she did not have
to fake her cry of pain.  Pitching forward, she fell to the carpet,
catching most of her weight on her hands. 
“Ow-w-w-w!”

He
sprang off the bed and dropped to his knees by her side.  “Are you okay?”

She
rolled onto her back and massaged her wrists.  “Does it
look
like
I’m okay?”

Once
he’d ascertained that she was uninjured, amusement sparkled in the blue eyes
behind the mask.

“It’s
not funny!”

“I’m
not laughing,” he said, visibly struggling not to.

“How
can you expect me to be able to walk when you’ve got the rope too freaking
short!”

“You
need to take smaller steps.”

“I’m
already
taking smaller steps.”

He
frowned and examined the hobble.  “I guess I could add a little more
slack.”