“No, baby,” he whispered. “Nice as that feels, the knife is over to the side. I dressed left today.”
He could feel her fury radiating from her body. The jeans were loose, as all his clothing was, and she moved her hands inside the waistband, finally finding the small pouch he carried the switchblade in, yanking it free with brutal haste.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider adjusting …?”
“Shut up, MacGowan,” she snarled. “You’re on thin ice already. How do I open this thing?”
“First, you move it away from my genitals,” he said gently. “Then you press the button on the side, and keep your hands away from the blade. That’s a Microtech Hawk and a very lethal piece of machinery.”
She grunted, not a promising sound, but the blade sprang free in her bound hands. “Do I get to cut your throat with it?”
“Maybe later. For now you need to cut the ropes around my wrists, and I’ll take care of the rest. Can you get behind me? I’m having a hard time moving trussed up like this, and in my current condition …”
“Shut up, MacGowan.” She wriggled around him, a sight he found a little too stimulating, and then he heard her curse.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she snapped, and he felt her bound hands brush his. “Hold still or you’ll lose a finger.”
“Can’t have that. I’ve had a lot of good times with my fingers.” Something felt warm and wet, and he wondered if she’d managed to slice one of his body parts off and he was too numb to feel it. A moment later the rope gave way and he pulled his arms free with relief, shaking them. Blood on his hand – she must have nicked him, and he swiveled around for the knife.
She was sitting there, the knife on the floor, holding her wrist against her chest in a seemingly casual gesture. Totally ignoring the blood that was spreading onto her plain white t-shirt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Beth said, trying to scuttle away from him. MacGowan was cursing, yanking off his shirt and t-shirt so that he sat there, his ankles still bound, bare-chested and furious.
“Move your hand down so I can look at it.”
“I don’t think so.” She kept her hands cradled against her chest. “It’ll stop bleeding in a moment. And if you’re trying to distract me by your magnificent physique you can put your shirt back on. You’re not my type.”
They both knew that was lie, but he didn’t call her on it. “I’m going to use my t-shirt for a bandage.”
“Now that’s just stupid. Mine is already stained.” Dumb, dumb, dumb, she thought the moment the words were out of her mouth.
“You’re right. Now put out your goddamned hands and show me how badly you stabbed yourself. I warned you!”
“Yes, you did. I can’t help it if my fingers were numb.” She held out her wrists, looking at the slash across her palm. It looked as if the blood was slowing, though she couldn’t be sure.
He cut the rope deftly, and her arms fell apart. Her muscles were burning, so painful she barely managed to stifle her cry. “It’ll pass in a moment,” he said, and to her astonishment he put his hands on her shoulders, kneading them, moving down her arms with gentle, circular motions, moving the blood back through her starved muscles. “The cut doesn’t look too bad, but we’ll need to bandage it to keep from leaving a trail.” He glanced over at Dylan, who was watching all this with his eyes bugging out. “We’ll use your t-shirt,” he said, and before she realized what he was doing he’d taken the knife and sliced it open, leaving her sitting there in her pale pink bra. And thank God for that, she thought.
She tried to pull the remnants of the shirt off her body, but he stopped her, forcing her to wait while he slowly peeled it down her arms. It looked as if the bleeding had almost stopped, but he carefully avoided the gash, pulling the ripped shirt from her body.
She watched him, bemused, as he tore the white knit, and within a few short minutes she had a very serviceable white bandage over her hand. He tossed her his own shirt. “Put this on.”
She didn’t want to. It no longer held his body heat, thank God, but she knew it would smell like his skin. Touching her, surrounding her, embracing her. She had no choice. He helped her pull it over her head, his hand brushing her breast, but he said nothing and neither did she.
Dylan astonished her when MacGowan ripped off the duct tape. She’d been so certain his first word would be “dude” that she would have put good money on it. She was wrong.
“What the hell?” he said hoarsely.
“Be quiet.” MacGowan made quick work of the ropes that bound him, then leaned over to look out the window. “There are people down there. Tourists, it looks like, and the guy who met us is trying to argue with them. We could climb out the window if they weren’t standing there …” He pushed the window open a crack, and then moved back, and she sensed a subtle change in the way he held himself. “We’re good. They’re going to go into the restaurant. We’ll climb down the porch roof and get the hell out of here before they even know we’re gone.”
Beth leaned over to peer out, brushing against him. Down in the alleyway the man was arguing with two surprisingly tall Asian tourists, businessmen in matching dark suits, carrying cameras, speaking in Japanese and gesturing excitedly. One of them had odd, crimson hair, but apart from that they look
ed almost boringly normal.
“You don’t know those men, do you?” she asked doubtfully.