Chill Factor

“Give me one . . . one reason.” In spite of her determination not to cry, tears filled her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered roughly.

Drawn by his fierce gaze, by the memory of their kiss, she took a step closer. “Give me . . . one reason why . . . I should trust you, Tierney.”

He was about to speak when her cell phone rang.

For a second or two she didn’t grasp what the sound was or where it was coming from, only stood there gaping at Tierney, who appeared equally stunned by the unexpected noise.

When she realized the jangle was her cell phone, she frantically fished it from her coat pocket and flipped it open. “Dutch? Dutch!” Her voice was a mere croak. But it didn’t matter. The phone was dead, the LED dark. The connection had been momentary. A tease. Fate taunting her.

With a sob, she sank to her knees, clutching the silent phone to her chest.

“Lilly, don’t cry.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You must not cry. That’ll only make it worse.”

Her sobbing brought on a coughing fit. The spasms racked her whole body, contracted every muscle, squeezed precious air from her lungs. While she struggled to breathe, her mind registered Tierney’s elaborate swearing and his redoubled efforts to break the lock on the handcuffs.

It took several minutes for her to bring the coughing under control, but finally it subsided into loud wheezing.

“Lilly.”

She raised her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. Tierney had kicked the blanket off his legs and was straining against the cuffs like an animal caught in a trap, willing to tear off his hands in order to reach her.

“It’s true that I’ve given you very few reasons to trust me,” he said. “And many reasons for you not to. But I believe you know, you know, that I’m not someone you have to be afraid of. Rely on your instincts. Trust them, even if you don’t trust me.” He continued looking at her for several beats before adding, “Don’t die on me.”

She analyzed each feature of his face, looking for a telltale sign of villainy. If he were a sly abductor of women, wouldn’t she be able to tell? Wouldn’t she sense a disguised malevolence?

She looked, looked hard, but could find no trace of duplicity. If it was indeed there, he’d mastered the art of hiding it. He seemed sincere, trustworthy enough to make her doubt herself.

But his victims hadn’t detected his guile, either. They had trusted him.

Her expression must have conveyed her determination not to be duped, because he said angrily, “All right, ignore your instincts and plain common sense. Forget our day on the river. Never mind the kiss last night. Discount all that, but play the odds.”

“Odds?”

“Stay alive, and you’ll have a chance of capturing Blue. Die, and you’ll have none.”

I don’t know what to do, her mind screamed, but the only sound issuing from her throat was a terrible gurgling noise.

“Even a slim chance is better than none, Lilly.”

His argument was sound. But as soon as she released him, he would probably kill her. Her slim chance of incriminating him would die with her.

Taking advantage of her hesitation, he said, “I’ve saved the most obvious argument for last. The pistol. You still have it, and you know how to use it. What could I do to you as long as you’re holding me at gunpoint?”

She gave that rationale a few seconds’ thought. He was right. When all the arguments and second-guessing were pared away, it came down to her playing the odds. Slowly, she came to her feet. Warding off the light-headedness caused by oxygen deprivation, she turned and walked into the living room.

“Lilly! Goddammit!”

She returned just as quickly as she’d left, carrying the pistol in one hand, the key to the handcuffs in the other.

His shoulders slumped with relief. “Thank God.”

She set the pistol on the chair, far out of his reach. As she approached the bed, she extended the key toward him. “You . . . do . . . it.”