If she had to be rescued by someone off the street, at least it was a woman. “Mrs. Lawrence,” Cynthia yelled as loudly as she could, hoping her neighbor had her hearing aid turnedup.
“What’s that? Who’s calling?” The wavery voice soundeduncertain.
Always excitable, Gruber startedbarking.
Cynthia yelled, “I need help. I’m tied up in the bedroom. Use the spare key, and pleasehurry.”
“Oh, my dear. Oh…it’s Cynthia. I hope it’s not a home invasion,” the wavery voice continued. Cynthia wished her sweet elderly neighbor would quit talking to her dog and get thekey.
“Mrs. Lawrence? You remember where the key is? Under the third geraniumpot?”
She heard the crunch of gravel and the muttering of her neighbor while she lay there hoping poor old Mrs. Lawrence wouldn’t have a heart attack when she saw Cynthia naked and in the most humiliating predicament of her life. At least her feet weren’t bound. Not that it made a lot of difference. If she brought her knees up to cover her breasts she’d expose the lower part of her body, and the added pressure on her bladder might turn her into a human waterpistol.
So much for taking chances. So much for trying to be a sensuous woman. She might have known she’dfail.
Minutes dragged by, each one a painful battle for mastery between herself and her bladder. Cynthia thought she heard a scraping noise from outside, but couldn’t be sure. If she didn’t get to a bathroom soon she was going to have anaccident.
After about three more stretches of eternity, she heard a tiny sound from inside the house. “Mrs. Lawrence, I’m in here, in thebedroom.”
But it wasn’t Mrs. Lawrence’s worried face she saw in the doorway a few quiet seconds later; it was a cold and deadly black revolver, in a large and very malehand.
Too frightened to scream, Cynthia stared at the terrifying thing. She pulled frantically against the handcuffs, but she was helpless—an occupational freebie if the guy with the gun was some kind of rapistpervert.
A dark shape leaped across the doorway. She had the impression of bulk and purpose, then the gun was pointing across her and into theroom.
The man attached to the gun threw himself through the doorway, sailing like a missile, the gun held stiffly forward. Cold blue eyes, focused and deadly, swept over her and scanned theroom.
It was the sight of those eyes that finally made herscream.
He hit the floor rolling and disappeared into the en suitebathroom.
She was going to be killed by a madman, and Walter had trussed her up like some twisted sacrificial offering. The chains of the handcuffs clanked against the mahogany bedposts over and over as she jerked frantically against herbonds.
In seconds the man was standing by her head, gun lowered slightly. He kept his eyes on the doorway. “To the best of your knowledge, are you alone in the house?” The hoarse whisper sounded as corny as a bad copshow.
A bubble of hysteria caught in her throat. Keeping her eyes on the gun, which was so far still pointing toward the door, she croaked, “Iwas.”
His hard glance flicked to her face, questioning, forcing her to clarify. “Until you showedup.”
He pulled something from his pocket and thrust it toward her face. She cowered, thinking of chloroform, or some instrument of horror, but the object in her face was an identification badge. “Idon’t—”
“Jake Wheeler, FBI.” The curt words sent a new shiver of fear through her. He towered above her, black hair cropped short, his face so lean and chiseled it would surely splinter if the grim mouth eversmiled.
His eyes were a smoky blue and fringed with ridiculously thick, curling black eyelashes. They’d be gorgeous on a porcelain doll. On him, with the deadly expression in their depths, they were terrifying. He wore a black sweatshirt and jeans; she wondered absurdly whether they had casual Fridays at theFBI.
At her nod, he thrust the small black folder back in his pocket. “Do you know who did this toyou?”
“Walter Plinkney. And I hope you find him,” she said bitterly. “The electric chair is too good forhim.”
A flicker of doubt crossed the lean, hard face. “You know theperpetrator?”
She nodded stiffly. “My…” No way she was telling this frightening man that her own fiancé had wandered off in the middle of sex. “Ah, mydate.”
He gazed more carefully down at her, as if her body was a crime scene and he was searching for evidence. “Did he hurt you in anyway?”
Knowing he was just doing his job, she resisted the urge to squirm. “Only mypride.”
“He didn’t do anything you didn’t want himto?”
