The Dragon's Revenge

by Courtney Henke

  "Charly."

  "Just Charly?"

  She shrugged, holding her hands wide. "My last name is this long and mostly consonants. I doubt if you could spell it, much less pronounce it."

  "I really am sorry. But it's just not enough to have a worthwhile project." Then he spun on his heel and strode away.

  "Hey!" Charly followed, determined to make him listen or at least to see that spark of amusement in his eyes again. "Mr. Smith, David's project is more than worthwhile! He wants to incorporate the youth centers and the shelters under one organization, to—"

  "I read the proposal." J.D. paused, then turned down a branching corridor. He didn't seem to realize it was the wrong way. "Mr. Bakker is an admirable principal, but he's not ready to take on something this big. It's too ambitious."

  Anger rose inside her. "Then tell him how to fix it!"

  J.D. stopped. She crashed into him, her soft breasts cushioning the blow. He swallowed hard.

  Bracing himself mentally, he drew himself up to his full six feet five inches and turned.

  His heart beat faster as he looked down into her proud face. She was open, honest, and outspoken, despite her weird theories on football. He could see it in those features.

  She began to speak again, and he began to feel trapped by her and her ageless eyes. He owed no one an explanation, and he was a fool to even consider it. "My decision is final."

  He turned and pulled at the nearest unmarked door. Nothing happened.

  “If you would just listen!" she said as she reached around him and slapped the door, then jerked it open for him. He stepped inside before he realized his mistake.

  "The ladies' room," she told him.

  He gave her a dark look and stalked away. "No kidding." He strode to the next one, tried it, found it stuck, too, and kicked it. It opened, he stormed in.

  “Mr. Smith—"

  All he could see was a short hallway, and he advanced knowing she'd follow close behind. Beyond it was a small, white room. There were two doors on the left, a high, barred window in front of him, and three cots, folded blankets at their feet, along each wall.

  "The nurse's office," she said.

  Holding his temper with difficulty, he retraced his steps and tugged at the door. Nothing happened. He kicked it. Nothing. He rattled the knob. No good.

  "It's locked," he said ominously.

  And he had a horrible suspicion this "open and honest" woman had orchestrated the whole thing.

  Two

  Charly gave him a withering look and reached past him for the doorknob. She rattled it, but it didn't open. Frowning, she kicked the bottom of the jamb and tried again. Nothing. "It's stuck," she told him.

  "No kidding."

  His faintly mocking tone irritated her. She slammed her shoulder into the door, but came away with only a bruise.

  "It opens in," he said drily, and she narrowed her eyes. Grasping the knob tightly, she planted one foot to the side and pulled. Her hand slipped and she crashed into him.

  He steadied her, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her as tightly as his arms. Her stomach lurched, and she tore out of his grasp, rubbing her aching muscles. "You want out so badly, do it yourself!"

  "I can't do any worse than you. Haven't you heard of finesse?"

  She huffed, then decided he was baiting her. "Sure. It's a cream rinse, right?"

  He crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing her appraisingly. "You did this purposely, didn't you?"

  “Yeah, I love pain. It's good for the soul."

  “I mean, you sent me on that wild-goose chase to the front doors, then tricked me in here and locked the door."

  "I chased you. And it locked by itself." She grinned wickedly. "But as long as we're here—"

  "I knew it!" He pointed an accusing finger at her. "You wanted to talk to me, and now you have a captive audience."

  "I know when to take advantage of an opening. There's a difference."

  "It's just a little too convenient."

  She shook her head, astonished by his reasoning. "Lord, you have a suspicious mind."

  "Yes, I do. With good reason."

  "You're nothing like your mother."

  "Why doesn't it surprise me that you know each other?" He gave the door one last jerk. "I don't believe this," he muttered. "You probably battered it tighter with that little performance."

  "Me?" Charly placed her hands on her hips. "If anyone's to blame, it's you! You were the one who just rushed in. Don't you ever walk anywhere?"

  "Not when I'm trying to escape someone."

  "If you'd have listened in the first place—"

  "Stop!" He threw up his hands. "Call."

  “Time out?"

  "Whatever. Can we just worry about getting out? I'm sure we can fight later with no pause for breath."

  "Oh, I don't know." Charly smiled in triumph, confident that this situation would work to her advantage. With them thrown together, he'd have to listen to her. Where would he go? "I kind of like it here. It's cozy." She caught a fleeting glimpse of amusement in his eyes, but it was gone quickly.

  Why did he fight to be so austere? "Loosen up! It's not so bad in here. We have a place to sleep, sunshine, what more could anyone ask for?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Food? Freedom from pestering females?" He strode to the other room, to one of the two doors and rattled it.

  "That leads to the main office. It's always locked." When he moved to the other and jerked it open, she grinned. "Bathroom!" She waved to it as if it were a treasure house. "See? We even have water and, er, facilities."

  "If they work." He turned on the faucets. "They do." He tried the light switch. "But no electricity."

  "So? Who needs it? We can indulge in the good, old-fashioned lost art of conversation." When he glared at her, she grinned. "You're stuck with me."

  "Thanks to my mother," he muttered.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "She gave your principal the money for these renovations!"

  Charly gave a short bark of laughter. "Wrong again, O ye of little faith. This is standard procedure before school opens. Do you expect us to leave it like this indefinitely?"

  "Oh. It doesn't matter anyway. We're still trapped." He studied the room. "What about the window?" He climbed atop the cot against the wall and examined the casement. "Aha!" With a triumphant cry, he slid it open.

  "In case you haven't noticed, it's barred. Do you happen to have a hacksaw on you?"

  He shook the solid steel, then turned and sat on the edge of the cot. "Sorry," he said drily. "I left it in my other suit."

  "A joke! Ha!" He glared at her again, and she giggled unrepentantly. "I love a disgruntled man with a sense of humor," she said. "Come to think of it. I love a man with a sense of humor period."

  “I don't have one of those either." His mouth twitched, as if he were holding back his amusement with effort, which confused her to no end. "There must be a way out of here."

  “Why don’t you just make the best of it?"

  “I don’t give up easily."

  "Neither do I, but I know when to drop back and punt.” Charly curled up on the floor, her back against the cold concrete wall. It appeared that she would have a long time in which to plead David's case, and she had to, as much for her kids as for David. She could afford a little patience, especially since her persistence only seemed to irritate him. She'd find the right opportunity. She always did. "Sit down."

  "You're not going to help, are you?"

  "Are you asking?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think so," she muttered. Funny, she thought, he was doing exactly what she would do if their positions were reversed. "Tell me if you find a hidden tunnel or something."

  He didn't deign to answer her, and she didn't blame him.

  As he continued to prowl the room he stripped off his suitcoat, revealing a hard, lean build. Her pulse picked up speed. She'd been right about one thing, at least. Beneath his shirt, strong muscles r
ippled with his every movement. Though not massive, he exuded the kind of power she associated with the big cats—pure, coiled energy. Though he paced restlessly back and forth, searching for a way out of their cage, there was no wasted movement, no excess labor to slow him down. The man was solid, capable—and dangerous to her peace of mind.

  Ruthlessly, she buried those odd feelings he stirred. In her experience strong men only complicated things. Any man complicated things. "Relax. Somebody’ll come along. Eventually."

  "David?"

  "He's long gone."

  "The police? They'll see my car."

  "Anything's possible. But don't get your hopes up."

  "The janitor?"

  "Sorry. Off until repairs are finished."

  "Then who in the heck do you think will come?"

  She shrugged and peeped at him from beneath her lashes. "Why are you in such a hurry?"

  J.D. wondered about that himself but felt trapped. After labeling her honest and outspoken, he felt like a heel for suspecting that she had orchestrated this scenario, especially after she'd explained about the renovations. But after living with Amanda—and everybody else in his family—everyone became suspect. And something told him that Charly and Amanda were soulmates in spite of their slightly different outlooks. He would never make the same mistake his father had, he would never become involved with anyone he couldn't understand, with whom he couldn't share his goals and views.

  He was grabbing at any excuse to allay his attraction to her, he realized, wondering why the woman had the ability to make him think in terms of an involvement. In any event, he knew a way to break the spell. "I have a date tonight."

  "Ah!" Cocking her head, she eyed his three-piece suit with her brows raised. "Let me see. She's around thirty, medium height, blond hair, of course. She wears skirts—knee length—but never jeans, her favorite food is chicken, she loves to sew, read, and go to the opera."

  His spine stiffened as he met her amused gaze. "What are you doing?"

  "Whiling away the time." She bit her lip in concentration. "She has money of her own but never asks you out. gives four hours a week to charity, and she wants the prerequisite two-point-three children." Her eyes narrowed. "And her name is . . . Elizabeth."

  "Her name is Cheryl." he muttered, wondering why he couldn't seem to recall her face. "And her favorite food is chocolate."

  Her blue eyes danced with delight. "I knew I'd have something in common with her. But I kicked the chocolate habit. I was getting fat."

  "I can't imagine you being fat." J.D.'s voice dropped a tone. Startled by his own sentiment, he cleared his throat, heaved himself to his feet, and strode to the door. He wouldn't let himself become unbalanced! Getting out was their first priority. "We could hammer the pins out of the hinges!"

  "With what? Our heads?"

  He turned, frowning, and upended one of the three cots. "We could pull one of the legs off." He examined it, tapped it with the tip of his finger, then replaced it. "Rolled aluminum. We couldn't knock out a flea with that."

  "Sure we could." Charly leaned her head back and closed her eyes. "Bring 'em on! Well punch their lights out!"

  "You're not helping!"

  "What do you want me to do? Tear out the bars with my teeth?"

  His silence stretched for long moments. "Empty your pockets."

  Her eyes flew open. "What?"

  He waved her up. "Just do it. Between us, we should have something we could use."

  Sighing, Charly lifted her bottom off the floor and dug everything out of her pockets. J.D. did the same, and they heaped their treasures on top of a cot. Sitting at opposite ends, they both eyed the pile, she in amusement, he in disgust.

  "Great," he said. "One micro recorder, abused." He tossed it aside. "One lip gloss."

  "It's the lack of humidity," she said solemnly. "I chap."

  His gaze zeroed in on her mouth, and she caught her breath. But he returned his attention to the stack. She didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

  He examined each item as if it held the secrets of the universe. "Two crumpled Safeway receipts . . ."

  "There was a sale on grapes."

  "... one paper clip, one comb, a shopping list. . . hmm, no grapes. Impulse shopper, right?"

  She shrugged. "I get cravings."

  "One datebook, leather." She tried to peek at it, and he closed it quickly. "One checkbook, also leather." He frowned and studied it. "Could we make a lockpick out of the metal spiral?"

  She raised both brows. "How would I know?"

  "A maybe." He set it aside. “Two sets of keys, also maybes."

  "Do you think I'd hold out on you?"

  He eyed her for a moment. "No. But one of them might fit the door."

  "Ah! You're a long-shot player."

  "Two wallets—don't you carry a purse?—with approximately . . . thirty-four dollars between them, one rusty nail, sixty-three cents in change, and a ball of lint." He lifted one brow. "Did you really have to include that?"

  "You said everything." Charly chuckled at his disappointed expression. "What did you expect? A magic wand?" She snapped her fingers. "I knew I should have followed my instincts. The first time I saw MacGyver I should have bought myself a Swiss army knife just for emergencies."

  "Wonderful." He went through the maybe pile again, holding up his key ring with a speculative look. Then he dropped it with a jingle and looked over at her. "I guess we’ll have to spend the night together."

  A frisson of panic rippled through her. She'd never spent the entire night with a man. She'd been afraid a true emotional relationship would deplete her somehow. Love had drained her mother, it would never have the opportunity to do the same to her. "I’ll bet you send roses the morning after," she said with a sneer.

  "Don't you like roses?"

  "No." This was getting them nowhere. "If I try to get us out, will you listen to me?"

  His eyes narrowed. "You do have a key."

  "No." She picked up his wallet, forcing away her superstitious fear. "But you have something I don't." Brows raised, she removed a gold credit card. "You really have something I don't." She fanned herself with it. "You're loaded, right?"

  "I'm not rich," he said firmly. "I run a bank."

  "And what a bank!"

  "I draw a salary just like everybody else."

  She gave an unladylike snort. "Right. And the Amanda Smith fund just sprang up in your garden."

  "My father left it to her."

  "But it'll be yours."

  He shook his head. "I have a say in the administration of the money, but she's the one who finds the charities. And believe me, she knows where to look. My father tried to tie everything up in legalities, but she's a smart lady. I seriously doubt if there will be anything left."

  Though he gave her the opening she needed, his lack of bitterness intrigued her. It really didn't seem to bother him. "Oh, come on. I watch Dynasty, I know how you guys operate."

  "It's her money!"

  “Then why won't you let her give it to us?"

  Charly watched as his hands clenched, fascinated by the play of emotions across his usually calm face. It made him more human, she decided, not knowing whether she liked that or not. "Are you going to strangle me?" she asked sweetly.

  He struggled with himself. "No. Much as the idea appeals to me." After another moment his fist relaxed. "So, what are you going to do with my credit card? Eat it?"

  "No." She glanced at the object in her hand, almost forgetting its function. In her experience, money tended to corrupt. Her father had been a prime example, but it hadn't been his only problem. And the lack of wealth hadn't caused her mother's heartache. The lack of her father had.

  She forced her mind away from that line of thinking. "With any luck, I can use this to force the lock."

  "I hope so," he muttered, and watched with interest as she stuck it between the door and the jamb easily. "Do this often?" he asked.

  "Contrary to popular bel
ief, we're not all thieves around here."

  "That's not what I was implying."

  She shot him a dark look, then went on with her task. After several minutes of jiggling, she growled and removed the card. "This sucker isn't moving at all." She handed it back to him. "Sorry."

  He repeated her actions with no better results.

  Charly sank to one cot, he to another across from her. "I guess we're stuck here for a while, huh?"

  "I guess," he said softly.

  Their gazes locked, and his green eyes warmed something deep Inside her. Hurriedly, she looked away. She couldn't afford those softer emotions. Her only concern should be David, she told herself. "What should we talk about?"

  "I don't know. The weather? The beautiful decor? I like white, don't you?"

  "Mr. Smith—"

  "J.D."

  "J.D.," she said softly. "David's project is important to a lot of people."

  "Let's not get into that again!"

  "‘That' is exactly why we're here, remember?"

  He sighed and paced to the window, examining the base of the bars. "Why the security? Drugs?"

  "Needles, buster, needles! We have diabetics here, and we have to keep insulin on hand. What kind of misconceptions do you have anyway?" He said nothing, and frustration prompted her to add, "Great! We can add biased and closed-minded to the list of your better qualities."

  His head snapped up. "That's a hell of a thing to say."

  "But true! You made up your mind about us before you even came here, didn't you?"

  "No. I have to retain a certain degree of objectivity. I did not predetermine this case based on anything I didn't understand."

  Charly lifted her chin. "But you didn't even give David a chance to explain anything."

  "He didn't need to."

  "See?"

  "I had facts and figures long before I met him."

  "Papers! They're not people! They're not what make things work!"

  "But they tell the story more clearly, with no distortions." He raised a brow. "And look who's talking about misconceptions! Dynasty, for pete's sake!"

  Charly closed her eyes and fought her anger. This would hardly help David's cause. "Okay. It wasn't exactly one of my better comments. But yours weren't much better!"

  J.D. admitted the truth of that and wondered why he couldn't stop arguing with her. Her loyalty and her pride drew his admiration. After investigating charitable causes for more years than he cared to remember, he was used to the curious, even the determined attitudes of interested parties who tried to sway his decisions. But Charly's tactics went beyond anything he'd ever experienced—outside of what his family often did.