Troubleshooters 02 The Defiant Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

Locke felt the mattress give under his weight. He’d sat down on the bed, next to her, and as she looked up at him from the floor, he reached down and lifted her right arm, pointed to her wrist. “That’ll do it.”

  His hands felt cool against her skin. He had big, work-roughened hands, with almost ridiculously large fingers. One of his nails was bruised, as if he’d recently smashed a finger, but other than that, they were neatly trimmed and clean.

  His skin was tan from working outside—he was almost as dark as she was.

  She had to laugh. He was actually suggesting she handcuff herself to him. Was he completely out of his mind?

  Starrett laughed, too. He had a blinding smile, and when he laughed, his eyes sparkled. They were mesmerizingly blue.

  “You’re kidding, right?” She pushed herself up, to her feet, pulling her hand away from him. God, she was dizzy. Whoever invented alcohol was a total idiot. “People are idiots,” she told Starrett. “Alcohol, cigarettes, drugs—the more poisonous it is, the more we want it. It’s insane. I’m never going to drink again.”

  “That’s too bad,” he drawled, leaning back on both elbows, moving into a pose that was almost unbearably sexy, “because you loosen up when you drink. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before tonight.”

  “I laugh all the time,” she said defensively, wishing he would sit up so that she’d stop wanting to skim her hands across the planes and angles of his muscular chest and arms. And those abs and legs and . . . “Just . . . not when you’re around.”

  God, she needed to sit down—as far from Mr. Sexy as possible. This was going to be one hell of a long night.

  Starrett was watching her closely. “It’s your call about this handcuff thing. It seems crazy not to do it—I mean, if I’m cuffed to you, I’m not going anywhere without you knowing about it, right?”

  She shook her head.

  “Course if you’re afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands offa me . . .”

  Locke stared at him. Did he know? Could he tell what she was thinking? God, she wasn’t doing something like drooling, was she? She forced herself to react, to sputter, as if in outrage. “I’m not afraid. Don’t think you’re so—”

  “I can understand the potential embarrassment,” he continued. “You’ve had too much to drink, and who knows what you might do in your sleep. I mean, it’s a big bed, but . . .” He shrugged expansively.

  Locke reached over and snapped the cuffs onto her right wrist.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Seventeen

  THUNDER CRASHED. THE storm was directly overhead, and the thunder was the kind that shook the house to its very foundation.

  It woke Eve from the restless doze she’d drifted into, and for a moment, she was confused.

  What was she doing outside of the bomb shelter during an air raid?

  But then she remembered. The war was long over. She wasn’t a teenager anymore. She was old and tired. The victim of a kidnapping.

  Thunder roared again.

  But she wasn’t too tired or too old—or too much of a victim—to fight back. She nudged Amy awake. “Play along with me,” she breathed to the little girl, who nodded, her brown eyes instantly alert and ready for anything. God bless her.

  The electrical storm was putting their captors on edge. How recently had they experienced a rain of bombs in their war torn country? Eve could sympathize with their discomfort. She herself had sat out bad storms in the bomb shelter until well into the 1960s.

  She knew the wisest course of action would be to sit tight. To not make waves. To not give the Bear and the others any additional problems.

  But Eve knew they were running out of time. She saw the way the woman looked at them.

  She had to take this chance.

  She caught the Bear’s eye. “Amy has a terrible stomachache,” she told him, having to raise her voice over the sound of the rain pounding down onto the roof. “Please take us to the bathroom before she has an accident.”

  Amy gave a very convincing sounding groan—just the smallest sound.

  The Bear didn’t look happy, but he moved toward the other men, talking and gesturing back at them in a low voice.

  Eve knew they were deciding whether or not to go to the woman with her request, or to simply take them upstairs on their own.

  Amy made another small sound, a gagging sound this time, and the decision was made. Take them up to the bathroom now. Quickly.

  The Bear led the way, and Eve moved as fast as she could on the stairs—which wasn’t fast enough for the young man, who actually picked her up and carried her the last ten feet. Thunder roared again, and he nearly dropped her. Poor boy. She wasn’t completely up on her recent history, but he had to have been just a child when the worst of the last civil war had rocked his country. He’d probably been ten when the bombs started falling, and they hadn’t stopped for close to four years.

  She squeezed his arm reassuringly, but he scowled. “Be fast.”

  She knew that this poor boy was probably going to kill them. All he needed was the order, and he would end their lives without a great deal of thought.

  But she wanted him to think. She wanted him to struggle. “Thank you, young man,” she told him with dignity, granting him dignity, too. “For your kindness and compassion.”

  “Be fast,” he said again.

  She limped after Amy, down the hall and into the bathroom, shutting the door tightly behind them.

  Amy was smiling.

  Eve put her finger to her mouth, cautioning silence.

  “Help me,” she whispered, motioning for Amy to join her in the tub.

  The window was unlocked, and she pushed against it, testing it, finding the places that had the most give.

  “Put your hands here and here,” she whispered to the little girl. “When I say now, push up. Not out. Up.”

  Amy nodded her understanding, and Eve positioned her own hands on the window, waiting . . .

  Lightning flashed, right outside the window, and Amy pulled back, startled.

  “Now,” Eve said, aware that Amy was no longer there. But the thunder had already started to roll, drowning out all other sounds, and she pushed with all her might.

  The window groaned, and then Amy was back, pushing with her. It gave with an enormous creak that—please, God—was masked by the thunder.

  As wind blew the rain into the open window, Eve looked at the door, bracing herself. But the Bear didn’t come bursting inside, demanding to know what they were up to.

  Eve looked out the window, tempted to leave right then and there. The rain was relentless, making the roof slippery and wet. But that same rain would mask the sounds of their footsteps.

  “Amy, quick,” Eve said, ready to do it.

  But the Bear thumped on the door. “Time’s up!”

  “Just another minute,” Eve called. They wouldn’t get far if he came into the bathroom after them and found them gone. In fact, they’d be like ducks in a shooting gallery. He could pick them off at his leisure from the open window. It wasn’t as if he’d have to guess which way they’d gone.

  Eve left the window open, praying that no one would see it from the ground, praying that they’d have another chance to get up here and make their escape.

  She pulled the curtain across the tub, but it moved in the wind.

  Taking Amy’s hand, she opened the bathroom door only the smallest possible amount and slipped out, closing the door tightly behind them.

  The Bear frowned, and Eve pinched her nose shut, shaking her head.

  Yes, it smelled in there.

  It smelled like fresh air and freedom.

  Obediently, meekly, she limped back down the stairs after Amy.

  * * *

  Sam was floored.

  There was no doubt about it. Alyssa was far more drunk than he’d thought. He’d tossed that ridiculous challenge out as a joke. A clever six-year-old would’ve seen
that he was baiting her. But instead of laughing in his face, she fell for it.

  He looked down at the handcuffs that locked them together. Oh, shit. Now what?

  Now he was supposed to spend the night cuffed to a woman he craved more than oxygen.

  She was looking a little uncertain now, too. As if she’d just realized what she’d done. As if she weren’t comfortable with their arms and hands so close together. As if the reality of the warmth of her forearm brushing against his was more daunting—and dangerous—than she’d imagined it would be.

  He didn’t look at her, couldn’t look at her, praying that she’d back down, that she’d get the keys and unlock the cuffs. It still wasn’t too late for her to admit that this was a ridiculous, dumbass idea—that neither of them were going to get a lick of sleep tonight.

  “Move over,” she ordered, and he shifted obediently to the right side of the bed, realizing with growing dread that she was going to play this out. Right to the end.

  An end that would no doubt see him dead—either from frustration, or because she would kill him when he finally fell asleep and forgot where he was and who he was with, and why he shouldn’t touch her.

  “Look, Alyssa,” he started. “It’s occurred to me—”

  “This isn’t a problem,” she told him with the earnestness of the extremely inebriated.

  Yeah, she was drunk. And if she came onto him and he didn’t gently push her away, he would be a total asshole. He’d be scum, dirt, excrement. He’d be worse than excrement. He’d be toxic waste.

  I think this might be a problem for me. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but as he watched, she kicked off her sneakers and snuggled back against the pillows, her shirt stretched tightly across her breasts. His hand was two inches from her thigh. Maybe less. His mouth went dry, and all his warnings and cautions stuck in his throat.

  This was going to be torture, but sick bastard that he was, he couldn’t bring himself to make it stop.

  Sam turned off the light so at least he wouldn’t have to watch her lying there.

  She sighed, just a small sound, but it was nearly enough to shoot him through the roof.

  He prayed for God to send a little more self-control in his direction. And don’t—please, Lord Jesus—let him start thinking about sex. Don’t let him think about Alyssa’s incredible body naked beneath him, straining to receive him, hot and sleek and gorgeous. Don’t let him . . .

  Too late.

  Shit. Shit.

  “Oh, God,” she said, sitting up, tugging his hand with her, panic in her voice. The metal cuffs bit into his wrist, but he welcomed the pain. “Why is the room spinning?”

  Uh-oh. “Haven’t you ever had the bed spins before?” he asked.

  “No. Bed spins . . . ?”

  Man, she really was new at this. A complete innocent.

  “It’s normal,” he told her. She’d just had another whole glass of whiskey not more than fifteen minutes ago. Maybe when it kicked in, it would knock her out and she would sleep. And maybe in the morning, when she woke up in his bed, she’d accept the magnetic attraction that raged between them and . . . “Just . . . try to ignore it.”

  Her voice shook. “I can’t.”

  “Sometimes it helps if you leave the light on.” Except, if he turned on the light now, she’d have a hard time not noticing the fact that in the past ninety seconds he’d managed to become completely aroused.

  And that would go over really well.

  “Turn it on,” she said. “Please?”

  Oh, hell. Worst case scenario, she’d be offended. She’d remove the cuffs and never speak to him again. Best case scenario, she’d look down at him and smile—the way she’d smiled in his dreams and . . . No, no, no, don’t think about that! That was only going to make it worse.

  Sam reached and turned the light back on, shifting so that he was on his side, facing her, one leg slightly up. Another version of the best case scenario—maybe she’d be too drunk to notice the giant hard-on he was trying to hide.

  Except now he was stuck lying here, facing her. Watching her.

  He laughed aloud.

  Alyssa frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “Just . . . everything. It’s funny. We’re handcuffed together. That’s funny. I’m completely . . . Well, trust me, it’s funny.”

  “Having these bed spins isn’t funny.” She sank back against the pillows, turning slightly to face him, her eyes anxious. “I don’t like it.”

  He didn’t either. He didn’t—and he did. Part of him liked this way too much. She was looking to him for answers, for help, for expertise. When had that ever happened—outside of his wildest dreams?

  He shifted slightly so that he was holding her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Sometimes it helps if you’ve got someone to hold on to.”

  She hesitated, but it was only for a second before she clung to him tightly. For someone with such slender fingers, she was impossibly strong. “Thanks.”

  She just lay there then, as time ticked painstakingly slowly past, gazing at him with her big green eyes.

  “You, uh, want to talk?” he finally asked. “Sometimes it helps if you just kind of talk yourself out.” Sex also helped, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “If you lie there, trying to sleep, that’s when the room really spins. But if you don’t try to sleep, if you talk and just let sleep kind of sneak up on you, it’s not so bad.”

  Somehow he managed to smile at her. He hoped it looked reassuring.

  “My mother used to hold my hand at night if I had a bad dream,” Alyssa said. “She used to sit on the edge of the bed, and just be there, you know?” Her voice turned wistful. “She came in every night and kissed us on the forehead. God, it would make me feel so safe.”

  “My sister, Lainey, did that for me,” Sam admitted. “Probably the same way you did for your little sisters.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. Oh, hell. Bad mistake, mentioning her little sisters. She was drunk, and here he was giving her a reason to turn into a crying drunk.

  Sam changed the subject, fast. “Hey, have you met the new guy yet? Mike Muldoon?”

  Alyssa nodded, also obviously eager to take their conversation in a different direction. She spoke carefully, enunciating extra well to compensate for the alcohol raging through her system. “Yeah. Well, yes, but not really. I mean, Senior Chief Wolchonok—” She took some extra time with the difficult name. “—introduced me, but I didn’t get a chance to do more than say hi before Muldaur ran away.”

  “Muldoon. And yeah, he’s shy.”

  “Muldoon. Right. Muldoon. Is he for real? Or is that shy thing just part of an act?”

  “Oh, he’s real. He actually says gosh.”

  “Really?” She smiled, thank God, her almost-tears forgotten.

  Sam didn’t think he could bear it if she started to cry. He wouldn’t be able to keep from pulling her into his arms, and then he’d be in big trouble.

  “Honest to God,” he told her. “He’s got the vocabulary of an altar boy. ‘Gee whiz, senior chief,’ ” he imitated Muldoon’s voice.

  She laughed—victory. “Now I know you’re making that up.”

  “Swear to God. He’s from upstate Vermont or Minnesota or maybe Idaho? I forget.”

  “Vermont’s slightly different from Idaho or Minnesota, Starrett,” she pointed out.

  “Not really. See, there’s Texas, and then there’s the other forty-nine states, all interchangeable. Muldoon comes from small town America—real small town. Someplace caught in a time warp. With a population of less than a thousand. Where children address their elders as sir or ma’am, and the F-word isn’t uttered even in back alleys—let alone in mixed company. Where women stay home and clean and bake apple pies and—”

  “Yeah, thanks. I liked it right until you got to that part.”

  “And men’s jobs are to provide for their families and keep their wives barefoot and pregnant and in those kitchens, baking apple—”

>   “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “Are you in therapy? Because clearly you have some kind of fixation.”

  She was teasing him, smiling at him.

  “I’m not saying I approve of it,” he countered. “I’m just giving you a report on Muldoon. You’re the one who wanted to know. Personally, I think it’s unnatural. You know, I find myself watching my language around him, wanting to protect his innocent little ears. I swear, it’s like having George Bailey—you know, from It’s a Wonderful Life—join the team.”