with shaven heads and body piercings she usually picked up were a piece of cake, mostly because they were usually too high on narcotics or theology to give her much trouble. Even if they tried, hey, there was a reason for those nose rings farmers put on bulls.
But Matt Granger was another story altogether. He was tall, lean and muscular. Not a thing had been folded, spindled or mutilated on this bod. She’d bet he went two-twenty and all of it was solid muscle. Her old partner Will “Pat” Patowski had asked her to put this guy on ice, but he never warned her she’d have to watch her libido while she worked. She’d deliver Granger safely to Boston or Pat would have her hide. Besides, the fee was too good to screw this up.
She removed the stun gun from her fanny pack and placed it on the bed opposite Matt’s. Then she began unwinding the wrapping from his head, followed by the blindfold. He blinked several times and she noticed that his eyes were a gorgeous shade of golden brown. Kinda went with the black curly hair and darkly tanned skin.
Get over it, Ballanger. This is business. “Okay, here’s the deal,” she said without further preamble. The tape on his mouth would come off after she’d finished her spiel. Then he could argue. The head cases always did. She was sure this guy would be considerably more convincing. “Your aunt Claudia Witherspoon hired me to retrieve you from the cult you joined in San Diego. Here’s my card.”
He blinked, trying to get his eyes accustomed to the light in the scrofulous motel room which contained two saggy beds. They were seated on them facing each other. He was still trussed up and couldn’t talk. Might as well read the damn card she was shoving in his face. It said Samantha Ballanger, Retrieval Specialist. How the hell had this dame hooked up with his aunt Claudia? She sounded south Boston while his aunt was a Brahmin from old and serious money. He didn’t like the way this whole mess smelled. Then she started talking again, so he paid attention.
“I’m taking you back to your aunt. She’s really concerned about your living in a Southern California commune and has the best psychiatric specialists waiting to treat you once you’re safely home. As you can see—” she gestured to the bundle of gauze lying on the bed beside him, then pointed to the robe and slippers she’d dressed him in “—you’re a burn patient and I’m your nurse. I’m transporting you to a rehab facility. At least, that’s what anyone I tell will believe.
“One way or the other, we’re driving straight through to Boston. I can get you there the easy way or the hard way. It’s all up to you. I’ll make you as comfortable as possible, but if you try any funny stuff, I’ll have to use this.” She picked up the stun gun from the bed and held it to his thigh. “Sorry about this, but I’ve found that one quick object lesson is worth a thousand warnings.”
With that she gave the tiniest flick of the trigger mechanism and an incredibly sharp burst of what seemed like living flame shot up and down his leg. He nearly tore the tape loose cursing as she calmly replaced the weapon on the bed beside her.
“Like I said, sorry. But understand, that little jolt was only a love tap. If you try to jump me, I’ll give you a shot that’ll make you think you French-kissed a wall socket.”
This broad’s the one who needs “the best psychiatric specialists” in Boston! He glared at her.
Sam met his eyes. Had he bought her story? He knew he wasn’t a head case living in a commune, but would he believe that she thought so? It would sure make it easier if he did. “Okay, now let me help you out of the jacket and make you comfortable. Then you can talk.”
When he looked down at the nylon wrapping holding his arms immobilized across his chest, she said, “Yeah, it’s a straitjacket. Custom made for me by an outfit in St. Louis called Leather and Lace. Scoot over to the end of the bed but stay sitting,” she instructed, slipping that vicious stun gun into her waistband.
He complied, desperate to get the damn tape off so he could ask if she ever planned to let him use the bathroom. Or, maybe the whole shtick was a ruse and she just intended to talk until his bladder exploded. But, she moved behind him and pulled the robe from his shoulders with one hand, then unfastened the straps of the straitjacket.
One of Matt’s first assignments at the Miami Herald had been to write an exposé on abuses in a Florida mental facility. As he shrugged off the restraint, he knew regular hospital jackets weighed a hell of a lot more than this lightweight job. Leather and Lace. An uneasy thought crossed his mind. He just knew she was into serious S & M when she dangled a pair of handcuffs over his shoulder. When she yanked the tape from his mouth, his lips burned like they’d been basted in jalapeño juice. “Son of a bitch!”
“Click the cuff on your right wrist,” Sam said, stepping back and moving around to face him again. He was big and angry and his eyes burned into her like lasers. She felt more uncomfortable than she had on her first snatch—hell, even on her first arrest as a rookie cop.
“You must be that S & M outfit’s best customer. Get a volume discount?” he asked, waiting to see what she’d do. Maybe this would be his chance. Then again, maybe not. He eyed the stun gun held unwaveringly in her hand.
“I imagine you need to use the facilities,” she said dryly, enticing his cooperation by nodding to the open door of a mold-encrusted bathroom.
His bladder did a couple of push-ups to remind him of how right-on that was. “Yes, I do,” he said grudgingly, clicking the cuff on his wrist.
“Get up slowly and walk inside, sit on the stool and attach the other cuff around the pipe beneath the bathroom sink.”
If he hadn’t had to go damn bad, he wouldn’t have been so cooperative. But he did so he was. She stood in the doorway, watching intently. When he had cuffed himself to the pipe, she continued to check out the small room until he felt on the verge of gargling. “You gonna stand there and watch?”
Sam finished her inspection of the facilities and regarded the irate man seated on the commode. He really thinks I’m some sort of sex pervert. The idea amused her. She couldn’t suppress a grin. “Water sports aren’t among my favorites, Mr. Granger.” She started to close the door.
“Turn on the television,” he said.
“Why should I?”
He hesitated. “I don’t want you listening.”
She stared curiously at him. What now? His face was the color of Spanish roof tile. “Listening for what?”
“Bathroom…noises,” he muttered.
She couldn’t stop the sudden burst of laugher. Bathroom noises. Jeez!
Matt became enraged. “You damned pervert! Straitjackets! Handcuffs! Now bathroom bondage.”
She held up her hands. The guy was serious. Sam didn’t mean to humiliate him any more than essential for security. “All right, all right, I’ll turn on the TV.” She shut the door with good intentions, but then was unable to believe she was saying, “I could play one of my CDs instead—the Chamber Pot Concerto in PP Minor.” She could hear him curse as she turned on the television, then flopped onto the bed and muffled her laughter with a pillow.
In the bathroom Matt thanked God for small favors. At least she wasn’t a nutcase looking for some cheap motel thrills. As he attended to the pressing business at hand—awkward as hell for a guy forced to do it sitting down—he considered his situation. Was she on the level with this “retrieval” stuff? Could he convince her that she had the wrong guy?
When
