Willing Hostage Read Online Free Page A

seemed to react with a sticky, sickly ache.
    â€œSit.” His voice was low and flat. Lightning had revealed the face of the man with the murderous look at Ted’s Place. He had a voice to match.
    Leah’s hands found a chair. She sat.
    Even when she heard the cat hit the floor, even when the man came to feel in her coat pockets, run his fingers over her pajamas, Leah sat meekly, hating herself for her fear and the sickly sweating.
    She didn’t fear rape. The man’s hands, his breath were as cold and impersonal as the big cat’s eyes. He was searching her.
    Leah feared death.
    The air still hung with the chill of the passionless tone of the few words he’d spoken. She knew the weapon was real. And that it was loaded. She knew the man was dangerous.
    Cracks on top of the stove blinked red. He moved behind her and her suitcase clicked when he opened it. How could he see?
    But she was beginning to see. Not just the red glow from the stove or the yellow-blue flash of cat eyes on the table, but other shapes. Her purse between the cat and the dark milk carton. The Maalox bottle—he had already rifled her purse. The shadow of the chair he had vacated, even, dimly, the door.…
    A mosquito buzzed her ear, landed on her neck. Leah found herself rising from the chair, taking a quick step toward the door.
    â€œDon’t.” It came with swift, sharp finality from behind her. The image of his gun, the estimate of his size, the tone of that one clipped order stopped her.
    And then, in astonishment, she heard her own voice saying, “If I’m going to die, it won’t be sitting down.” She felt her foot rise for another step.
    The brutality of the arm that encircled her from behind and the force of the hard metal in the small of her spine left her breathless.
    â€œNo tricks, Sheila.”
    â€œI’m not Sheila,” she gasped through the crushing of the arm across her chest.
    â€œYou’d better be. Or we’re both dead.”
    Headlights turned off the road and brightened chenille curtains. Leah relaxed against her captor, hoping for more room to breathe.
    He had stiffened, alert to what was happening outside.
    A car door slammed. A repeated knocking sound and then the manager’s voice telling someone that there were no cabins left.
    The arm loosened and Leah took a deep breath. One more and she could scream. His hand moved up to cover her mouth, leaving her free for a fraction of a second. She swiveled to face him … brought her knee up hard … fingernails finding his face. The gun clunked as it hit the floor.
    God, he was big. Her knee struck too low.
    She managed only the beginning of a scream before his fist in her stomach took care of any air she might have used for voice.
    Leah doubled over with her face almost against her knees. Something hit the back of her neck. Lights sparked behind her eyeballs and then darkness.
    Her first awareness, even before she opened her eyes, was the instant recollection of all that had happened. Her second was that she was all in one piece. And every piece hurt.
    She heard the asthmatic rattling of the cat and felt a measured poking, prickling on her chest.
    Leah opened her eyes to discover her hands were tied together above her head to the metal bedstead, and her ankles to its foot, her body stretched savagely taut between, a gag rapidly drying out her tongue.
    The Siamese stood with its front paws rhythmically kneading her sternum where the coat had pulled away, its claws pricking her skin through pajamas. He purred exuberantly, his eyes half closed. It was the dance cats do when they’re full, safe, contended. Those cold-blooded eyes, closed to slits now, pretended that they loved Leah, were thankful for her protection and care.
    Leah raised her head and saw the outline of the man at the window. His gun held aside a corner of the curtain. Agony moved from the back of her neck to her head. There was an answering fury