was wise or not wasn't the point. The doing was.
Shifting to her knees, she peered at the handcuffs, turning her wrist this way and that, flexing her hand as if she were an escape artist preparing to launch into her latest trick.
She tested the rungs on the headboard and found them distressingly firm.
They didn't make cheap hotels like they used to, she thought with a sigh. And wished for a hairpin, a nail file, a hammer. All she found in the sticky drawer of the night stand was a torn phone book and a linty wedge of hard candy.
He'd taken her purse with him, and though she knew she wouldn't find that hairpin, nail file or hammer inside, she still resented the lack of it.
She could scream, of course. She could shout down the roof, and endure the humiliation if someone actually paid any attention to the sounds of distress.
And that wouldn't get her out of the cuffs, unless someone called a locksmith.
Or the cops.
She took a deep breath, struggled for the right avenue of escape. She was sick with worry for Bailey and Grace, desperate to reassure herself that they were both well.
If she did go to the police, what kind of trouble would Bailey be in? She had, technically, taken possession of a fortune. Would the authorities be understanding, or would they slap Bailey in a cell?
That, M.J. wouldn't risk. Not yet. Not as long as she felt it was remotely possible to even the odds. And to do that, she had to know what the hell she was up against.
Which again meant getting out of the room.
She was considering gnawing at the headboard with her teeth when Jack unlocked the door. He flashed a quick smile at her, one that told her he had her thoughts pegged. "Honey, I'm home."
"You're a laugh riot, Dakota. My sides are aching."
"You make quite a picture cuffed to that bed, M.J." He set down two white take-out bags. "A lesser man would be toying with impure notions right about now."
It was her turn to smile, wickedly. "You already did. And you'll probably have a scar on your bottom lip."
"Yeah." He rubbed his thumb gingerly over the wound. It still stung. "I'd say I deserved it, but you were cooperating initially."
That stung, too. The truth often did. "You go right on thinking that, Jack." She all but purred it "I'm sure an ego like yours requires regular delusions."
"Sugar, I know a delusion from a lip lock. But we've got more important things to do than discuss your attraction for me." Pleased with that last sally, he reached into one of the bags. "Burgers."
The smell bit her like a fist, right in the empty stomach. Her mouth watered.
"So are we going to hole up here like a couple of escaped convicts—" she rattled her chain for emphasis "—and eat greasy food?"
"You bet." He handed her a burger and took out an order of fries designed to clog the arteries and improve the mood. "I think better when I'm eating."
Companionably, he stretched out beside her, back against the headboard, legs extended, food on his lap. "We've got us a serious problem here."
"If we've got us a serious problem here, why am I the only one with handcuffs?"
He loved the sarcastic edge in her voice, and he wondered what was wrong with him. "Because you'd have done something stupid if I hadn't left you secured. I'm looking out for my investment." He gestured with the rest of his burger. "And that's you, sugar."
"I can look out for myself. And if I'm hiring you, then you should be taking orders. The first order is unlock these damn things."
"I'll get to it, once we set up the ground rules." He popped open a paper package of salt, dribbled it on the fries. "I've been thinking."
"Well then." She munched bitterly on an overcooked burger between two slices of slightly stale bun. "Why am I worried? You've been thinking."
"You've got a sarcastic mouth. But I like that about you." He handed her a tiny paper napkin. "You got ketchup on your chin. Now, somebody put the pressure on Ralph—enough that Ralph falsified official paperwork and put my
Shifting to her knees, she peered at the handcuffs, turning her wrist this way and that, flexing her hand as if she were an escape artist preparing to launch into her latest trick.
She tested the rungs on the headboard and found them distressingly firm.
They didn't make cheap hotels like they used to, she thought with a sigh. And wished for a hairpin, a nail file, a hammer. All she found in the sticky drawer of the night stand was a torn phone book and a linty wedge of hard candy.
He'd taken her purse with him, and though she knew she wouldn't find that hairpin, nail file or hammer inside, she still resented the lack of it.
She could scream, of course. She could shout down the roof, and endure the humiliation if someone actually paid any attention to the sounds of distress.
And that wouldn't get her out of the cuffs, unless someone called a locksmith.
Or the cops.
She took a deep breath, struggled for the right avenue of escape. She was sick with worry for Bailey and Grace, desperate to reassure herself that they were both well.
If she did go to the police, what kind of trouble would Bailey be in? She had, technically, taken possession of a fortune. Would the authorities be understanding, or would they slap Bailey in a cell?
That, M.J. wouldn't risk. Not yet. Not as long as she felt it was remotely possible to even the odds. And to do that, she had to know what the hell she was up against.
Which again meant getting out of the room.
She was considering gnawing at the headboard with her teeth when Jack unlocked the door. He flashed a quick smile at her, one that told her he had her thoughts pegged. "Honey, I'm home."
"You're a laugh riot, Dakota. My sides are aching."
"You make quite a picture cuffed to that bed, M.J." He set down two white take-out bags. "A lesser man would be toying with impure notions right about now."
It was her turn to smile, wickedly. "You already did. And you'll probably have a scar on your bottom lip."
"Yeah." He rubbed his thumb gingerly over the wound. It still stung. "I'd say I deserved it, but you were cooperating initially."
That stung, too. The truth often did. "You go right on thinking that, Jack." She all but purred it "I'm sure an ego like yours requires regular delusions."
"Sugar, I know a delusion from a lip lock. But we've got more important things to do than discuss your attraction for me." Pleased with that last sally, he reached into one of the bags. "Burgers."
The smell bit her like a fist, right in the empty stomach. Her mouth watered.
"So are we going to hole up here like a couple of escaped convicts—" she rattled her chain for emphasis "—and eat greasy food?"
"You bet." He handed her a burger and took out an order of fries designed to clog the arteries and improve the mood. "I think better when I'm eating."
Companionably, he stretched out beside her, back against the headboard, legs extended, food on his lap. "We've got us a serious problem here."
"If we've got us a serious problem here, why am I the only one with handcuffs?"
He loved the sarcastic edge in her voice, and he wondered what was wrong with him. "Because you'd have done something stupid if I hadn't left you secured. I'm looking out for my investment." He gestured with the rest of his burger. "And that's you, sugar."
"I can look out for myself. And if I'm hiring you, then you should be taking orders. The first order is unlock these damn things."
"I'll get to it, once we set up the ground rules." He popped open a paper package of salt, dribbled it on the fries. "I've been thinking."
"Well then." She munched bitterly on an overcooked burger between two slices of slightly stale bun. "Why am I worried? You've been thinking."
"You've got a sarcastic mouth. But I like that about you." He handed her a tiny paper napkin. "You got ketchup on your chin. Now, somebody put the pressure on Ralph—enough that Ralph falsified official paperwork and put my
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