breathe.
But all she could do was lean into his body as he leaned into the wall, tuck her face into the cradle of his shoulder, and swear to get her hands on him at the earliest possibility.
"What the hell is happening? Oh, God, I thought I was going to be sick." Even now she feared hyperventilation. "Who is this freak?"
Tripp nuzzled his chin to the top of her head. "I'm not sure, sweetheart. He's a pro, whoever he is."
"This is insane. What could he possibly be looking for here?" She listened to the slight scratch of his midday beard against her hair, to the drumbeat of his heart beneath her cheek.
"I don't think it's about the shop. I think it's about him wanting something someone out there has."
"One of the customers? The cop?" Who had she seen after she'd rang up Wes's order and before she'd come in here to count olives?
The two secretaries from the investment firm on the next block who took a late lunch every day. The professor writing his memoir who always sat near the front window. The off-duty cop she didn't know. The driver for the Post who usually came in on Thursdays.
Tripp shook his head. "No. Not the cop."
And how would he know. . . ? She stepped back far enough to look him straight in the eye. "You know who it is, don't you?"
When he didn't respond either to confirm or deny, she pressed harder. "You know who it is the same way you knew someone would see the SOS you tapped out on that cable."
Again with the blankly uncommitted look.
" Dammit , Shaughnessey . You'd better start talking and now."
"You're safer not knowing."
"Safer?" Was he crazy? "Are you out of your mind? I've had a gun to my head, to my chest, and up my skirt. You call that safer?"
"Safer than being dead."
"Who's to say that's not next on our Mr. Vuong's agenda?" Tripp's silence was answer enough.
"Please, Tripp. If I'm going to die, I'd like to know the reason."
"I'll feel better about telling you once my hands are free."
A weird response. At least it wasn't a no—though once she wiggled her wrists against her own bonds she realized it might as well have been. "Is there a trick to getting out of these things?"
"Yeah." He nodded toward the storage cabinet. "My knife. If I get it down, you think you can cut through this plastic without slicing off my hands?"
"As long as you return the favor."
He grinned at that, buzzed her cheek with a kiss as he headed for the storage cabinet, visually measuring the distance to the shelf where he'd left his knife and coming up short.
Or at least short for a man who wasn't a double-jointed circus act. He only needed another foot at the most. . .
"Here," she said, toeing a gallon can of jalapeho peppers off the bottom of the nearest shelf and sliding it across the concrete floor.
Tripp stepped up, stretched up . . . "Shit. I need another six inches."
"I wouldn't be saying that to just any girl if I were you."
He glared down at her. "Making funnies in the face of death, are we?"
A shiver turned her spine to jelly. "Do you think we're going to die?"
"No, Glory. We're going to live to tell our grandkids about this." He hopped down, glanced around the storeroom.
"Here. Let me try." She was shorter than he was but knew from watching his attempt that she had a more flexible range of motion.
Unfortunately, she would need five-foot arms to reach. She hopped back down. "Crud. Wait. Shove that crate over."
The plastic box in the room's far back corner held napkins and sandwich bags imprinted with her old logo. Tripp shoved and kicked it into place and climbed up.
The extra height was enough. He grabbed around, his hand smacking the shelf, the wiring, the TV screen, and finally the knife.
He jumped down, scooted the crate back into place while she closed the cabinet doors. He then ordered her to, "Back up. I'll cut you free first."
She did, reaching for his fingers that were warm and reassuring and then suddenly not there. She looked back over her shoulder. Then turned all the way
But all she could do was lean into his body as he leaned into the wall, tuck her face into the cradle of his shoulder, and swear to get her hands on him at the earliest possibility.
"What the hell is happening? Oh, God, I thought I was going to be sick." Even now she feared hyperventilation. "Who is this freak?"
Tripp nuzzled his chin to the top of her head. "I'm not sure, sweetheart. He's a pro, whoever he is."
"This is insane. What could he possibly be looking for here?" She listened to the slight scratch of his midday beard against her hair, to the drumbeat of his heart beneath her cheek.
"I don't think it's about the shop. I think it's about him wanting something someone out there has."
"One of the customers? The cop?" Who had she seen after she'd rang up Wes's order and before she'd come in here to count olives?
The two secretaries from the investment firm on the next block who took a late lunch every day. The professor writing his memoir who always sat near the front window. The off-duty cop she didn't know. The driver for the Post who usually came in on Thursdays.
Tripp shook his head. "No. Not the cop."
And how would he know. . . ? She stepped back far enough to look him straight in the eye. "You know who it is, don't you?"
When he didn't respond either to confirm or deny, she pressed harder. "You know who it is the same way you knew someone would see the SOS you tapped out on that cable."
Again with the blankly uncommitted look.
" Dammit , Shaughnessey . You'd better start talking and now."
"You're safer not knowing."
"Safer?" Was he crazy? "Are you out of your mind? I've had a gun to my head, to my chest, and up my skirt. You call that safer?"
"Safer than being dead."
"Who's to say that's not next on our Mr. Vuong's agenda?" Tripp's silence was answer enough.
"Please, Tripp. If I'm going to die, I'd like to know the reason."
"I'll feel better about telling you once my hands are free."
A weird response. At least it wasn't a no—though once she wiggled her wrists against her own bonds she realized it might as well have been. "Is there a trick to getting out of these things?"
"Yeah." He nodded toward the storage cabinet. "My knife. If I get it down, you think you can cut through this plastic without slicing off my hands?"
"As long as you return the favor."
He grinned at that, buzzed her cheek with a kiss as he headed for the storage cabinet, visually measuring the distance to the shelf where he'd left his knife and coming up short.
Or at least short for a man who wasn't a double-jointed circus act. He only needed another foot at the most. . .
"Here," she said, toeing a gallon can of jalapeho peppers off the bottom of the nearest shelf and sliding it across the concrete floor.
Tripp stepped up, stretched up . . . "Shit. I need another six inches."
"I wouldn't be saying that to just any girl if I were you."
He glared down at her. "Making funnies in the face of death, are we?"
A shiver turned her spine to jelly. "Do you think we're going to die?"
"No, Glory. We're going to live to tell our grandkids about this." He hopped down, glanced around the storeroom.
"Here. Let me try." She was shorter than he was but knew from watching his attempt that she had a more flexible range of motion.
Unfortunately, she would need five-foot arms to reach. She hopped back down. "Crud. Wait. Shove that crate over."
The plastic box in the room's far back corner held napkins and sandwich bags imprinted with her old logo. Tripp shoved and kicked it into place and climbed up.
The extra height was enough. He grabbed around, his hand smacking the shelf, the wiring, the TV screen, and finally the knife.
He jumped down, scooted the crate back into place while she closed the cabinet doors. He then ordered her to, "Back up. I'll cut you free first."
She did, reaching for his fingers that were warm and reassuring and then suddenly not there. She looked back over her shoulder. Then turned all the way
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