She tried to kick out, but her heels were snug to the wooden bar. She swung her tied hands at his head, as much out of frustration as anything, but he easily caught them in one fist. “Now, now.” He took the loose end of the cord from her wrists and tugged it down, pulling her joined hands between her knees, then, pinning them there, tied the wrist cord to the one at her ankles.
Then he rocked back on his heels, and released her as he stood and moved out of reach. Not that she could swing anything at him at the moment. He walked into the bathroom and came back a moment later with what looked like the belt to a Wingate Hotel bathrobe.
She eyed him warily. “Now what? You’ve already roped me like a prize heifer. I can hardly go anywhere, or do anything.” Which was, unfortunately, quite true. She wriggled against her bonds, but it just made the cords cut more tightly into her skin.
“You still have one weapon left,” he told her, and stepped behind her.
She craned her neck, trying in vain to see what he was doing, then felt him kneel behind her chair, his breath fanning the side of her neck. Only she could have a mostly naked man breathing softly against the tender, sensitive skin of her neck, whispering in her ear … so he could explain why he had to gag her with a bathrobe belt.
“I’m truly sorry, but I can’t have you yelling out for assistance now, can I?”
To his credit, his hands were gentle and he didn’t tie it tightly, just snugly enough that any noise she made was muffled enough not to carry.
He stepped around in front of her.
She glared at him, but didn’t give him the satisfaction of trying to scream or kick, much less beg.
“I am sorry.” A smile played at his mouth. “But you did get to keep your key.”
She might have growled at that. Just a little.
“I promise not to take long.” He disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, she heard the shower come on.
Was he kidding? He’d trussed her up like a holiday turkey, gagged her, and now he was going to take a leisurely shower?
Steam wafted out from beneath the bathroom door. Sophie was pretty certain the same was coming out her ears. What on earth had she been thinking to let Delia talk her into this stupid, cockamamie stunt? Of course, Delia had been crying, half-hysterical and still a little bit drunk at the time, so what was a best friend to do? Get the right room number, for one, her little voice mentioned. Sometimes she hated her little voice. Where was it when she’d really needed it? Like when it should have stopped her from kicking her entire career into the gutter, all to retrieve a stupid cell phone because her best friend’s fiancé was an asshole whom she shouldn’t even be marrying in the first place.
And God only knew what was going on with Delia right this moment. Had Adam called as usual? What was she thinking, of course he had. The man was an android. Had Daniel Templeton, wherever he was, answered the call? Sophie shivered at the very idea. It was quite possible that all holy hell was being wrought right at this very moment—the Wingate Wedding of the Century imploding, media swarming, caterers and florists in three states collapsing. And where was she when her best friend needed her most? Tied to a damn chair in one of her own hotel rooms, while an incredibly hot thief stood naked under the shower in the adjoining bath, that’s where.
Her gaze shifted back to the bathroom door, and she hated herself a little, but even that didn’t stop her from imagining what he looked like, all slick and soapy. It’s not like she didn’t have a pretty good idea, given she’d seen almost all of him already. Almost. God. The mental movie went on for a few more frames before she finally, albeit reluctantly, shut it down.
She sighed and slumped in the chair, as much as she could anyway. Truly pathetic.
Her head jerked up when the door opened and he strolled out in a cloud of steam, a damp hotel towel clinging precariously to his hips, thick black curls matted to his neck.
“Sorry.” He stepped to the closet, rooted around, grabbed some clothes, then ducked back into the bathroom.
“Don’t mind me,” she muttered through the bathrobe belt, wishing she hadn’t noticed that he’d shaved. The shadow of a beard had actually been sexier. But now he looked downright deadly.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Sex. Seriously, the second thing she was doing when she got loose. Right after she found a new job. Of course, no hotel in the universe was going to hire her once word got out. The Wingates would see to that. So, what if managing a hotel was the only thing she’d ever really wanted to do?
Thank goodness Grandma Winnifred wasn’t alive to witness her downfall. She would be so hurt and disappointed if she could see her favorite granddaughter right now. Sophie glanced upward and sent a silent prayer of forgiveness, remembering the smells, sounds and sights of the family restaurant her grandmother had run, the one Sophie had grown up in after the loss of her parents at age nine. Her world had always been filled with people, and conversation, good food and contented smiles. Everyone loved her grandmother, and Winnie’s was where people came to relax, to get away from their troubles, to enjoy a good meal, a place where they would always be welcome.
Sophie had known early on that she wanted to create that same world for herself, to carry on in her grandmother’s stead, bringing that kind of home away from home to others. She’d also discovered early that cooking was never going to be her forte, but where her palate might fail her, her eye did not. She had a special flair for creating the perfect atmosphere, for managing and hostessing. It was at Winnie’s urging that she’d considered her other options, such as running her own inn, providing a different sort of home away from home. And had known immediately it was the perfect dream. But that took money.
So she’d done it the smart way, gone to school, getting her degree in hotel management, working her way up, putting away money, until the time was right to launch her own place, her own way. She’d had Winnie’s support, and that of everyone at the restaurant. And though both were gone now, her focus had never wavered, and that was in large part due to the confidence they’d all given her. She’d been a night manager of the Chicago Wingate for seven months. The ladder was there, just waiting for her to keep climbing it.
Until this morning, anyway.
She had to get out of here. As things stood, her career was trashed and her life was in danger. If she could get out of this hotel room, she could at least take care of the latter problem. Or give herself a good running start anyway. Maybe she should just give him what he wanted. Would he let her go then? Surely he wouldn’t want the added complication of having to kill someone needlessly cluttering up an otherwise harmless burglary? Then she remembered how swiftly and coolly he’d snapped those cords and tied her up. And there was that gun he happened to carry.
Then he was stepping out of the bathroom again. She hadn’t thought it possible, but he was even better-looking dressed. He was wearing black slacks, nice leather shoes, a crisp white shirt that looked like it had been tailor made for his broad shoulders, and a tie in a muted pattern of black, forest green and gold. He’d combed his hair back off his face, leaving it to kick up and curl around the collar of his shirt.
As if reading her thoughts, he flashed a smile at her. “Back in a jiff.”
She glared at him, but it seemed to have little impact as he strolled to the front hall and snagged a suit jacket from the closet. She didn’t see the gun, which meant he was probably wearing it on his person. Nothing