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The tie lands on the pile of fabric I formerly called clothes.
I was right. Itwasa tie. A shade of blue-green that would look fantastic with his eyes.
He runs a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes, and flips open the top of my bag. “Like I said, stretch your legs.”
“Am I—” My voice sounds as shaky as the rest of me. “Am I supposed to go for a run, or something?”
Jameson raises one eyebrow. “Did you just suggest another escape attempt?”
“You’re the one who said to stretch my legs.”
“Do itinside.” He rifles through the bag, then reaches over to flip a switch near the fireplace. It springs to life. Jameson scoops up the clothes from the floor, including his tie, and tosses them into the flames.
My gasp is involuntary. “Those were myclothes. I don’t have any other clothes.”
“Liar.” His hand delves into my bag and he pulls out my leotard. “What’s this?”
“Stop.” I rush forward, never mind that he tied my hands. “That’s special. That’s—that’s custom. I dance in that, and I only have the one.”
A glance at the leotard, then back at me. “Whatever.”
He tucks it back into the bag. “Walk around,” he orders. “You might not get another chance.”
“Could you be honest about when you’re going to murder me?”
An exaggerated eye roll. “Never. I’m never going to murder you. That would make all of this—” He motions at me. “Pointless.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here to make things fair.” His eyes flash, but he turns away before I can decide what that flicker of emotion meant.
“Whatth—”
“I don’t mind making another gag.”
I close my mouth so fast my teethclicktogether.
Oh, crap. I have to pee.
Rather than risk anothergag,I turn in a slow circle.
“It’s next to the bedroom,” Jameson says from behind me. Worn-in jeans. A black T-shirt. He’s tall and muscular and handsome enough to be a model.
“Thanks,” I whisper, and go to his bathroom.
He paces across the floor as soon as I close the door behind me. This is the weirdest part of being kidnapped. I have to deal with this rope, and that he’s left my hands tied together, and come away from the experience knowing that he has plain blue hand towels that match the color of that teacup’s design.
What’s with the teacup, anyway?
God, I’m scared.
Scared enough to throw up.
No. I don’t want the rope to be involved in that.
I exit the bathroom, cool air between my legs, nipples peaked from the general terror and anticipation, just as Jameson’s phone rings.
He digs it out of his pocket and answers. “What’s up, loverboy?”
