CAPTURED: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys(71)

"I feel you moving back there," a caramel voice dripped in her ear.

She whipped her head around to see the speaker who seemed to be  whispering directly in her ear. The plastic moved with her, like it was  molded to her skull.

Wait. She wasn't falling... She looked down. The dotted centre line of a  highway buzzed by, a foot from her toes. She gasped in shock and clung  to... whatever it was she was clinging to more tightly. The driver, she  guessed.

A motorcycle. She'd been kidnapped and taken on a motorcycle. Every second was taking her away from her home, from safety.

She couldn't see much of the bike with the helmet blocking her, but  tried to memorize what she could. Instead of being sleek, it was made of  choppy angles and had all the aerodynamics of a praying mantis. She  couldn't see the brand from where she sat, but there couldn't be many  bikes like that, right? Maybe if she could learn to hum the particular  note of the engine, the CSI people could identify it from that.

Ah, hell, who was she kidding? There was no way she could point out the  bike. It was too dark to even see the color. What was she going to say?  Detective, it looked like it would morph into an armed robot at any  second? She sighed, letting her frustration out.

"Awake now, then?" her abductor asked, seemingly inside her head. The driver of the motorcycle looked at her over his shoulder.

She put two and two together. "You have microphones in your helmets?"

"So that I may have the pleasure of speaking to you, hayati."

"My name's not Hayati," she said, with venom, despite-or maybe because  of-feeling so freaked out about the situation. She pulled on her hands,  but they refused to budge. Something seemed to shackle them together.  She felt around with her fingers to figure out what was holding her.

"I suggest you not do that, hayati," her captor said.

"Why not?" Will I find out how to escape? She rooted around blindly, and  felt something hard under her fingers. She poked it. It seemed to get a  bit harder.

Fire rose in her cheeks as she realized she'd just been groping a  strange man in his crotch. She pulled her hands back into the sleeves of  her hoodie.

"That," he told her. "Is why not."

For an instant, she thought about squeezing his man parts as hard as she  could and forcing him off the road. As much as she liked the idea, he  might crash the bike. Even if she managed to get him to pull over, what  would she do then? Her arms seemed stuck around him. Plus she hadn't  seen a car on this stretch of road, just thick stands of pine swishing  past. She had no clue how to drive a motorcycle, so the only other way  back was to walk, which wouldn't work because he would just come after  her on the bike.

He was in control here. For now. Until she found her opportunity.

With her hands in her sleeves, she felt the cold steel around her  wrists. The memory of the handcuffs he put on her came dashing back into  her mind. He'd cuffed her hands together, but shackled them around his  waist like a belt, forcing her to embrace him from behind. Clever. It  held her to him and let him keep her on the bike at the same time. How  was she supposed to get out of it?

"Would you mind not doing that either?" he asked.

"Doing-"

Before she could complete the question, he broke in. "Bashing your head against my back. It's very distracting."

She realized he was right. She'd been hitting her head against him in  frustration. Of course the helmet meant she didn't feel it. But did he?  Hope swelled inside her. Could she use it to escape?

"Ah," he said, before she finished the thought. "We're at our destination."



She felt the bike slow just before they turned into a thin laneway  anyone would miss if they weren't looking for it. Her gut clenched as he  maneuvered the bike down a track that seemed more like a rut than an  actual road. Twenty-foot tall trees bracketed them on either side,  looming over her like nasty sentinels protecting the criminal who'd just  taken her from her home. No one would ever find her here, she knew on  instinct. Even the moon's light was hidden behind clouds. She'd probably  never see it again. He'd brought her here to rape and murder her and  bury her corpse in the woods where she would lie alone under the dirt  forever.

She felt a single drop of moisture seep from one of her eyes. More than  anything, she wanted to wipe it away, to hide her weakness from her  torturer. But her arms were bound around his waist, keeping her from  masking her humiliating emotion. She could only hope, as they bumped  along the track, that the tear would dry before he took off her helmet.

"You are very quiet," he said, in a casual tone, steering the bike even  more casually. "Have you thought about apologizing to me? Offering an  explanation? Perhaps some begging? I do enjoy your begging, under other  circumstances."

She seesawed between rage and disbelief. Why should she apologize to  him? He was the one who'd just committed a crime and he wanted to blame  her for it? Acid growled in her gut at the injustice of it. But his  words made her brain skip in confusion, like a CD with a scratch. He  spoke like he knew her.

Well, of course he did. If he knew exactly when she was coming home from  her vacation, he must have been stalking her for months. Didn't  stalkers create elaborate fictitious relationships with their victims in  their deluded minds? She knew she should probably play along, try to  get him to relax his guard, but she couldn't. The injustice of the whole  thing dug under her skin, even worse because he was blaming his victim  for his own actions, like a man who raped a woman and then said she  wanted it because of her low-cut shirt.

"I will never apologize to you," she spewed at him, as if the words were poisonous.

He slammed the brakes so hard the bike jerked. On instinct, she grabbed him for support.

With her hands clamped to his chest, she felt his heart beating a  furious tempo, even through his jacket. He'd handled the bike... hell,  he'd committed the act of abduction with such calm, but underneath the  outward signs, he hid some great emotion. Excitement at his upcoming  torture session? Or maybe something else?

She felt him slow his breaths as if measuring them out. He removed his helmet leisurely, with a controlled deliberateness.

He no longer seemed like a psychopath, but a very confused man. A  confused man with hair that would have fallen to his shoulders if it  hadn't been tied back. The moon, emerging from behind its cloudy screen  for an instant, made his hair gleam blue-black. His profile, all strong  chin and harsh lines, made her suck in a breath. His all-male  gorgeousness seemed designed to melt women in their tracks. Combined  with his powerful body, he didn't seem like the kind of guy who needed  to abduct any girl. In fact, she could picture women lining up to be  kidnapped by him.

If he wasn't pure crazy, she might have considered joining the queue.

He dismounted the bike, dragging her off against her will, since her  arms were shackled around him. Without stopping, as if she was just a  fly stuck to his back, he strode across the pine needle-strewn yard. His  long steps forced her to scramble to keep from tripping.

"Hey," she protested, but he clearly couldn't hear her muffled voice  without the helmet speaker. So she took the opportunity to curse him out  in privacy. Each creative swear word strengthened her courage.

Her helmet blocked her peripheral vision, so she couldn't see much of  what looked like a three or four-room cabin with walls of raw wood and  tiles falling off the roof. The bike was probably worth twice what the  cabin was. It didn't add up.         

     



 

He twisted a key in the lock, and she zoned in on him putting the key  away in his inside pocket, in case that info came in handy later. She  paid such close attention that she nearly missed him place his thumb on a  knot in the wood next to the door-and the subtle green light that swept  over his thumbprint. She heard the distinct click of metal locks  unbolting.

Really? A high tech security system for this tumble-down place? Her  throat nearly closed. Maybe he intended on assaulting her and disposing  of the body after all. If so, he could definitely give Dexter a run for  his money.

The kitchen they stepped into was no less high tech. He turned on the  light to reveal gleaming black appliances, polished granite countertops,  and restaurant-quality gadgets. The outside of the 'cabin' might seem  like it was about to fall over, but the inside? Pure luxury. The whole  place was built to deceive someone into dismissing the exterior while  the inhabitants lived in lavish comfort.

With one abrupt motion, he turned in place. Instead of being held  against his back, Max faced him, getting a close-up view of the stiff  curling hairs escaping the slight V of his dark shirt. He snapped the  strap under her chin and lifted the helmet away, setting it on the  counter next to his own.

Her mouth dried up. There had never been a man more handsome than this  one. Flawless dark Arabian skin and eyes greyer than the granite that  surrounded her. Lips-God above, those lips would seduce her all by  themselves. It wasn't fair that he also had a strong column of neck and  shoulders like rock cliffs. Not an ounce of fat on him. Carbs probably  ran from this man in sheer terror.