The best part? He couldn’t even smack her with his free hand. He was grasping his balls with that hand while wincing and crying soundlessly. So, with his focus on his groin, she tried again to escape, pressing her thumb towards her pinky, aiming to make her hand and wrist as small as could possibly be, narrowing it, turning her hand into itself and tugging loosely, gently.
Her wrist inched past the metal the slightest bit, and her heart tripped with hope. The cuff wasn’t too tight. Maybe she could slip out of here.
Dominic was still moaning under his breath so she craned her neck behind her, trying to get a visual on the handcuffs to see if she stood a fighting chance of slipping out. An idea flashed through her head. A crazy notion, but sometimes crazy notions took hold of you in desperate circumstances, and with Dominic still nursing his bruised balls, she quietly dipped her free hand into her back pocket, slid off the top of the tin, and scooped out a healthy dollop of lip balm on the pad of her thumb, then began rubbing it on her right wrist.
Lubrication was a splendid thing.
It made objects fit in places they didn’t belong. It made engines hum. It made tight rings slip off swollen fingers easily. And right now, it might, just might, give her back the use of two hands. If the handcuffs had been locked any tighter, this would never work. Maybe he’d only wanted to scare her, not to hurt her, so he left a bit of give in the metal. Either way, she’d take those extra millimeters because that sliver of space was her chance for freedom. She was tempted to yank her hand out, but instead she spread the balm around her wrist, and—she’d have to send a thank-you note to her parents if she pulled this off because her hands were on the small side—started to slide it out.
The doorknob rattled.
She flinched involuntarily and glanced at the door. The silver metal was shaking, moving, clattering around. Someone had heard her, or them. She’d be out of here. But wait. What if it was a cohort? She needed to move quickly, free herself, push his stupid hand off her mouth and get the hell out.
The knob shook once more, and Dominic spun around, finally noticing the sound. He dropped his hand from her mouth, and she screamed. Like a heroine in a horror film, she unleashed a blood-curdling cry.
* * *
He’d seen enough movies, had watched the entire library of MacGyver three times as a kid. But you didn’t live in the movies. You lived in the real world. And just because a TV show hero could pick a lock with the filament from a lightbulb didn’t mean he’d be able to pull this off. But he knew the basics—and hell, what man with a brother didn’t know how to get in and out of rooms? For Brent and him, locking each other in or out of bedrooms, bathrooms, even the house had been daily pranks, and they’d both mastered the fine art of breaking and entering each other’s rooms. You needed to lift the pins from inside the lock. Most doors had five to eight, so the trick was methodically finding each one.
Fortunately, he had a Purple Snow Globe necklace. Though he’d lost his lucky tie, maybe it was luck that the Etsy seller had only had a T-bar clasp because a regular clasp would do jack shit. He needed this one, about the length of a bobby pin. He set to work sliding that into the lock, then listening for the sound of the pins falling. He wiggled it around, prodding, searching for the final pin. When the tension yielded a few seconds later, he knew he was almost home.
It had taken less than a minute.
Off in the casino, he heard movement, the methodical pace of what was sure to be security coming around the corner. He could wait for them or . . .
A scream met his ears. Julia. He was all instinct now, grabbing the handle, turning the lock and barging into the room. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and his fists were clenched. There she was in a chair, yanking her right hand out of handcuffs, and the sight of that made his blood not just boil, but reach volcanic temperature. A slick, sharp-dressed man was pawing at her, trying to cover her mouth with his grimy hand.
No way in all of fucking creation was that hand touching his Julia again. Ever.
“Get your hands off my fiancée,” he seethed, and everything happened both in slow motion and with blinding speed. In a heartbeat, he grabbed the man’s wrist, jerked him away from Julia, and jammed him up against the wall. Clay’s hands were gripping the man’s collar, twisting it tightly into his neck. He was vaguely aware of Julia rising behind him, moving carefully toward the door.
“Tell her to stay out of my games,” he spit back, and Clay answered that impudence by slamming a fist into the man’s ribs.
The man doubled over, grabbing his stomach, and moaning loudly. But Clay didn’t buy his bullshit, so he served up another fist, then one more for good measure, hoping it would crack a few ribs. A loud crunch echoed through the room. Just then, the first of a fleet of hotel security arrived, led by a pipsqueak woman with blond hair. Clay’s breath came fast and he was panting hard.