Trust With Your Life. M.L. Gamble
know you must be scared, Molly,” he replied in what in other circumstances would be an apologetic tone. The stranger’s glance rested for a moment on Molly’s face. “I’m sorry I’m frightening you. It seems, however, that it can’t be helped.”
The teakettle began to wail.
When the man turned his eyes toward the noise, Molly pulled the gun from her pocket as if she had practiced the move for years. “Throw that gun down and move over against the wall.”
The man’s face registered no surprise, which scared Molly worse than if he’d cursed at her. “Well, now, that changes things, doesn’t it, doll?” He placed the gun on the counter, then reached both hands behind his head, grimacing slightly when his fingers touched his neck.
Molly’s hands were sweating and her arm ached from the weight of the gun, or from the tenseness of her grasp. The kettle’s screams were full volume now, and the hot steam escaping from its mouth began to fill the cool room like fog.
Her plan was to direct him to her bedroom, which could be locked from either side of the door. After she locked him in, she could call the police. Which meant she had to get him to walk about thirty feet out of the kitchen, across the foyer and down the hall. “I want you to walk out of the kitchen and turn left.”
His eyes flickered toward the dark hallway. “To your bedroom, Molly? I’d go there at your invite even without the gun.”
“Very funny. Just walk.” Her voice was too loud and she glared at the still-wailing kettle.
He made no move.
Nausea churned her stomach, and her skin began to turn clammy from all the steam. Could I just shoot him? Molly asked herself. She was too nervous to look down at the gun to see if it had anything like a safety on it. A knot of pain was throbbing in her shoulder blade.
“Start walking, you creep, or I’ll hurt you.” The insulting word zapped out of her mouth, surprising Molly and the man both. He made a noise deep in his throat, and a dangerous glint came into his eyes.
All at once he lunged, hurling the red-hot teakettle off the stove directly at Molly, a shout of pure animal anger erupting from his throat. She banged her body against the cabinet to duck the kettle, then turned and ran for the front door. He tackled her and grabbed the gun before she got three feet.
They rolled on the floor while Molly clawed and screamed, kicked and cussed at him, remembering most of her self-defense moves but executing none of them with any effectiveness.
Even injured, his six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame found no match in a woman almost a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter. They smashed into the foyer table and onto the floor, where Molly felt his body all over her. His hands were so quick she couldn’t get a blow in. She kept yelling, though, and he moved a knee over her arm and covered her mouth with his hand.
“Shut up, damn you. Shut up!”
Molly looked him right in the eye, then used every ounce of strength to bite his hand. He didn’t yell, but he did slap her head back against the floor, sending her sliding into a fuzzy pit of pain and unconsciousness.
Chapter Three
Alec Steele stood in Molly Jakes’s kitchen berating himself for allowing a bad situation to get so much further out of hand. He never should have abducted her; he should have walked off the freeway and found another car.
But seeing her had given him such a start. He couldn’t believe it was the same attractive woman he had last seen on the night he had stood on Fred Brooker’s boat and watched as the businessman shot and killed another human being.
Alec had thought of her several times in the months between that night and this, especially when he was alone on his boat, the Strewth, in the blue-green waters off Australia’s coast. He had even planned to look her up when he was in the area, having kept the business card she had snapped down so primly on Fred Brooker’s desk.
Could it be a coincidence that she was here? In a city of millions, what the hell had she been doing leaning beside the corpse of a man who had tried to kill him?
With a shiver, Alec threw down four aspirin tablets and took a long swallow of water. The single handcuff pinged against the glass and he frowned. It was time to check and make sure Molly Jakes was recovering from that bonk on the head he had given her.
As well as to find out if she was as innocent as those warm brown eyes made her seem.
* * *
MOLLY CAME TO SLOWLY, wanting to believe what she was remembering had not really happened. But, judging from the throbbing in her head, it had.
She was lying on her bed, the afghan, knitted by her best friend’s mother, tossed over her bare legs. She was still wearing her stained T-shirt and skirt, but the Aussie had washed her hands and arms.
The thought of some man washing her down while she was out cold sent a wave of anger and embarrassment spilling down her body, an emotion quickly replaced by the terror of the situation. Molly struggled to sit up, which was a bad move, for immediately her stomach contracted and her head felt as if it had been used as a strike ball in a bowling alley.
She wiggled up against the headboard, sank back onto the thick pillows and stared at the door. It was closed, and she guessed, locked, as well. She was now a victim of her own nesting instincts, which had her install old-fashioned locks with keys sporting lovely silk tassels. Trouble was, they could lock a person in as easily as out.
This imprisonment in her own home made her angry enough to attempt to sit up again. She remembered in time to avoid the pain and made herself lie quietly and smolder. Her gaze roamed the room for help or protection. The Aussie had unplugged and removed the phone. Her windows did not open, except for the louvered ones eight feet up the glass.
The town house faced a hill and was alone in the last unit save for her upstairs neighbor, who drove a long-distance rig and was never home on Thursday. Of course, today was Thursday.
Molly swore when she was really frustrated. She knew it was immature, but the vulgar phrases passing her lips relieved some of her anxiety. Only for a moment, however. Fear returned like a growling bear at the sound of the doorknob turning. The tiny hairs on her arms rose above the goose bumps, and she drew her legs up defensively.
She was scanning the room again, trying to focus on something she could use for a weapon, when in walked the person about whom all the curses had been uttered. The stranger looked as bad as Molly felt. For the first time, she noticed that his clothing was also soiled, probably from the deep scrape down the side of his right arm.
It was after six. Sunlight streamed through the white linen drapes. The intruder squinted at Molly and walked toward the bed, halting about two feet away.
She wanted to spit at him but settled for yelling, “You son of a bitch. Do all the men from down under beat women, or just scum like you?”
“Well, glad to see your sweet personality wasn’t altered by our little ruckus.” He took a step closer and Molly flinched, which stopped him in his tracks.
“Ruckus?” she sputtered. “Let’s use the right word here, mate. In the States, we call it kidnapping, assault and battery, attempted murder.”
“Now hold on. I never meant to hurt you. I was just trying to get my hand away from your damn teeth.”
He held up his hand, showing how he had bandaged himself with some adhesive tape and gauze. He’d made a real mess of it; the tape was all lumpy where it had stuck to itself before he’d got it stuck to him.
“I bit you in self-defense.”
He made a grunting sound. “I’m sorry you got hurt, Molly. I really never meant to do that.” He ventured a step closer and stared intently into her face, not to see into her thoughts, she realized, only her eyes.
“Your