In Love by Design (The Adventures of Anabel Axelrod) Page 5

  The fat candles burning in old pickle jars on the floor surrounding the rickety chair where I sat provided little illumination, but enough to tell I’m in a decrepit kitchen. If the candles are meant to coax me into a more romantic frame of mind, it wasn’t working.

  My arms are hanging down past the seat of the chair on the outside. From the wrists up, a length of thick rope is wrapped around me like a mummy and held my arms and torso tightly against the chair. Each ankle was tied to the front leg of the wood chair. Stretching, I could just feel the sticky, cold floor with the tips of my big toes.

  I should be scared, but I was fucking furious.

  Mainly, my fury is aimed at myself for not being more careful and aware of my surroundings, but I’m incensed enough to spread it around to include the Brit who stuck me with a needle.

  Struggling to escape the ropes, my sluggish brain tried to evaluate the list of people wanting me hurt or worse. It could be a buddy of the imprisoned Ron Hansen or the dead Hammer. It could be my cousin Candy, although I reluctantly give her credit for more smarts. She knows something painfully bad will happen to her if she retaliates against me for turning her into a human Slurpee in the SA parking lot. Mike McClain came to mind. Sure he was livid, but I couldn’t see him putting out a hit on me for turning down his marriage proposal. He would more likely want to kill Anna for throwing coffee on his spotless clothes. Nobody I knew had mentioned seeing him since the fracas in my office.

  It’s possible it could be related to the rescue of Blanca, although again, not probable. Before he left town, Luke verified the pedophile would never be a problem again for any young girl. My faith in him is like a rock in this regard, but I still wanted to satisfy my female need for the dirty details.

  Last Sunday, after ten excruciatingly faithful days of watching the daily local news stations, I caught the crime report that a body had been found. The identity was revealed as one Esteban Garza. This was the real name of the pedophile enforcer after Blanca. The subsequent reports resulted in no arrests, but the police went on record to say Garza was murdered by a gunshot to the head. They speculated from information received through unnamed sources that it was a gang-related killing involving the robbery of money from another gang member.

  I still don’t know if Luke and John killed Garza themselves. Maybe they stole my money back and then made it look like Garza had ripped off his boss. Maybe his own people then killed him in retribution. Either way, I clapped at the news and marveled at Luke’s expertise when having only a day to investigate and plan for Garza’s removal. I recall wondering in admiration what my Dark Prince could accomplish if he seriously took the time to plan something.

  Blowing out a breath at the reminder of Land Baron Luke’s hidden talents, I refocused on the more immediate problem at hand--my imminent rape or worse. Whatever’s in store for me tonight wasn’t going to be pleasant. I needed to get free and get the hell out of here while I still had a chance.

  Looking swiftly around the room confirmed that I can’t see crap past the circle of jar candles around this chair, but I didn’t hear anything. My eyes snapped back to the pile of my clothes neatly folded on the floor and only a few feet away to the right. The strap of my purse is visible under the blazer.

  My hands clenched the rough wooden seat and I started using my butt and hips to get rocking sideways, back and forth, in the chair.

  As I rocked, the delicate silk fabric of my brand new teddy caught and ripped on the splintery wooden seat of the old chair, along with the tender skin of my ass. I shut out the pain, but silently I was savagely cussing while swearing paybacks for every painfully jabbing splinter.

  I continued rocking side to side and got some momentum going. Throwing the weight of my hips and my straining neck and head to the right with everything I had, the spindly chair and I went crashing to the floor. My fuzzy brain still felt like it was wrapped in cotton from the after-effects of the drug, so the pain didn’t register too much when my skull smacked off the floor. I’d heard a satisfyingly loud crack of wood as I toppled over, but the ropes that bound me didn’t miraculously fall off. They didn’t even loosen when I struggled against them.

  Lying panting on my right side on the curling linoleum squares, I determinedly didn’t think about what kind of filth my cheek was resting on. The kitchen floor stunk. If this freezing old house is abandoned like it appears, kids probably partied in here. Where there was garbage, there are rats.

  Not a big fan of rodents, I almost threw up in my mouth at the thought of those sharp teeth and long tails. In some cultures rat meat was still a traditional source of food in their diet, or worse yet, a delicacy. You won’t catch me dining in North India, although to be fair, I don’t suppose those folks will be joining me for a backyard BBQ of a juicy rib-eye.

  Regrouping for just a second, I looked at the golden flame flickering merrily a foot away from me. There are dead fly carcasses an inch deep on the bottom of the dusty jar surrounding the burning candle. Grimacing, I turned my head upwards. That’s when I started feeling streaks of pain shooting down my neck and into my right shoulder that had taken the brunt of the landing. I gritted my teeth and ignored the pain in my hopeful realization. If I was parallel to the candle, then my purse was nearby where my head rested.

  Using my right knee, I tried to get leverage to rock the chair again, so that I could flip onto my back and get off my right hand. That hand was currently flattened beneath my weight on the chair against the floor. After a few tries, with the result of the chair just scooting while making no leeway, I accepted being stuck on my right side and didn’t waste any more time. I started doing an imitation of a worm the best I could with just the use of my thighs, hips, and head to generate motion. Squirming and wriggling, I bounced and scraped the creaking, protesting chair upwards over the gross floor towards my goal. As I wiggled, my brain was frantically making and discarding plans to escape.

  If I could get to my purse, a couple of fingers could flip it open and get my phone out. Then I only needed one thumb or finger to slide the cell on and get to the keypad to call Chief Jack for help.

  ‘If the phone is still inside the purse,’ the mean mommy voice cautioned worriedly.

  Working up a sweat while continuing to inch my way forward, I shut that voice down and snarled back, ‘If my gun is still inside, then the fucker who stuck a needle in my arm is going to see how he likes getting his body punctured with holes!’

  Tough words and I meant every one of them. Unfortunately, the gun wasn’t any immediate help in my current position of lying on my right side. Not with my hand tied to the chair and pinned against the floor. Only my fingers have the ability to move.

  My scheming abruptly broke off because my head nudged the folded stack of clothes. The black strap of my purse was glowing like the Holy Grail.

  Leaning forward, I bit the fake leather strap and thought I’d never tasted anything better in my life. I pulled my head back and the purse followed, slithering out from under the pile of my clothes. Letting go, I bit the strap again, but lower. I repeated the motion of pulling my head back and pulling the purse closer towards me. It felt heavy and my spirits soared. I carefully slid it towards my wiggling fingers.

  “I say, aren’t you the industrious little captive!”

  The sound of that smarmy British accent caused my heart to rocket in my chest and my stomach to sink. The chance to call for help was gone. Head hovering over my purse, I said a curse around my mouthful of pleather and then quietly spit it out. If he hadn’t seen it yet already, I didn’t want to bring attention to my purse.

  The man held up a large lantern and my prone body was bathed in a yellow light.

  He whistled softly. “Look at you, arse-over-tit! Why, you’ve gone and ruined your fancy pants now, haven’t you?”

  Not waiting for a response, he lifted my chair and righted it on all fours. My head swam with dizziness at the suddenness of the motion.

  Squinting groggily, I muttered a threat, �
��Yeah, you owe me a new teddy and I owe you..,” I vaguely pondered what revenge would suffice and couldn’t decide, “well, you’ll have to wait and see, it’s a surprise.”

  The giggles coming from the man standing before me are ridiculously high-pitched and irritating. He sounded like a damn donkey on helium.

  He held the lantern high and the powerful beam gave off bright light in all directions. My abductor was medium height and on the chubby side. Although, the ease with which he one-handedly flipped my chair up off the floor proved he’s no weakling.

  Scowling into the glare, I eyed him up and down while taking in the sight of his cheerful, slightly buck-toothed smile and freaky outfit. He’s dressed all in black. His tight suit is made of some slick-looking shiny fabric, complete with a buttoned-down vest and a silver pocket watch. A mask of black satin covered the top half of his head and face to just below his ears and nose. When he turned his head, I saw it was tied in back with the tails left trailing down his back.

  A plethora of white-blonde curls stuck out below the bottom edges of the black mask, so maybe his thick hair contributed to my immediate thought that he had a head the size of a pumpkin. The pencil mustache was not much darker where it outlined his upper lip. His mouth was small, and his lips were the pouty pink of a cherub while his round chin looked decidedly weak.

  The man whirled around to set the battery-powered lantern on the countertop of a broken-down cabinet missing all its doors. A black cape billowed out behind him at the motion. The cape is lined with scarlet satin and quite beautiful. Then he whirled back towards me and placed his hands on his hips. With a shoulder toss of rustling fabric, he dramatically flung the long cape behind his shoulders and leaned forward to peer closely at me. He was still wearing the little smirk on his plump lips.

  Strangely, I got a sense of removed curiosity from his stance, but no threat.

  So I raised my brows imperiously and did what I do best.

  I mocked the tubby little bastard.

  “Who are you supposed to be; Gentleman Jim out for a night on the High Toby before hitting a soiree?” Refusing to show fear, I clucked my tongue, my voice dripping with laughing sarcasm, “Gee, so sorry, but I forgot my smelling salts and jewel box.”

  The man giggle-brayed loudly again while shaking his masked head, but said nothing else and didn’t show any offense. He glanced around the kitchen with an air of satisfaction, as if happy to see everything was in its proper place. How anything could make a person happy in this mess was beyond me. The lantern only highlighted the room was a disaster of epic proportions. Crap was strewn everywhere—beer cans and bottles litter every surface, garbage bags lay slumped open on the floor and spewed their contents of old food cans and boxes, broken cabinet doors and drawers are slung around haphazardly, and I now saw the glint of glass fragments amidst the carnage. Despite the frigid air, the pervasive smell was rotting garbage and mold.

  I poked at him again. “Wrong guess? Huh, and here I would have sworn you’re a fan of historical romance by your dashing suit of clothing.” I added, with a smirking nod at his genitals, “How very continental, if a little obviously tight. Dressed as you are, I don’t suppose you have any insider scoop to share with an anglophile if the little Princes were really murdered or not?”

  His mouth had fallen open after the tight comment but at this historical reference, he threw back his masked head and laughed. If a donkey brayed at a pitch that could break glass, it would sound identical to this ass standing in front of me.

  Wincing in surprised response at that horrid EE-aw laugh, I kept prodding. “No scoop? You Brits are so disappointing.” Snapping my fingers tied down at my sides, I played to his delusion. “I’ve got it! The mask, the cape--you’re that dude from “The Princess Bride”! Not the dark one that was looking for the man that killed his father, but…”

  “The Princess Bride!” He interrupted with an eager shriek. “Oh my, are you referencing the actor Cary Elwes? Brilliant! That toff’s my soddin’ idol!” I now had his complete attention, as he squatted down in front of my chair while bouncing on his heels, and I do mean heels. My abductor was wearing patent leather pumps with four-inch spiked heels and huge silver buckles. He hugged his knees and breathed, “Are you taking the piss or do you truly think I resemble a young Cary Elwes?”

  “That depends,” I temporized, feeling my own satisfaction at seeing the hem of his beautiful black cape settle on top of the filthy floor to be dragged through the grime. Actually, I’d peg him more as Leonardo DiCaprio’s pumpkin-headed brother, but who am I to get between a braying ass and his hero complex?

  “Go on then,” he urged, exposing his crooked front teeth in a delighted, but sly smile, “depends on what?”

  “Depends on if you plan to hurt me or not.”

  He paddled his plump hands gleefully several times on his bent knees, as if this was the best entertainment he’s had in months. I noticed he’s wearing several rings, including a diamond on his pinky. “And what if I do plan on hurting you?”

  At his insinuated threat, I gingerly shifted on the seat of the chair to relieve the jabbing hurt in my splintered-filled buttocks. Fervently, I wished my foot was untied. I’d plant it square in his meat and two veg that’s so suggestively outlined in those creepy, tight pants and watch the pain grow.

  My green teddy is a whisper of silk and lace that reveals more than it covers, but thankfully, I am not exposed on top since I am wound up in rope. Below is another story. I can’t see past the thick hemp to know what is showing, but I’m pretty sure the fabric is opaque and not sheer lace between my spread thighs. I’m also pretty sure this guy is gay, so I’m not worried about being raped any longer. I tried not to dwell on the sick idea that he could be a twisted freak show looking to hurt a woman, even if he doesn’t personally rape her.

  Refusing to be intimidated by any of these thoughts, I narrowed my eyes at his threatening question. “You mean besides the hurt I already owe you for throwing me in a rotten potato sack, practically suffocating me, and then sticking a needle in my arm and injecting me with a drug,” my voice rose loudly, “all without even knowing if I had any goddamn allergies?”

  Never losing the grin while he bounced in restless energy on his heels in front of me, he shrugged insouciantly. “Nothing personal, ladette, but that whole subduing bit was done entirely for your own safety. Couldn’t have you scrambling all over the place and cocking up the works, now could I? But yes, besides all that.”

  I retorted decisively, “You would then be a dead ringer for the much older, uglier Cary Elwes in that movie where he’s a serial killer. The one where he gets his ass whipped by Ashley Judd because she’s a kick-boxer and he’s a dumbass!”

  His head reared back, as if I’d struck him. “For fuck’s sake, I know that film! It’s called “Kiss the Girls”. You’re right; Cary did look an awful fright.” Shuddering theatrically, he placed a hand on each of my chilled knees and patted them consolingly. He added, the sly smile at play again, “Good thing I’m just winding you up and have no plans to hurt you, eh? So, it’s agreed-- I’m the young master Cary then?”

  Even without the ability to see his entire face, it’s still apparent to me the sly smile twisting his cherub lips was sincere and even slightly charming in an odd way. I hope I hadn’t succumbed to Stockholm syndrome in less than ten minutes, but my intuition said he wasn’t going to physically hurt me. The tension drained from my knotted muscles. I sagged a little in relief against the thick rope tying me to the chair. Now I was left with confusing questions.

  Starting off calmly enough and even trying to smile, I said, “Okay, Princess Bride, I believe you aren’t going to hurt me, but why have you stripped me down? I’m freezing!” Every time I think about that needle in my arm, I got furious all over again. I had to close my eyes and bite my tongue to not cuss him out. “Why am I tied up here and what are you planning on doing to me?”

  With a flourish of his cape, the man stood up and pounded a fist
to his chest. Pride vibrating through his falsetto voice, he proclaimed, “I am a Fixer!”

  “A Fixer!” I echoed on a disbelieving laugh, coughing on an inhalation of the dust rising from the floor in the wake of his swirling cape. “What the hell is a Fixer and why do I need fixing?” Watching him closely, it all started clicking and I glared in disbelief. “You’re planning to leave me here! That’s why I’m tied up, but you can still answer truthfully that you aren’t going to hurt me!” Seeing him look away from my accusing gaze, I croaked, “My god, I’ll die. You’re just a lousy murderer, aren’t you?”

  My throat already dry, the dust sent me into a paroxysm of coughing. Unable to cover my mouth, I turned my head to the side until the coughing fit passed.

  At being called a murderer, the ebullience leaked from him like a pricked balloon and the Fixer waited sullenly for me to finish hacking. He didn’t offer any water. Not that I would accept anything to drink that came from him or this kitchen, but I expected more chivalry from him, since he’s dressed up like Little Lord Fauntleroy. He’s already number two on my shit list. I have no problem adding really bad manners, as another line item he’ll be paying for, if I live long enough.

  Carefully resting back against the broken cabinet where the lantern sat, he made a muffled sniffing noise of disdain under the mask at my accusation he’s a murderer. Crossing his stocky legs at the ankle, the oversized silver buckles on his pumps caught the light and shined at the movement. His lips turned up in a mulish pout.

  His high voice now sounded fractious, and inconceivably, offended when he argued, “No, I am not a common murderer for hire. Any simpleton can go kill some bloke on the street. That takes no specialized talent, now does it?” He nodded his head and waved a hand to encompass me where I sat. “To be precise, I contract to remove nasty bullies bothering a chap and convince them to go away--permanently.” A thumb and finger nervously smoothed his thin mustache while he added, “Short of murder.”