They went up rickety wooden steps that creaked under Ross’s weight, then he dipped down to fit under a nailed board across a collapsing door frame and stepped into a dark vestibule. Dead vines had overtaken the crumbling plaster walls. Spiderwebs hung thick from the high ceiling.
When Ross stepped into the desolate little church, she found that very little outside light penetrated. Boards covered most of the windows, and grime coated those still unbroken. In one corner of the rectangular room, next to a toppled pulpit, a kerosene heater gave off welcoming warmth.
“Someone get a light. This place is crumbling.”
“Got it.” Terrance dug out a flashlight and turned it on. It flashed over every inch of the room in a disorienting light show. “Sorry, it’s still on strobe. Let me... There.” He adjusted it to a single beam that, when set atop a shelf, didn’t quite reach all corners of the room.
Ross carried her past several pews, most of them rotting, broken or overturned.
Someone had stacked blankets on a still intact pew near the heater. Sahara saw the coil of rope and wanted to scream. Her wrists were raw, her arms and shoulders still protesting every movement.
Ross set her on her feet, murmuring, “Careful,” when she wavered.
She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, determined to hide her weakness. “I’m fine.” She couldn’t do anything about her shivers.
He tipped up her chin. “Before you come up with some harebrained idea of making a run for it, you should know that many of the floorboards are rotted. There are exposed nails everywhere, and several holes with jagged edges. Fall through and you drop all the way to a very dank, spooky basement. If you’re not shredded on the way down, you’re bound to break a leg when you land.”
Lovely. Either put up with their mistreatment or risk mangling herself.
Then again, perhaps she had a third option. She looked Ross right in the eye and said, “I won’t be tied again. It’s horribly uncomfortable and as you just pointed out, it’s not like I can run away.”
Andy crowded close, sneering, “You’re not calling the shots, lady, so stop your bellyaching and—”
Carelessly, without even looking at Andy, Ross straightened an arm and landed a fist to his face. Andy reeled back, landed against a kneeler, tripped and slammed awkwardly into a wall. Dust and cobwebs fell from the impact.
Ross stared at him, his expression demonic in the low, indirect light. “You’re on thin ice already. Shooting off your mouth won’t help.”
Tension swelled within the church, so thick Sahara wondered that no one choked on it. Olsen and Terrance shared a look. Andy wisely clamped his lips together.
To Sahara, Ross said, “Andy’s right. You’re not calling the shots, but I see no reason to tie you. I also see no reason to keep you wet and shivering.” He turned to Olsen. “You and Terrance stand by the front door. Andy, you stand by the hall exit.”
With only a few grumbles, the men moved to do as ordered.
“Strip out of your wet things,” Ross ordered, “and wrap up in a blanket.”
Her stomach bottomed out at the suggestion. “No, thank you.” Where were her men? Now would be a good time for them to catch up.
“You’ll do it,” Ross said, “or I’ll do it for you.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Andy grin, placated by Ross’s implied brutality.
Suddenly Ross leaned close and grabbed the lapels of her coat, hauling her up to her tiptoes. Putting his face close to hers, he growled, “Do. You. Understand?” Then, more softly, he breathed, “Trust me or neither of us will make it out of here.”
Her eyes widened. So this was part of an act, a way to dupe his men so he could help her? He’d moved his goons a fair distance away to ensure a modicum of privacy.
Taking advantage of that, Sahara murmured, “Allow me to play my part.” She swung her hand up and around, determined to slap him hard.
Unfortunately, Ross caught her wrist, his expression incredulous. “You little hellcat,” he breathed...almost with admiration.
Incensed that she hadn’t gotten in one good crack, Sahara tried to jerk free.
Ross easily subdued her, flipping her around so her back was to his chest, then locking her close with his bulky arms. She tried stomping his toes, but he wore boots and she was barefoot. Head-butting him was out since she only reached his chest.
Andy hooted. Terrance snickered.
Quietly, Olsen said, “You already know you can’t trust her, so stop dicking around.”
Over her head, Ross asked, “Is he right, Sahara? Should I go ahead and strip you now? Or do you think you can behave?”
“That depends.” Steamy heat rose from his body, alleviating some of her chill. “Will I get to undress in private?”
“In this room,” he told her, “with everyone’s gaze averted. That’s as private as it’s going to get.”
“Then I’d just as soon keep my wet clothes.”
He sighed. “Difficult to the bitter end.” In the next instant, he stripped off her coat despite her squawking struggles, then his big paw settled on her shoulder, gently groping. His gaze landed on her breasts. “I suppose your sweater is dry enough. The skirt has to go, though.” He reached for the side zipper.
Sahara slapped his hand, saying, “I’ll do it!”
For a heartbeat or two, they stared at each other, her defiant, him amused.
“Spoilsport.” He shook out a blanket, then held it up in front of her, stretched wide between the breadth of his long arms. “Good enough?”
Fuming, she gritted out, “Look away.”
He laughed softly...and turned his head.
Unwilling to push her luck any further, Sahara unzipped and shimmied out of the sodden skirt. After being dragged through the river to the boat, everything from her waist down was drenched, including her panties, but no way would she remove them.
She dropped the skirt over the back of the pew, then took the blanket from Ross and wrapped it around herself toga-style, pulling one end to drape over her shoulder. Sitting in the corner of the pew closest to the kerosene heater, she tucked her feet up under the blanket.
That little skirmish had helped her to forget, for just a few minutes, the sight of her brother falling into the mud after the gunshot. She squeezed her eyes shut and put her head in her hands.
“Sahara.”
She jerked her head up to glare at Ross.
He gave her a stern look that gradually turned into rage.
She didn’t know what to think when he clasped her chin and lifted her face, turning it toward the dim light, his gaze searching. “How did you bruise your face?”
“I got in the way of your friend’s fist.”
He straightened with a slow menace that had Olsen saying, “She tried to shoot me! It was the easiest way to disarm her.”
Sahara snapped, “You’d just shot my brother! Of course I wanted to shoot you. In fact, I still do.”
Olsen huffed. “You see? She’s nuts.”
Fury got her off the bench. Her bare feet on the dirty floor sent a chill climbing straight through to her heart. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you, Olsen. You’re the sexist pig who feels superior to women.”
Olsen reared back. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“When you helped kidnap me the first time, I remember everything you said. I knew right then you were an insecure, ignorant—”
“That’s enough.” Ross forcibly pressed her back in her seat with a withering look that clearly said cease and desist.
“He started it.”
“For the love of... Stay put.” Assuming she’d obey, he turned away and said to the men, “Anyone else touch her, for any reason, and he’ll be dealing with me. Are we clear?”
After a collective bobbing of heads in the affirmative, Ross wanted explanations of what had gone down.
Sahara could hear them explaining the chaos of the evening, how they’d intended to take Scott.
Ross clearly wasn’t happy, especially since, according to what he said, her brother really had paid the money owed. Somehow, he’d gotten into Ross’s apartment and left it there for him to find.
“Why didn’t you tell us you got the money?” Andy asked.
“I wasn’t sure if it was a trap. I didn’t want to drag you all into it until I was sure no one had followed me.”