“I need to pee.” She nodded at the hallway. “Can you take these off so I can go? Wasn’t there a door back there in the hallway? To a downstairs loo?”
“Yeah, very perceptive of you. But no, the cuffs stay.”
Again she pouted.
He stepped up to her and clasped her chin in his big hand. “Don’t give me that look, you’ve lost all of my trust this evening and it’s going to take some time to earn back.”
The urge to stamp her foot was strong, but she resisted.
“And yes, through there.” He released her. “I’ll make coffee.”
She turned, hugely annoyed that she hadn’t managed to persuade him to remove her cuffs. Once in the hallway she peeked over her shoulder. Griff was standing beside a fancy coffee machine, his attention firmly on it.
Stealthily she reached the front door, lifted the knob of the bolt, and carefully slid it free. Gripping the key, she held her breath and turned it.
Click.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” A big hand slammed against the door and frame, gluing it in place.
Her heart skipped a beat as she stared at the fan of hairs going over his wrist to his forearm.
“It’s the middle of the goddamn night,” he said, his breath hot by her ear. “Pitch black out there.”
“Yes, and you’re holding me prisoner.”
“For your own good.” He jammed the bolt in place and re-turned the key. With his arm wrapped around her waist, a band of steel, he hauled her into the kitchen again.
She trotted a few fast paces, knowing she couldn’t fight him off. “I’m going to put in an official complaint about you,” she snapped. “This is no way to treat... oh!”
He’d hauled her arms upward, elongating her torso and making her stand onto tiptoes.
When she yanked her arms they were trapped, stuck. Looking upward she saw why. He’d hooked the cuffs over a brass chain suspended from one of the ceiling beams.
“Used to have a plant hanging on it,” he said, tipping his head, the right side of his mouth twitching as though amused by her surprised expression. “Plant died, now it has you on it.”
“Get me off it.” She tried to go higher, to lift the link over the hook, but she was already at full stretch. It was no good.
“Who’d have thought,” he said, “it’s the perfect height for you, Ava.”
Now she really did feel trapped and vulnerable. Her breasts rose and fell beneath her purple dress and her legs ached, they were so stretched.
“And just where would you have gone?” he asked. “If you’d got out of the front door.”
“Away from here, you madman.” She glared at him.
“Madman.” He nodded and undid the next button on his shirt. “Odd that I’m the madman considering you’re the party girl still relying on Daddy’s money.”
“How dare you?”
“So what do you do to earn a living?” He paused. “Or don’t I want to know?”
“I’m not a damn whore.” Truth was her father dumped a few thousand into her account each month. She’d long come to accept it was his guilty conscience money, and he could afford it, so where was the harm?
He reached the last button on his shirt and dragged it off, the material sliding over his balled shoulders.
Ava swallowed, forgetting her predicament for a moment. She was never short of handsome men to while away a few hours with, but Griff was in a different league. Powerful and tanned with thick dark body hair and a perfectly flat abdomen. He was what male models should look like. A perfect specimen.
He set his uniform shirt beside his stab vest then took off his socks. Barefoot, he walked to the island and pulled open a large drawer.
For a moment he studied the contents, then selected an implement.
As he withdrew it, Ava saw it was a flat black plastic spatula, the sort for flipping eggs. She swallowed. There was something edgy about the way he was walking toward her holding it.
“The trouble is, Ava,” he said, sliding his hand into the dip of her waist, then letting his touch drop to her hemline. “You never had any discipline growing up.”
