Debra Webb - In His Touch Box Set (Here To Stay, Up Close, Tempting Trace, Basic Instincts) (20 page)

Others? Routine?
Fear coursed through her veins, turning her blood to ice. The man had to be insane. How could this happen in a rural Southern community? Weren’t these people supposed to be upright and God-fearing down here? If she were at home, Abby would almost understand it. Crazy things happened every day on the teeming streets of a major metropolitan area.

But here?

In the Bible Belt?

“Don’t tell me you’re bashful,” he said incredulously when she hesitated. The cowboy rolled his eyes as if that simply couldn’t be possible, then turned his back, muttering something she didn’t quite catch. With his back to her, she scanned the room once more for a possible avenue of escape or for anything she might use as a weapon. There were a couple of wooden tables, a half-dozen or so chairs, and not much else.

A rebel flag draped most of one wall. Deer heads mounted on wooden plaques graced the opposite wall, dead monuments to someone’s hunting skills. She darted a nervous glance at the cowboy’s wide backside. Not
his
skills, she hoped. She swallowed hard as her panicked imagination produced a vivid image of her own head on an oak plaque. She shook off the bizarre vision and forced herself to think. She had to get out of here! An open doorway led into what appeared to be a kitchen. On the far side of the room was a closed door that might lead outside. Abby gauged the distance between her position and the door, then measured it against the few feet that separated her from the man. No way could she outrun him without a sizable head start. He might be large but he moved fast.

But she’d damn well better try.

Abby bolted for the door. Her heart slammed against her ribs and her legs felt as heavy as lead, but she ran at least a few steps.

Before she’d gotten halfway to the door, a strong, beefy hand closed around her arm and jerked her back. “What the hell are you doing?”

Before she could manage a plausible response, he shook her, then glared at her. “We don’t have time for games.” He dragged her back to the center of the room and snatched up the black lacy thing she’d abandoned. He drew his gun from its holster. Instantly, Abby shrank from the threat, but he only pushed up the brim of his one-size-too-large hat with the barrel. “Now, are you going to change or do I have to do it for you?” He muttered an oath. “Luke never mentioned how unruly you’d be.”

Luke? Who the hell was Luke? She didn’t know anyone named Luke. Reluctantly, she did the only thing she could. She took the slip from him and began taking off her clothes, unbuttoning her jacket first. Apparently satisfied that she intended to obey, and displaying a single glimmer of compassion, her captor turned his back once more.

Abby steeled herself against the suffocating panic that squeezed her chest. She refused to give in to the fear. She had to think rationally right now. But rational was the one thing she didn’t feel as she shrugged out of her linen suit jacket and dropped it to the floor.

A stranger in town, she could be missing for weeks before anyone figured out what happened to her—if they figured it out at all. Her editor wouldn’t consider her missing in action for at least a week. And that was her own fault. She was notorious for taking off on assignment and not checking in regularly.

She wriggled into the slip before the man turned around.

She was doomed. Abigail Wade, up-and-coming reporter for
Up Close
magazine, was going to meet her untimely end at the age of twenty-six in the middle of nowhere. If by some act of Divine intervention she survived this close encounter of the backwoods kind, she was never going to speak to Jim Strickland, her editor and supposed friend, again as long as she lived.

He had picked her for this assignment. This was entirely his fault.

A long, low whistle jerked Abby’s attention back to the present. Facing her now, the man leered at her, from the top of her auburn curls to the toes of her bare feet. “Mm-hmm. That’ll do just fine.” He grinned wickedly, then pointed his gun in the direction of her discarded clothes. “Put the shoes back on and kick the rest over against the wall.”

Abby obediently slid on her black high heels and shoved her rumpled traveling clothes toward the wall as he’d instructed. If she played along, he would let his guard down eventually. Then she’d make another move.

“Hot damn,” he said, giving her body another survey. “You’re even prettier than Luke said.”

Luke again. Who the hell was Luke? “I don’t know any Luke. You’ve made a mistake.” Why wouldn’t he listen to her?

Car doors slammed outside, drawing his attention to the window. “They’re here!” He smiled conspiratorially at Abby. “We’re just about ready to get this show on the road.”

She wrapped her arms around her middle and prayed for a miracle. A miracle with a badge and a much bigger gun than the one this creep held. Tears pricked her eyes. Her lips trembled and the rest of her body followed suit. Headlines flashed through her mind.
Dead journalist found in wilderness wearing next to nothing—lingerie cult suspected
. Oh, God, she’d never live down the publicity. Abby shook herself. What was she thinking? She wouldn’t have to live it down, she’d be dead! Nausea left a bitter taste in her mouth as the floor seemed to shift beneath her shaky legs.

Suddenly seeing the entire situation with an eerie kind of clarity, hysteria bubbled into her throat. The whole thing would be almost funny—if it were happening in the movies or in a book. She stiffened her spin and lifted her chin. But it was happening to
her
and she damned well intended to do something. She
would
escape—somehow.

Abby snapped to attention when the cowboy swung open the door and four more men entered, leading a fifth man who had been blindfolded.

Was that man here against his will as well? What did this creep and his friends intend to do with him? A sick thought entered her mind, and Abby suppressed it before her too-vivid, scared-witless imagination could expand upon it. They would have to kill her before she would do anything with that man or any of the others. She surveyed the rakish group. All were dressed in western wear, even the one who’d been blindfolded. Spurs rattled and boot heels scraped across the hardwood floor toward the tables.

“Where’s Luke?” her captor asked the new arrivals.

“He’ll be here soon, we’re supposed to start without him,” one of the men replied.

Her captor shrugged and walked past Abby to the kitchen. She shivered when the sleeve of his cotton shirt brushed her bare arm. She closed her eyes and told herself over and over that this couldn’t be real, but when she opened her eyes the reality of what was happening hit her hard.

This was as real as it gets!

Like a network channel news break, a dozen snippets of unspeakable crimes flashed through her mind in vivid 3D. Every unsolved kidnapping and murder she’d ever heard of came to mind, and fear tightened its mighty grip around her pounding heart.

The man wearing the blindfold was lead to a table and ushered into a chair. The others took seats as well. Abby ignored the wolf calls and suggestive remarks tossed in her direction.

Before she could think what to do next, music wafted from the kitchen, and the cowboy who’d yanked her kicking and screaming into this nightmare, returned with a six-pack of beer in each hand. He plunked the beer onto the table, sat down next to the blindfolded man and popped a top on a can. Abby swallowed against the harsh lump of dread that made breathing difficult. Her predicament only worsened with each passing moment.

“Help yourselves, boys. The show’s about to begin.” He winked at Abby and turned the can up for a long drink.

Abby trembled violently. Helpless, she watched as he removed the blindfold from the man sitting next to him. She stilled completely when piercing blue eyes tangled with hers. The newly unmasked man smiled hesitantly and somehow she felt oddly reassured. He wore his brown hair in that short almost spikey style associated with soldiers and cops. He looked fit and strong with broad shoulders. She would remember this guy and if she ever got out of this alive he would regret not using all that muscle to come to her rescue.

“Okay, baby.” Abby jumped. Her kidnapper stood right next to her, speaking for her ears only. “I want you to dance like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”

Abby’s pulse skittered and dizziness threatened her grasp on any semblance of control.
The last thing she’d ever do
.

Oh, God.

The cowboy gave her a curt nod and Abby willed her body into motion. The rowdy group roared into action, hooting and hollering what they no doubt considered encouragements. The man who had been led in by the others sat still as a statue, his eyes intent on her every move.

This was bad. Really bad. Abby closed her eyes and forced herself to do as she had been told. And to think. There had to be a way out of this.

There had to be.

~*~

“Take it off, baby!” Roger shouted over the loud throb of the erotic music.

Matthew shook his head at his buddy’s exuberance. Though he tried to pretend the woman moving so sensuously before him didn’t affect him, he couldn’t have been more affected. She was beautiful. Gorgeous, sun-kissed strawberry curls flowed over her slender shoulders. The skimpy black slip or dress she wore hardly left anything to the imagination. He couldn’t recall having ever seen legs that great. Her full breasts swayed beneath the silky fabric. Where on earth had Luke found this hot little number?

As if reading Matthew’s mind, Roger leaned over and said, “Happy birthday, buddy.”

“You guys are crazy,” Matthew told him without taking his eyes off the woman. But you’ve got damned good taste, he didn’t add. No sense in pumping up his friends’ already over-inflated egos.

“Hey, Luke, ‘bout time you got here!” Roger shouted, announcing the arrival of the only missing member of their tight little group.

Matthew reluctantly dragged his gaze from the breathtaking woman just long enough to acknowledge Luke’s presence. Luke stood stock-still, his gaze riveted to the lovely dancer.

Frowning, Luke returned to Roger. “Who the hell is she?”

“She’s the dancer you hired, who the hell do you think?” Roger shot back crossly.

Luke snorted. “No, she isn’t. I’ve never seen that woman before in my life.”

Roger’s exuberant expression fell. “I picked her up at Matthew’s just like you told me. I brought her here and had her put on the outfit per your exact instructions.”

Luke scrubbed a hand over his face and glared at Roger. “Not Matthew’s place, you idiot. You were supposed to pick her up at Matt Hugh’s,” he ground out. “Also known as Matt’s father, remember?”

Matthew looked from Luke to Roger, then back at the woman in the enticing get-up. For the first time he noticed the slight tremble and jerky movements of the supposedly professional dancer. Why hadn’t he noticed her nervousness before? Because he’d been too busy admiring her numerous physical attributes, Matthew admitted with self-disgust.

If she wasn’t the dancer, then who was she?

A sick feeling abruptly hit Matthew low in the gut. “What day is it?” he blurted out, a sudden fear seizing his guts and twisting.

Luke creased his brow. “Friday. Hell it’s your birthday, man. How could you forget that date? Friday, the thirteenth.”

“Oh, my God,” Matthew muttered. He stood on rubbery legs, rounded the table and took the eight steps that separated him from the dancer. Bracing for all hell to break loose, he reached out and tapped her on the shoulder. Her green eyes widened, and she stared back at him in utter fear. Oh Jesus. “Abby Wade?”

She hesitated, then nodded, her eyes growing suspiciously bright.

“Oh, my God,” he repeated. Matthew rubbed a hand over his face, through his hair and down to massage his neck. He met the woman’s fearful gaze and wished he were anybody but who he was at the moment. “I’m Matthew Stone.”

The music stopped abruptly and absolute silence filled the room.

“You?” she croaked. She looked from him to the other men in the room, shock and outrage pushing aside all signs of fear and fragility.

Matthew only nodded, no words could squeeze out around the lump in his throat. His well-meaning friends had physically restrained, and forced to perform in a near naked state, the journalist who had flown all the way from New York City to interview him for
Up Close
magazine.

~*~

As Abby paced the gleaming hardwood floor of Matthew Stone’s parlor, she waffled between wanting to physically assault him, and wanting to call the police and have him and all his accomplices arrested. She glared at him each time she passed his position. He stood near a large wingback chair, concern marring his handsome features, tension stiffening his tall frame. He had apologized profusely, as had his friends.

Alternately talking at once and finishing each other’s sentences, the group had explained that today was Matthew’s thirtieth birthday. They had orchestrated this little cowboy costume party, complete with a dancing girl, in celebration. Matthew had had nothing to do with planning any of it. A simple miscommunication had sent Roger to Matthew’s house to pick up the woman he assumed was the dancer, rather than to his father’s, Matt Hugh’s.

What the hell was wrong with these people? Abby seethed. Did everyone below the Mason-Dixon Line feel some sort of warped compulsion to pass their own name or some variation thereof to their children?

Abby stopped and glared at him. “Your pal Roger should have told me that the gun he kept sticking in my face wasn’t real! I don’t know about here, but where I come from guns are no laughing matter.”

Matthew moistened his lips and smiled crookedly. Despite her anger, and to her complete chagrin, she found him wildly appealing. Immensely annoyed, she willed her runaway heart to slow. She never had reactions like this to cocky men—especially not when one was the subject of an interview.

Especially this interview.

“He thought you were playing up your part, so he got a little carried away with his.”

“A
little
carried away?” Abby rolled her eyes and huffed her disbelief. “The man should win an award for his performance. And what about you, why did they blindfold you?”