Page 5 of Captured

His eyes narrowed as Lauren came back into view. They were close enough to target that he could hand off her escort to one of his men, if she gave him any trouble from here on out. Now he needed to head back to the ONSF home base at the back of the palace, not the front doors.

The American walked by him, and as if she sensed him staring at her, burst into another panicked run. But he could see her steps were less solid now, her footing less sure. He sprang out of the alley and caught her as she sprawled forward, headlong, his hands clamping around soft curves and rounded muscles as she gasped. He pulled her upright, bracing her against him. “Easy does it, princess. That little jog is going to speed up the effects of thetsipouro.”

“Let go of me—” Her voice was clipped, or would have been without the alcohol. The booze wasn’t masking her fury now. She’d been stupid, and she’d been caught. He wasn’t sure which pissed her off more. She turned back toward him, battering her free hand against his chest. “I said, let go!”

Dimitri's pocket rattled a second time, and he shook Lauren hard enough that she stopped. “Look, princess, you’re drunk, it’s late, and I’m your ride home. This isn’t America, and you don’t get to vote.”

She blanched, shocked at his anger or his nearness, he didn’t know. He didn’t have a chance to ask either.

She slumped toward the ground, a deadweight.

This time well and truly passed out.

Just as his cell buzzed again.

Three

Lauren’s eyes blinked open, and she forced herself to remain completely still, the waves of vertigo doing more to pin her to the bed than...

Wait a minute. Bed?

A familiar voice floated over her, but it did nothing to reassure her. Dimitri Korba was speaking in rapid Oûrois, his words delivered in the same brusque, professional tone that she’d heard him speak when he’d been hauling her and her friends through Oûros’s back country this past week, keeping them out of the spotlight of the paparazzi. Them, or more to the point, Emmaline, who’d made a splash with her whirlwind romance with the prince of the realm.

Figures that Em gets the prince and I get the frog.But she honestly wasn’t upset about that. Emmaline had been dealing with so much for so long, while Lauren’s life was damned near perfect. She didn’t have the right to complain about anything. Not when in almost all cases, she had the ability to change her circumstances or walk away without thinking twice. Of course, that “almost” was an issue, but not tonight. Tonight she simply had to get back to the palace. Right after she could see normally again.

Another burst of chatter, this time not Dimitri, refocused her. He was talking to someone on some sort of screen, standing near enough to touch. She shifted the minutest inch, then froze.

Something was around her now-bare foot, tethering her to the bed.

It wasn’t thick or clunky—not a manacle. But it wasn’t a heavy rope either. Zip tie? Twine? Whatever it was, it was attached to the bed or the post and was silent. So not a chain, not metal. Had to be plastic or cord of some sort.

Fury ripped through her, followed closely by outrage and embarrassment. She was to blame here, dammit. She’d gotten herself into this predicament. The last thing she remembered was running past Dimitri, sprawling forward, then...nothing.

The asshole clearly had hauled her here like a sack of grain.

And where washere, anyway? She squinted at her surroundings without moving her head. They were in some kind of office. She wasn’t on a bed after all, but a low, flat couch, the kind of thing that could double as a cot if need be. The room was utilitarian, some kind of command outpost. A desk, a chair, this cot thing, and electronics. Dimitri hadn’t turned on the light, probably hoping she stayed asleep until he finished whatever he was doing. Then he would cut her loose and get her back to the castle.

At least, that was what she assumed he was going to do.

How dare he tie me up at all?

Another bolt of irritation cut through more of her fog. She tested her wrists, her other foot—only one was attached to the bed. Only one needed to be, of course, to keep her in place. But why a foot? Why not her wrist?

The panic, she realized. Dimitri had realized that for her to wake up with her hands bound would be infinitely scarier, and he apparently hadn’t wanted her to be frightened. He’d simply wanted her to stay put.

Gee, how chivalrous.

But what were they doing here, anyway? As she turned her head slowly, Lauren realized that Dimitri was standing far closer to her than she first realized. Shielding himself with the chair, he stood at attention behind his giant desk, his eyes glued to the screen as he spoke. Whether he knew she was awake or not wasn’t material. He couldn’t look down, not with the focus of his supreme overlord on him, or whoever was on the screen. Cyril Gerou, she assumed, the chief advisor to the king and Dimitri’s boss.

So that explained why he wanted to keep her quiet. Probably wouldn’t be good form to reveal that he had a drunk, passed-out American in his little captain’s office or whatever this place was. And he might not want her to slip away while he was giving his report, but that was too bad. He’d definitely crossed the line by tying her to a freaking couch. She smiled, feeling better by the second. Because you just didn’t tie Americans to couches. So Dimitri would have to pay for that.

She reached out and tugged gently on his pants leg.

Right in the middle of his sentence.

To his credit, Dimitri didn’t flinch. The only reaction she noticed was him becoming, if possible, even stiffer, his muscles knotting beneath the thin cotton of his trousers. And she could tell those muscles were tense too, since she reached up with both hands to encircle his left thigh—and her fingers didn’t touch. His legs were tree trunks, and she imagined them, suddenly, beneath her, her own legs spilling over him, her hands on his chest.

Right. No.

---