Page 6 of Tangled With the Wrong Guy
But Chloe quickly realised her mistake. This guy was tall and strong. He deflected the next attempt and grabbed her arm.His grip was a vice. ‘No you don’t,’ he growled, his fingers digging in. Still holding onto her, he bent down and picked up the chain that had fallen out of the backpack. And something else.
‘Let me GO!’ she screeched.
The others cheered again.
‘You need to learn some respect,’ he said, scooping Chloe up then dropping her heavily on the ground beside the groom. ‘Like I said, we’ll come back for you later.’
As she tried to struggle back onto her feet, he deftly chained her wrist to the groom’s, which was poking out of the bottom of the plastic, wrapping the length of metal round once, twice … and then he secured it with a padlock –CLICK– held up the key for all to see, and put it in his pocket.
Shit!
‘You can’t DO this! And you won’t be able to get back in!’
‘Think yourself lucky we spared you the cling film,’ he replied, packing up his bag.
‘Laters!’ called another, as the four fake Frenchmen headed for the exit, singing, ‘A Frenchman went to the laaaavatory…’
Chapter Three
The sound of singing faded into the distance, and now there was only the gentle rustle of leaves in the chewing gum tree, and the faraway hum of Paris traffic.
Chloe leaned back against the rough bark, hoping gum wouldn’t stick to her shirt. Most of it looked ancient and solid. She shifted a little, so her bottom rested in a dip between the tree roots. Already she was uncomfortable.
The silence stretched out. Surely those morons wouldn’t leave their friend here, practically comatose? They’d send a security guard to release him, or would persuade one to leave a gate open for an extra half hour and come back for him themselves?
Probably not that second option. She imagined them explaining their prank in slurred English, looking likethat. The guard would probably lock them in too.
Chloe’s eyes lit on her vomit-splattered feet and flowers. Thank goodness that nasty piece of work had dropped her on the sick-free side of the cling-filmed lump.
That lump groaned, and then there was a muffled ‘Fuck’.
She ignored it. She’d just sit here until help arrived. It surely would.
‘Sorry.’
Still she didn’t respond.
‘About being sick. And Rohan.’ He’d lifted his head and was speaking more clearly. ‘You’re right. He’s a wanker.’
She shook her head. She wouldn’t engage.
‘Wha’s your name?’
Silence.
‘K. Fair enough. Don’t think they’ll be back, though. We’ll probably be here all night.’
Now she paid attention. ‘What?’
‘They’ll head to a strip club, and at some point one of them will remember –duh– I’m not there, and then they’ll try and break back in and probably impale themselves on those spikes on the wall.’
Chloe blew out a breath. ‘How could they be so irresponsible? You could’ve choked on your own vomit, or suffocated or something, left here alone, wrapped in plastic like that.’ She paused. ‘How come you’re suddenly coherent?’
‘I haven’t actually drunk that much. Alcohol disagrees with me. They poured that French stuff down me. Whassit called? Like the Cornish things. Pasties. I should be okay now I’ve thrown up.’
Jesus.
‘You know, youcanjust say no,’ she snapped. ‘Or pace yourself or whatever. It’s not compulsory to get paralytic on your stag do.’
