Page 44 of Don't Be My Valentine

“You heard my threat about ripping your tongue out, right?”

“Anyway, is the whole Penelope Cruz thing supposed to be important to me?” I asked.

“Oh my god, this is why you should never date actors,” she said. “You don’t know the Cruz name.”

“I know the real Penelope Cruz.”

“I will kill you,” Pamela snapped. “Seriously.”

I pressed my lips together. Strangely, I wasn’t afraid, not even a bit. It was as if all the fear I was meant to have had been zapped from my body and brain by her weird reveal. She was just so comical, redheaded and busty and all over the place, that I couldn’t take her seriously.

“The Cruz name is sacred,” Pamela continued, striding across the concrete floor of the shack in high heels. Shit, they had to be full of sand. That couldn’t be comfortable.

Focus, Summer. You’re in danger.

“George Cruz is my father,” she said, sweeping her arm wide. “The owner of Cruz Security Enterprises. And your fuckbuddy has something he wants. Which means I now have to keep you. Because he wants you. God alone knows why.” She rolled her eyes.

“I mean, I’m not Penelope Cruz, but I’m no slouch.”

She glared at me murderously. “You think you’re so fucking smart. So funny. But I’m telling you, the minute this is all over and my dad has what he wants, I’m going to end your life. I’m going to drag the end of those shears over your throat and watch you bleed out like a pig in the sand.” She gestured toward the shears in the corner then switched off the light and slammed the door behind her.

Great parting shot.

How long did I have until she was back?

She had to have heard me stirring, which meant she was probably stationed outside. In those heels? Or maybe, it was someone else stationed outside, watching out for her.

I wasn’t seated in a chair but pressed up against the wall, my hands bound behind my back. But my feet were free to move around.

Think.

If I could get my hands on a weapon and free myself, I might be able to handle whoever was outside then get away. Simple. Pamela, Penelope, whatever her name was, didn’t look that strong, and goddamn, I’d been dancing and doing Pilates for the last five years. Bitch wouldn’t know what had hit her.

Carefully, I brought myself to my knees in the dark. My head still hurt like crazy, and it didn’t seem as if Pamela planned on giving me water any time soon, but fuck it. I shuffled through the dark, seeking out the dim outline of the…shears!

Of course. She was such a dumbass. She’d mentioned them about twenty times without thinking that maybe I’d use them to get out.

Clearly, her father, whoever he was, had overestimated her capabilities.

But that still left the question of how had she gotten into Emmy’s good graces in the first place. She was a bridesmaid in the wedding, for god’s sake.

The questions continued presenting themselves in my mind, even as I approached the shears. I contorted, bending so I got a good grip on them, and used both hands to leverage them open and feel for the twine in the dark. My fingers grazed the blade, and I sucked in a breath then held it, listening hard.

Nothing. I wasn’t cut, and whoever was out there hadn’t heard me moving around.

I released my breath slowly and closed the shears handles. There was a satisfying snip, and the bindings fell free. I moved my arms around to my front, rolled my shoulders, and brought myself up quickly.

Now for the hard part.

Tackling whoever was outside, literally or metaphorically.

You’ve got this. Keep calm. Deep breaths.

I took a second to stretch out my legs and arms and mentally curse Matt for being enemies with a psychopath. And not telling me about it. Not that I could blame him. Likely, he hadn’t realized anything like this would happen.

The door was easy to spot—an outline of light surrounded its four edges—and I paused beside it, listening to the rush of the ocean, the gentle breeze disturbing leaves out in the trees. A woman’s high heels clip-clopped back and forth outside.

Oh yeah, she was out there.

But was she alone?

I tightened my grip on the shears. I wouldn’t be able to stab her—I didn’t think I had the capability to do something like that. Unless, of course, she had a gun or a knife or something.

On three.

One.

Two.

The door opened in front of me before I’d even touched it. Pamela stood on the threshold, holding a jug of water. Her eyes widened and she let out a crow-like caw. “What are you—?”

“Hi,” I said then leaped on her. I tackled her to the ground, and she let out a squeal and dropped the water jug.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Matt

The shed they’d taken her to was about a mile from the hotel, sequestered between the trees along the beach. It was near a smaller resort, one that was a two-star according to every review site I’d checked out.

---