Living On The Edge

“It’s not fancy, I’ll admit,” he said, “but I thought it looked decent enough. Are you disagreeing with me?”

Madison jumped when she heard his voice and turned on the chair. “What? You startled me.”

He jerked his head toward the wall. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m looking for the cameras,” she said. “Is there anywhere in this room where I can go and not be watched?”

It took him a couple of seconds to make sense of her words. When he did, anger quickly followed.

“You think I’m spying on you?” he asked, annoyance tightening his voice.

She’d slept hard—her hair was mussed and there was a crease in her right cheek. She was wrinkled, in need of a shower and still pretty sleep deprived. But she stared back with a defiance that earned his grudging respect.

“What else should I think?” she asked, shaking her bracelet-clad wrist at him. “This place is more secure than my local bank vault. You’ve got a computer telling me where I can and can’t go. Special screens on the windows so I can’t escape. I’m your prisoner. Why wouldn’t you spy on me?”

“Because I don’t need to get my rocks off by watching you prance around in your underwear.”

He dropped the package on the bed, crossed to the chair and grabbed her around the waist. Before she could react, he’d lowered her to the ground. He had a brief impression of heat and a too-thin body lacking curves before he released her and stepped away.

She glared at him. “I could have gotten down on my own.”

“I’m sure you could have.”

He took her hand in his and dragged her out of the room. She sputtered in protest but didn’t pull away. As they approached the control room, he pulled a remote from his pocket and hit a button to deactivate the system. Then he brought her to the control panel, released her hand and pointed.

She rubbed her fingers and ignored the monitor. “Is there a reason you don’t try asking me to go with you first? I assure you my intent is to cooperate. There’s no need to be dragging and lifting all the time.”

“Are you complaining about your treatment?”

“Yes.”

“So noted.”

Her gaze narrowed, and he could tell she wondered if the notation meant anything. He decided to keep her guessing about that, if nothing else.

“You’re not looking,” he said, still pointing to the monitor.

“At what?” She turned slowly and stared at the screen.

The picture showed a floor plan of the house, with all the rooms labeled. Exactly in the center of the room named Control Center stood a red dot.

“I’m the dot?” she asked.

“Walk around and find out.”

She did as he suggested, moving to the window, then back toward the door. The dot on the screen moved with her.

Her attention shifted from the computer to him. “No pictures?” she asked.

“Not even a camera.”

“I’m transmitting to that screen through the bracelet?”

He nodded.

“Oh.” She glanced down at her wrist, then back at him. “It was a logical conclusion.”

Her eyes were blue. He’d registered the fact before but hadn’t paid any attention to them. Now he saw they were a deep, true color. She was pale—maybe from lack of sleep or food. Whatever the reason, her scar seemed more pronounced. Again he wondered why she hadn’t gotten it fixed.

She had the kind of hair teenage boys daydreamed about—straight, long and blond. Even with the scar she was beautiful. Not that he was interested.

“Logical,” he agreed. “But I’m not the kind of guy who likes to watch.”

Her delicate eyebrows rose. “I thought all men were into that.”

He allowed himself a smile. “Maybe under different circumstances. Not like this.”

“Good to know.” She glanced around the room. “Do I get to find out what this equipment is for?”

“It’s computers mostly. Some tracking equipment. I have a monitoring system for the house.”

“No one gets in, no one gets out?”

“Not on my shift.”

She walked to the window and looked out. He knew the view was little more than some lawn and a high fence topped with razor wire.

“Do you live here?” she asked, still looking out.

“No. I told you, it’s a safe house.”

“Who else do you bring here?”

“Sorry. That information is classified.”

“Of course.” She nodded. “But it does make me wonder. What exactly do you do with your life that you own a house like this?”

“I prepare in advance for whatever my clients might need.”

She walked back toward him. “Who’s your client now? Me? Christopher?”

“I’m winging it.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does that often.”

He shrugged. “I try to be flexible.”

Their eyes met. He read questions in hers. No fear, though, which he respected. She wasn’t what he’d thought. Maybe not as useless as most women like her. She had backbone and more than a little—