Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (41 page)

Bradshaw laughed. “Give me a couple of hours,” he said, disconnecting the call.

Howard Dyson grinned. He was prepared. Anticipated his involvement. Stashed appropriate clothing and weapons in the modest front end cargo space of his German sports car. When Bradshaw called, and he was sure he would, all he had to do was gear up and he’d be ready. Firing up the Porsche, he buckled his seat belt and peeled out of Kate’s Diner onto the highway, heading back to the Press.

ABOUT TWO HOURS BEFORE THE COMMANDER IS SCHEDULED TO ARRIVE.

Jewels’ eyes flickered open.

Doctor Leo Callahan hovered over her, staring.

As if entering the brilliance of sunlight from the darkness of a movie house, she squinted back at him.

“Time to get ready,” he said, his hands crammed deep into the lab coat pockets, his face void of emotion.

Feeling as though a herd of wildebeests had stampeded through her skull, her head throbbed. Wanting to massage her thumping forehead, she attempted to raise her arms, but the psycho restraints swallowing up her entire body thwarted her efforts and she knew better than to fight them.

“Julia, first I’m gonna go over what needs to occur to get you ready for the Commander. Then I’m going to explain the two options available to you. Understand?”

Her face a study of desolation, she nodded in agreement.

“You have to look your best. That means you must shower, get dressed, fix your hair and put on your makeup. We need you to look like an elegant beauty queen. You’ll notice while you were sleeping we had your broken acrylic nails repaired. That should give you an indication about how perfect we want you to appear.”

“Did you happen to
repair
the bruises on my wrists and ankles while you were at it?” she asked acidly.

Ignoring her sarcasm, “Now here’s where you have a choice. You may choose to cooperate and take care of preparations yourself. Or, you may choose to be uncooperative, in which case we are prepared and willing to use whatever force is necessary to accomplish the task,” he said, tipping his head toward the entry.

Straining her head forward, she peered at the door. Two men filled the frame. One was Marshall. Didn’t recognize the other. His face was hidden behind a black leather mask, zipper open at the mouth. The mask was frighteningly familiar. Reminded her of Tank and the first time she saw him in her kitchen, right before he nearly decapitated her dog with a big ass knife.

But this masked man was nothing at all like the towering, muscular Tank who was built solid like a bull mastiff. Besides being a caucasian, this guy was much shorter and had a beer-belly that stuck out nearly as far as a woman about to give birth. Still, the sight of him in the demon mask caused goosebumps to sprout over her body.

To Callahan: “Well, jeez. Let me see...,” Jewels’ voice dripped with sarcasm. Pausing, as if deliberating the pros and cons of her choices, she smartly replied, “I think I’ll choose to get dressed
without
the help of the Bondage Master over there and his lumberjack side kick.”

An idiotic grin bloomed on Callahan’s face. “Whatever you want,” he said, unbuckling the first of the five imposing straps completely immobilizing her body.

Lying there like a sedate patient, Jewels mentally audited her situation. Time was ticking away as was hope of a prompt rescue. Although her attempts to reach Agent Hines and Sheriff Clarkston had apparently been thwarted, the fact the highly regarded Militia Threat Assessment Force was now
somehow
involved rallied her confidence. Perhaps the badass boys of law enforcement would storm the compound and save her in the nick of time, before the Commander whisked her away. Then again, maybe not.

Conceivably, if she were to be saved, she would end up having to do the saving herself, though preferably with at least
some
assistance from Marshall Watters. But since he lugged her out of Cooman’s office, he had offered zero help. Actually did the exact opposite. Probably best if she didn’t count on him at all.

Callahan cleared his throat, attracting her attention as he was about to remove the final strap binding her to the table. “If you try anything cute, or if you’re not preparing yourself to our expectations, I guarantee you will experience all the
bondage master
and his
lumberjack side-kick
have to offer,” he warned, nodding toward the men leaning against the door frame.

Cranking her head forward, she whispered, “It’s not too late to do the right thing. My five million dollar offer is still valid.”

Callahan’s eyes ached with regret. “I’m sorry, but I’m forced to do whatever they tell me. My daughter’s life depends on it.”

Jewels’ face lost expression, giving Callahan an understanding nod.

“Now go get ready,” he said, unbuckling the last restraint.

Warm streams of water pulsated from the shower head, soothing her bruised and aching body like the gentle massage of a thousand tiny sponges. Eyes closed, body relaxed, “Ahhhhh,” she sighed, lingering in the water’s rejuvenating energy.

The shower area was modest, of the phone-booth variety. A pebble-glass pivot door corroded with lime deposits offered privacy within the inexpensive molded plastic insert surrounding the remaining three sides. But, as far as Jewels was concerned, it offered no less than a custom, inlaid tile shower in an upscale relaxation retreat.

Nevertheless, Jewels’ reality was anything but relaxing. More like a prisoner on death row. Tick tock. Tick tock. An innocent woman condemned. Torture to occur in mere hours. Precious minutes speeding away. Sentence drawing closer and closer. Avenues seeking a
stay,
so far denied.

Rescue by the FBI seemed out of the question. Sheriff Clarkston had been murdered, obviously killing
that
option. And the MTAF may or may not arrive in time to save her from the clutches of the demented Commander. Even Doc Callahan, one of her potential allies, was now counted out. Was she doomed? No. Couldn’t give up hope.

Her mind strayed to thoughts of Marshall Watters.

Strange situation. Even with his apparent criminal history, and despite his recent callous treatment of her, she sensed he was too good of a person, too
normal,
to be mixed up with this group of violent misfits. Were her perceptions a psychological mishmash of Stockholm Syndrome or were they genuine?

Thinking back to Marshall’s discovery of her after Tank had left her unmolested in the cell, she closed her eyes. Leaning against the shower wall, warm water caressing the front of her body, she relived the feel of his strong arms enveloping her body. Massive hands gently stroking her back. Warm lips planting on her forehead ... suddenly her nipples tightened. Femininity moistened, tingled. A smile of exquisite pleasure flowered on her face. She
had
felt his compassion. His concern. His love? Desire consumed her at a magnitude she had not hungered for since Robert ...
Robert!

Reflexively she covered her breasts, crossed her legs, and opened her eyes as her face illuminated to a brilliant scarlet. An incriminating look erased the glow of excitement. Feelings of guilt swamped her, as if she’d been caught committing adultery.

“This is silly, Jewels,” she said, in verbal self-reprimand. “Robert is gone. And you’re trapped here. He would want you to be happy. And if the opportunity presented itself, he would want you to love again,” she rationalized. Sighing, she resolved escaping was more important than ever, not only for the sake of personal freedom, but for the opportunity to find love again. Once again her mental viewing screen was crammed with images of Marshall Watters. Without his shirt. Muscles rippling....

“Jewels?”

Marshall’s voice cut through the steam like the roar of a seven-forty-seven jet through a cloud. Startled her. Caused her to jump.

“Yes?” she replied, biting her lip to hold back a giggle. Marshall had essentially busted her fantasizing about him.

“Don’t have all day, you know,” he reminded her.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Time
was
running out. “Be right out,” Jewels replied, turning off the water and peeking over the top of the shower door.

Marshall stood in the open doorway to the bathroom, his back to her. Broad shoulders filled the entry like a pile of neatly stacked bricks. When the time came, would Marshall allow her to fall into the clutches of the psycho Commander?

Grabbing the white bath sheet hanging on a hook just outside the shower door, she remained in the shower and toweled off. Once again, her mind wandered back to romantic dreams of Marshall Watters. But the same old thoughts continued to plague her: could her feelings, desires, and hopes be nothing more than a product of Stockholm Syndrome?

Still vacillating in indecision regarding Marshall Watters, confusion invaded her soul. Didn’t know what to think anymore. Only one thing was certain: she had to come up with an escape plan. But exactly what? If she only knew, for sure, whether or not Marshall Watters could be counted on for assistance. Such knowledge, either way, would play a major role in her escape plan, whatever
that
ended up being.

The dark curtains of confusion slowly parted as she birthed an idea: quiz Marshall! Pondering the litmus test idea, she decided to hit him with a point-blank, simple question: Will you help me escape? Depending on his answer she’d execute either Plan A or Plan B.

Doc Callahan suddenly popped into her head, specifically the
reason
he said he couldn’t help her and was bound to perform whatever tasks SPOF asked of him. The notion trashed her heart. What if Marshall had a daughter, or wife he was protecting?

A blister of jealously swelled within Jewels’ bosom. Realizing it, she quickly popped it. Had to concentrate on winning her freedom.

“You okay in there?” Marshall called over his shoulder.

“Uh, yeah,” she replied, wrapping the bath sheet around her body and snatching the regular-sized bath towel from the hook on the opposite side of the door to fluff her hair.

Mulling over her escape plan options, she concluded weapons were needed to give
any
plan a thimble-sized chance of success. An AR-15 topped her weapon wish list. Probably unrealistic to obtain. Better settle for a handgun. But where would she get one? Doc didn’t carry. Marshall, as usual, was unarmed. And Bondage Master didn’t appear to be packing either. “Hmph,” she huffed disappointed. “Guess I’ll have to MacGyver it,” she whispered to herself.

With her body and head wrapped in towels, she stepped out of the shower, padded to the beat-up laminate counter. A six-foot-by-four-foot mirror—a
real
mirror, not like the shiny metal square in her cell—spanned the length the counter and rose to just beneath the bank of simple light fixtures near the ceiling. If she stepped away from the counter a few feet, the mirror reflected a full-body view.

On the counter, an array of beauty products and hair styling items were neatly lined up: a blow dryer, curling iron, jar of leave-in hair conditioner, can of aerosol hair spray, toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, stick of deodorant, bottle of lotion, vial of perfume, and a variety of containers of makeup. Shaking her head, “Not a heck of a lot to work with for potential weapons,” she whispered to herself, but decided just like MacGyver, she’d make do.

“Are you close to being ready?” Marshall called over his shoulder.

Next to the counter, sexy undergarments were neatly draped on hangers from the clothing hooks lining the wall. “Uh, getting there,” she said, snatching the white lacy thong panties and strapless matching push-up bra off the hangers and climbing into them. Next to the undergarments, an elegant white gown and stockings. A pair of pointed toe white satin, slingback high heels were parked on the floor under the dress.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER. After creating an updo of sexy curls piled high on her head, with soft curls flowing around her face, she heavily misted it with hair spray. Next, she dabbed a touch of shimmering finishing powder on her cheekbones and generously sprinkled it across her chest and shoulders. As she primped, her eyes were drawn to the dark bruises on her wrists that looked like tattoos manifesting blurry halos from the outline of indistinguishable
art
. Though unsightly, the blemishes were too big to attempt to cover with concealing cream, which would surely just rub off on the dress anyway. Ignoring the distraction Tank’s brutal ropes had etched, she snapped on dainty button pearl earrings. Almost ready for the dress, she carefully pulled on the thigh-high sun tone colored stockings, making her tanned legs sparkle. A wide white band of lacy spandex held the stockings in place. Finally, she slipped into the gown.

Stepping back for a full length view, she peered at herself in the mirror. The gown was strapless. Sweetheart neckline. Empire waist. Embellishments on the bodice. Slight flaring A-line skirt with a brush train. Admittedly, she looked smashing. Surely those barbarians wouldn’t consider strapping her down to Callahan’s psycho table again. That would totally mess up her hair and wrinkle the spectacular gown. Then again, maybe the disheveled look would be for the best. And, with no doubt in her mind, the sexy dress would be readily sacrificed for freedom if necessary.

Inhaling a deep, courage-mustering breath, it was time to administer the litmus test to Marshall Watters. Scooping up one of the spike heels in her right hand, she cleared her throat and tapped Marshall on the back, who had stood in the open doorway the entire time she was showering and dressing. As far as she knew, he hadn’t even taken a peek, though she really wouldn’t have minded if he had. “Will you please give me hand?”