Shattered With You

Chapter Six

"Six minutes. You have six minutes to get into the office and online."

Shit. Two floors below and he had to break into the office and then boot up the computer.

"I'm really sorry about this, Eliza."

Her eyes widened as her mouth parted, either to spit again or to ask what he meant.

He didn't take the time to find out which. "But I need your help."

"What—" she began, but her question was cut off as he tugged her away from the door, and in one smooth motion spun her around and tossed her onto the bed. She yelped and started to rise, but he didn't give her the chance.

He moved fast, getting onto the bed and straddling her waist before she even had time to react. Then he leaned forward, drew a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs out of the bedside table, and said very simply, "Trust me."

***

"What the hell, Quincy!" He's holding fuzzy pink handcuffs in one hand and reaching for my arm with the other. With one quick, efficient movement, he snaps the cuff around my left wrist. "Trust you?" I kick, trying to dislodge him, but his knees are tight at my waist, like I'm a bucking bronco and he's a rodeo star. "I tried that, remember? And it didn't work out too well for me."

He's holding onto the free end of the cuff as he leans toward one of the metal bars that make up this party theme-compatible headboard. His hips rise a bit as he stretches, and I take advantage by bouncing my ass on the bed, then thrusting up, trying to dislodge him.

It doesn't work. All it does is upset his balance so that he falls on top of me, crushing my breasts as he knocks the wind out of me.

For one moment, he hovers over me, his lips slightly parted as his breath comes hard and fast. His eyes are locked on mine, his pupils dilated. I can see his pulse beating at his temple, and I can smell his cologne. That's what does it. That's what finally makes my muscles go slack in surrender—that familiar scent that I'd once associated with feeling safe and warm and loved.

"Quincy," I whisper, at the same time I hear a sharp, distinctive, click, and he sits back, once against straddling my hips in a position that would be intimate if it weren't so damned infuriating.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

I yank my arm, wincing when I can't pull it down from over my head. "I swear to God, Quincy, I'm going to—"

"—do exactly what I say," he finishes. "Because I don't have time to argue or explain."

He reaches for my other hand, and I completely lose my shit. I kick and scream and writhe and practically growl at him. I'm not scared so much as confused and pissed and frustrated. I came to find a clue about Emma's disappearance. I didn't bargain on Quincy, and seeing him has thrown me completely off balance.

Despite my contortions, he grabs hold of my wrist. I wasn't a match for him when I was completely free, and since I'm now attached to the bed, my resistance is both lame and futile. I'm quite certain there's another set of cuffs in that drawer, and that pretty soon I'll be spread-eagled across this damn bed.

The thought sends a shiver of anticipation running through me, and that—more than anything Quincy has done tonight—is what really pisses me off.

"I swear to God, if you cuff my right hand to the bed you better intend to leave me here forever, because I will rip your balls off with my teeth."

"How remarkably innovative," he says mildly. "And I'm not cuffing you."

That surprising statement is punctuated by him taking something about the size of a cell phone out of his pocket and thrusting it into my right hand. He curls my fingers around it, then holds them in place. My thumb's on a toggle button, and I'm staring at a small screen with a single vibrating needle. The needle's intersecting a line that's red on both sides and green in the middle. Right now, it's moving toward the red.