The Missing Millionaire. Dani Sinclair

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      “Try to sleep off the drug’s effects, Mr. Trent. You’ll feel better when you wake up. If you need something, shout. I’ll be right outside the door.”

      She pulled the lightweight cover over him and turned out the light. In seconds she was gone.

      He rested, letting his brain sort through the confusion. Getting the keys from under his body proved awkward, constrained as he was. His coordination was still off and his head throbbed. It wasn’t just a dull headache, either. There was a sharp pain in one spot. Had they hit him with something? Why couldn’t he remember?

      Using the longest key like a blade, he attempted to saw the tape binding his wrists. More than once he dropped the keys and had to fumble for them in the bedding. Each time he paused, afraid she’d hear and come in and take them away.

      Somewhere in the house a television played loudly. Twice, one of the other women called out. Once, his bodyguard answered back. She really was outside his door. He froze, afraid she’d come inside and check on him. She didn’t, and after a heart-pounding minute he went back to work on the tape.

      When it finally parted, he lay there a moment before working it off his wrists. More skin and hair came away with the wad of sticky tape. He was bleeding. He didn’t care. He was free and he intended to stay that way.

      His thinking was clearer now and he was coldly furious. Someone had made a very bad mistake.

      The room was incredibly dark. Little light filtered past the cracks around the door. There didn’t appear to be a window. So much for an easy escape.

      Rubbing at the tender place on the back of his head, he found a raised lump. So they had hit him with something and drugged him to boot. He welcomed the controlled fury that sent adrenaline coursing through him. One way or another, he was getting out of here—even if he had to take on all three of them at once.

      They hadn’t displayed any weapons other than the knife the woman had used to cut him free. Of course, that didn’t mean they weren’t armed, but he’d take his chances.

      Grabbing his suit coat from the end of the bed, he went to the door and listened hard. No sound. Even the television had fallen silent. Quietly, he searched the room. He was more unsteady on his feet than he liked. He fumbled putting on the shoes he took from the dresser.

      While he was feeling more clearheaded by the minute, the room had a tendency to list, especially when he bent over. A quick search proved his cell had been stripped clean of anything he could use as a weapon. He didn’t even have his belt. All he had were the keys he’d taken from his jailer.

      Well, drunk or drugged, he should be able to take on one woman. Three might prove a challenge, but if they didn’t shoot him, he had a chance.

      Putting his hand on the door handle, he twisted slowly. The knob turned without a sound. Surprised they hadn’t locked him in, he inched the door open, praying it wouldn’t squeak. Through the slit he’d made, he peered into the hall. A pillow and blanket lay on the floor. There was no sign of his jailers.

      Harrison didn’t hesitate. He opened the door, stepped through and closed it behind him as quietly as possible, nearly tripping over the pillow on the floor. He caught himself with a thud against the wall. The sound seemed unbelievably loud in the silence of the house. He paused, but no one shouted. There were dim lights at both ends of the narrow, dark hall. The television had sounded as if it had come from his right, so he went left.

      A toilet flushed as he reached the small country kitchen. Footsteps moved rapidly overhead. Harrison didn’t waste time searching for a weapon. He went straight to the door, found it unlocked and opened it, half expecting an alarm to sound. Someone was running down the stairs.

      He was outside, closing the door at his back. He missed the bottom step and stumbled off the porch, going to his knees. The grass was thick and high, prickling against his hands. He barely noticed. Car keys gripped in his hand, he ran toward the front of the house, heedless of noise.

      A large van with tinted windows was parked in front on the rutted dirt-and-gravel strip that served as a driveway. Two smaller vehicles were parked beside it. He debated. She’d said car, hadn’t she? He chose the larger sedan, hoping the key would fit. He had a feeling he wouldn’t get a second chance.

      In the dark, the small lock was invisible. He nearly dropped the key twice before he jammed it into the hole.

      She came out of nowhere. One second he was struggling with the lock, the next he was falling to the ground in a tackle the NFL would have approved.

      And the house exploded.

       Chapter Two

      While Harrison was still trying to understand what had happened, the woman leaped to her feet, running toward the blaze. Flames licked at the dry wood with greedy hunger. He climbed to his feet, shocked to see the entire building engulfed in flames. The heat was staggering.

      “Elaine! Kirsten!”

      He went after her as she attempted to get on the porch. The front window burst outward in a shower of glass. Flames shot through the new opening.

      “Get back!” He grabbed her, but she pulled free.

      “We have to get them out!”

      He was pretty sure it was too late, but his gaze swept the grounds, lit by the voracious fire. “Is there a ladder?”

      “I don’t know!”

      They ran to the side of the house, seeking another way inside. As if the fire anticipated this, every entrance was thick with dark plumes of smoke as deadly as the flames themselves.

      Knowing it was foolish, Harrison used the porch railing to pull himself onto the hot roof. The dry wood framing made the old house a tinderbox. Another window popped, sending more tongues of flame licking up the faded wood siding. Thick, black, noxious smoke filled the air.

      “Get down!” the woman yelled.

      There was no choice. Harrison swung back down and jumped to the grass. His lungs hurt as he coughed up the smoke he’d tried not to inhale.

      She gripped his arm. “We have to go.”

      “Your friends…”

      “They’re dead. It’s too late.” She tugged him between the van and the car, grabbed the keys from where they dangled in the lock and moved past that car to the smaller one. The smaller car had been protected from the explosion by the other two.

      “We have to go,” she repeated.

      Harrison shook his head. “The fire department—”

      “Can only watch it burn.” She opened the passenger door.

      His head throbbed. He coughed hard. Coughing as well, she practically shoved him down onto the passenger seat. Slamming the door, she raced around to the other side and slid behind the wheel.

      “Where’s your cell phone?” he asked as the СКАЧАТЬ