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“Too bad,” he answered.
She shifted on the bed with a frustrated sigh. “Call Lydia. I’ll bet she’d tell you to let me go.”
“I’m not disturbing Mrs. Harrington.”
“She’s not–” Julia pressed her lips together as she resisted the urge to point out that she technically was no longer Mrs. Harrington. “Just call her. I have something I want to tell her.”
The man shifted his dark eyes to her. “No.”
She was getting nowhere fast and her frustration was building by the second. “Fine, I’ll call her myself. Lydia! LYDIA!”
The man leapt to his feet and raced toward her, pressing a hand over her lips. “Shh, stop that.”
The door opened a second later, and her eyes went wide. Lydia stepped inside. “What is going on in here?”
Julia tugged the man’s hand away with her bound wrists. “I have to go to the bathroom, and he won’t let me.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You are high-maintenance. Just let her go, but keep an eye on her. She’s a little wily.”
Julia rose and thrust her wrists out. “I need these off.”
“No,” Lydia answered.
“I can’t go with my wrists bound together. I couldn’t even lift the dress!”
Lydia lifted a shoulder with a nonchalant glance. “It’s not my fault you picked that hideous dress to wear. Figure it out or hold it.”
The door slammed shut a second later, startling her.
She glanced up at her captor who waved toward the en-suite bathroom. “Go ahead, princess.”
She took a step toward it when he grabbed her arm and yanked her back. With the end of his weapon, he traced the outline of her cheek. “Let's get one thing straight. If you ever do something like that again, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”
She yanked her arm from his grasp and hurried to the bathroom. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it as tears stung her eyes. She refused to give in to them.
Crying wouldn’t help her. Action would. She needed to find a way out of this. But first, she needed to see if she could use something in the bathroom to break the zip tie that held her wrists together.
She desperately scanned the space for anything of use. Her eyes lit as she spotted a toiletry kit amongst the items laid out on the vanity. She threw herself against the marble top and snatched it. After a brief struggle, she snapped it open and found a small metal nail file inside.
Her hands shook as she clutched the nail file, her every movement fueled by a mix of fear and determination. She sawed against the plastic with a fervor born of desperation, each stroke an echo of her racing thoughts.
“Come on,” she said as her slow progress failed to live up to her expectations.
Her mind raced twelve steps ahead. Once the zip tie broke, what could she use to disable Morrison? If she could knock him out, she could take his gun, and she had a fighting chance of escape.
She refused to let herself be used as collateral in the war against Grant. It put him in a bad position.
A curse escaped her lips as she dropped the file. She retrieved it and began to saw feverishly, sweat beading on her brow.
Before she could make much progress, though, the door popped open. Morrison’s eyes swept the room, spotting her with the file. She tried to dance away from him, but he was too quick. He pinned her against the vanity, crushing her hip into it until she cried out in pain.
“I don’t think so,” he answered as he ripped the file from her hands and tossed it across the room. He grabbed her by the hair and tugged her back to the room, tossing her onto the bed again.
She collapsed on it with a sob.
“You try a stunt like that again, and I’ll kill you.”
She swallowed hard, her heart still pounding as she eyed him warily.
