In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(13)
“What’s so funny?” She wiped her perspiring forehead with a wrist, leaving behind a black streak of grease.
He stopped laughing to curl his lip at her disgusting level of dishabille. She’d been dirty when he’d come aboard the catamaran. No doubt it hadn’t crossed the pirates’ minds to allow the women to shower. Now, covered in the sweat of nearly a week and the grease of the last ten hours, she was positively obscene.
“Get back to work,” he ordered. “Your stalling tactics are trying my patience. If you persist, I might decide to start taking the lost minutes out of your soft hide. Have you ever seen what a strip of wet leather does to human flesh?”
“I’m not stalling,” she said. “You’re the one who sent the ship’s engineers up to the bridge. If you’d left them down here to work with me, I’d probably already be finished.”
Perhaps. But he hadn’t cared for the way the three men ogled her. It’d been…distracting. Plus, they were three very large men, and he hadn’t wished to be alone with them down in the steaming engine room where they could easily overwhelm him if they took it into their thick skulls to chance a bullet wound.
He was in this thing for the money, not to risk death or injury. It was disconcerting enough to actually be involved in this particular venture—he was accustomed to sitting in air-conditioned rooms, waiting for the phones to ring so he could wheedle cash from wealthy western pockets—he didn’t want to strain his nerves further by locking himself in a room full of vulgar, overgrown sailors.
No. It was better this way.
Just the two of them. Alone.
Reaching for the buckle on his belt for emphasis he said, “I’m going to count to three, and if you haven’t returned to your work by then, I’m giving you three strikes for every second you stalled.”
“One,” he began, hoping her pride wouldn’t allow her to back down. He very much thought he’d enjoy beating her, watching her fair skin turn bright red under his blistering blows.
With a snarl she spun back to her work, cursing him beneath her breath as she attacked the loosened bolt with renewed vigor.
Disappointed at her quick capitulation, he took another hasty sip of water and used his handkerchief to wipe at the sweat running down his temples and the back of his neck. It was an absolute oven in the engine room, and the longer he sat waiting for her to complete her repairs, the more irritable he became. His fantasies involving her punishment were growing ever more creative and violent by the hour.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Why are you sweating so much? Aren’t you used to this type of heat?”
He considered ignoring her. The woman hadn’t the first clue how to be a docile, compliant hostage, and he didn’t want to encourage her audacity in addressing him when he hadn’t first addressed her. Then again, there was something about the husky timbre of her voice. It was strangely appealing…
“Even though I was born in Africa, I spent the majority of my youth and early adulthood in London. Five years ago, I came back to what was left of my home country. Alas, I have yet to re-acclimate.”
It was no matter, really. Soon there would be no need for re-acclimation. With the cut he’d get from the ransom of the women and the Hamilton, he’d finally have enough money to leave Africa. Enough money to live a life of luxury anywhere his heart desired.
Somewhere in Asia, perhaps. Japan? The climate was far more favorable and the women still meek enough to suit a man’s tastes. Though the earthquakes and tsunamis lessened the allure…
She glanced over her shoulder again, eyeing the dampness of his shirt. “Maybe you’re not cut out for this line of…work.”
He didn’t like the way her lip curled on the last word.
He decided then that he not only disliked her, he hated her. Hated her sharp eyes and even sharper tongue. Hated the fact that when she bent over to wrestle with a bundle of wires, the sight of her tight, firm buttocks made his manhood stir. As disgusting as she was, covered in filth and sweat, something about her still managed to captivate him.
He gulped angrily at the cold bottle of water in his hand, hoping it would cool his unwanted ardor. That his body could want a creature such as her, despite his overwhelming detestation, was a biological insurrection. An anatomical mutiny.
Then his body did him one better, because all that water he’d been drinking let down and he needed to urinate, urgently. Unfortunately, since he’d insisted Ghedi and his men guard the Hamilton’s crew so he could sequester himself alone with her, there was no one to take over guard duties.
He squirmed against the stool he was sitting on until he could stand it no longer.
“I’m going to relieve myself,” he told her and waved his gun when she turned to scowl at him. He could just urinate in front of her, he supposed. She’d probably seen Ghedi and his men doing much worse during her time in captivity. But the thought of such grotesque, classless behavior disgusted him. He was worlds apart from those dirty, ignorant pirates, and he refused to stoop to their level. “You will continue working. And do not think of trying to escape. We’re locked in here. The only way out is if I call to my compatriots on deck and they let us out. Do not take it into your head to hide from me either.” He could see the wheels turning behind her eyes. “Let me be clear. If I am forced to come searching for you, you will not enjoy what happens once I find you.”