Page 28 of Destroyed With You

She gaped at him. “That’s all you’re going to say? No questions, no interrogation? No disbelief or arguing or asking me for details?”

“I told you to tell me your story. You’re telling me your story. Or are you telling me a story?”

“I think you know what I’m telling you is the truth.”

“So tell me the rest and let’s see if you can keep up this streak of honesty.”

She narrowed her eyes. “This really is incredibly uncomfortable. Would you please untie me? Cuff me to a chair. Make me wear the blanket and hide my clothes. Where would I go like that? But do I really have to stay here on the bed like this?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” she snapped.

“Talk.”

Her brow rose. “Oh, I’m happy to tell you the rest of it. Tomorrow.” She yawned, so huge that it had him yawning in response. “I need to sleep now. Being in bed like this is making me so drowsy.” She yawned again, then smiled. No, correction, she smirked.

“Linda…” He underscored her name with a warning tone.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you the rest after I’ve slept. And eaten. I never got my meal or my glass of wine.” She smiled sweetly and batted her lashes. “Say what you will about him, but Bartlett was a much better date than you’re turning out to be.”

Despite himself, Winston laughed. On the bed, she grinned, too. “Come on, Winston. We both know you’ve got the upper hand here. I won’t try to escape. Pinky swear.”

He fought another smile, but lost. Well, fuck it.

He took a step toward her, pulling out his pocketknife as he did. He flipped it open, saw the quick flicker on her face as she watched the blade.

“Don’t move.” He stepped closer, then eased the knife in between her skin and the zip tie. It was the long, thick kind intended for industrial use, and he’d taken to carrying at least one on every mission after he’d lost a perp once.

The release tab was broken, and the plastic so thick that it took a bit of sawing with the knife for Winston to get her free. Once he did, though, she sat up, the blanket covering her breasts. She held her wrists in her lap and winced as she rubbed the tender flesh.

He grimaced. He hadn’t intended to pull it that tight, and he regretted the red welts that now marred the soft skin of her wrists. He took one in his hand, rubbing his thumb lightly over the injury. “I’m sorry.”

She yanked her hand away, and he felt like an ass, even though he truly wasn’t the asshole here.

“I want food.”

He nodded, wishing that the touch of her skin hadn’t affected him so much—and that the way she’d yanked her arm away from him hadn’t bothered him.

He cleared his throat. “Food, right.” He lifted the handset and ordered burgers, fries, and wine from room service, his eyes never leaving her, and his free hand on the gun holstered at his hip.

“Less than fifteen minutes,” he said after he hung up.

“Do I get to keep my hands and wrists free? Range of motion? Because I don’t really want you shoving a burger in my mouth.”

He considered the question. The truth was, he didn’t doubt anything she’d said—at least not yet. But he hadn’t heard the whole story. And he knew damn well that she was dangerous. He’d seen that clearly enough on a roof in Seattle.

She was Michelle Moon now, not Linda Starr. An assassin, not his wife. He’d do well to remember that.

“Hands free. Ankles tied to the chair. And you should know I have one in the chamber.”

“You’re the boss,” she said curtly, then flashed a sweet smile. “At least for now.”

He pointed toward the bathroom. “Robe,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Sure.” She held his eyes as she pushed the blanket aside and stood up. She was naked, and though he didn’t want it, he couldn’t deny the way his body reacted to the sight of her.

She tilted her head and flashed him a flirtatious smile. “Too bad we’re at odds,” she said. “It’s such a nice hotel room.”