Meg's Office ….
"I've got to get home, ugg, I really need some private time." Meg thought as she gathered her things up to leave for the weekend. Just as she was fastening the latches on her briefcase the phone rang. After a muttered, French curse word, she answered.
"Hello, Canadian Consulate, Inspector Thatcher speaking." She rolled out quickly. From the caller on the other end, she knew it wouldn't be a quick call.
"Inspector, this is Constable Fraser, I'm afraid I require your assistance." Meg could have strangled him and she didn't even know what for yet. "I'm being detained at the dock, it seems they don't believe I'm a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman, the customs officer insists that this is a rented uniform and that I am impersonating an officer of the Canadian government." Meg heard Dief whining in the background.
"Just what I needed." the Inspector muttered to herself.
"What did you say, Sir?" Fraser asked, his keen ears sharp even over the telephone.
"I'll be there shortly, depending on rush hour traffic." without another word, Meg hung up the phone. She caught a cab, cursing Fraser and lack of alone time in turn. No matter what brand or style of bra Meg found, none of them fit properly. She'd been looking forward to unhooking it and tossing it into the laundry hamper, along with her black, thigh high stockings. Strappy, stiletto heels weren't in her evening wardrobe plans either.
"I've got nine." the young cab driver said with a smile in the rear view mirror. Meg fished out a ten and a few ones and handed them through the window. She walked toward the most official looking office on the harbor premises, a low slung, block building with a US Customs logo emblazoned across the door. As she marched, her bra rubbed into the soft skin on either side of her full breasts.
"What's the meaning of this?" Meg demanded after throwing the heavy metal door open.
"Inspector Thatcher, this is …." a short, chubby official in a light blue uniform shirt stood up from behind an old, metal desk. Rules and regulation posters hung on the walls surrounding the desk.
"Inspector Handson, and I could ask you the same question." his dark, beady eyes looked Meg over lecherously. She looked down her nose at him in return. That kind of man she wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, unless she intended to hit him with it.
"This man claims he's an RMCP officer, a patently ridiculous idea." he gave Fraser a sour expression. The Mountie's face was entirely too neutral, too handsome. His uniform appeared fresh off the sewing machine.
"This is indeed Constable Benton Fraser, my subordinate officer at the Canadian Consulate." Meg pulled her credentials from her purse and opened them, shoving them under Handson's nose. His dark eyes scanned the leather wallet holding the Inspector's photo identification and badge.
"Thank you, Inspector Margaret Thatcher." Handson snatched the wallet from Meg's grasp, pulling a hand gun from beneath a file with his free hand.
Fraser started toward the smaller man, Dief bristling beside him.
"Call him off, Inspector, I'll pull the trigger." Handson warned, thumb cocking the handgun.
"Fraser, stop." she complied, studying the little man. His hand didn't waver and his breathing was calm and even. He wasn't playing around or inexperienced.
Fraser and Dief halted, a low, menacing growl in the wolf's throat.
"Now both of you, get together, we're going for a walk." Handson waved the Inspector across the room to stand beside Fraser.
"Open the door, slowly." Handson used Meg's ID as a pointer. Inspector and Mountie obeyed, keeping a wary eye on the sawed off gunman.
"What's all this about, what do you want?" Meg asked, hoping to distract him.
"None of your business, don't ask questions or I start with the wolf." Handson shoved the gun barrel between Meg's shoulder blades as she walked slowly out the door. He shoved Fraser with his free hand, making sure the wolf stepped through as well.
"We're headed for the tub two boats down."
Fraser and Thatcher walked slowly and carefully toward an aging yacht along the dock. Compared to the tankers and cargo vessels surrounding it, the smaller, pleasure craft was decidedly out of place.
Meg kept glancing at Fraser, wondering when he would make a break for freedom. The Mountie ignored her piercing glances. He couldn't think of a successful scenario.
"In you go." Handson pointed the handgun at the yacht, a thirty foot outfit with a blue stripe just above the waterline. In glittering, orange letters the name Gettin' Lucky blazed near the starboard forecastle.
"Ha! Not so lucky for you, eh?" Handson snickered, waiting on Thatcher to board the yacht. She turned and glared at him, biting her tongue. A light weight business suit wasn't the ideal outfit for being kidnapped in late September. Chilly winds skittering across the lake had already made her shiver, tightening her muscles. Fraser seemed unaffected by the chill.
"He would be, he has on long underwear, a long sleeved Henley, and wool serge." Meg thought to herself, envying his layers. Thoughts of all those layers all over Fraser's muscular frame distracted her for a moment. More than one moment if she were honest.
"Go on, into the rear cabin." Handson bullied them onward, into the yacht decorated in oranges and blues with splashes of lime green and bright yellow.
"This place looks like a fruit salad threw up." Meg commented, following Fraser into the large, rear cabin. A small, round, window lit their cell. The cabin had been fortified to be locked from the outside. This heist had taken a lot of planning and forethought.
Two Canadians and a wolf walked into the cabin. A large, round bed set against the right of the cabin, an orange, velvet, coverlet spread across it. A white dust ruffle fluttered as they entered.
"Wolfie here goes with me, I need a little insurance." Handson took Dief by the scruff of the neck and pulled him backward, out the door. The wolf growled, turning his menacing glare over his shoulder at the man with the handgun.
"Don't worry, I'll turn him loose a few blocks away, just another mutt on the streets." Handson pressed the handgun against Dief's head as he scooted backward out the door.
Before Fraser or Thatcher could react, Handson slammed the cabin door closed and began bolting and locking it from the outside. Dief growled and barked. After a heavy thud, Dief whined and grew quiet. Fraser pounded his fist against the reinforced door.
"Damn it!" Meg hissed. No alone time and stuck on a fugly tub with Fraser. Under different circumstances that would be a good thing.
"Yes, I agree." Fraser sighed, leaning against the door, both hands flat against the cool metal. Meg stood stock still, eyes glued to his long legs, narrow waist and broad back. Duck tails touched the brim of his Stetson. She should scold him for needing a hair cut but she wanted to run her fingers through them; to see if they were as soft as they looked.
"Get a grip, Meg, it's Fraser, he may as well be a monk." She reminded herself.
"There has to be a way out of this." Meg straightened her jacket, wishing she'd worn slacks and flats. She started to repeat herself when Fraser didn't respond. He'd cocked his head toward the door, his eyes closed. Meg felt the boat begin to sway under her feet.
"They've set us adrift." She nearly panicked.
"No, I hear a small, out board motor, I believe Handson means to take us out into the lake and set us adrift." Fraser turned back to her. Her dark eyes were wide and her alabaster skin pale.
"Handson will shoot us and dump us overboard, no one will find out bodies in Lake Michigan." The lake never gave up it's dead.
"Perhaps not, Sir, he did go to great pains to lock us inside this cabin, and he never actually injured us." Fraser ran his tongue over his bottom lip as he met her gaze. He tried to sound reassuring.
"I hope you're right." She swallowed hard and took a calming breath. She was after all, the commanding officer.