The Perfect Captive

The car had left the jewelry store and the police far behind, and Rusty Levsin was still trying to believe he had gotten away with it.

His mind whirled with his successfully pulling off the robbery, but if he had to be quite honest, he oddly enough owed part of it to his hostage.

As he drove, he couldn't help throwing glances at her. She sat in the passenger seat, staring out of the windshield, with a perfectly calm expression on her face.

It had been that calm expression that had prompted him to choose her as a hostage in the first place. She had been the only employee in the jewelry store sitting quietly on the floor, not sobbing or pleading for her life, not even watching what he had been doing. Thinking she would make things easier, he had told her to come with him, and without a word of protest, she had risen easily to her feet and let him guide her to the getaway car.

He had not expected complete cooperation, but to his surprise, he found that he would soon get more than that from her. As they had sped off with the cops on their tail, she'd fastened her seat belt, and then she had sat quietly, never even flinching as several times he had nearly wrecked the car as he raced at high speeds through the city to lose their pursuers.

Then she'd said, "Roadblock," as he had been looking over his shoulder, and looking forward he saw she was right. He managed to make a sharp turn into an alley to avoid it, at the same time throwing a disbelieving glance her way. What the hell was she doing?

Once out of town the police began to fall far behind, and finally he looked in the rear view mirror and saw no black and whites on their tail.

A smile had begun to spread across his face, but his hostage noted it and said, "You've still got a tail."

Startled, Rusty had looked out the back, then at the rear view mirror, and seeing nothing, glared at her. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

She too looked behind them. "Fourth car on the right, blue sedan. Unmarked. Look at the antenna." As he also looked and noted she was again correct, he caught her looking at him with what could only be defined as sardonic amusement, and she said, "Good at this, aren't you?"

Rusty had felt a surge of rage at her remark and also a terrible urge to laugh. Somehow controlling both, he'd floored the gas to lose their last pursuer, and after fifteen or so miles, he finally succeeded.

Now he was heading for the turnoff up into the hills and praying the car wouldn't be spotted until he reached it. The heavy bag of stolen jewelry at his feet both thrilled him and also filled him with guilt.

He continued to glance over at his silent hostage, still trying to figure out why she had not only remained so calm, but had actually helped him get away. He didn't like the way she seemed completely without fear. He wanted her a little afraid of him, if only to make it easier to control her, but she plainly gave the impression that she didn't really give a damn what he did.

She never looked at him, just continued to stare out the window, although she had to be aware that he kept looking over at her.

Out of the blue, Rusty blurted, "What the hell are you so calm about?"

She turned to look at him, and he was struck by her eyes, which were the blue of a very hot flame, a striking contrast to her auburn hair. Her delicate features wore a look of surprise.

"You could at least beg me to let you go," he muttered, putting his attention back on the road.

"Oh really." That sardonic tone again. "Would that work?"

He shook his head.

"Then what would be the point?"

He had to admit that she was right, but he still didn't like her tone of voice. He was supposed to have the upper hand here, not her.

"What's your name?" he asked. He told himself he needed to have something to call her, since he had to hold onto her for a while. She WAS a hostage, and if they ran into any cops, she could be a ticket through them.

"Isis," she said, looking out the window on her side again.

He looked over at her. "You're lying," he snarled.

"Indeed." She didn't look at him.

Rusty didn't know what to say to that, since he suddenly had a strong feeling she had told the truth. He wanted to ask her where she had gotten a name like that, but thought it best not to get personal. That would only lead to problems.

Still, it would be good for her to have something to call him as well. He tried to think of a name to give her, and finally gave it up. She knew what he looked like, she might as well know his real name.

"You can call me Rusty," he said brusquely.

"I do thank you for that."

Again, he got the strange combination of wanting to burst out laughing and wanting to strangle her.

Rusty didn't begin to relax until he reached the dirt road turnoff into the hills. The road led steadily upwards and was completely lost in trees, so the chance of being spotted grew smaller and smaller the further they went.

Snow was starting to fall, and it was getting very cold. The car's heater did not work. Rusty was cold, and he knew Isis had to be colder, since she wore only a blouse and short skirt, not even a coat, the same clothes she'd been wearing when he had taken her. He saw her shivering but could do nothing about it.

The snow started to fall more heavily and the wind started to blow. Visibility began to drop. Rusty knew the road so well that he wasn't worried, but when he glanced at Isis he saw for the first time a look of unease on her face. Glad to finally unsettle her, he did not bother telling her that he was in no danger of wrecking in the snowstorm.

As he drove, he tried to plan out what he was going to do. The cabin he was headed for was well stocked, he had seen to that, and no one knew about it but he and his brother, the only two members of the family left alive. It was the perfect hideout. But if the weather did not improve it looked very much like he and his hostage would be trapped there for longer than he'd intended.

Rusty's hands clenched on the wheel. He was not necessarily a violent man, but he had a temper, and he knew if Isis continued to act the way she was, he was likely to lose his temper.

It was almost dark when they reached the cabin finally. Rusty stopped the car.

"Where ..." Isis tried to peer through the wall of white that surrounded the car.

"Just wait till I come around and get you out," he said, and she nodded.

Grabbing the bag of jewelry in one hand, Rusty got out of the car, the biting wind and driving snow slamming painfully into him. He struggled against it around to the passenger door and flung it open. Grabbing Isis by the upper arm, he pulled her out of the car and toward the cabin at a dead run.

She was wearing heels but she managed to keep up with him.

They whirled through the cabin door and Rusty slammed it behind them, shutting out the storm.

The inside of the cabin was pitch black. Immediately dropping his bag of loot and kicking it away, Rusty jerked Isis against him and grabbed the gun out of his pocket, pushing it into her neck.

"Don't move," he murmured into her hair.

As he waited for his eyes to adjust, he became dimly aware that he could smell the fragrant scent of her red hair and the clean smell of her skin. He had his arm around her, holding her with her back to his chest, the gun pressed hard into her neck, but still she didn't even whimper.

He felt another flush of anger, mixing with the excitement her scent was causing him, creating an intoxicating effect in which he lost his mind for just a second. He tightened his arm around her tiny frame, at the same time pressing the gun into her neck with all his strength, until he heard her groan with pain.

That satisfied him, and he eased off. His eyes had adjusted, and he said into her hair, "Start walking forward until I tell you to stop."

She did as he said, and he walked with her, keeping his arm around her and the gun in her neck, until she bumped into the table in front of the fire, and he said, "Stop."

She stopped, not that she could have gone any further.

"You see the lantern on the table?" he asked.

"Yes," Isis replied. She still didn't sound afraid. Her voice was clear.

"There are matches next to it." Rusty took his arm from around her, freeing her arms, but taking her shoulder and keeping the gun in her neck. "Light the lantern."

Isis fumbled for the matches and lit one, and the kerosene lamp flared to life, bringing shadowy light to the room.

He steered her to the chair in front of the fireplace and pushed her into it. Then he backed away, still holding the gun on her. She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs as if she were at a conference meeting. She wore no smile on her face, but the way she looked at him, as though he were something to amuse her, made the gun shake in his hand.

Fighting to keep his voice from shaking, he said, "Are you going to sit there and stay while I get a fire going?"

Then she did smile. "Do I have much choice? I can hardly go anywhere in a blizzard."

Rusty sighed, and put the gun away.

Isis kept her word, simply sitting and watching Rusty as he started to stuff paper and wood into the fireplace.

Her lack of fear was not dishonest. She was not afraid of the gun he held on her, or of him at the moment. Isis had long since ceased being afraid of pain or even death.

The only thing she truly feared was injury to her pride. That was the main reason she had not acted as a normal hostage would. She couldn't bring herself to plead for her life. She knew this made her captor angry, and his anger amused her.

Isis was very good at reading people, and she sensed no true violence in this man. Though she supposed in a way he probably could be. He did not seem especially gleeful about his jewelry heist, and that did arouse her curiosity.

She watched as he got the fire going, and she felt the warmth of the flames rush over her, and was silently thankful for them.

"Do you own this cabin?" she asked him.

He glanced at her from where he was poking at the catching fire, and she noticed his eyes were bright green.

"Yes," he said, as though she hadn't had any right to ask.

He stood up and opened a cabinet next to the fireplace. He was taking out cans of food when he suddenly thought he heard voices outside.

Isis heard it too, but before she could react, or say a word, Rusty dropped the cans, snatched her out of her chair, and before she knew what was happening, he was crouching in a corner of the room with her in front of him, one arm tightly around her and the gun to her neck again.

They were silent for a while, and then Isis relaxed in his grip. "It's just voices in the wind," she murmured. "It happens in blizzard winds sometimes."

She hadn't realized she had that sarcastic tone in her voice again, until she felt his arm tighten around her.

Rusty was tired of her sardonic amusement and refusal to take him seriously. He knew she was right, of course, which only made him angrier.

"Shut up," he snapped into her hair.

She shifted just slightly under his arm in response to his order, and it made him aware that his hand, where he was holding his arm around her upper body, was resting just above her breast. Acting purely on impulse, he moved his hand down and clenched her small breast into his fist, squeezing, wanting to hurt.

Isis tensed in his arms and suddenly tried to get away from him. His arm was tight around her, though, and she had no hope of escaping him.

So something I do DOES bother you, he thought.

He squeezed her breast again, and to his surprise, felt through the silk of her red blouse her nipple beginning to grow hard in response.

Isis was struggling now, and he pushed the gun harder into her neck, and she went as stiff as a board.

"Stop," she hissed, and he heard anger, and fear, in her voice now, not sarcasm.

Which didn't make sense to him. He roughly shoved his hand into her blouse and under her bra and found her bare breast, and he hadn't been wrong, her nipple was hard, and getting harder.

So why did she want him to stop? Because she didn't like it, or because she liked it too much?

He realized he was starting to get excited as well, and knew he had better stop, while he was still able to. He took his hand out from her blouse.

"Go sit back down," he said.

She stood and went back to the chair, not looking at him, and sat facing the fire, but he could see the expression on her face. He had indeed unsettled her.

He was ashamed of it, but a part of him was glad. She might not be afraid of the gun he held, but now she had a reason to be afraid of him, and he had a weapon to use against her sarcasm. If he didn't overuse it, he would be able to keep the upper hand he'd gained.

The problem was, he had enjoyed it, and as he opened the cans of food, watching her, he knew he wanted more, and it wasn't going to be easy not to overuse that weapon.

Isis didn't want to eat, but she didn't miss the look of warning Rusty had given her when she was about to refuse. They both knew the hand of control had changed. Isis was careful not to look at him, lest he see the embarrassment on her face, and careful not to move on her chair, not to reveal the heat in her belly and the wetness between her legs. He must not find out about that. It would be the ultimate blow to her pride. Being sexually attracted to her captor, how absurd would that be?

The night dragged into day. They did not do much. The cabin had a small bathroom, thank goodness, and they both alternated dozing in the chair in front of the fire. The only other piece of furniture other than the table was a small sofa in the corner, pretty far from the fire. The blizzard raged on. The inside of the cabin stayed dark even during the day.

As evening began to approach again, Isis noticed Rusty could not seem to keep still. He kept getting up and pacing from one window to the other, as if he were looking for something, and he seemed very agitated. She didn't dare ask any questions. She did not want him to touch her again.

Night crept in, and the wood in the box was beginning to get very low. Isis noticed it but for some reason didn't care very much.

Rusty was still pacing, and she had become used to this, but suddenly without warning, he dropped into a chair at the table, buried his face in his hands, and let out an exasperated sigh.

Isis couldn't help it. "Are you all right, Rusty?"

They were both surprised at her use of his name, the first time she had used his name, and he looked up in surprise when he heard the concern in her voice, to see her eyes held the same look. For a crazy moment he loved her for that.

"He isn't here," Rusty said, dropping his head on the table.

Isis was confused. "What?"

Rusty didn't raise his head. "My friend, who was supposed to come and pick up this jewelry. He didn't make it here." He drew a shuddering breath and Isis was shocked to hear his voice crack as he continued, "How am I supposed to get my little brother's medicine without that money?"

Isis didn't need to ask any more questions, and she was overcome with both sympathy and admiration for him. So that was why he'd done what he did. She had known he was not a violent man.

"It's all right," she said, trying to make her voice soothing. "The storm probably stopped your friend from getting here."

Rusty's head shook on the table. "My little brother is out of time," he said. "He's sick. Really sick."

Isis didn't want to do it, but she stood up and walked over to him, and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. Rusty jumped, looking up at her in alarm.

"What's he sick with?" she asked him.

Rusty swallowed hard, obviously shaken by her concern. "Leukemia."

Isis nodded. "When was he diagnosed?"

"Two months ago."

She gave his shoulder a slight squeeze, then she removed her hand. "Then he still has time. This storm can't last much longer, Rusty. They usually don't last more than a few days. You have to hang on."

She returned to her chair by the fire, not noticing him watching her, his eyes positively blazing.

The wood was gone, and the fire grew steadily lower and lower. The cabin was very cold. Rusty and Isis alternated the chair with the cold couch, and every few minutes they would get up and pace.

Finally, the fire died completely.

There was nothing they could do about it. The only light was from the kerosene lamp, and that too was beginning to run low, and the flame was small.

The cold crept in, took hold of them. Rusty had experience with this before, and every so often he would say her name, and wait for her to answer, to know that she was not falling asleep. He also made sure she got up to move around and so did he. He was starting to really worry. He knew he could stand the cold for quite a bit longer, but he wasn't sure about Isis. She was very small and delicate, and she didn't have any body fat that he could see. If she fell asleep, she'd quickly freeze to death, and the thought of her dying gave him a sick feeling. He didn't know why.

Along about midnight, he was sitting in the chair by the fireplace, Isis was on the couch, and he jumped awake, realizing he had nearly fallen asleep. Then he realized neither he nor Isis had gotten up for at least half an hour.

"Isis," he said. "Get up and walk again."

No answer.

Rusty strained to see her through the dim light. She was curled up in a corner of the couch. He couldn't see if she was asleep. "Isis?"

She still didn't answer.

Rusty got up and bolted over to her, ignoring how it made him feel the cold again. He crouched over her on the couch. Her eyes were closed, and her delicate face was white.

"Isis!" He took hold of her shoulders and shook her hard.

She moved her head and opened her eyes, but not nearly enough. "Stop," she murmured, and the drowsy sound of her voice terrified him.

"Isis, wake up. You can't go to sleep." He shook her again.

"Leave me be," she murmured, closing her eyes again.

Rusty shook her again and yelled "ISIS!" in her face, hoping she would at least jerk back from him, but again she barely opened her eyes. "You'll die if you go to sleep! WAKE UP!"

"I don't care," she muttered. "The cold hurts."

Rusty knew then she was in trouble already, and panicky, he wondered how long he'd sat there in that chair himself. He knew how she felt. Sleep was warm, and it would lead to death. She was now so cold and numb that she didn't care.

He had to do something.

"I'm not going to let you go to sleep," he growled through his teeth at her.

"So shoot me," she mumbled, and her head dropped back on the couch again.

Rusty felt a surge of both anger and fear, anger at her remark, fear that she would slip away from him.

And suddenly, he knew what to do.

"Fine," he said. "Go back to sleep, but try to ignore this."

He took hold of the collar of her red silk blouse and jerked, popping the buttons off and tearing it open. Isis's eyes opened wide, but he gave her no time to react, taking hold of her bra and jerking that free of her body as well.

Isis sucked in her breath as the brutal cold slammed into her bare breasts and shoulders. She tried to sit up, but she was still lethargic, and Rusty stopped her, pinning her into the corner of the couch with his huge lean frame. In the dark she saw his dark head come down, and the cold was forced back a little when she felt one of his large hands crush her breast, felt his mouth close over her nipple.

That was enough to get her awakened completely. A searing flame shot through her and she felt the melting of her lower belly, felt the wet start again, and knew she couldn't let him discover it. She had to give him what he wanted, and quickly.