Escape for Christmas by Ruth Saberton Page B

as a master criminal halted in its tracks – and Cal’s career as anything but a fantasy Christmas-themed sex slave scuppered.
    “It’s not moving. What are we going to do?” she wailed, giving up and sitting back on her haunches.
    “Panic?” suggested Cal. “Watch as the circulation stops in my limbs? Call the fire brigade?”
    They stared at each other in horror. Across the park the Kenniston clock chimed a quarter past midnight and voices floated on the chilly north wind.
    “That was a joke, by the way,” he said quickly. “I’m not having all those hunky hero types pissing themselves when they see me like this.”
    “But shall I get help? Your wrists are turning blue.” Gemma was really worried now. The cuffs had been a little snug but at the time that hadn’t seemed to matter. Cal had even joked that he’d diet into them.
    But her boyfriend looked mortified by the suggestion of her fetching help.
    “No, no, it hasn’t come to that yet! Look, maybe if I pull the cuffs against the bed frame then the plastic will snap?”
    Gemma didn’t hold out much hope, but anything was worth a try. She watched helplessly as Cal twisted his arms, frantically flipping backwards and forwards on the mattress like a landed mackerel in a scene that even E L James couldn’t have imagined. Plastic clattered against metal and the bed shook, but the fun handcuffs remained intact.
    “Are you sure you didn’t get these from the local nick?” panted Cal. He sagged against the bed head, sweat gleaming on his brow. “Feck. What now?”
    They paused for a minute to think, Cal with the duvet up to his nose and Gemma wrapped in her dressing gown.
    “Maybe we could dismantle the bed?” Gemma suggested finally. “Perhaps the headboard will come apart?”
    The Lion Lodge had last been furnished when Queen Victoria was in nappies, and Cal and Gemma’s bed was an enormous metal-framed contraption – which had seemed a really great bonus ten minutes ago. Now, though, it wasn’t quite so appealing. Victorians built everything to last, from bridges to viaducts to, as they now discovered, bed frames. No matter how Gemma tried to twist and turn the metal rails, they refused to budge. Cal was stuck.
    Then a brilliant idea occurred to Gemma.
    “Where’s your toolkit?” she asked.
    “My what?” said Cal. He was looking extremely uncomfortable and Gemma felt terrible. Typical Angel and her bright ideas. Next time if she wanted excitement at bedtime she’d just buy an electric blanket.
    “Your toolkit,” Gemma repeated. “You know, for doing DIY.”
    This was bound to hold the solution. Her father and brothers all had various kinds of toolkits and Gemma herself was pretty handy with a spanner. You didn’t grow up on a farm without learning a few skills. Once she had her hands on a hacksaw Cal would be free in a jiffy.
    “Gem, darlin’,” said Cal, with a great deal of patience for a man who’d been chained to a bed frame for almost half an hour. “Have you ever seen me with a toolkit? When I have ever, in all the time you’ve known me, shown any desire to do some DIY? Sure, I might feel a total tool right now, but I do not have a toolkit. I’m a baker, not a builder. I leave all that stuff to all those muscle-bound guys at the Hall. If you want a toolkit then it’s Craig you need.”
    Their eyes met suddenly.
    “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Gemma.
    Cal paled, his stubble and freckles suddenly standing out like a rash. “Do you know, this isn’t so bad. I’ll stay like this until the morning, Gem, and then you can drive to Homebase and get us a hacksaw. It’ll be fine.”
    His hands were blue and his wrists were starting to swell. He didn’t look fine. He looked as though his circulation might be cut off at any minute. Never mind lasting until tomorrow when Gemma could go and find a saw; Cal might not last another ten minutes. There was only one solution and, much as Cal would hate it, they didn’t