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Grace stared at the empty doorway long minutes after Alain d’Louncrais had disappeared, not convinced he wouldn’t turn right back around and take advantage of her restrained and prone position. Desperately trying to reconcile the stupid voice in her head that whispered it wouldn’t be such a horrible thing if he did. That she liked being tied to his bed and at his mercy. That she wanted him to lean in, press his body against hers, and kiss her. Again.

If my daddy could see me now.

Behind her, Alain’s ward thrummed with power. How long had it been since he’d ingested her herbs? Five, maybe ten minutes? Grace tugged at the silk scarves. They were snug around her wrists, and no matter how much she twisted and turned, she couldn’t slip free of them. She turned her attention to the knots. Give the man a Boy Scout badge. These were more complicated than any Grace had seen. Nothing like the trucker’s hitch her daddy had used when securing bales of cotton to the flatbed of the truck.

Bending her thumb back as far as she could, she caught the extended loop, hoping it was a quick release, and pulled hard. The scarf cut into her wrist.

Snickerdoodles. She’d tightened the darn thing. She let go of the loop, wriggled her wrist, and the scarf loosened enough that it was no longer cutting off her circulation. Though not enough that she could wiggle free.

What else could she try? The bedposts the scarves were secured around were solid. Breaking one would be impossible, but if she could get her feet underneath her, she might be able to slide the scarves up the bedpost and over the bed knob.

She cocked her head, listening. There was not a sound, not a footfall, the clink of a glass, or the sliding of a drawer. Nothing but the hum of distant traffic on the streets below. The apartment beyond the bedroom was quieter than a mouse peeing on cotton. Perhaps her herbs had kicked in, and he was slumped over his expensive chaise longue. Or waiting beyond the door, plotting her demise. Or her ravishing.

Ravishing. Goosebumps exploded across her skin. That sounded good. Too good.

With a shake of her head, she banished the thought. We don’t want him to come back in, Grace. We don’t. For Pete’s sake. She shouldn’t need to convince herself of that.

With her gaze fixed on the doorway, Grace got her feet underneath her. Thank goodness he’d taken her shoes off. She’d never have managed it wearing those stupid heels. As quietly as she could manage, Grace pushed herself up the headboard and dragged the scarves up the bedpost inch by inch. At the top, with her arms aching, she paused to catch her breath. Almost there.

With renewed determination, Grace worked at getting one scarf free. She wriggled, she pushed, she pulled, she dragged those scarves every which way but Sunday, but she couldn’t get either of the loops to slip over the bed knob.

Grace scowled at the empty doorway. He was probably asleep by now, and she was no closer to being free than when he’d left. She painstakingly reversed the scarves down the bedposts and slumped back against the headboard.

Can’t never could.

That’s what her daddy would have said. Had said many times when things had seemed impossible. When she’d despaired of Tommy Cooper ever noticing her and asking her to the prom. When owning a car in her senior year, like her friends, seemed like a pipe dream. But her daddy had been right then, and he was right now. She couldn’t give up. Her mama and Bernard depended on her.

She could scream. A neighbor might hear her, despite the gag. Grace huffed. Even if they did, only a witch could get past his ward on the door. And what were the odds one of his neighbors was a witch? And if they were, they were likely his friends, or at least acquaintances. Who would they believe? Him, a sitting member of the council, or her? Never mind that she was the one who’d broken into his apartment. Besides, with Alain d’Louncrais’ reputation with women, they’d suspect her muffled screams were of pleasure, not a cry for help.

You’re a witch, Grace. Use magic.

Ugh. She let her head thump back against the bedhead. There was a tree stump in Alabama smarter than her right now. Magic should have been her first port of call.

She mumbled out a spell around the gag. Nothing happened.

Toot.

The words needed to be clear and concise. The gag had to go. Grace worked at it with her teeth and her tongue, trying to shove the material from her mouth. She kept trying until her jaw ached and drool dribbled down her chin.

Argh! She pounded her ankles against the mattress. What kind of man had three silk scarves ready and available to tie up and gag a woman, anyway? As if this were a common occurrence? Women stealing into his apartment, into his bedroom and needing to be restrained.

Oh. She stilled. Oh my.

Her gaze slid to the bedside drawer. What else did he keep in those drawers? Handcuffs, whips, riding crops? Things Grace had never owned or contemplated using. Nipple clamps? Dildos? Heat crept up her neck. And between her thighs.

Focus, Grace. On getting off his bed. What else could she try? Dubois was monitoring the cameras in the hall. Would he send in the cavalry to help her? Nope. He, and everybody else, would assume she was doing exactly what they’d tasked her with. Getting the grimoire in whatever way possible.

But she wasn’t going to give up. She tried her spell again, taking her time, stretching her mouth wide, enunciating her words as best she could.

“Trying to spell your way out, witch?”

Grace snapped her head up. He stood in the doorway, not looking the least bit drowsy. Impossible. She’d spelled the herbs, multiplying their potency. He should be almost comatose, or at least pushing up some serious z’s.

He crossed the floor, the bed dipping as he perched on the edge. “I know why you’re here, Grace.”

Grace? He knew her name now? Of course he did. He’d gone through her clutch. She’d kept her passport, her license and her credit card on her, in case she didn’t have time to return to the hotel. A distinct possibility, if Alain d’Louncrais was hot on her heels. But it’d been a rookie move. Now he knew her name, and with that, with all his wealth and the information he’d have at his fingertips as a sitting member on the Council of Witches, he would know everything there was to know about her within a few hours.

He leaned forward, close enough that his musky scent tickled her nostrils, and loosened the gag, slipping it free of her mouth. The temptation to cast a spell was overwhelming, but would it be of any use? If the man could counter the effects of her herbs without breaking a sweat, then he’d counter almost anything Grace could throw at him. And probably twice as fast as she could cast. Unless…unless he forgot he’d removed her gag and left her alone again.