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The water immediately turned black as dye sluiced out of her hair.
    Interesting.
    What else was his brave little cat burglar hiding?
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    Chapter Five

     
    The only sounds Taylor heard were the water pounding on the porcelain tub and her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. She didn't have time to freak out. Although her rapid breathing and even faster pulse warned that it might be imminent. She guessed she only had a few minutes of privacy to pull herself together and think this through before he started pounding on the door asking questions.
    She pushed back the rush of panic that had been building since he'd liberated her, and felt along the wall for a soap dish. The "thousands of man-hours" worried her. It could be an exaggeration of course. But he didn't sound like an exaggerating kind of guy.
    Her chest hurt. She drew in a ragged, shuddering breath, which didn't help. Where the hell was the soap? Her feet slid out from under her, and her heart leapt into her throat as she made a panicked grab for the slick wall. She caught herself, but her heart continued to race as frustration built.
    The vise around her chest tightened painfully as hot water sluiced her head and face. Soap. Where was the damn soap? How hard could it be? The tub wasn't that damn big.
    She took pride in knowing she was capable of extricating herself from tricky situations unscathed. She'd never met a lock she couldn't pick or a tight spot she couldn't wiggle out of. Be that actual or verbal. But she'd hit her first wall. And it scared the bejesus out of her how helpless she was right now.
    Think it through. Concentrate, and think it through.
    Over the years, she'd been in dozens of situations where she walked a fine line between success and capture. And she'd been exhilarated, never frightened.
    This was different.
    This was the first time she'd been caught. Imprisoned.
    The fear had started as a dark nutter in her tummy when they'd tossed her into the jail cell. The nutter had beat a little harder each time she escaped and they'd caught her, bringing her back to that small room.
    She liked to believe that she would have made it, even without help, on the sixth shot. Because Lord only knew, she wouldn't have stopped trying . The second they'd tossed her onto the floor and slammed the door shut that last time, she'd automatically started undoing the chains and locks the jailers had wrapped around her. And as she worked, she'd already started formulating a plan of action for her sixth and successful escape.
    Now, the flutter became the frantic flapping of giant wings, and the fear built, twisting and turning in her stomach. She had to get the hell out of there. She wasn't back home in America where civil liberties and the threat of litigation would have guaranteed her physical safety while in custody. Nope, there was no review board. No human rights advocates.
    Arrested meant you were at the mercy and whim of what passed for authority. There was no one in this country to say her jailers couldn't beat the crap out of her, chain her, then forget about her. And there was no extradition from San Cristóbal. She could've stayed in the cell for the rest of her natural life.
    But what she'd felt in that jail was nothing compared to the moment she'd realized she couldn't see. Blind, there was no way to defend herself. No way to carry out even the simplest of escape plans, no possible way to survive—
    Stop . She had to pull herself together. Now . The awful reality was that she might never see again. And if that were the case, she'd learn to live with it. Millions of other people did.
    Oh God . She hated how fast her heart pounded, and the harsh sound of her own erratic breath. The vise around her chest tightened alarmingly. Was she about to have a heart attack?
    "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay," she assured herself out loud. Her voice sounded weak and scared to her own ears, which freaked her out even more.
    Get a grip , she told herself with rising alarm as