Being a victim went against every grain of Grant's being. He liked to be in charge and make people dance to his tune. The fact that he’d been so easily subdued stuck in his craw. I am going to be a laughingstock.

Grant eyed the touchtone phone on his desk. His hands might not work, but perhaps if he maneuvered himself, he could use his face to make a call like he’d seen in the movies. Dragging his chair, using his feet-and thanking himself for ordering one with wheels-he rolled to the left side of his desk where his phone sat. After several panting moments, he finally drew close enough to push the handset aside with his jaw. Then he was faced with a daunting dilemma.

How do I push the buttons?

Glad nobody was there to see him use his nose-a facial trait that had been described as aristocratic by more than one lady-he attempted to push the numbers for the guard in the lobby. He’d debated against nine-one-one, as the humiliation and emasculation at having been trussed like a turkey would have been more than he could bear. It’s bad enough that I’m going to have to ask that goof of a night watchman to free me.

The phone double beeped, signaling that the call had been transferred. He waited impatiently for the guard to answer, sweating and thinking about what to say. A click sounded when the line was picked up.

“Hello, Grant,” his secretary said in dulcet tones. “I see you’re awake.”

“Isabelle?” Grant said, not at all happy to hear her voice. He didn’t want her to see him so ignobly captured. “Listen, can you get the guard up to my office? I kind of have a problem.”

“Oh, my,” she said, with a hint of mockery. At least he now knew his dilemma hadn’t extended to her. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

And with another click, she hung up.

Grant cursed, his need to be rescued warring with his not wanting to look weak in front of Isabelle. Not that it mattered, for his door swung open only seconds later and she walked in wearing a long trench coat.