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where she was going.
    Up ahead a parka-clad figure stepped out on the road. No. it couldn’t be. “Don’t stop. Keep going,” Roz shouted.
    The woman ignored her, pulling to a halt beside Vadim Gorev. “You idiot,” she snarled at him. “She almost got away.”
    Despite her struggles, they bundled Roz inside the chalet once more and up the stairs to her room. Harry Styles grinned down at her from the wall as they tied her to the wooden bed frame.
    She wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight.
    In the darkness, Roz gave in to the tears which had threatened for hours. Why couldn’t she remember stealing the painting? She would give it to them just to get free.
    The receptionist, Frida, must have tipped Gorev off that she had been there with Andy. Now he was being dragged into the mess. When he was unable to produce the painting, she would die and they would probably kill Andy too.
    They were both going to die and it was all her fault.
     

Chapter Five
    By morning she was so stiff that she couldn’t move, but her bursting bladder insisted that she must. Frida stuck her head into the bedroom to see if she was okay.
    “Please, let me go to the bathroom,” Roz asked. She was hoarse and she desperately needed a drink. As soon as she had peed.
    Frida, damn her, laughed and untied Roz's legs.
    Roz tried to stand up, but her legs were frozen and her arms, tied at her side, would not support her. She toppled back on the bed. “Help me, please.”
    She hated begging. But the idea of making a mess in front of this woman horrified her. Even though it was barely dawn, Frida looked tidy and wholesome. Her blonde hair was braided neatly, and her ski thermals were crisp and matching.
    Frida looked at Roz's hands and exclaimed in horror. Roz tried to see over her shoulder to see what was wrong. She could feel nothing.
    Gorev sauntered in, masculine and menacing, eating a pastry. His expression changed when Frida spun Roz around to display her hands. “Hmm, I must have tied them too tightly,” he said, and pulled out a knife from his pocket.
    It was a Swiss army knife, complete with attachments and multiple blades. Roz flinched when he opened one, checked its edge, and then flashed down with it. She was aware of a sensation of movement, but her hands were still numb.
    With the final slice, they flopped uselessly at her sides. She was horrified to see they were black and swollen. She tried to open her fingers and they refused to respond.
    “The Irishman will be upset. You were not supposed to damage her,” Frida said.
    Gorev shrugged. “I doubt that he wants her for her hands.”
    Frida helped her to the bathroom and left her alone for a few blessed minutes while she tried to force her useless hands to pull down her pants. They refused to cooperate, and in the end, she had to wedge herself against a tap so that she could pull them down.
    The relief of being able to use the toilet was almost enough to make up for her dismay at the state of her hands. With difficulty, she managed to get her trousers back up again, and washed her hands, but she couldn’t feel the water or do more than swipe them clumsily against the towel afterwards. Showering was out of the question.
    Frida was waiting outside the bathroom and looked with distaste at her messy mop of hair. “You have time to eat, and then we go.”
    Roz would have killed for coffee, but couldn’t manage to hold a cup. Gorev stuck a straw in a glass of orange juice and allowed her to drink it dry. He even topped it up again for her. “Thank you,” she said grudgingly.
    He shrugged. “Orange juice is cheap.”
    She went back to hating him. How had she got into such a mess? Whatever chance she had to escape had disappeared. She couldn't open the latch on the front door even they left her alone. She was as helpless as a baby.
    After Gorev and Frida had flirted with each other over a breakfast of boiled eggs, cheese, toast, honey and coffee, they bundled Roz into her ski jacket, with