Samantha Lang’s struggles ceased at the sound of the first footsteps from outside the boiler room’s door, the damsel’s attention instantly focused on the noise, the discomfort of her chained wrists and the fear of her peril momentarily forgotten. It seemed to the pretty Chinese woman that whoever approached was sneaking their way to where she’d been bound and gagged to the terrorists’ bombs, and hope suddenly flared to life at her breast. The men who’d stormed the Christmas Gala, taken her hostage as they read their demands then dumped her next to the explosives that would level the entire convention centre were not particularly subtle. No, they’d strutted about all night like the cocks of the dunghill, ignorant to how their cruelty poisoned their cause, or the suffering they’d inflicted upon her. These footsteps, meanwhile, were tentative, nervous, made by someone sneaking through the sublevels and doing their best not to be heard.

Perhaps someone coming to her rescue?

There was a jangle of keys, and Samantha began to squirm fearfully, a faint moan escaping the silken cleave gag. Try as she might, she’d been unable to free herself from her chains, the steel cuffs clasped about her wrists holding fast despite her struggles, and with every glance at the digital clock wired to the mess of oil drums, boxes of explosives and God knew what else, she knew that her life was measured in just over an hour now. “Mmmpppggghhh…” she groaned again, the anxiety that had defined so much of her life growing each passing second.  “Mmmpppgghhh!”

And then at last, the door opened, and Samantha blinked as a rather unassuming young man silently crept into the room. He was about her age and of middling height, his brown eyes wide with nervous energy behind wide-rimmed glasses, and on a day when everyone was dressed to impress, was clad in a plain black buttoned shirt and dark pants. He was the sort of guy Samantha could walk past a hundred times a day and never take notice, and now he snuck over to her, raising a hand for silence. “Just stay calm,” he whispered gently, the warmth in his voice sending an unexpected shiver of delight up her spine. “I’ll get you out of this in a tick.”

Nodding, Samantha remained still as he examined her cuffs. She was suddenly aware of how disheveled she looked, her red silk cheongsam sweat-stained from fear and the boiler room’s humidity, her dark nylon pantyhose dirtied from where she’d been forced to kneel on the floor, her lacy black bra still visible after her abductors had torn away the collar of her dress. That last point made his blush with embarrassment, and her would-be rescuer must have seen it, for he gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, darling, I haven’t peeked. Now then…” To Samantha’s astonishment, rather than try to pick the locks to her manacles as she might have expected, he instead produced the very keys used to secure them in the first place. “Found this when I clocked one of the bastards out. Err, pardon my French.”

At last, the cuffs fell away, her rescuer easing them to the floor so they did not make a noise upon the stone, and Samantha gratefully accepted his hand and let him lead her out into the darkened corridor. Her high-heeled shoes had long been lost, so the damsel sneaked through the tiled halls on pantyhose-clad feet, silent and swift. There was no sign of any of the terrorists, and after a few tense minutes spent darting down empty hallways and along grimy maintenance corridors, she was led into a storage room, where the young man evidently felt it safe enough to stop and help her remove the gag. “Thank you,” Samantha whispered with genuine relief as the offending cloth was pulled from her mouth and discarded between several heavy crates. “We must warn everyone. The bomb…”

“The police are on it,” her rescuer assured her with a calm certainty she couldn’t help but admire. “Opened one of the side entrances for them, and they assured me the bomb squad will be heading in in a few. I saw what those terrorists had done to you, though, and wanted to get you clear, just in case. Are you all right?”

“A little shaken,” Samantha admitted, hastily clasping up her cheongsam. “I’m more worried about you, though. That was a terrible risk. What if I’d been guarded? What if you’d been found sneaking about? You could have been killed!”

Her rescuer offered a small shrug. “Then I’d have probably died,” he admitted. “But I’d like to think any man would step up to aid a damsel in distress in her time of need. You’re definitely worth the risk.”

The greater part of her, the part defined by her social anxieties, wanted to let modesty reign and plead that she was not worth a drop of sweat from his brow, let alone playing hide and seek with murderous terrorists. But Samantha had promised herself that if she lived through this, she would change that, and live a life free from doubt and regret. So it was for that resolution that the Chinese woman seized this total stranger by the collar and into a passionate kiss. He froze for a moment, out of shock as much as anything, but when the kiss finally broke, both were left flushed, panting and unable to keep from smiling. “Samantha,” she whispered, tracing a slim finger along his cheek.

“Duncan,” the man said, still blushing. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“And why not?” demanded Samantha. “Isn’t a damsel supposed to reward her handsome and gallant rescuer?”

Grinning, Duncan kissed her, and Samanta sank into the warmth of his strong embrace, feeling happier than she had ever been. She’d been freed from her peril, the police would soon set the situation to rights, and she supposed no one would mind if a damsel and her rescuer decided to sneak away for a few minutes…