It had taken her that whole night to work up the nerve to come back, and the whole morning to get ready. She hadn’t had much to choose from, just what she found in Marla’s closet, and the cosmetics rattling around in her purse. Her houndstooth power suit and stale white silk blouse and heels weren’t an option. Marla’s clothes were snug, though, and Becca hadn’t wanted to seem like she was looking for masculine attention. The jeans were tight, and she had to cover up the chubby bit of belly that hung over the waistband with something loose. The blue peasant blouse was the only thing that fit the bill. The low-cut neck was sort of provocative, but she figured he had seen everything she had last night anyway, so what the hell.
These men stared at her. As if she were stark naked all over again.
The fat man stepped closer to her. She shrank back, opened her mouth to say, excuse me, gentlemen, but I see that this is a very bad time, sorry to have intruded, now I’ll just disappear, OK? Bye!
Her mouth worked. A papery squeak came out. Not a word, or even part of one.
The fat man approaching her did not carry a gun. He was shorter, heavier and older than all the rest of them, but when his light gray eyes fixed on her, she shrank away. His lips curved into a nasty smile.
She stared back, a fuzzy little animal hypnotized by a snake.
His eyes were strange. Opaque, like tinted windows on a car. He laid his damp, heavy hand on her shoulder. Ran it up underneath her hair, and gripped the back of her neck. His long nails cut into her skin.
Goose bumps popped out over her body. He said something incomprehensible, in a questioning tone. Tilted up her chin. She felt horribly vulnerable, with her throat exposed, as if he were going to bite her. She sucked in air, tried to speak. Tried again. “I’m, ah, sorry?”
“You are American?”
Uh, what else? She nodded as best she could with her neck hyper-extended.
Mr. Big spoke up, from the back of the room. “I was just telling him how I hired you to cook for him.”
Her eyes flicked toward his. Mr. Big’s face was expressionless, but she caught the urgent flash in his eyes. She tried to nod again. “Yes,” she said in a strangled voice. “Cook. Yes. Of course. I’m a very good cook.”
“Really?” the fat man purred, petting the bump of her larynx with his forefinger, then pressing it. He settled his finger over her fluttering pulse point. “What is your name, my dear?”
“B-becca,” she stammered.
“Becca,” he repeated. “And what, exactly, do you cook?”
Her throat hurt under the pressure of his finger. She barely heard her own voice, her ears roared so loudly. Booming echoes, black spots dancing, she was going to yark, or faint—
“Crepes a l’orange,” she said, seizing at random on the recipe at the top of her head. Her brunch favorite when she wasn’t counting calories. “Or if you’d prefer savory instead of sweet, a soufflé laced with a creamy blend of f-four Italian cheeses. Accompanied by sourdough loaf, grilled ham, and a refreshing cocktail of fruit nectar and prosecco.”
The silver-haired man’s eyebrows twitched up in surprise.
“Mouthwatering,” he said. “I will sample both.”
“If you w-wish,” she quavered. “No problem at all.”
“But look at you.” He spun her around until she faced him, ran his finger along the loose neckline of the blouse. “Explain this. To me, this shirt, this hair, these breasts, so beautifully displayed…” His fingers closed around one of them, squeezing until she gasped. “You are not dressed to cook. I think that you are here…to fuck.”
“We didn’t know you were coming this morning,” Mr. Big broke in. “She didn’t know that—”
“Shut up.” The man’s hands tightened on her breasts. “I am tired of listening to you bark like a dog. What is your name, dog?”
Mr. Big’s eyes looked like a caged predator’s. “Solokov.”
“If you speak again out of turn, Solokov, I will have you clubbed unconscious,” Silver Hair said. His breath was hot against Becca’s neck, scented with licorice. She shrank from the smell as if it were poison gas. Felt the nasty lump of his erection pressing her bottom.
Her gorge rose. She’d never been so afraid.
“So. If you did not bring her here for my enjoyment, Solokov, I can only conclude that you brought her here for your own,” the fat man said. “That was selfish.” The last word was like a snake’s hiss. He nuzzled her throat again. “Pretty,” he went on, his fingers drifting lower, between her breasts, over her belly. “Very pretty.”
Becca shook. The man’s hand moved slowly, every eye following its path. It clamped over her crotch. Her eyes locked onto Mr. Big’s.
Don’t scream.
She understood his unspoken command. Screaming would escalate the situation. But she had to do something to stop this downward slide into the pits of hell.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Her voice came out of her, almost brisk.
The fat man looked annoyed. “Excuse me?”
She flapped her jaw for a few seconds, failing to remember what Mr. Big had called himself right away. “I’m sorry you don’t approve of my outfit. I will be happy to put on something more appropriate as soon as possible. Solokov brought me here to cook for you. May I get to it?”
The horrible pressure of his finger against her crotch eased. She almost wilted to the ground in relief.
“Cook, then,” he said. “I am tired of the swill from the boat.”
She scurried across the boardwalk, and made for Mr. Big as if he were a lodestone. She grabbed his sinewy arm, nails digging deep.
She forced false assertiveness into her voice. “I need help, if you want me to do both crepes and a soufflé,” she informed the fat guy. “It’ll cut my prep time in half. If you’re hungry.”
The man let out a dry chuckle. “Go with her, by all means,” he said to Mr. Big. “We will discuss the disposition of your fascinating, succulent little cook after I have been mellowed by brunch.”
She bolted for the house, dragging Mr. Big along behind her.
Nick reeled in her wake, towed along by Becca’s fingernails, which were sunk into the meat of his forearms. As soon as they were into the foyer, she whirled on him, winding up to demand explanations that he didn’t dare give.
He clapped his bloody hand over her mouth, and dragged her along in his turn, down the corridor towards the kitchen.
She tried to tug his hand away, mumbling and squeaking. He shoved her against the wall, bumping air out of her lungs. Just to give him a second’s advantage before she started jabbering again.
He leaned forward, trapping her with his body weight.
“Listen to me, and listen good,” he hissed into her ear. “You are in deep shit. If you want to live through this, shut up and do exactly what I say, and I mean exactly. If you don’t, you’ll die. Soon. And badly.”
She started to shake. Damn. He was overdoing it. He didn’t want her to panic and fall apart on him.
“There are cameras and mikes everywhere in this fucking place, he went on. “This is the story. I hired you to cook for that guy. I offered you two thousand bucks for the weekend. You don’t know me. You don’t know who he is, and you don’t care. I haven’t told you any details, and you’re not interested in them. You’re just here to cook. I’m going to lean back. Nod and smile if we understand each other.”
He stepped back, slowly lifted his hand.
Her face was daubed with his blood, her eyes glittering with tears. She dragged a jerky breath of air into her lungs, and nodded.
Smile, he mouthed.
She tried, lips quivering, tugging at the corners. She couldn’t quite make it, but it was good enough for him. She tried to speak.
He covered her mouth again. Leaned in close. “Whisper.”
“Can’t I just run away?” she squeaked. “I’ll never say anything. I never saw anyone. I’ll just disappear. I promise.”
He considered it. Yeah, maybe she could
. And then they would rip his guts out for the security breach, like they’d done to Sergei. “Do you have your own boat?”
She shook her head. “I have to call the taxicat at Shepherd’s Bay.”
It would take the catamaran a minimum of forty minutes to get to Frakes Island from Shepherd’s Bay, assuming it had no other jobs lined up. More like an hour, realistically. He couldn’t cover her for that long.
He shook his head. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Won’t work.”
She reached out, and gently prodded his sore nose. “Are you going to be OK?” she whispered. “Is it broken?”
He was taken aback. “No,” he said, almost flustered. “No big deal.”
“It looks terrible,” she said. “All that blood. He hit you so hard.”
God, she was innocent. He’d taken worse from his dad for letting the coffee boil over. “Nah. Guy hits like a girl.” He shoved her ahead of him, herding her into the huge kitchen. “Well?” he said. “Cook, then. Impress me.”
Her green eyes narrowed. “First, wash off that blood,” she said. “It’s unhygienic, and unappetizing. Are you still leaking?”
He dabbed at his nose gingerly as he turned on the faucet, and glugged dish soap into his hand. “It’s stopped,” he said, leaning to splash and rub, splattering pink drops all over the sink. Becca joined him, scrubbing at her own blood-smeared hands and face.
“Sorry I got blood on you,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about it, though. I’m HIV negative, last I checked. Which was recently.”
He turned away before she could snag him in those big green eyes. He grasped a roll of paper towels, ripped off a wad to sponge off.
“Me, too,” she whispered.
He jerked his head around. “Huh? You’re what?”
Her face was hot red. “HIV negative. Just so you, um, know. Guess we should have had this conversation last night, but we didn’t.”
His hand tingled with sense memory, the slick heat of her pussy tight around his finger as she came. His hands clenched.
Great. Now he could walk this tightrope over the flames of hell with a hard-on, too. Just to make things a little more interesting.
“That’s great news, baby,” he growled. “Can we get to work?”
She scooped her hair back, twisted into a rope, and knotted it at the nape of her neck in a loose bun. Swirly brown bits came loose, swinging under her chin.
He dragged his eyes away. “What did you say you’d cook?”
“Soufflé, and crepes a l’orange,” she said. “I need eggs. Milk. A lot of butter. A pinch of flour, for the bechamel. Some grated nutmeg, and an assortment of good cheeses. Peccorino, parmesan, asiago, gruyère, anything flavorful. Fresh fruit to purée, prosecco to mix with it, ham to grill, and some bread, to complete the menu I proposed. For the crepes, more eggs, more flour, more butter, some sugar, orange-flower water, kirsch, Cointreau and a dash of cognac. And coffee, of course.”
Nick stared at her. “You really can cook.”
“I can do a lot of things, Mr. Big,” she said acidly. “Face down killers and whip up a tasty brunch? No problem. I do it all the time. So, what don’t you have? I can fudge some ingredients…but only some.”
Mr. Big? Right. He had never told her his name. “Ah…” He shrugged, lamely. “I’m not sure.”
She flung the fridge open. The inventory didn’t take long.
Eggs he had, because they were the type of food that he could prepare. Even scorched, they were edible. And when he was in one of his moods, he just cracked one over his open mouth and gulped down the cold, mucusy glob like a protein pill. He figured it would be a funny joke if he croaked from salmonella poisoning one day.
Butter he had, because toast was another one of those foolproof food items. Milk he had, being as how cold cereal was a third quick-n-dirty survival edible. A few more odds and ends…and that was it.
Becca made a disgusted noise, and flung open cabinets, rifling through the contents and plucking things out. There was flour but not much else. She whirled, eyes sharp. “Is this a sick joke? I cannot make a gourmet breakfast for that guy out of stale bagel chips, instant oatmeal and pimiento Cheez Whiz!”
“Don’t play diva on me, babe,” he said testily. “I didn’t come up with that fancy menu, you did. Look in the other fridge or the freezer—”
“Diva, my ass! I’ve got some decent food over at the A-frame. I’ll just, ah…go get it.”
Yeah. And try to disappear, writing both of their death warrants in one smooth move. “You can’t walk out of here,” he told her. “They’re covering the approach. I’ll go get the stuff. You just get started.”
“Here? Alone? With…them?” Her eyes widened.
“I’ll be quick,” he promised rashly. “You’ll be fine.”
She swallowed hard and he saw her back straighten up as she snapped into drill sergeant mode. “The small white boxes have specialty cakes in them,” she said briskly. “Get as many as you can. The cheese plate, the ham roast and the fruit are all in the two big white boxes in the fridge. Get both. There’s beef and vegetables. And condiments. Don’t forget the prosecco. It’s chilling in the door of the fridge. Get as many bottles of wine as you can carry. I think we’ll need all the help we can get.”
Nick pounded up the back staircase and vaulted off the deck which curved around the huge outcropping of granite that the house had been built around. Clambering down that way put him at a thirty-yard uphill slog to the Sloane house, which he covered in seconds.
Once inside, he assembled the stuff Becca had asked for, tossing it helter-skelter into the boxes, packing wine bottles into plastic bags.
A thought occurred to him. He left the kitchen, and searched through the house until he found it. A little black purse. He dumped the contents, pawed through them. House keys, lipstick, tissue, comb.
He put the lipstick in his pocket for no very good reason.
Cell phone. Wallet. He thumbed through it, plucking out the plastic, the driver’s license, everything with her name and address printed on it. The wallet he tossed into an empty drawer by the bed. The credit cards and cell phone he shoved in his pocket, to bury under a rock outside.
He loaded himself up like a donkey, and took off. Sliding and scrambling through clinging vines and thorny bushes, all to make the perfect three-cheese soufflé for the evilest scum-sucking motherfucker in the known universe. It was surreal.
A sound jerked out of his chest, so rusty, he almost didn’t recognize it. Laughter.
Mr Big? How the fuck had she come up with that?
Better not to speculate.
Chapter
7
Keeping busy was the trick. Squinting fiercely, she located bowls, utensils and small appliances. Whiz, bang, and there it all was, neatly assembled on the central island. God, how she loved a kitchen with counter space. Too bad she was using it to feed her potential murderers. Or rapists.
Yeah. Bechamel first. Then the crepe batter. Watching butter melt and flour sizzle soothed her rattled nerves. She counted the slow stirs until the sauce thickened, up to ten and back down to zero, over and over, so she wouldn’t fall to screaming pieces.
No disasters so far. She set the white sauce aside to cool and whipped up batter for the crepes, grateful for the well-seasoned electric griddle she’d found in a bottom shelf. She’d be able to do six crepes at a time on that thing. Some day, when she’d finally landed Mr. Right and had the perfect kitchen, she’d get herself one of those. A professional-grade food processor, too.
Good girl. Keeping it together. Cool as a cucumber.
The door burst open. Startled, Becca sprang into the air and made a sound that only dogs could hear.
It was Mr. Big, laden with boxes and plastic bags. The wine bottles clanked together. She was so relieved, she almost burst into tears. “Oh, thank God.”
“This shit is heavy,” he grumbled.
She tore into the boxes. Mr. Big watched, his mouth dangling open.
Ingredients for the soufflé, arrayed in a row on one section of the counter, elements for the crepes on another. Her mind whirled with logistics, timing, sequence. Should she get the soufflé in the oven before starting the sauce for the crepes? If the soufflé was done too soon, they wouldn’t be ready to serve it on the spot. It might fall. She couldn’t serve a flat soufflé to those guys. They had guns. They would shoot her.
She decided to grate and chop the savory ingredients, then whip up the orange sauce, then assemble the soufflé and pop it in the oven, which left exactly twenty-five minutes to bake the crepes on the griddle and get the ham browned, the fruit blended and the bread toasted. Assuming she had six arms, and that somebody else would deal with linens, dishes and cutlery. And she thought she had job stress at the club.
Mr. Big proved to be worse than useless as a line cook. He was slow, sullen, clouded and uncomprehending.
“What do you mean, orange zest?” he grumbled. “What the fuck is fucking orange zest?”
“If you have to ask, never mind,” she snapped. “Grate the cheese into this bowl, fast. Then wash the grater. I need it for the zest. And cut these herbs. Very fine. That should be simple enough for even you.”
“Stop bitching,” he muttered. “Nobody asked you to get mixed up in this.”
“I just came back for my glasses and my keys,” she whispered fiercely. “I had to! I’m blind as a bat without my glasses! You might have warned me about this last night! Instead of—instead of—”
“Warned you?” he shot back. “Jesus Christ, I tried to scare you away from here last night. At least until I—we, I mean—got distracted. But any female with half a brain would have run like hell. What was the matter with you?”
Her fault, huh? Asfuckingif. She wrenched the bowl of grated cheese away from him and dumped it into her warm bechamel.
Half a brain, her ass. Hah. Scare her? Sure, if scaring her included kissing her senseless and giving her a transcendental orgasm. And now the jerk was mangling her herbs, too.
“Stop that,” she snapped. She yanked his cutting board away and tossed him a peeled onion. “Chop this,” she ordered. “Very fine.”
Extreme Danger Page 7
