Too Hot to Handle

by Nancy Warren

  The fire escape was in good shape, but it was rickety and creaked as they made their way down. Still, no one came to investigate. Thanks a lot, New York’s Finest, she thought bitterly.

  They hit the pavement below and she felt a stone bite through her socks.

  “Run,” he ordered, grabbing her arm and breaking into a sprint, giving her no choice but to follow.

  They ran, but cobblestone streets weren’t designed for a woman in slippers. He didn’t seem to care, hauling her along at a fast pace. She prided herself on being in pretty good shape, but she could barely keep up with his long-legged sprint. If his goal was to keep her too breathless to yell for help, he was doing an excellent job. She prayed she wouldn’t step on broken glass or a nail or something.

  “Hey,” a man’s voice yelled.

  “Don’t turn around,” Pendegraff warned her. “Move.”

  They pounded down toward Canal Street and she saw a black limo glide toward them. She waved the vehicle down, almost sobbing in relief as it stopped.

  Pendegraff didn’t flinch, but with a quick glance over his shoulder, he dragged her toward the car, opening the back door and shoving her inside. The limo was sailing away before he’d closed the door. She heard the click of the locks sliding smoothly into place even as she grabbed for the door.

  “Nice timing, Healey,” Pendegraff said.

  The limo took the corner at a sedate glide, and as it did so she watched through the tinted glass as a thickset guy in a cheap tweed jacket ran into view, gun in hand. When he saw the car, he slipped his gun under the flap of his jacket, then pounded past them.

  “A getaway limo?” she panted. “Are you kidding me?”

  She banged her head back against the leather headrest, frustration surging through her.

  “It’s very convenient. In New York a limo is barely noticeable and the tinted windows provide excellent privacy.”

  “Great. You stole the emeralds out of my safe, have your own getaway limo. And what are you planning to do with me?”

  The gaze he sent her was speculative. He seemed relaxed and very cool sitting back in the black leather seat. “I haven’t completely decided yet.”

  “Well, when you do, could you let me in on the secret?” She ought to be frightened, she knew that, but somehow she couldn’t seem to work up any true fear.

  “It’s been a stressful night. Why don’t you join me in a nightcap?” He reached for the bar built into the back, which was conveniently set up, right down to the fresh ice in the ice bucket. Swanky.

  “I have a better idea. Why don’t you drop me off at the next corner and I’ll grab a cab home.”

  “Scotch all right?”

  She rolled her gaze. “Fine.”

  “Rocks or straight up?” he asked in that lazy tone that was beginning to set her teeth on edge. As though they were at the yacht club for a social engagement.

  “Rocks.”

  The ice tinkled into the crystal tumbler. “I promise I will let you go, unharmed, but I can’t do it quite yet.” He passed her a glass. Raised his own in a silent toast. “I promise, you can trust me.”

  She snorted. “You robbed me. I don’t normally trust guys who break into my safe and confiscate my jewels. Call me a cynic.”

  She sipped her drink. She wasn’t a big scotch drinker but he was right—it had been a crazy night and between the break-in, the police raid and the kidnapping, her nerves were a little jumpy. Naturally it was some ancient whiskey that had no doubt been lovingly distilled by kilted magicians a century or so earlier. The drink was smooth and rich.

  He leaned back, and she thought that if she hadn’t caught him red-handed, she’d never have believed the elegant man beside her was a thief. The knife pleats were still sharp in his black trousers, his Italian loafers showed not so much as a smudge of dirt despite racing through the streets of SoHo, his black turtleneck rose and fell with slow, even breath, as the man casually sipped his drink.

  “Does Penelope know you’re a thief?”

  “Penelope?” His dark eyebrows rose. “I have no secrets from Penelope.”

  “Is she a thief, too?”

  “She’s more…” He seemed to consider his words carefully, and once again she caught the familiar amusement lurking in his eyes. “Support staff.”

  “You must be a pretty successful thief if you can afford limos and Italian loafers.” She stumbled over the final word as a wave of fatigue washed over her. She was more tired than she’d realized.

  “How about you?” he asked. “Do you have a significant other? Husband, boyfriend?”

  “Worried someone will come looking for me?” she asked. At least she tried to ask the question. The words formed in her head but it felt as if there was a wad of cotton stopping them from making it to her mouth. Her head began to swim and in that moment she realized that there was more than scotch in her glass.

  She jerked her head to face him. “You bastard.”

  He reached out slowly, oh, so slowly it seemed, his arm snaking like a Dali image, all long and loopy, to take the glass from her hand. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

  She struggled to keep her wits about her, jabbed the window control. If she could get some fresh air, maybe she could fight whatever he’d used to drug her. But even as she flailed for the button, she could feel herself slipping from consciousness.

  LEXY WOKE WITH A SENSE of disorientation, as though she were on vacation and waking in a strange bed. But as her eyes opened slowly, the horror of what had happened to her came rushing back. She’d been in the back of a limo, she’d drunk scotch—not more than a few sips—and then she’d passed out.

  Her mouth felt dry, her eyes were heavy and scratchy, and her head ached. She raised a hand to her face, rubbed her eyes. Then she looked around.

  There was a little natural light coming in through a shuttered window. Enough to show her the ghostly outlines of a bedroom. She was in bed. Not her own. And she was alone.

  She threw back the covers. Discovered she was in the same clothes she’d been wearing when she was kidnapped. But someone had removed her slipper socks. She pushed her bare feet to the floor and got up. Whoa. A little wobbly. She waited for her legs to steady, then padded to the shutters and opened them.

  Gray light pushed sullenly into the room. As she looked out, she saw snow and trees. Huge, dark green trees and plenty of them.

  Snow?

  Something told her she wasn’t in Manhattan anymore. Her window was in an upper story of what looked like an architecturally interesting house, which sat in a snow-covered clearing in the middle of a forest. A single set of tire tracks led to a parked 4x4. If there were neighboring houses she didn’t see them. All she saw were trees. Everywhere she looked, trees, a gray sky and it was eerily quiet. It felt as though this place had been stuck in the middle of nowhere. To a woman who’d spent most of her life in Manhattan, all these trees and isolation were a little freaky.

  There was no sign of anyone around. She unlocked the window and hauled up the sash, half surprised to find it opened. But then what was she going to do? Jump? At the very least a two-story fall would leave her with broken bones. She stuck her head out the window, filling her lungs with cool, moist air. The house was gray cedar shingle, all sleek lines and modern angles. A satellite dish perched incongruously from the roof.

  A large bird swooped low over the trees and a chipmunk chattered. Apart from pigeons and crows, she wasn’t really good at identifying birds, but she thought this might be some kind of hawk. Some predator that pounced on innocent animals, those that were smaller and inoffensively going about their business. Rather like she had before Charles Pendegraff III had pounced on her.

  Lexy didn’t like being a victim. And she most certainly didn’t like that she’d been spirited to heaven knew where, with a thief who’d stolen property out of her safe. Not only did she have Mrs. Grayson’s commission to design, but she had several other projects on the go. No time for a kidnapping.

&n
bsp; When she crossed to the door she discovered it opened as easily as the window. She closed it softly and retreated back into her room. She needed to think before confronting her kidnapper.

  She also needed to brush her teeth. This place seemed pretty ritzy. The furniture in her room was simple pine, but it had the high-end country look of simple furniture that cost a fortune. The bed was big and comfy; a couple of large armchairs flanked a fireplace and a partly open door led to an en suite.

  The room reminded her of a luxury ski resort. Expensive, comfortable and in the middle of nowhere.

  The bathroom thankfully possessed not only a toothbrush still in its wrapper but a basket of toiletries and a stack of fluffy white towels. The tap water tasted fresh and clean so she filled one of the two glasses she found on the granite vanity and filled it, drank the contents down in a couple of gulps and refilled the glass.

  Sipping her second glass of water more slowly, she took stock of her reflection, which was a mess. Her hair was all over the place, her makeup had smudged and her clothes—which were pretty casual to begin with—looked as though she’d slept in them.

  She brushed her teeth, then took a long, hot shower, washing away the last of her drug-induced grogginess.

  A white bathrobe hung on the back of the door—reminding her more and more of an upscale hotel—so she slipped it on and opened the drawers and cupboards in the bathroom hoping for a comb or brush.

  She found both. Also hairstyling products and a limited supply of essential cosmetics still in their packaging. Her first instinct was to refuse to make herself pretty for a kidnapper, but she soon threw that idea aside. She had her own confidence to think of and it was amazing what a little lip gloss and some mascara could do.

  Blow-drying her hair, putting on a little makeup, these small tasks steadied her and gave her some sense of normality.

  When she returned to the bedroom and checked out the closet and drawers, she was only mildly surprised to find clean T-shirts, pajamas, track pants, a hoodie, outside jackets, rain boots and blessedly unopened packages of underwear and socks. He either had a lot of unexpected guests, or the kidnapping business had a high turnover.

  She dressed swiftly—the only thing of her own she wore was her jeans—and then, pushing her shoulders back and her chin up, she left the bedroom in search of her captor.

  Her feet were soundless on the thick carpet that covered the floors. The upscale mountain retreat look continued in the hallway. A muted palette of taupes and grays on the walls and woodwork highlighted several paintings and drawings that were so good she suspected they were originals. Hot ones, no doubt.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she hit a slate entrance hall and landing. She listened, but heard no sound coming from anywhere. A flutter of panic in her chest as she wondered if she’d been abandoned here, but then she remembered the 4x4 out front.

  She went searching. And discovered that Mr. Pendegraff had exquisite taste. Everything was of the finest from the leather furniture in the living room to the liquor in the cabinet.

  She found the kitchen at last, and found Charles Pendegraff III sitting in a deep chair in a den area off the kitchen sipping coffee and watching a plasma TV. He glanced up when she entered the room and immediately flicked off the television.

  He’d changed yet again, she noted warily. From rich fop to black-clad jewel thief, now he looked like an upscale mountain man. He wore jeans, a chambray shirt and hiking boots.

  “Good morning. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Is it drugged?”

  His eyes clouded. “No. And I’m sorry about that, by the way. I couldn’t think of another way to handle things.”

  There wasn’t any point in him drugging her now, she was pretty certain. And she was a weak, weak woman unable to resist the scent coming from the sleek coffeemaker. “All right, then.”

  He rose, went behind the granite breakfast bar and poured a dark stream of coffee into a blue pottery mug that was much too ordinary and cheerful to be part of this house.

  “Milk?”

  “Yes.”

  He opened the door of a stainless steel fridge that she saw was fully stocked, withdrew a carton and placed it on the black granite countertop beside the coffee mug. “Sugar’s in the pot there,” he said.

  She took her time preparing her coffee exactly the way she liked it. She was determined to stay calm. The coffee was delicious. Strong and rich and she felt the caffeine punching up her energy. Good.

  “What would you like to go with your coffee?” he asked, as though he was her waiter. “I’ve got eggs, breakfast muffins, some—”

  “I’d like some answers.”

  “I know. And you’ll get them. Over breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You will be. You like omelets?”

  Frustration enveloped her, and forgetting her vow to remain calm, she marched up to him, right behind the granite breakfast bar and into his space. She stalked up until there were only a couple of inches between their bodies. She was so close she could smell him, hints of sandalwood from his shower gel or shampoo or something, the fresh laundered smell of his shirt, the smell of thieving hot man underneath it all.

  His green eyes were wary and he’d missed a spot when he shaved. All that her mind processed while her anger boiled.

  She slammed her coffee mug down on the counter. “I don’t want eggs. I want answers. Yesterday you came into my life, into my store, into my work space.” She began to list his crimes on her fingers, from mildest to most venal. “You lied to me, you broke in after dark and stole from me.” Her third finger hurt when she hit it to emphasize the third item on her list. “You kidnapped me.” Bang she hit her fourth finger. “And you drugged me. Now I have no idea who you are or where I am and I want to know.” Her fingers curled into a fist. Even though she wanted to punch him as hard as she could, she wasn’t foolish enough to do it. Instead she rapped her closed fist against the other open palm. Smack, smack.

  “And I want to know, now.”

  For a second he simply stood, gazing down at her. She wished she were over six feet tall so she wouldn’t have to look up to meet his eyes. It was infuriating being shorter and slighter than her foe.

  It took her a second to realize that he was looking at her, not in a kidnapper to victim way, but in a man to woman way that made her blood stir. What was wrong with her?

  How could her body respond to a criminal?

  Needing an excuse to back away from this far-too-close contact, she picked up her mug of coffee. A tiny crack had formed in the bottom where she’d smacked the pottery on the granite. She only wished it was Pendegraff’s head she’d cracked.

  And she stepped back.

  “Okay,” he said. “You want to talk first, we’ll talk.”

  “You’ll talk,” she reminded him.

  THE DEEP, COMFY CHAIRS in the den made her want to curl her feet beneath her. Under different circumstances she thought she’d like this place. Wherever it was. There were no newspapers conveniently lying around, no phone book sitting by a phone that might give her hints to her current location.

  She sat up straight, her feet on the floor.

  He refilled his mug and took the other chair. Sipped, slowly, in a way that suggested he was stalling for time. Her foot began to tap against the floor.

  “I actually am Charles Pendegraff,” he began.

  “The third?” Skepticism tinged her tone.

  A brief grin lit his face. “Yes, though I only mention the number when I want to come off as a pompous ass.”

  “You’re good at it,” she said sweetly.

  “As you’ve obviously gathered, I’m a thief.” He paused, shaking his head. “Was a thief. I’m retired.” He glanced at her and his gaze darkened. “And, until last night, I’d never been caught. I must be losing my edge.”

  “Caught by me and the cops.”

  “Lexy, those weren’t cops.”

  “Oh, come on. Why would
I believe you?”

  He reached for the remote control. “You’re not going to like this. I recorded a news broadcast from New York this morning.”

  He flicked on the screen and pushed a couple of buttons. A newscast she knew well, one she often watched as she was getting ready in the morning, told her it was going to be cooler in Manhattan today, then there was the usual banter between the show’s host and the meteorologist. Then the news.

  “I’m really not sure what the U.N. funding crisis has to do with—”

  He held up a finger. “Wait.”

  And then there was news footage of a block of buildings she knew intimately. It was her street.

  “A suspicious fire broke out last night at a well-known jewelry designer’s SoHo premises, destroying the store and the living space above it.”

  “A fire?” she whispered.

  The film that went with the voice-over showed her street, the blackened front of her store, the pretty blue paint all bubbled and black, all the windows smashed and uniformed firefighters spraying water into her apartment.

  “Emergency crews responded at 4:11 a.m. when a neighbor saw flames coming from the building that houses Alexandra Drake Designs. Ms. Drake’s residence was above the studio.”

  Like a horror movie, she watched as a man rushed to the store’s entrance and had to be forcibly restrained by the police officers standing out front.

  “Carl,” she cried softly.

  Next thing, her friend was being interviewed, clearly distraught.

  “Lexy’s a good friend. We asked her to come out with us tonight, but she said she had to stay in and work. I was walking home and saw the fire truck.” He glanced around frantically. “I can’t find her. Did she get out okay?”

  The camera cut back to the on-the-scene reporter. “Police and fire crews aren’t saying much at this point, only that they will be investigating the cause of the fire, which they are calling ’suspicious’ and that robbery is suspected.”

  The pictures of the fire crews at work continued to play as the morning news anchor took up the story. “Investigators recovered the body of a woman from the scene. It will be several days before a positive identification can be made of the victim, but at this hour, Alexandra Drake is still unaccounted for.”