Chapter 5 #3
He’s watching me, face an expressionless mask.
“What?” I ask him, aware that my manners are appalling.
But I’ve been held against my will by a Mafia enforcer with a bad attitude and eyes that see through me. I’m wearing his clothes. I have no idea what’s going to happen in the next five minutes. And I don’t care if he thinks I’m rude. I have no one here to impress.
“Nothing,” he says coldly. “We’ve got to get going, so hurry up.”
“Going?” That has me straightening on my stool. “Where?”
Is this the part where he leads me to a shallow grave? Is this my final meal? If so, the bread is pretty good but not to die for. And I’d rather have those out-of-this-world meatballs than the salad. My heart starts pounding, anxiety creeping back into my chest.
“You don’t need to worry about where,” he says. “Just eat.”
I pick up the fork, eyeing him suspiciously. “Did you hear from Misha?”
“Nope.”
He pops the p, and my gaze is stupidly drawn to his lips.
He has the nicest mouth I’ve ever seen on a man.
Too bad it’s wasted on him. I fork up a bite of leafy greens to distract myself.
This man is my jailer, my kidnapper. A monster hidden beneath a handsome face and a ten-thousand-dollar suit.
I am not thinking about how it would feel to have those lips pressed against mine.
I stuff the fork into my mouth. The salad is dressed in some kind of tangy vinaigrette that tastes like herbs, garlic, and citrus. Like everything else he’s fed me so far, it’s pretty damn good.
Just like I know, instinctively, that his mouth would be.
Would he kiss me slowly, sweetly? Or would he kiss me hard and harsh? Would he slam his lips onto mine, or would he seduce me slowly?
Stupid thoughts, and I’m angry with myself for having them. I take another bite of salad without even swallowing. And then I embarrass myself by almost choking on it. My fork clatters to the counter.
“Easy.” His eyes narrow on me. “I don’t know the Heimlich.”
My eyes are watering as I cough and sputter and try to catch my breath.
So maybe he’s not going to kill me today if he’s worried about me choking.
Small comfort. Not that I’m persuaded he would have.
He’s definitely capable of it, but I tend to think I’m too useful for him alive.
For all that he’s a tyrant, Misha is greedy and self-serving.
I’m worth far more to him alive than dead, just because of all the ways he can use me for his benefit.
I’m about to ask for a glass of water when a bottle of sparkling mineral water appears in front of me, long, inked fingers wrapped around the neck.
“Have a sip.”
I screw off the cap and bring it to my lips gratefully, taking a pull of fizzy water as a new plan settles in.
Scorpion’s standing close to me. Close enough that I could reach for his gun.
Maybe I could pull it from his waistband where it’s tucked, use it against him.
I take another sip, trying not to be obvious about the direction of my gaze, as I settle my right hand in my lap.
My heart thuds hard and fast, and I swallow, then force out another couple of coughs, hoping to look convincingly like I’m still choking on my lettuce while I gather the nerve to go for his gun.
Doing so could be reckless. It’s possible he’s taking me back to civilization and that’s why he’s so eager for me to eat lunch.
Maybe he’s even returning me to Misha or just preparing to use me as a bargaining chip.
But that’s the optimistic take.
The other is that he’s trying to lull me into a false sense of hope. He’s feeding me, allowing me a tiny taste of freedom, and then, when I least expect it, he’ll strike and I’ll be lying dead in the woods somewhere with a nine millimeter lodged in my eye socket.
Now’s my chance.
Three, two, one.
I reach for his Glock as fast as I can, but before I can grasp it, fingers wrap around my wrist in a punishing grip.
“Nice try,” he purrs, his voice sinister and deadly in my ear. “But you’re going to have to try a hell of a lot harder than that if you want to beat me at my own game.”
I swear I feel the graze of his lips on my ear, his hot breath ghosting over me, before he releases me and steps away, moving back to the other side of the kitchen. I feel stupidly guilty, like I disappointed him or broke some sort of unspoken code between us by trying to take his gun.
I don’t meet his gaze, focusing instead on my salad, which I no longer have the stomach for. I take another gulp of carbonated spring water, my throat finally feeling calmed down to its normal state.
“Finish eating so we can get going,” he orders me. “I don’t have all day.”
“Care to tell me where we’re going?” I ask evenly after swallowing another sip.
“Nope.”
“I’m not very hungry,” I tell him, pushing around the greens in my bowl.
“Eat anyway. It’s going to be a long couple of hours, even if it is your lucky day for now. And cheer the fuck up. I won’t have to kill you.” He flashes me a grin that shows off his devastating dimples. “Yet.”