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.
