It was okay, though.
It was a short time.
I was being taken care of.
I was going to get paid.
If nothing else, Bellamy knew where I was. The perfect ally, he was not. But if Quin and the guys really got on his ass about where I was, he would lead them to me.
It was okay.
I had been in much stickier situations in my life than locked inside a mansion of a crime lord in Santorini.
"Got it," I agreed, nodding.
"We will talk more in the morning about negotiations."
"That's what I'm here for," I agreed, nodding. "But let me know if you hear from him at any point before then."
"You'll be the first to know," he assured me, making his way to the door, stepping into the hall. "Goodnight, Miss Miller."
I had the sudden—and wholly irrational—urge to blurt out my first name, to hear the way it would roll off his smooth tongue, the way it would shiver into me.
But that was ridiculous.
So I let him close the door.
I listened for footsteps to move away and disappear.
Then I went ahead and locked the door.
Taking a deep breath, I moved to the closet. Finding nothing inside but a spare, fluffy white robe, I grabbed it as I moved into the bathroom to run the water for a shower.
I climbed out of my dress and my bra and panties, filling the sink with water and liquid hand soap. Luxury it was not, but I had gotten very used to hand washing my intimates in sinks over the years when I found myself without spare pairs to wear.
Finally, freshly cleaned, wrapped in the towel as a makeshift night dress, I climbed into bed, figuring I would stare at the ceiling until it got darker out, but passing out almost immediately.
—
I woke up disoriented, which wasn't an altogether new sensation for me. When you lived most of your life on the road, you got used to waking up in strange places, having that moment of panic and uncertainty until your brain let all the pieces fall back together again.
They trickled back.
The yacht.
Bellamy and Fenway, who were both going to hear it from me in the near future.
Christopher Adamos.
His brother, Alexander.
The job.
The money.
The house.
Which was where I was, settled in the guest room.
One look out the window said it was still dark, but with a lack of any electronics in the room, and my missing phone, it was impossible to tell if it was in the middle of the night, or simply the very pre-dawn hours.
All I did know was I was dying of thirst.
Climbing out of bed, I gave my legs a pep talk—promising them that I would never put them through step torture ever again—readjusted my robe so nothing was hanging out, and made my way out into the hall, stepping quietly through the silent house.
I grabbed a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge, then made my way to the sitting room in the new edition, reaching for the television remote, hoping for something to tell me exactly what time it was; if I should be going back to sleep or getting ready for the day.
I had just curled up on the couch when there was a slam that made my heart skitter, followed by steadily approaching footsteps.
I would have been mentally prepared for a guard. For an intruder. For freaking Atanas Chernev wielding a machine gun.
But I was not prepared for this.
For a shirtless Christopher Adamos striding into the sitting room in a pair of low-slung—dangerously low-slung—shorts, sweat glistening over his chest and abdominal muscles.
It was, well, it was a lot.
Too much, really.
For my overworked, undersexed system.
My skin heated, a flush working its way across my chest, up my neck, then blooming over my cheeks.
And I became very, very aware of the fact that I was not wearing panties.
"Miss Miller," he said, surprised, pulling to a stop, brows furrowing. "I was under the impression you were a late riser."
"I have no idea what time it is," I admitted, trying not to watch a bead of sweat slide between his pecs, down his stomach, slipping under the waistband of his pants. Clearly, I was not trying hard enough.
"It's a quarter after four."
"In the morning?" I hissed, mouth falling open, eyes scrunching up. "Why?"
"Why is it four in the morning?" he asked.
"Why have you already been out and exercising at four in the morning?" I clarified.
"It's easier when everyone is still asleep. And cooler," he added.
"Tell me you run the steps," I said, shaking my head.
"I run the steps," he agreed, shrugging.
"My legs were shaking when I tried to lower myself down onto the couch," I admitted, realizing that doing so drew his attention down my body where the flap of the robe had slipped open, revealing more than a small sliver of thigh. In fact, he was dangerously closed to figuring out my pantyless secret too.
"They adapt," he assured me, taking a deep breath, making that glorious chest of his expand wide as his gaze moved away.
"I don't think my thighs work that way," I told him.
"I'm sure they work just fine," he told me, voice a little rough, conjuring up images of them working just fine as they wrapped around his hips as he slid inside me.
Oh, crap.
Nope.
That was not a good place for my mind to be heading.
My legs pressed together tightly, trying to ignore the growing desire building between.
"They prefer lounging in bed until ten in the morning," I told him, voice sounding as tight as my chest did.
"Feel free," he invited, waving a hand down the hall.
"If you don't mind, I think I'd rather put something on TV and pretend I understand what is going on."
It hadn't escaped my notice that it was lucky that Christopher and Cora spoke English.
"You should be able to find something in English on Netflix," he offered. "I need to shower."
With that, he was gone.
Did I watch him walk away, you might be wondering?
Why, yes, yes of course, I did.
I'd always had a thing for men's backs. The strong shoulders, the slope downward, the back dimples. And, well, Christopher Adamos also happened to have a pretty epic ass too.
"Oh, calm down," I grumbled to my sex, now throbbing in objection to Christopher's departure. "I will give you a session with the removable shower wand later," I added, going onto Netflix, browsing through a mix of Greek and American content until I found something to put on.
"Cora will be up in... this is what you watch?" Christopher asked a short while later, stopping suddenly, one hand still clasping his cufflink into place.
"What's wrong with it?" I asked, shrugging.
"Wouldn't you prefer making a cake yourself?" he asked.
"Do you watch sports?" I asked, getting a bit of a shrug. "Wouldn't you prefer playing them yourself?" I shot back at him. "I have never been good at baking. This lets me think that I maybe have hope. I mean if that dude can figure out how to make and use fondant, maybe I can too."
To my surprise, he moved around the couch, taking a seat at the other end. "What is fondant?" he asked, squinting a bit at the people on the screen.
"It's made from marshmallows. It is what makes cakes look perfectly smooth. Or you can make designs out of it. see?" I said a moment later when he was still sitting there, watching. "It is oddly engaging. Yet relaxing at the same time. The only downfall is it makes you hungry. I once got a craving for a wedding cake at two in the morning."
"Cora makes breakfast around six."
"She doesn't need to cook for me. I could throw something together for myself.
"Don't tell her that," he warned, gaze sliding to me. "She will be insulted."
"Good to know."
"You said you didn't have a mother figure."
"I
, ah, no. I was raised by my father. I mean, if you can call it raising. But I had no mother. She died when I was two."
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't really know her," I said, shrugging it off. I never could grieve for her for that very reason, but I could grieve for the loss of that connection. Especially now, being around someone who was clearly like that. "Is Cora related to you?"
"She was my father's maid. She helped raise me along with my father who was often away on business. I had no mother either. She was American. She went home after depositing me at my father's doorstep, got married."
"She never saw you again?"
"Here and there. I used to visit my maternal grandparents some summers. Occasionally, she would happen by."
"That's why your accent is off."
"My accent is off?" he asked.
"I mean, it's Greek, but it isn't as thick as some of the other Greek men I have known."
"You've known many Greek men?" he asked, brow raising.
"I've done business in Greece before. Not often, but it has happened."
"You've worked with my men?"
"I've worked with politicians."
"So you've worked with my men," he said, lips curving up slightly.
Maybe it should have been shocking. To know the politicians were in the criminals' pockets. But I had been in this world long enough to know that damn near everyone was in some criminal's pocket. Cops, politicians, businessmen. It was how they got away with what they did.
"I guess I have," I agreed, shrugging. "You haven't heard anything else from Chernev?" I asked, knowing it was smart to get back to more neutral topics.
"I didn't expect to."
"How did he get in touch with you before?"
"Using my brother's phone," he told me, jaw getting tight.
"Were you able to track his phone?"
"No."
"Do you have any idea if he is in Greece still, or if he has moved your brother back to Bulgaria?"
"I don't," he said, angry at his own helplessness. "The call came from inside a house. There were no background noises. It was impossible to tell where they were."
"Do you have men in Bulgaria looking for him?"
"Of course. You think I am sitting around on my hands?"
"You'd be surprised how stupid some men in high positions of power can be," I told him. "I once had to explain to a man who runs a country the specifics on how babies are made."
"You're not serious."
"I wish I wasn't," I said, shaking my head at the memory of the boy wearing the skin of a man. He'd been stunted in so many ways. "It was a case of a woman he'd fathered a child with, and he could not fathom how that had happened. I didn't get paid nearly enough for that job."
"I can assure you, Miss Miller, I am fully aware of how babies are made."
Really, it wasn't even a sexy comment. But there was a thrill through my body regardless.
"I'm sure you are, Mr. Adamos," I agreed.
"Trust me, I am doing everything within my power to find my brother. Preferably without having to make deals with the devil. So far, all these efforts have been in vain."
"We will get your brother back, Mr. Adamos. That is the priority. Get him back, get him safe. And then you can go ahead and unmake that deal with the devil."
His gaze slid from mine, looking over at the television without really seeing it, eyes far away. "You're right," he agreed. He sat for a moment more before abruptly getting to his feet. "I will be back before lunch. My men will be here should you need anything."
With that, he was gone, leaving me to my baking show until boredom sent me back to my room, back to my bed, falling asleep for lack of anything else to do in the big, empty, quiet house.
I woke up to singing, with the bright, late morning sunlight streaming in from the window, making me squint to let my eyes acclimate.
It was Cora, far off, likely fixing breakfast in the kitchen.
And if there was one thing you could count on me getting out of the bed for, it was food.
Folding upward, I didn't see anything off at first, until something toward the right side of the room behind the door caught my attention, something that hadn't been there just hours before when I had gone back to bed.
Boxes.
And bags.
A dozen of them.
My first thought was of relief. I wouldn't have to wear my sort-of washed intimates and my unwashed dress for another day.
Christopher—or likely someone Christopher employed—had gone out to get me some basic supplies.
I was halfway over to the pile when another thought hit me, though.
I'd locked the door.
I was sure of it.
I always locked the door.
Hell, I locked the door to my bedroom at home when I was all alone.
There was no way I had forgotten to do so while in a strange man's house surrounded by other strange men.
No way.
So he either had a key, or he had picked the lock to get in.
There was a small, utterly irrational, thrill at the idea. What can I say? I appreciated a bad boy with some lock-picking skills.
It was the next thought that chilled me a bit.
What if it hadn't been Christopher who had done it? What if it had been one of his random men?
Sure, you would imagine that they were under orders not to touch me, but I had dealt with a lot of men who employed a lot of men who thought they didn't have to play by the rules.
I would have to have words with him about it.
But, for now, I grabbed a simple red wine-colored sundress, some undies, and the packaged toothbrush and razor, and made my way into the bathroom to get myself together.
It was when I got into the bathroom that I realized my fears were unjustified. That neither Christopher nor one of his men were in my room when I was asleep.
No.
It had been Cora.
Because not a single man on earth would have gone into the bathroom, brought in fresh flowers, folded the towels on the counter, and placed a giant chunk of fancy soap infused with flower petals on top of them.
That was something women did to make other women feel comfortable.
And, well, I did.
So I showered, pampered myself a little, slid into the panties that were the cheeky sort like Christopher had seen me in the day before, but in a tan lace color, then slipped on the dress, and made my way toward the kitchen.
"Oh, Cora. This is too much," I insisted as I walked over to the counter, finding a lovely table setting just for me with fancy plates and bowls, a hot coffee mug, a juice cup, and a fresh flower in a glass.
"You're a guest. Sit, sit. I will get your breakfast. You want coffee? Frappe? Both?"
"Both." Because, well, why not. When in Greece...
"Good, good," she agreed, moving around, making things, and making me feel guilty in the process. Even if she was getting paid to do this job.
"Cora, can I help you with anything?"
"No, no. You sit. Christopher says your legs hurt."
"I'm out of shape," I admitted.
"The steps. They're not for everyone. You use the donkey next time."
It really wasn't a suggestion. More like a demand.
Orange juice flowed into my cup.
A big bowl of thick yogurt, fresh berries, walnuts, and a honey drizzle was set down in front of me.
"Eat. Eat. More coming."
I very rarely needed to be told twice to enjoy my food. So I did. Every last bite of it.
Before I could even fully drop the spoon down, though, another dish was pushed in front of me.
"Eliopsomo," she told me. "Olive bread," she added.
It was topped with what looked to be a little cheese and one over-easy egg.
And, yes, I was going to eat every last bit of that as well.
But when I got to the last bite of that, Cora was already making her way back to me with yet another dish.
"Cora, really, I don't think I can do it. I am going to need a pair of Spanx after this."
"Spanx? What is this?"
"Spanx. Like control-top pantyhose. They suck all your fat in, so you don't pop out all over the place."
"Fat?" she scoffed, waving a dishrag in the air at me like it was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. "Christopher, tell her she has no fat."
Surprised, I turned, finding him standing there in the doorway, watching me.
"You're not fat," he said very matter-of-factly as he moved inward, accepting the bowl of yogurt much like I had as Cora offered it.
"She's trying to fatten me up. Like a pig heading to market. This is my third course. At breakfast," I added, voice dropping low.
"Greek mothers, they like to cook," he said, shrugging.
"Yes. Yes. Because Greek men like to eat," Cora agreed, giving me a firm nod. Like this was information I needed to know. "Miss Miller. You must learn to make some good, Greek food while you are here, yes?"
"I, ah, I don't know how long I will be here, Cora, I told her, taking a bite of the salad she'd placed in front of me. Salad was a bit odd for breakfast, but it was likely the healthiest thing I had eaten in a week, so I figured my body would thank me for it.
"She should stay," Cora said, giving Christopher a firm look. "We never have guests. It is nice to have a woman in the house."
My gaze went to Christopher, finding him suitably bashful under this mother figure's firm gaze and barely-concealed plea for him to settle down and bring a woman into his house.
"He is rather old not to be married, right, Cora?" I asked, always enjoying piling on.
To that, one of those perfect brows of his lifted slowly. Whether he was amused or angry was anyone's guess.
"Yes. I have been saying this. It is time. Too much work. Not enough family," Cora agreed, pouring both of us small cups of strong coffee.
Christopher grabbed it, moving to stand, starting to walk away.
The Negotiator Page 5