Blood Ties in Chef Voleur

by Mallory Kane

  She nodded as best as she could with the twin pressures of the man’s hand on her head and the gun. Her nose and mouth were half pressed into the too-soft sheets, so that she still had to struggle to breathe, but at least she could get air in. “Please—” she gasped, “don’t hurt me.”

  “Then shut up and listen. Where’s the letter?”

  “What?” Cara Lynn blurted. “The what?”

  The gun jabbed her, sending screaming pain up the side of her head. “The letter you pulled out of the journal.”

  Something was odd about the voice. It sounded like the man was deliberately deepening it, making it more bass and gravelly. The intense pounding pain in her head kept her from thinking clearly, and the grating roughness of the voice made it hard to understand him. “Journal?” she said, trying to think through the pain.

  The gun jabbed again. “The letter. That was in the journal.”

  “Oh,” she said, finally putting his words together into sentences that made sense. The letter. Whoever he was, he’d been there, seen her slide the letter out from between the pages of the journal, just before the lights went out, or sticking it into her clutch as the lights came on. And then it hit her. It didn’t matter what he’d seen. What mattered was that this was someone she knew. Dear God!

  “‘Oh’ is right,” he growled. “Where is it?”

  The man’s hand shifted on the back of her head, letting up on the pressure a little more. Enough so she could answer him. Then she realized that his hand was trembling. He was nervous. He wasn’t some all-powerful monster. He was a man and he was not completely confident of what he was doing. She tried to lift her head and he pushed her face into the sheets again.

  “Watch it!” he growled.

  “Please—need to breathe.” She hoped a direct appeal might help. But he wasn’t buying it.

  “Hah. You’re not dying, at least not yet. You’ll know when you’re dying.”

  “I don’t—”

  She felt his knee come down on the middle of her back and his voice was suddenly right in her ear. “Don’t even try it.”

  She shivered. “I don’t know—”

  “I swear to God, woman, I will shoot you. You have that letter and I want it, now!”

  Cara Lynn felt the gun barrel trembling, and something wet—a drop of his sweat?—fall on the back of her neck. He wasn’t just nervous. He was terrified. Maybe she could use that to get away from him.

  She remembered hearing her brothers talk about people who were inexperienced with guns and how dangerous they were. Their trembling hand might jerk, the finger they were already pressing too tightly against the trigger might spasm and Boom! Their victim was dead.

  This man could shoot her without meaning to. He had her pinned down on the bed. His gun was pressed into her flesh. If he pulled the trigger, she would die instantly and the noise would be muffled by the mattress.

  “Okay,” she said, the fist of terror in her chest squeezing her heart. She had only one chance. She had to give him what he wanted. She took a breath, her chest heaving in a staccato rhythm with her racing pulse. Her head still screamed with pain, so much that she could barely think. She prayed to God that she was doing the right thing. That once she told the man what he wanted to know, he wouldn’t kill her anyway.

  “It’s in the briefcase, by the door,” she whispered.

  “You better be telling me the truth,” he said, his mouth still close enough to her ear that she could hear the tremolo in it. “Because you won’t live through the day if you’re lying.”

  The nausea that was pushing against the back of her throat began to increase, not helped by the heavy knee in her back. The pain in her head was a constant throbbing now. She couldn’t remember when it hadn’t hurt. It felt as though the gun’s barrel rose and fell against her neck with each beat of her heart.

  Then, the barrel jabbed again. She moaned.

  “I’m going to get the briefcase and leave. If you move a muscle...” She felt him straighten, felt the pressure of his hand and the gun’s barrel lessen. Immediately, without moving a muscle, she suddenly found it easier to breathe.

  “I won’t—” she gasped.

  “If you make one noise, move one inch, I will come back in here and shoot you right in the heart. Do you understand?”

  She moved her head slightly, nodding. “I swear I won’t move.”

  “And if that letter isn’t there, I’ll come back here and shoot your husband and you in your sleep.”

  Bile burned her throat. She swallowed as nausea curled in her stomach and acrid saliva filled her mouth. “Please,” she rasped. “I swear I won’t move.”

  “Count five minutes—three hundred seconds— before you move,” he said, letting go the pressure on her head.

  The gun barrel stayed at her throat and she could feel the man’s hand, hovering over the back of her skull, waiting—just waiting—for her slightest movement. Then he picked up a pillow and put it over her head.

  A burst of sheer panic cut through her like a laser.

  “Put your hands over the pillow, on the back of your head. Clasp your fingers.”

  She did what he said. Without her hands to hold her head and upper torso away from the sheets, her nose and mouth sank into the soft bedclothes again. She was back in the nightmare. No matter that her head was turned sideways, she still felt as though she were suffocating.

  “Now what are you going to do?”

  What had he said? The pain behind her eyes was so intense, the struggle for breath so all-consuming that she couldn’t think. “Count?” she mumbled against the sheets. “Count to three hundred?”

  “Three hundred seconds. Seconds. You’d better do it or you’re dead.”

  The gun barrel shifted as the man’s weight left the mattress. Almost as soon as his weight was gone, the gun barrel was back, but not at her throat. It now pressed against her hot, sore temple. She heard him pick up the bedside phone and jerk the cord out of the wall. “Where’s your cell phone?” he growled, jabbing the gun into her sore temple.

  “I—”

  “Where!”

  “I think it’s on the foyer table.”

  “Three hundred seconds,” he whispered in her ear.

  She breathed through her open mouth as she felt the gun move away from her temple. The man stood watching her for a long time. She felt him there. His presence was heavy, ominous.

  She lay still, doing her best to breathe silently so she could listen. She wanted to hear his footsteps backing out of the room. Wanted to hear him pick up the briefcase from the foyer floor. Wanted to hear the front door open and close.

  She did not move a muscle. Tears filled her eyes and fell, soaking into the sheets and causing her nose to run, which made it even harder to breathe, but she lay still as a stone, just as she’d promised.

  She heard him walking through her apartment. Heard him stop in the kitchen to rip that phone’s cord out of the wall.

  When she finally heard the front door close, every muscle in her body contracted, ready to vault up and run to the living room window to catch a glimpse of the ghoul who had touched her, held a gun to her head and threatened her life. But she couldn’t move and she hadn’t gotten to three hundred seconds yet. In her mind, he was still standing there, just waiting for her to disobey him, so he could shoot her.

  She couldn’t say how long she lay still, her head pounding, her limbs cramping, her throat burning with nausea. She could never remember afterwards how many times she’d counted to three hundred. She only knew that he’d told her he would kill her. And she believed him.

  Chapter Eight

  Jack was not happy with the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office. They’d hauled in a suspect in the theft of the journal, based on two partial fingerprints they’d found on
the surface of the tiara. Jack had expressed his surprise that the thief hadn’t worn gloves, but the detective told him there were some jewel thieves who refused to use gloves to handle the jewels, claiming that even the thinnest gloves were clumsy and one couldn’t afford to drop a piece that could be worth millions of dollars. The police had recovered the journal from the suspect’s house.

  Jack had asked for the journal, or at least photocopies of the pages inside. He’d told them he’d settle for one or two specific dates if that would make them feel better. He’d been summarily turned down. According to Detective Phillips, the journal was evidence and neither it nor any of its contents could be released until the evidence lab was finished with it.

  At that moment, Jack wished he could call on the Delanceys. With five of them on the job, either in New Orleans or St. Tammany Parish, he was certain they could obtain photocopies. But he wasn’t about to ask them. If he brought one of them in, at best he would be out, at worst he’d instantly become a suspect.

  He’d considered getting a court order instead, but he would face the same problem with it. Within minutes the Delanceys would be alerted, and he’d be hit with so many delays and objections that he’d probably never see the book. So he had to resign himself to waiting, and hope that Cara Lynn didn’t decide to ask her brothers or her cousins for help.

  All he’d gleaned from his long and futile visit to the sheriff’s office was one thin file folder that contained a scant two-page report on the suspect, a mildly successful second-story man named Drakos Rodino, known for his connections to jewelry fencing operations.

  When he got inside and set his keys on the foyer table, he saw Cara Lynn’s cell phone. It was lying face down on the table and its battery was missing. “Cara?” he called. “Where are you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Cara, hon? Did you drop your phone? Where’s the battery?” He reached for his briefcase, but it wasn’t on the floor of the foyer where he kept it.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. “Cara Lynn, what the hell’s going on? Where’s my briefcase?” If she picked up the code for the lock by watching him open it and was snooping inside, reading his grandfather’s letters...

  He realized he was angry, much angrier than he probably should be, but damn it, he was tired and frustrated, and all he wanted to do was sit down and go through the meager report that he’d gotten from Detective Phillips. He’d probably already heard every tidbit that was in the skinny folder from the detective, but still, he wanted to read the report himself.

  He rubbed his face tiredly, thinking that none of that was true. He actually didn’t want to read the report, or research the small-time thief on the internet, and he certainly didn’t want to get into an argument with Cara about getting into his briefcase.

  What he wanted to do, what he really wanted to do was take her in his arms and make sweet hot love with her for hours, until he’d managed to forget about his grandfather, her grandfather, the Delanceys—everything except the sweet scent of her, the sensual firmness of her skin, the thrilling sound of the quiet gasps that escaped her parted lips as she came, sometimes merely from his touch.

  He shuddered and did his best to force his raging libido under control.

  “Cara?” he called again, beginning to be worried. Where was she? It was after six o’clock. It had taken him most of the afternoon to get the meager two-page police report.

  After a quick check of the kitchen and her office, he headed for the bedroom. The lights were off and all he could see was a small mound on her side of the bed. He turned on the hall light, not wanting to disturb her if she was asleep, but wanting to be sure what he saw was not just piled up covers.

  In the light from the hall, he could see the curve of her hip under the covers and her hair, which was tangled and spread across the pillow. As he took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, he fantasized about crawling into bed with her.

  It seemed like the best idea he’d ever had. He yearned to snuggle up behind her, forgetting that she’d snooped in his briefcase, forgetting that his hours at the sheriff’s office had yielded almost nothing.

  He’d settle for just lying there, napping together. Or maybe, if she was willing, they could make slow, sweet afternoon love, sleep a while and then have a late supper.

  Then he remembered her saying she had a headache last night. That must be why she was in bed in the dark at this hour. It must have turned into a migraine. He stepped closer to the bed. “Cara, hon? You asleep?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Cara?” he said louder. “Do you know where my briefcase is? Do you have it in here?”

  He heard a small sound from her.

  “And what happened to your phone? Where’s the battery? Did you drop it?”

  He thought he heard a sob.

  “Cara?” He stepped closer to the bed. “Is your head still hurting?”

  She didn’t say anything, just made that strangled sobbing sound again.

  “Hon? Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “Hon, talk to me. I’m not mad. Cara?” Worried, he reached out and touched her shoulder.

  She jumped as if she’d been stung and whirled, putting her back against the headboard and clutching the covers to her with both hands. “No!” she cried, without opening her eyes. “I can’t—” a sob cut off the word.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She was shaking her head, her eyes open and staring.

  “Wake up, hon.” He approached her gingerly. “You’re asleep. Wake up.”

  “J-Jack?” she stammered, then sobbed again. She looked at him—or toward him, her eyes still staring blankly. The pupils were completely dilated. He knew she didn’t see him.

  Jack’s entire being went on red alert. “It’s me. Come on, talk to me. Are you all right?” He reached for her, arms out.

  “No!” she cried, scooting backward across the bed and nearly falling off on the other side. She stumbled as her feet touched the floor, then she backed up until she was against the wall.

  Jack felt his hands shaking as he held them up and out in a nonthreatening gesture. He took two tentative steps toward her. “Hon, it’s me, Jack. Wait—” he said when she stiffened, throwing her hands up defensively.

  His worry turned to a sick fear. Her phone with no battery. His missing briefcase. What had happened here? “It’s Jack. Cara—” he whispered brokenly. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened. Please. Are you hurt?” He could barely breathe against the fear that suddenly squeezed his chest.

  She relaxed slightly, blinking. “Jack?” she said hesitantly.

  “That’s right. It’s me.”

  “Oh.” Her legs gave way and he lunged for her, barely catching her before she collapsed to the floor. As soon as he got his arms around her to support her, she tried to stand up and started pushing him away.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Let’s sit down on the bed. Okay?”

  She turned her face into the curve of his neck. “Jack, it’s you.” And then she started crying.

  He got her onto the bed and sat down with his back against the headboard, then pulled her into his arms. He held her as she cried, doing his best not to think about what was wrong. But his best wasn’t good enough. His brain whirled with all the awful things he could think of. She’d finally collapsed under the realization of what he’d done to her.

  He thought about his briefcase missing and her phone sitting on the table with no battery. What had happened here?

  He pulled her closer, hugging her, muttering nonsense words, for a long time. But finally, he was worried that she was hysterical or something and that she’d never stop crying. He pushed her away enough to look at her.

  Then he saw a raw, red place on her left cheek. He looked closer. I
t looked like the friction burn basketball players get from sliding across the hardwood court. Then he saw a bright red circle on the side of her neck that was beginning to turn purple, like a fresh bruise. And there was another raw place on her chin.

  Jack’s jaw clenched and that squeezing pressure was back in his chest. Something awful had happened—to her. Someone had hurt her. He caught her by the arms, holding her still against her struggles and doing his best not to hurt her.

  “Look at me,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft and gentle although inside he felt like bellowing with rage—not at her, but at whoever had caused her to be so hurt and scared.

  She blinked and looked at him, fear clouding her face, her breath coming in little sobs, her head jerking slightly with each sharp inhalation. Then she turned her head and strained against his grip. “Let me go,” she said in a quiet, pleading voice.

  It took all the willpower he had not to shake her and yell, It’s Jack. Please. I didn’t do this! Don’t look at me like that. “Cara, it’s me,” he said softly. “Please, hon, please talk to me.”

  “J-Jack?” she stammered and this time her eyes focused on his face. “Jack? Oh...”

  She reached for him and he pulled her close with a sharp inhalation that he would never admit was a sob. “Cara, Cara, shh,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m here. It’s me. Don’t be afraid.”

  She talked through the tears that began to fall and kept falling as she clutched at his shirt, holding onto him with tightly clenched fists and burrowing her face into his neck. “It was awful. I was asleep. My headache wouldn’t go away and it was make—making me sick so I came home and went to b-b-bed.”

  Jack held her in the circle of his arms—not tightly. He let her decide how close she wanted to be to him. He listened, with his jaw aching from tension, with his head feeling like it was going to explode with rage, as she described what had happened.

  “I wo-woke up and he was holding my head down and he—ow!” she cried, recoiling.

  He realized he had closed his fist around her arm. “Oh, God, hon, I’m sorry.” He had to relax. Had to be calm. He blew out a breath and forced himself to relax as he listened to her recount everything that happened.