Trapped by a Dangerous Man

by Cleo Peitsche

  Corbin pulled up a chair in front of me. I had my knees clamped together, and he positioned his own knees on either side. I could feel the warmth radiating off his legs. “Raise your hands,” he ordered. When his gaze crossed mine, I was surprised to find a gentle look in those blue-green eyes. Corbin Lagos, criminal of a thousand faces?

  And heaven help me, but they were all gorgeous as sin.

  After he unknotted the bandage, he slowly and carefully unwound it.

  “What happens if you’re wrong?”

  “Wrong?” He said the word like he didn’t know what it meant.

  I gnawed on my lower lip and tasted blood; hopefully Corbin had some lip balm handy. “I mean… if I need to get to a hospital.”

  “Then I guess I’ll sharpen a knife and start cutting.”

  A strangled noise escaped my throat.

  “Don’t worry. I’d get you drunk first.” He didn’t quite sound like he was joking.

  Enough of the bandage had been removed that I was able to wiggle my fingers. Suddenly, the wrapping felt claustrophobic.

  “Stay still.” Corbin unwound the last bits and dropped the gauze on the floor. “Hm.”

  My fingers didn’t look great—they were pale and seemed strangely vulnerable, but they most certainly weren’t gangrened or anything close to it. Corbin took my left hand in his. His simple touch felt like a jolt of electricity, and I started.

  “You ok?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. Sure, I’d heard the expression about sparks flying, but I’d never imagined it could be an actual physical event. “Felt like I got shocked.”

  His large, warm fingers pressed into my palm, straightened my fingers and carefully worked down the length of each one. “Did it happen again?”

  I shook my head, and he repeated the procedure with the other hand. His steady warmth traveled along my skin, setting my nerves afire. When he released me, I was disappointed.

  “Not sure about the shock. You seem fine, but it’s possible there’s some minor irritation.”

  “Nerve damage?” I made a fist and flexed my fingers over and over, happy to know that I could still do it.

  He shook his head and pushed away from his sturdy, wooden chair to kneel at my feet. “Not damage. Moments of tingling and so on.” He looked up, pulling me into his gaze. “You were lucky, Audrey,” he said softly, his voice sad. “Most people don’t get a second chance.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Your wallet was in your jacket.” He rolled up the bottoms of my jeans and picked at the knot on the bandage. I was glad that he wasn’t able to see my face because I sensed I wasn’t doing a good job keeping the panic out of my eyes. If he’d looked into my wallet, he might have seen one of the family business cards. I only carried a few at a time, and I kept them behind my BigGrocer Saver card because really, how often would anyone need to hand someone a bounty hunter card? It wasn’t the sort of business where opportunities to add clients popped up over the course of a day.

  “And your name?” I asked, trying to sound natural.

  “Corbin,” he said. He glanced up, a strange look in his eyes. “Don’t you remember me telling you upstairs?”

  “Oh, yeah…” I shook my head. “I meant, it’s unusual…”

  “It means raven.”

  “Like the bird or the color?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll have to ask my mom the next time she calls.”

  The idea of a wanted man talking to his mother…

  He pulled the wrap off of my left foot and I jerked away.

  “Another shock?” he asked as he gently grabbed me around the ankle.

  I made a noncommittal sound. Damn, I really needed a pedicure. It was late November, and I’d planned to be wearing shoes, or at least socks, for another six months. The remnants of last summer’s polish were nothing but pinkish splatters that looked like mold. And I’d thought needing help getting my pants up and down was a problem. To my horror, Corbin passed his hands over my foot, assessing, probing.

  “That tickles,” I squealed, yanking my foot away.

  “Ticklish is good.” He unwrapped the other foot, and after he finished prodding me, he sat on the chair. “You’ve been quite lucky, Audrey,” he said, his face serious. “I’m… glad you pulled through this.”

  I sucked at my lip and tasted copper and salt. My poor chapped lips. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?”

  He shrugged, but he looked worried. “Hopefully no longer than two days.”

  “Did you say two?”

  “Afraid so. Forecast calls for another twelve hours of snow, and it’s so early in the season that most of the freelance snowplows aren’t ready.” He stood with a smile. “I’ll put on water for pasta, assuming you don’t have a carb allergy.”

  “Pasta sounds good.”

  “There’s a bathroom just inside the front door. You’ll find something for your lips there.”

  “And which way is that?”

  He pointed, and I hurried off.

  I opened the bathroom door and received a horrific glimpse of a dark-haired witch. The only time I’d looked worse was when I went on a bender, then caught the flu before I was fully recovered. Now my face was covered in broken capillaries, my hair a knotty mess. I used hand soap to wash my face, cleaning out my eyes and nose.

  What I needed was a shower. Or better yet, a time machine so that I could not be in this situation.

  In a basket under the sink I found tampons, deodorant, lip balms, a brush, hair elastics, face lotion. I slathered on lotion and balm, then worked the knots out of my curls and coaxed them up into a ponytail. If Rob or one of my friends saw me, they would undoubtedly ask what had happened, but I still looked much better than before.

  I unlocked and opened the front door and was greeted with a blast of cold, howling wind. Corbin must have shoveled at some point since the storm started because there was a path that led off to a long garage. I estimated that at least six feet had fallen. Another gust of wind blew, sending me reeling back inside.

  In just that short amount of time, I’d managed to let in a fair amount of snow. I brushed off my head and shirt and wrapped my arms around my middle. I hadn’t taken a vacation in two years, but as soon as possible, I was going away for a month to somewhere warm. Not warm. Hot. Really hot. Someplace where the locals didn’t even have a name for snow.

  After going upstairs and adding my bra and socks to my outfit (in their appropriate places, of course), I returned to the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread had spread throughout the house. Corbin held a wooden spoon loosely in one hand, and he stared out the window into the white nothingness.

  “I hope you have movies,” I said. “Lots of them. And a guest bedroom.”

  “Plenty of movies, and I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said easily. “I’ve also got video games, board games and a small gym. Plus tons of food, firewood, candles, and a backup generator.”

  That sounded perfect for a romantic snowed-in weekend. Too bad I was stuck with a ruthless criminal.

  Said ruthless criminal carefully poured olive oil into a shallow plate and set it on the table. “Or are you a butter girl?”

  “Whichever.” I could see the bread inside the oven, a plump golden loaf. My mouth watered. I could practically taste it. The oven timer said four minutes to go, but I wasn’t sure I could wait that long.

  Corbin dropped rigatoni into the boiling water and set another timer. “Keep an eye on that.” He went off.

  I took advantage of the lack of supervision and looked around the kitchen. A butcher block full of knives sat on the counter, pushed back into a far corner. Couldn’t take one of them without leaving a gaping hole. I rifled through drawers, looking for something to stash away for later, in case I needed a weapon.

  “What are you looking for?”

  I jumped. “You’re… really quiet,” I said, trying to calm my racing heart.

  “I am.” He was giving me that look, and n
ot the good one. The slightly angry one that I’d seen earlier when I refused to come downstairs.

  “Oh, there it is,” I said as I opened the drawer where the pot holders were—I had noted it during my search. I opened the oven just seconds before the timer went off. Warm, fragrant air rushed over me. I pulled out the pan and placed it on the counter.

  With an abrupt motion, Corbin crossed the kitchen and pulled a knife out of the block. He turned toward me, his movements graceful. Too graceful. He knew how to handle himself in a knife fight. Then he smiled and handed me the knife, handle first.

  When I grabbed it, he held on, that intensity in his eyes again.

  “Don’t cut yourself,” he said.

  “I’m not in kindergarden.” I jerked the knife from him and turned away, my heart pounding in my throat. My hands shook as I sliced the bread and arranged it on a platter, then handed the platter and knife to Corbin.

  “Thanks,” he said. He slid the platter onto the table, now free of medical supplies. I followed the bread with my eyes, feeling every bit like a hungry house cat.

  “Dig in.”

  That was all the encouragement I needed. The bread was hot, crunchy, chewy… I didn’t bother with the olive oil until my third slice. I looked up and found Corbin watching me. He seemed different than before. Not amused. Not angry. Guarded.

  The possibility that he knew what I was pushed itself to the forefront of my mind. I needed to inspect my wallet, to try to determine if he’d dug deeply enough to find the business cards. “Where’s my coat?”

  “Hanging in the closet. Why?”

  “I should call my brother. He might be looking for me.”

  Corbin frowned. “There wasn’t a phone.”

  “Seriously?” I was pretty sure I’d had it when I left the car.

  The timer went off. Corbin rolled up his sleeves, drained the pasta and shook it back into the pan along with a bit of olive oil. Then he added a cup of what looked like melted butter and herbs and dumped that into a bowl. His strong forearms flexed as he rhythmically shook the contents. I watched, baffled, as he transferred the whole thing to a baking dish. He chopped several olives, then distributed them over the dish. Finally he pulled a plate of grated cheese out of the refrigerator and sprinkled most of the cheese evenly on top of his concoction, his movements graceful and effortless.

  To me it just seemed like a lot of work, but then I did most of my cooking with a hotpot and a toaster oven, and the only reason I used those was because my microwave had been broken for six months.

  He slid the pan into the oven, then set two plates on the table. When he returned the cheese to the refrigerator, he came out with a large salad bowl, the top covered in plastic wrap.

  Salad. Yech. Though this one looked fairly yummy… not a bit of hard, white lettuce in sight. I allowed Corbin to serve me a heaping plateful because hey, it was food.

  “Do you have dressing in the refrigerator?” I asked as he served himself.

  “Already mixed in.”

  I squinted at the salad. My opinion was that if I couldn’t see the dressing, there clearly wasn’t enough of it, but I decided to keep that to myself. Corbin sat across from me, and we picked up our forks at the same time.

  “How far are we from where you found me? I want to look for my phone.”

  “My guess is that it either got flattened by a car or is wet and shorted out.” He forked up a heaping of salad. “You can try calling it.”

  “I wasn’t getting reception,” I said, my heart sinking.

  “Then you can borrow mine after we eat.”

  “That would be great,” I said, disappointed that I’d have to find another pretext to inspect my coat and wallet. I took a bite. The salad was delicious. A melody of light flavors mixed in my mouth: a nutty oil, something slightly spicy. “What is in this? It’s…” Words failed me. “Amazing,” was the best I could do.

  Corbin smiled. “I used to be a chef.”

  “Where? For the White House?”

  “New York. Actually, I had former presidents in my restaurant. Princes. Celebrities. Lots of celebrities.”

  I looked at him, startled. It was a pretty elaborate cover story, and yet the man knew his way around a kitchen. “Why’d you stop? What do you do now?”

  “My circumstances changed,” he said. “I don’t like talking about it.”

  I bet he didn’t. I hid my smirk behind another forkful of salad. It had toasted nuts on it, and little curly green lettuce I’d never had before.

  “And you? What do you do?” Corbin asked. He seemed nonchalant, and I relaxed, confident that he didn’t know who I was.

  “I’m a jumper.”

  “Jumper?”

  “Family business. Day in and day out, the only words out of my mouth are ‘how high?’ Professional jumper.”

  “Is that why you need to call your brother? You work on the weekends?”

  I nodded. “He’ll be wondering where I am.”

  Corbin pushed aside his plate and leaned on the table, his eyes boring into mine. “What kind of business is this, exactly?”

  “Um…” I wondered if those electric eyes of his had some kind of built-in lie detector. “It’s a type of government subcontracting.” How was that for vague? “Can’t really talk about it.”

  Corbin didn’t ask any followup questions, and neither did I.

  ~~~

  After lunch I was wiped out—couldn’t keep my eyes open—so I went to take a nap. I woke when the door opened. Corbin stood there, cell phone in hand. “Bad news. I looked at the radar and the forecasts, and we’re definitely not getting out of here before tomorrow afternoon. Call your brother.” He sat at the edge of the bed, far away enough that I didn’t feel threatened.

  But I couldn’t order Rob to summon backup and get his ass out there with Corbin sitting three feet away.

  Corbin smiled, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “You probably want privacy.” He rose and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  I dialed the office but before the phone rang, Corbin cleared his throat, and I hung up. He was lingering just on the other side of the door, looming somehow, like he was still in the room.

  A chill ran down my spine. I’d really thought I was safe, but now I knew better. Now I was sure. Corbin wanted me to know he was listening because he wanted to stop me from sounding any alarms.

  “Corbin?”

  The door opened immediately. I held out the phone and swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t remember the number. He changed it a few months ago, and I just programmed the new one into my contacts. I thought I remembered it, but I don’t. Thank you anyway.”

  He nodded slightly. “I’m going to watch a movie.” He closed the door.

  Yeah, right. I hurried out of the bed. There was no way I was letting him out of my sight for any length of time. Clearly he didn’t intend to kill me, maybe because he thought women were weak and needed defending, or maybe because he’d invested too much time in nursing me back to health to simply squash me like a bug. But I wasn’t going to let him slip away. After all, I had only his word that the storm was going to last all night. For all I knew, things were winding down outside, and he planned to sneak away.

  “Movie sounds great,” I said as I followed him down the steps. “Can you show me the forecast first?”

  He raised his broad shoulders in a shrug.

  The Weather Channel confirmed what Corbin had told me. As if that weren’t bad enough, the movie turned out to be some horrible testosterone-laden action flick with way too many fast cars and machine guns for my comfort. I found a copy of The Old Man and the Sea on a bookshelf and sat in a corner of that gorgeous couch. It was as comfortable as it was stylish. Well, once I took Lagos in, I could buy one just like it.

  I pulled a fluffy, navy blue afghan up around my legs. By holding the book just right, I could peek through my lashes and watch Corbin. Truth be told, there were worse views. I decided that he had a nice profile. Hi
s nose was long, but not too long, and surprisingly straight for a man who’d probably participated in his share of fights. But my favorite feature had to be his full lips.

  Watching him eat had been surprisingly erotic. He tasted the first few bites as if analyzing them. I knew he considered the meal he’d made to be the equivalent of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but there was no doubt that he enjoyed the flavor and texture of food.

  It made me wonder how he felt about… I shook my head.

  I’d never slept with a man like Corbin. Not just the fact that he was on the wrong side of the law, but I’d never had anyone nearly as attractive. He had an amazing physique, the muscles perfectly balanced. The sort of body that lifelong athletes enjoyed.

  At least I assumed they enjoyed them. I wouldn’t know. I was only in decent shape. It was a requirement; a few times a year I found myself having to chase after someone. Much more often, and more difficult, I was forced to stand in one place for hours at a time, waiting for the target to get home. I also spent a lot of time talking to neighbors and relatives to get information. Sometimes I bribed them, but it was easier and cheaper to try flirting first. Amazing what a partially unbuttoned shirt could do.

  So I jogged. I lifted weights when I was able to get to the gym, and I had a few DVDs that I sometimes worked out along with, but it would have taken a superhuman effort for me to achieve the female equivalent of Corbin’s body. On a scale of 1 to 10, he was a solid 10, and even adjusting for individual tastes, I doubted many people would disagree.

  On that same scale, I was a 7, maybe a 7.5 in good light.

  My self-assessment wasn’t just conjecture. When I was 17, my brother’s friends evaluated me at my insistence. I figured it was better to know these things. One of the friends took me aside later and suggested that if I dyed my hair blonde, he might bump me up to a 7.5, but if I let him feel me up, he’d give me a 10.