by Sarah Wynde
He didn’t respond, just stared at her.
“Suburb of Chicago? It’s not exactly Timbuktu,” she added, and when he still didn’t say anything, “Although maybe it’s Timbuktu for rich people.”
No way did a guy who stayed in a place like this spend time in her former hometown. Not that it was a bad place. She’d definitely lived in worse since she’d left. But it was nothing like this.
His expression was unreadable, his voice abrupt as he asked, “What is your name?”
“Fen,” she told him, tilting her chin up and scooting back in the bed. She wasn’t scared, she told herself. Waking up in a strange rich guy’s bed—it didn’t happen every day, but she had nothing to be afraid of. Right?
“Fen?” he repeated.
“Are you going to echo everything I say?”
She’d just find her clothes. They were nowhere in sight, but maybe he was the kind of guy who hung his crap up every night. Or maybe some maid type did that for him. Either way, she’d find them and clear out of here. He must want her gone as badly as she wanted to be gone.
“Sorry.” A little smile played around his lips. “It’s an unusual name. Felicia.”
It was her turn to glare at him. How did he know her name? He must have looked in her bag, found her ID. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“I go by Fen,” she told him, her voice firm. She wasn’t scared, she told herself. She wasn’t scared. But her mouth felt dry and something drove her to add the explanation. “It’s Felicia Elizabeth Naylor. My full name. My initials are Fen. I like it better than Felicia.”
He spread his fingers as if letting something go and said, “What can you tell me about what happened last night?”
“Last night?”
He opened his mouth and then closed it. A corner of his lips quirked up. “The time period preceding your arrival here, yes.”
She stared at him. Her brain still felt fuzzy, but she thought he might have just made a joke. “Was that funny?”
“Apparently not.” He took a step closer to the bed. “But I didn’t wish to provoke you by continuing to echo your words.”
Fen rubbed her face. Okay, he was making jokes in his incredible voice and almost, sort of, smiling. And he hadn’t killed her yet. So maybe he wasn’t on the side of the guy who’d tried to murder her last night. Maybe he’d helped her and the boy?
“The boy,” she said, remembering the blood. “What happened to him? Is he okay?”
“Injured. Did you do it?”
“Did I—?” Fen’s eyes widened. Still clutching the blanket, she scooted all the way across the bed until she could slide out on the opposite side from Amazing Voice Guy. She stood, trying to look dignified while simultaneously yanking the blanket free and wrapping it around herself.
“No, I didn’t,” she said, keeping her voice firm. “And if you thought I did, you should have called the police.”
Would that have been better? Yeah, maybe. Or maybe not. The thought of explaining to the police… about Zach, about the guy who wanted to kill her, about the pills… oh, God, it was an unpleasant image. Would they believe her? She’d sound like a crazy person.
“I still can if you’d like.” He hadn’t moved from where he stood, but his eyes had narrowed and his mouth was no longer smiling.
“What I’d like is my clothes. My clothes and to get out of here.” Fen knew she must look like an idiot, standing in a blanket, her hair probably sticking up every which way, her face sleepy, make-up a total mess. It made it tough to sound as firm as she felt. But she wanted to go home.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why not?” Her voice cracked on the words.
“My brother bled extensively,” he said, his voice quiet, as if he were gentling her like a stray dog. “Much of the blood wound up on you. Your clothes were soaked in it. They’re being cleaned now, but I cannot say they will ever be wearable again.”
Fen swallowed, imagining the scene he’d found in the alley. The darkness, the blood, her unconscious body, his brother wounded and bleeding next to her. She shuddered. “Is he in the hospital? He saved my life, I think.”
“Can you tell me about that?” he asked, still keeping his voice soothing.
“I…” She closed her eyes. She wanted her clothes. She wanted to go home. She didn’t want to be here. But when she opened her eyes again, she told him what she remembered, as coherently as she could.
“I see,” he said when she was done.
If he did, it was more than she saw. “If you can get me something to wear, I’ll get out of your way.” She needed to get to Zach, tell him what had happened. Promise to say nothing and get him to defend her from his crazy friends.
“I’m afraid that might not be possible.”
She bristled. “What does that mean?” Home, home, she wanted to go home. She wanted her own dingy walls around her, not this glossy splendor.
“Someone wants to kill you, yes?”
Did he have to put it that way? It sounded so bleak. And so not American. What was the deal with ending a sentence with a question? Was that part of the thing with his voice? His accent—if he had one—was barely noticeable, but something about the way he said his words was subtly different. Is that what made him sound just so, so delectable?
“Are you American?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Does it matter?”
“Maybe.”
He was still for a moment, unnaturally so. Fen shifted the blanket higher, brain finally starting to shake off the sleepiness and the drugs. Shit. Something about him—she was scared again. He was scary. It wasn’t the eyes. It wasn’t the taut energy. It wasn’t the voice, still pushing every button she had. It was…
“Are you a vampire?” she blurted out.
Arrangements
He laughed, head back, stiff face breaking into pure charm. And then he waved at the windows. “Sunlight, right?”
Fen closed her eyes. Oh, God, she was stupid. How embarrassing. What the hell, of course, he wasn’t a vampire. Vampires didn’t exist. And even if they did, why would she think he was one? He was standing in bright sunlight.
“Sorry,” she muttered, not looking at him. “I just…”
“It's all right,” he interrupted her. “I’m not American. But I’ve lived here long enough that I was surprised you could tell. That’s all.”
Fen took a deep breath and released it slowly. Yeah, no. Something about this guy had every hackle raised, every nerve on full alert. He was dangerous, she knew it. But hey, apparently he wasn’t going to kill her immediately, so she’d go with it for now.
“I’d like to go home,” she repeated stubbornly.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll make arrangements.”
He disappeared through the door.
Fen waited. And waited. And waited some more.
Eventually, she wrapped the blanket around her and followed him through the door to investigate.
The huge bedroom connected to a living room, as ridiculously posh as the bedroom. In the center of the room, two couches in white leather faced one another, a coffee table between them, a cushy chair at one end, and an enormous television on the wall opposite the chair. In one corner, a glossy table included seats for six, a tray of food at one end, and on the other, a glass and chrome desk looked like home base for a high-tech workstation.
A guy—six feet plus of muscle, close-cropped hair, and more muscle—stood at the door, dressed in a dark shirt and pants.
Fen stopped breathing.
A guard.
Was he keeping her in or other people out?
Shit.
“The guy who was here before said he’d bring me clothes,” she said, her voice sounding raspy with fear to her own ears.
“Yes, miss.” The guard’s eyes flickered in her direction, then returned to a straight-ahead stare. “Soon.” With a twist of his wrist, he indicated the table. “Breakfast is
available for you, should you wish to eat.”
Fen exhaled carefully.
Breakfast, huh.
Hiking up the blanket, she made her way to the table and sat down where she could watch the guy at the door. Damn, but he was hot. Something must be wrong with her that all these terrifying men looked so luscious.
She looked at the tray of food. What the hell was she supposed to do with the pretty white carnation in a vase, eat it? But the bacon—perfectly crispy, ridiculously thick—looked tasty. Scrambled eggs, toast, fresh fruit, orange juice, and—oh, God, coffee, the smell of which made Fen want to weep.
She poured herself a cup, holding the blanket around her by keeping one arm pressed to her side. She took a sip—glorious, delicious perfection—before digging into the food, one wary eye on the guy at the door.
Okay, yeah, it was great. Would that every breakfast could be like this one.
But where the hell were her clothes?
Trying to be low-key about it, she picked up her coffee cup and took another gulp, letting her gaze travel around the room as if casually. Where was the phone? She could call Theresa. Let her know what was going on. Not that she knew herself, but she should at least tell her boss she was going to be late to work.
Her hand shook as she set the cup down, the sound as it rattled against the saucer unexpectedly loud.
No phone.
No phone, no clothes, no idea where she was, and a guard at the door who wouldn’t even look at her.
No way was this good.
She stood. “I need to call my employer,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. “She’s expecting me. Where’s the phone?”
“Soon, miss,” he said, but his eyes never wavered in her direction and his body didn’t twitch.
Maybe that was okay. When all you were wearing was a blanket, awkwardly draped over your shoulders toga-style, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing if the mega-hunk keeping you prisoner didn’t look at you.
Fen tried again. “I’m sure she’s very worried. I’m never late to work. She might be calling the police already.”
That was true. Rain or shine, ice, snow, sticky humid summer heat, flu, cold or sprained ankle, Fen always made it to the store on time. No choice, really—if she didn’t work, she didn’t eat.
Paying the rent was always the priority. Making her dollars stretch to where she could live alone had been a triumph, but it didn’t leave room for extras. Losing today’s pay was going to suck.
“Soon, miss,” he repeated.
Fen wanted to snarl at him. Jerk was a robot, same words over and over again. But she wasn’t stupid. Antagonizing the guy keeping her prisoner was not a good idea. Instead, she stood and without comment went back into the bedroom.
She needed to escape.
First step, clothes. She’d thought when she woke up that she was in a luxury apartment, but the tray, the lack of a kitchen, the single door leading out—they all added up to hotel, which meant that on the other side of that door, people would help her.
She pulled open the closet door. Empty.
The problem with escaping—especially escaping naked—is that those people who would help her would call the cops. Anyone would.
She tried the bureau drawers. Just as empty.
Damn it.
They must have gotten this fancy suite just for her. One night could have paid her rent for a month or close to it. What a stupid waste.
She hitched the blanket back onto her shoulder.
She couldn’t escape into the Chicago winter wearing a blanket. She hadn’t hit that level of insanity. So she had to find assistance and every possible scenario in that direction ended with the police.
And if the police got involved, she had no way to get to Zach and convince him she was harmless. No way to get her life back the way she wanted it.
So no police.
Which meant no escape.
Which meant sitting and waiting and hoping.
By the time the door to the bedroom opened, Fen’s fear had turned to fury. She jumped to her feet, hot words burning her tongue, but as Theresa walked in, the words dissolved.
Oh, God, it was so nice to see her employer’s worried face, the kindly eyes and cushiony body. The sight pushed Fen over the edge. The stress, the fear, the uncertainty hit her in a wave of emotion. Horrified, she put a hand up to cover her face, hiding her eyes as she fought the urge to burst into tears.
“Are you all right, dear?” Theresa asked, hurrying across the room to her. She wavered for a moment, indecisive, and then wrapped her arms around Fen.
“Sorry, sorry,” Fen muttered into Theresa’s shoulder, throat closing around the sob that wanted to escape.
“You’re all right.” Theresa held her close, hugging her tight. She stroked Fen’s hair and back, long touches that started at her scalp. “It’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be all right.”
The words should have sounded soothing but Theresa’s tone held too much tension to ease Fen’s mind. She pulled back, pushing the heel of her palm into one eye after another, her other hand clutching the blanket. She stepped away from Theresa. “I’m okay. What’s wrong?”
“We brought clothes,” Theresa said. She gestured to a bag she’d dropped by the door. “You get dressed. I’ll wait outside and we’ll talk.”
“All right.” Fen pushed the words out through stiff lips. Talk about what? What was there to talk about? And what was Theresa doing here?
She followed Theresa to the door and picked up the bag as Theresa closed the door behind her. Fen didn’t recognize the bag, but the clothes inside it were hers. With relief, she dropped the blanket and started tugging on her layers.
Underwear, then a grey tank-top, followed by her black striped tights, plus leggings to keep her warm, and a black thermal shirt to keep her warmer. Finally, her favorite dark-grey cardigan and a black skirt that skimmed the tops of her knees. She ran her hands through her hair, doing her best to neaten it, and ran her tongue along her teeth, before digging into the bag again.
There was nothing else in it.
No toothbrush, no hairbrush, no make-up. No deodorant or shampoo. No more clothes.
She straightened.
Theresa would have brought make-up. Or at least a toothbrush.
Which meant Amazing Voice Guy had been in her apartment. He’d gone through her stuff, sorted through her drawers, opened up her closet. She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling a flutter of panic. That was so not okay.
Her space was hers.
Private.
She flushed. He’d picked out her underwear, one of her nicer pairs. Had he noticed how threadbare most of it was? And the clothes—had he seen the mismatched sizes, the safety pins, the tell-tale evidence that she did her shopping at Goodwill and the Salvation Army stores?
He’d brought her favorite sweater. She ran a hand down the sleeve. No label, but it was the softest sweater she owned and her nicest article of clothing. How had he known?
She could have left it out on her bed, though. Had she made her bed? Damn, had he been in her kitchen? Had he seen the mouse traps in her empty cupboards?
Or had Theresa? Had she just been in a rush, anxious about Fen’s condition, too distracted to think about the essentials?
Leaving the blanket crumpled on the floor, Fen walked into the other room, her feet slow. Theresa stood by the table with the breakfast tray, while Amazing Voice Guy spoke quietly to the guard in the hallway.
“What’s going on?” Fen asked Theresa.
“You’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t you, my dear?” Theresa reached for her. Fen didn’t resist as the older woman drew her close, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. “When you didn’t arrive on time, I worried, but I couldn’t have imagined the truth.”
“Tea will be served momentarily.” Amazing Voice Guy had come up behind them, moving so silently that Fen startled at the sound of his voice. God, he could probably read the weather report and it woul
d sound sexy.
He gestured at the chair and comfortable couch beyond it. “Please, take a seat. We have much to discuss.”
Much to Discuss
Theresa let her arm fall from Fen’s shoulders and moved to sit on the couch, but Fen didn’t join her.
“What do we need to talk about?” she asked. “Thanks for picking up my clothes. Find me my shoes and we can be on our way.”
She caught the hint of disapproval at her rudeness in the slight furrow of Theresa’s forehead, but ignored it. She needed to get home. She had to talk to Zach.
Amazing Voice Guy sat down. He crossed his legs and brushed lightly at the knee of his pants, smoothing out the crease.
Gay, she realized. God, of course, she should have figured that out sooner. The guy at the door probably was, too. A hot guy who kept his eyes politely averted from a half-naked woman? It made so much sense.
Her shoulders relaxed as her tension eased. She hadn’t thought they were white slavers or kidnappers or anything… but yeah, that fear had been in the back of her head. Waking up in a strange place with strange men who wouldn’t talk was frightening, it just was.
Her smile felt almost natural, when she said, “Dude, I’ve got stuff to do. I ought to be at work.” She turned to her boss. “Who’s covering the shop, Theresa?”
“I closed it.” Theresa pressed her lips together, but her eyes held worry, not reproach.
“On a Friday? We’re going to miss the afternoon rush if we don’t get back there.”
Theresa glanced at Amazing Voice Guy as if asking him to help her out. He didn’t, so she said, her voice steady, “You can’t come back, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
“Are you serious? You’re going to fire me? Because I got attacked? That’s… that’s… that’s…” Fen couldn’t find words as she stared at her boss.
Theresa held her hand out to Fen. “Come sit with me, dear. You know I wouldn’t fire you. You’ve been a wonderful assistant.”
“Past tense?” Fen’s voice wavered. She clenched her teeth, trying to arouse the righteous fury she knew she should feel.