by Em Petrova
Finally, he said, “We need time to figure that out, and handing you over to OFFSUS isn’t the right move—I feel it in my gut.”
OFFSUS sounded like a very bad organization. And what could he mean about feeling it in his gut? Now her life was dictated by this man’s gut feelings? She was about rules and order—her business and life depended on it. The only thing she did on a gut feeling was design work, and even then her logical brain and training would kick in so she could look at the piece she was working on objectively.
“OFFSUS?” she repeated.
He placed a hand on her shoulder and this time it wasn’t as hard. She stiffened.
She dug in her stockinged feet. “I’m not going anywhere unless you start giving me answers, starting with your real name.”
“Once we get inside, I promise I’ll tell you what I can.”
She was ready to open her mouth and let her lungs do the talking with some heavy-duty horror movie screams, but that wouldn’t get her anything but a sore throat. She went with him to the door, which he unlocked using a keypad.
When they went inside, he snapped on a light, bathing them both in a warm yellow glow.
She twisted away from him and presented her bound hands. “Untie me. Now.”
She waited for resistance, but he only said, “Hold still. I don’t want to cut you.”
A second later, her hands were free. She rubbed her wrists and shook out her cold fingers.
“I’m sorry I had to do that.”
She shot him a glare.
He pinched the bridge of his nose as if gathering patience to deal with her. Good—that meant he’d unload her faster and she could return to her normal, busy life and pretend all of this was a nightmare.
“Do you want a drink? The fridge is fully stocked.”
She gaped at him. “No, I don’t want a drink.” Though her throat was parched from all the fear that had controlled her since he’d taken over her life. “I want answers.”
“It’s me who should be demanding answers, woman.”
Why did a thrill go through her when he called her woman? It was disrespectful—it definitely was not hot. But her body seemed to have a mind of its own. Her brain chemicals must be altered for the time being as an aftereffect of all the adrenaline she’d experienced.
He pointed to a few chairs. “Sit.”
She eyed the chairs and then his broad back as he disappeared into another room, presumably the kitchen.
Then she darted for the door.
“Don’t even think about trying to leave,” he called out, stopping her with her hand on the knob. She threw a look at the doorway, but he wasn’t visible. How had he known?
He walked back in carrying two bottled waters. “The place is rigged with top-of-the-line electronics and you can’t leave unless I want you to. Nobody can get inside either, which is why it’s a safe house. Here.” He extended the water and she took it with a scowl.
When she twisted off the cap and brought the water to her lips, she realized how thirsty she was and gulped half of it in one long swallow. He watched her, that heavy stare not straying from her face.
She lowered the bottle. “Now. Tell me why you broke into my boutique, trashed it…” Her throat worked at the thought of seeing all those beautiful, expensive gowns strewn on the floor as she’d been forced out the back door, “and why you’ve brought me here.”
He sipped his water, still eyeing her in that flat way that made her want to gouge out his eyeballs and change his expression.
“OFFSUS is the Homeland Security division in the South. And we were called in because there is terrorist activity at your boutique.”
She shook her head. “That’s crazy. I sell gowns and tuxedos. In fact, I’m going to lose a lot of money and loyal customers unless you return me right now so I can clean up my shop and be there to open the doors tomorrow.”
He shook his head, and she settled a hand on her hip.
“Why not? What have I done? Even your leader—is his name Ben?—said that you could leave me behind, that I’m not involved. Which I’m not. So what is your problem?”
That got a raised brow from him. At least he wasn’t wearing that indifferent mask anymore.
She pushed harder. “You’re opening that door for me.” She jabbed a finger toward it. “And I’m leaving. Right now.”
“Don’t try to order me around, woman. You’re under suspicion.”
“For what? Selling formalwear?”
“For terrorist activity.”
Hell. He was serious, and that made all the blood drain to her stockinged feet. “Terr…” She broke off and felt herself sinking to the floor.
“Oh shit.” He grabbed her under the arms and practically carried her to the seating group. She felt the cushion of the sofa under her backside but couldn’t register anything but what he’d said. Of course back in her office, she’d understood something bad was going down, but she’d been so angry and upset that she hadn’t totally gotten the gist.
Now this man had stated it clearly. They thought she was a terrorist. What was she going to do?
“Do I… at least get a lawyer? My one phone call?” She wet her lips, and his gaze locked on her mouth, tracking the movement.
“Doesn’t work that way here.”
“How does it work then?” She ran her hands over her curls, trying to flatten them to her head. Her underarms were sweaty, and she’d give anything to be at home right now, pantyhose balled up in her hamper and a cool, silky nightgown on. A bead of perspiration ran down her nape, dampening her hair.
He moved his gaze back to hers. “It works like this—you stay here until we decide if you’re a threat or you’re under threat.”
She was shaking her head. “I have to get back to my shop. Opening festivities are starting right now!”
“You won’t be going back anytime soon.”
“So what, you’re just going to hold me here against my will?” She rocketed to her feet and he leaned back in his chair, looking extremely relaxed and giving the impression that he was far from afraid of her.
She opened her mouth and before she understood what was happening, a scream escaped. The shrill cry echoed off the walls and pierced her own ears. The man leaped up and moved for her, but she jumped back, still screaming.
For his size, he was fast, she’d give him that. He clapped a hand over her mouth and she clamped her teeth together, catching the meaty part of his palm between them.
“Goddammit!” He didn’t jerk his hand back, only pressed it harder against her mouth until her teeth started to hurt her own lips. She parted her jaws and he slowly pulled his hand free.
She knew he was bleeding, could feel the warm fluid on her chin. Disgust rose up, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. “I want to make a call. Now.”
“When you get into a situation like this, woman, you don’t get that right. And you’d better not ever bite me again.” He made a sudden move that had her cowering.
He went dead still.
“My God, I’d never hurt a woman. I’d never hit you or harm you in any way.” He sounded almost injured that she’d think such a thing of him, but he stalked away to the kitchen, leaving her alone for the moment. She raised a hand to her chin and backhanded his blood from it, fighting down the tears stinging her eyes.
* * * * *
Great, now what? Dylan walked over to the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet, letting cold water rush over the bite mark on his palm. Blood oozed from the sharp teeth marks in two perfect crescent moons.
She had good tooth alignment, anyway.
He pushed out a sigh and turned off the water, grabbing a paper towel from the holder. He pressed down on the injury, ticked and impressed at once. She was quick-witted and unafraid of making her own demands. Most people would back down immediately. He’d seen it many times.
Athena was a fighter. But did that make her an integral part of a terrorist cell? He’d grown up with a fighter for a mother
and mouthy-as-hell sisters, and he knew strength in women didn’t mean they were hiding something.
The bleeding had stopped, and he tossed the paper towel into the trash. Then he scrubbed his face clean of the black grease paint from the mission.
He had a long night ahead of him. He’d need to explain himself and there would be long hours of interrogation to follow from Colonel Jackson. Not to mention taking shit from his brother.
He moved to the fridge. Might as well make some food—he was starving and his charge probably was too.
He pulled out a pack of fresh chicken, some tomatoes and mozzarella cheese. Then he located a pan and drizzled olive oil into it. As he set the chicken cutlets to frying, he chopped the tomatoes into small bits and started some pasta water to boiling.
As he added a generous amount of salt to the water, his phone buzzed. He brought it to his ear.
“Knight.”
“It’s Ben. What the fuck are you doing, Dylan?”
He leaned against the counter and stared at the meat sizzling in the pan. “Knights always act on our hunches. And I have a hunch.”
“A hunch? You have a goddamn hunch? You’ve taken an innocent boutique woman from her shop and hidden her in a safe house. Jackson’s losing his shit over here. I had to listen to him rant for the last thirty minutes.”
“You can handle it—you’re captain.”
“That’s not the point,” Ben said tightly. “What the fuck are you doing?” he repeated.
Dylan scuffed his knuckles over his jaw, hearing the rasp of five o’clock shadow. Right now, that pub crawl couldn’t sound better. He could nearly taste the spices of the bourbon as he tipped it down his throat.
Darting a look at the doorway to ensure Athena wasn’t standing there, he lowered his voice. “I can get information out of her.”
“You think she’s involved then?”
“How can she not be?”
“So you’re not keeping her there for her safety?”
“I’m doing that too. It won’t be long before these people know her boutique’s been raided and she’s been taken. They’ll know she’s at risk of telling us everything she knows, putting them in jeopardy. Which in turn draws a bulls-eye on her back.” The complexities were mounting, but Dylan was up for the task.
Ben pushed out a breath into the phone, and Dylan felt all the weight of not only his captain’s disapproval but his big brother’s.
“I’ll answer to Jackson when the time comes, but no Knight has ever been wrong when it comes to our gut instincts, and mine told me to get her out of there and bring her here.”
“Fine. I’ll give you twenty-four hours and then I’m letting Jackson have you.”
“What about the boutique?”
“I left two men on site to wait.”
Movement caught Dylan’s eye and he looked up to see Athena standing in the doorway, listening. Her wide eyes were luminous, but it didn’t look as if she’d been crying. Tough woman.
“Keep me informed,” Dylan said and ended the call. Turning back to the range, he flipped the chicken and added pasta to the boiling water. Then he cast Athena a look. “I hope you like chicken caprese.”
When she didn’t answer, he looked at her. “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She swallowed hard, her slender throat working. “How’s your hand?”
“Fine.”
Ever since opening that closet and setting eyes on her, something odd kept rising inside him, leaving him feeling off-kilter. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll answer some of your questions while I finish the food.”
She stared at him. Her face a perfect oval, her skin flawless. Dark eyes were framed by thick lashes and a small beauty mark rode just above the corner of her upper lip. And that hair... He clenched his hands into fists, still feeling the silky curls under his fingers.
A high counter sported two stools and she hesitantly crossed the kitchen to sit on one. His attention was drawn to her shoe-less feet, and remorse hit him. He’d have to get her some shoes as well as clothing if he was going to keep her here.
She folded her hands before her, back erect as she waited for him to speak.
“My name’s Dylan Knight. I’m a member of the Knight Ops team, and we operate here in the South.”
“Why were you told I’m a terrorist? What on earth would I be doing?”
“I can’t disclose all the information to you for obvious reasons.”
She rolled her eyes, which coming from one of his sisters, might have made him laugh.
“So you just assume I’m mixed up in some terroristic something or other and arrest me.”
“You’re not under arrest.” He stopped short of adding, “Yet.”
The chicken was finished and he removed it from the heat, sprinkling in the tomatoes and wishing he had some fresh basil. Finally, he topped it with the mozzarella and placed a lid over it to melt while he waited for the pasta to cook.
“I’m under watch, is that it?” she asked.
He gave a nod, arms folded across his chest. They sized each other up, and damn if his body wasn’t liking what he saw. From the steely backbone he saw in Athena to the feminine ruffle of her blouse against her warm tan skin, he admired her. Actually, he was having a hard time looking away from her, and that was dangerous, given he hadn’t had a woman in far too long.
Dammit, he should be in the city right now, buying a drink for the next woman he’d be taking to his bed. Instead, he was sitting here tormenting himself with a beautiful woman who was out of bounds for so many reasons.
She looked down at her fingers twisting together. “What do I do about my business?”
“It’s closed. Seized.”
Her gaze flew to his. “Seized? Does that mean I can never open it again even when I clear my name? I have no idea what you imagine is going on there!”
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, feeling for her. “I can’t answer those questions, but for now, you’re closed for business.”
* * * * *
Athena’s stomach couldn’t feel more knotted than it did at hearing that she wasn’t going to finish out the Mardi Gras season or serve those customers who were counting on her.
And when she thought about the pricey shoes that had been confiscated from her desk drawer, not to mention the wedding rings that had belonged to her late parents, her throat closed up and she couldn’t get food past it if she tried.
Though what Dylan set before her smelled delicious, her stomach felt hollow.
He set a plate before himself on the counter across from her but didn’t sit. “You should eat before it gets cold.”
She stared at the meal, which looked like something out of a food magazine. Did the man have to be talented and good-looking? He was her captor, keeping her here against her will and ruining her livelihood. Athena’s Creations depended on those high-paying customers to stay in business and if she didn’t open, she’d get a bad reputation.
She compressed her lips and took deep breaths to calm the panic rising inside her. The heavenly scents of tomatoes and mozzarella only had her stomach waking up. She hadn’t eaten in many hours, and this sure beat the frozen dinner she’d have at home in front of the TV.
Her stomach got the better of her, and she picked up her fork. The gooey cheese clung to the tines and she brought it to her lips. A groan nearly escaped as hunger took over and she dug in, forking bite after bite into her mouth before she realized she must look like a wild animal.
She stopped and glanced up at Dylan, who was looking at her with a mix of concern and enjoyment on his face.
Her fork slipped from her hand and clattered to the plate.
“I take it you like what I fixed.”
She didn’t respond.
“I’m starved, so I hope you don’t mind if I eat while I question you.” He wrapped his fingers around the fork, and veins snaked up his hand and forearm. If she wanted, she could follow them all the way to his hear
t, but that would mean asking him to take off his shirt and she definitely should not want that…
He took a bite and chewed, studying her without pause.
“What’s your ethnicity?”
Annoyance hit. “What is this—an ancestry website questionnaire?”
He cocked a brow.
“If you’re asking if I’m American, yes, I am. I was born here, as was my father. My grandfather was an immigrant, but so was everybody’s.”
He nodded. “That’s true. An immigrant from where?”
“Are you probing me to see if I have ties to some country with known terrorist groups? Because I’m not.”
“Ah.”
Ah? What the hell did that mean? She folded her arms, food forgotten.
He continued to eat, his motions surprisingly elegant, and she was shaken by her reaction to him. If she’d met him at any other place than breaking down her closet door, she might have let that spark of interest take hold. But he was a monster, pure and simple.
A monster who could cook.
And who looked like a god with his chiseled jaw darkened with beard growth and eyes that seemed to look right into her.
Something akin to liquid heat slid into her belly, riding too low to be indigestion.
“Tell me about your clientele.”
She straightened. “What do you want to know? That they come into my store packing automatic weapons and flinging money around that they’re given from their terrorist group to purchase expensive clothing they will wear when they bomb the next major city?”
His lips quirked at one corner. She stared at the spot, and her brain registered amusement in that expression. Was he laughing at her?
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you. I told you I don’t know why you raided my boutique or why I’m even here. I’m innocent and I’d like to go home.”
He polished off his chicken and set aside his half-eaten plate of pasta. Figured the man wouldn’t even eat carbs. He probably chewed up nails for breakfast and followed it with gasoline right before raiding daycares and terrorizing all the little children.