Queens Ransom (Sofie Metropolis)

by Carrington, Tori

  A knock at the door.

  Lights still in hand, I looked in that direction, then at where Muffy didn’t even raise his head from his paws.

  A friendly.

  Then again, with the security door downstairs, what was I expecting? A hostile?

  I put the lights on the kitchen table, pressed pause on my cell phone and went to see who it was, although I was already pretty sure it was Mrs Nebitz, probably to thank me again.

  I smiled and opened the door, only to discover I was wrong.

  Oh, boy, was I ever wrong . . .

  Eleven

  OK, this was getting old.

  As I was ushered into Bruno’s Manhattan office, snatched and grabbed for the second time in as many days – this time from my own apartment – and transported downtown, I glowered at the men responsible, and then turned to stare at Bruno, who for all intents and purposes should be dressed like a street thug, but instead looked like he was ready for a business meeting with foreign heads of state.

  ‘Miss Metropolis. We must stop meeting like this.’

  He crossed the room and held out his hand.

  I really wished my Glock wasn’t hanging in its holster from the coat tree back at my apartment so I could shoot him.

  Hell, I didn’t even have a coat.

  Not that I’d needed one. I’d only felt the cold during those brief moments when I was between warm buildings and warm car.

  Still, I felt . . . odd, somehow, without one.

  Not to mention stupid standing there in my bare feet.

  And he wanted to shake hands?

  I didn’t think so.

  ‘Ah, you’re upset. Understandable,’ he said, crossing the room and rounding his desk. ‘And it also puts you in the right mindset to see why I’m also upset.’

  ‘You’re upset? You’re fully dressed . . .’

  My sentence flapped in the proverbial wind as he held up a report of some sort. I stalked toward him and snatched it out of his hand.

  Oops.

  There in black and white was the record of my calling Sara Canton mere seconds after Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy’s text saying he had found her.

  ‘What’s this?’ I tried playing off. ‘I recognize the agency number. Who does the other belong to?’

  Bruno slid the paper from my fingers and dropped the report to the desktop. ‘Let’s not play games, shall we, Miss Metropolis? I can guarantee I’m much better at them.’

  ‘You ever pick up a baseball bat?’

  My reference linked back to another man who was convinced he had me beat . . . until the last thing he saw before passing out was a baseball bat swinging in his direction.

  I leaned my hands against his desk, feeling far braver than I probably should have. Anger and adrenalin were dangerous on their own; lethal when mixed together.

  ‘Look, Mr . . . Bruno. I have no idea what you’re referring to. My agency makes at least a hundred calls a day. That number could belong to anyone.’

  ‘So it’s a coincidence then that it happened to belong to Sara Canton’s brother? And that it occurred not even a minute after my text bulletin offering a bonus for her location.’

  ‘Normally I don’t believe in coincidences,’ I said, crossing my arms over my chest. ‘But in this particular case, it’s true.’

  I could have tried pointing out there were others in the office, in addition to staff that came in and out, that it could have been any one of a number of individuals, but where six months ago I might have over-explained, embellished a lie too thickly, now I was learning to keep it simple.

  Besides, what did it matter? Both he and I knew I’d dialed that number.

  He sat down, considering me long and hard.

  I stood my ground, offering nothing more.

  ‘I’ve got a proposition for you . . .’

  I squinted at him.

  He remained silent.

  ‘I’m sorry? I’m not sure I heard you correctly.’

  ‘I said I have a proposition for you.’

  I gestured for him to go ahead, hoping he wasn’t going to offer me a choice between being hung out the window by my feet, or being fitted for another pair of cement overshoes.

  ‘A ransom note came in a half hour ago.’

  ‘So the case is officially a kidnapping now,’ I said.

  ‘The case is officially a kidnapping.’

  ‘How much they asking for?’

  ‘Two million.’

  I raised a brow. Hardly worth all the pain the kidnappers were going to suffer once they were found.

  And I was pretty sure they would be found.

  ‘And?’ I asked.

  ‘And Mr Abramopoulos would like you to make the drop, when one’s arranged.’

  More than my bare feet suddenly felt cold.

  ‘No.’

  Bruno smiled and rocked back and forth in his chair. ‘It wasn’t a question, Miss Metropolis.’

  ‘What is it then? An order? Because the last time I checked, I wasn’t directly employed by the Abramopoulos firm. In fact, I’m not even indirectly being paid by it, either.’

  ‘It’s atonement,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’

  Oh.

  For calling and warning his ex.

  Shit . . .

  What had I gotten myself into this time?

  A half hour later I was being unceremoniously dumped outside my apartment building, bare feet and all, and told I would be contacted once a drop had been arranged. Something that wasn’t expected for at least twenty-four hours, when the kidnapper was scheduled to call back.

  By ‘contacted’, I assumed they meant collected in whatever state I was, at whatever time.

  Probably I shouldn’t be in the shower.

  The late model, black, four-door sedan’s tires spun on the ice before racing down the street in a cloud of exhaust.

  I was strongly considering flipping it and its occupants the bird when red-and-white lights flashed behind me.

  Damn.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  I slowly turned to watch Pino roll to a stop in the street in front of me.

  Did the guy ever have down time? Was he on the job twenty-four/seven, for cripes’ sake?

  Leaving the lights flashing, he got out of his car and walked toward me.

  ‘Metro.’

  ‘Pino.’

  I scanned the neighbors’ windows, wondering if anyone else found the scene as ridiculous as it felt. Me, standing without a coat and barefoot on the ice in the middle of the street . . . Pino walking toward me as if I were some sort of dangerous criminal, his hand on his firearm.

  Dino’s handsome face drifted through my mind. What must he have experienced when those Homeland Security officials – or FBI agents – or whoever had picked him up at the bakery, handcuffed him and taken him directly to the airport and put him on the first plane out. Had he been scared? Confused? Pissed?

  I was guessing a combination of the three.

  Pretty much what I was feeling just then.

  ‘OK, I’m thinking you should be just about ready to tell me what’s going on,’ Pino said.

  Over his shoulder, I caught sight of another recently familiar sight.

  Parked two cars behind him to the right, sat the Crown Vic, the exhaust smoke snaking through the cold air telling me my new friend was sitting inside, probably laughing at me.

  ‘Just about . . .’ I said non-committally. ‘Can it hold for a minute? There’s something I need to do . . .’

  ‘Sofie . . .’

  ‘A minute. That’s all I’m asking for. Sixty seconds. Can you give them to me? How far am I going to go without a coat and shoes?’

  He stared at me speechlessly.

  OK, maybe I was being hard on him. He’d had the bad fortune to be the closest available object and I needed to vent.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Thanks. Be right back.’

  I stalked around Pino and headed straight for the Vic. When I was about ten feet away, the
driver figured out he might not like my intentions and the red taillights glowed against the car behind him as he put the Vic into gear.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ I said, picking up my pace.

  He hit the car behind him. Not hard, but hard enough to set off the alarm. I recognized the ten-year-old Chevy as belonging to the jarhead who lived across the street. The car was a piece of shit, but he treated it like it was a showpiece.

  He was not going to be happy.

  And when he wasn’t happy, nobody was.

  I knocked on the driver’s-side window even as Pino came rushing up behind me, thankfully distracted by an honest-to-God crime in progress.

  Or an accident, anyway.

  The window slid part-way down.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, thrusting my hand through the window. ‘My name’s Sofie Metropolis. But I’m guessing you already know that. I’m also guessing you’re Charles Chaney. What I don’t have a clue about is what you’re doing following me . . .’

  Pino stopped a couple of feet away and was opening his ever-present mini-notepad, writing down the Vic’s plate number.

  I was just glad he’d climbed off my back for a second.

  ‘I’m not following you,’ Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy said, looking suddenly twice as moist at the sight of a uniformed officer.

  ‘Sir,’ Pino said, having apparently finished his notation business and moving on to the next step in the police officer’s procedural. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.’

  I smiled at Chaney. ‘I’d say it was nice to officially meet you, but I have a feeling I’m going to being running into you again soon.’ I leaned back and stared at the Chevy where John Cain, its short-fused, ex-Marine owner had somehow made it outside in record time and was surveying the damage, his profanity-laced tirade telling me Mr Chaney was, indeed, going to have his hands full for a while.

  ‘Hey,’ Pino said as I stalked toward my apartment building. ‘Where are you going?’

  I stared at him. Then I gestured toward my feet. ‘You want I should tell your mother you contributed to giving me frostbite?’

  John started yelling at Chaney and Pino.

  In the resultant confusion, I pushed Mrs Nebitz’s bell. Within two seconds, she pressed the buzzer to let me in.

  ‘Thank you again, Mrs Nebitz,’ I said after explaining to her satisfaction what had happened . . . or at least something that matched up with what she’d seen through her front window, probably drawn there by the police cruiser’s flashing lights.

  ‘Thank you, schmank you. You go get into a nice, warm shower – not hot. And put something warm on. You want I should bring you a cup of chicken soup? I made a fresh pot this morning. It’s Seth’s favorite, don’t you know.’

  Yes, I did know, mostly because she told me every time she made it. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Nebitz. I’ll fix myself a nice cup of tea.’

  Her gaze was drawn to her front apartment windows where the lights still obviously flashed. I was glad she appeared to want to get back to it.

  ‘Good night, Mrs Nebitz.’

  ‘Huh? What? Oh, yes. Good night, Sofie.’

  She closed her door, my frost-bitten feet apparently forgotten. Which was OK with me, because just then I would prefer not to be fussed over. I needed to get in, get warm, and figure out how I was going to get myself out of this mess.

  The door closed behind me and I froze.

  Leaning against my bedroom doorjamb was none other than Jake Porter.

  And for the first time since I met him, anywhere near my bedroom was the last place I wanted him.

  Twelve

  OK, the Fates appeared to have it in for me today . . . big time.

  What had I done? And how in the hell did I go about undoing it? Because right then . . . well, I’d far surpassed my monthly quota of odd happenings.

  I stared at Porter, completely at a loss for words.

  In this case, I suppose there was some comfort in knowing any minute Pino would be up here and Porter would have to leave.

  What was I talking about? I was going to kick him out now.

  ‘Well, I’d say hello, but I think that’s something you do when you open the door to a visitor, not open your door to find him already in your apartment . . .’

  My feet felt like . . . well, they felt like nothing. Mostly because I had stopped feeling them about five minutes ago.

  ‘You really should put something on those,’ Jake said.

  I gave a massive eye roll. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  I opened the hall closet door. The only things inside were galoshes and a pair of the pinkest, most hideous slippers known to man, that also just happened to be the warmest.

  I put on last year’s gag Christmas gift from my sister one by one, leaning against the wall for support as I did so.

  Jake raised a brow and a grin quirked his full mouth.

  I gave another eye roll and headed for the kitchen. I checked the kettle for water, added a bit, then put it on to boil.

  ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Just dropping in to say hello to a mate.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I turned and leaned against the counter. ‘Decided to turn over a new leaf?’

  I recalled Bruno’s earlier reference to coincidences and decided this was another one that wasn’t going to fly.

  Problem was, I didn’t currently have the figurative ammo to shoot it down with any type of guaranteed satisfaction.

  But that wasn’t going to stop me from trying.

  ‘So what do you know about the Abramopoulos case?’ I asked.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  I went to the dining room where the window was open (had he opened it for Muffy? Or is that how he’d gained entrance?), peeked out, then back in again. No sign of the mutt.

  Damn.

  I left it open.

  ‘You’re not pardoned. Give.’ I took only one cup out and plopped a tea bag into the middle of it.

  ‘You still have those blasted . . . things in here,’ he said.

  I grimaced, finding him looking into my bedroom. Things . . . I guessed he meant gifts.

  The first time he was inside my apartment, he’d been put off by the fact I’d kept my wedding gifts. Said something along the lines that I was stuck in the past and until I moved on . . .

  Until I moved on, what?

  We’d have a chance at a relationship?

  Depended on your definition of the word.

  And it was obvious mine varied greatly from his.

  In his world, he could pop in and out whenever the mood moved him, never answer any questions, and remain a mystery. In mine, I revealed my second grade teacher’s name, how old I was when I first kissed a boy and what my mother was fixing for dinner that Sunday . . . as well as expect him to go with me to said dinner every now and again, even if goat was on the menu.

  ‘What do you want, Jake?’ I asked.

  He slowly turned back to look at me, a somber expression on his handsome face. I’d noticed he looked different, but now I saw the extent of the changes. Yes, his hair was trimmed, but he was also closely shaved, lending an almost a baby-like quality to his striking face and emphasizing how very blue his eyes were.

  The color where the Greek sky meets the Aegean Sea, my mother would say.

  I quietly cleared my throat and went back into the kitchen.

  OK, so I wasn’t as immune to him as I pretended. And accepted I probably never would be. From the get go, he’d touched something inside me. Some sort of animalistic, fundamental shadow that made me crave all things dark and mysterious.

  Made me ceaselessly yearn for him.

  ‘You not seeing that Greek baker bloke any more?’ he asked quietly.

  The kettle began to whistle. I shut off the burner, and against my better judgment took another cup out of the cupboard.

  ‘No,’ I answered just as quietly.

  I poured the water over the bags to steep, then stood for a long momen
t, trying to interpret the myriad currents running through my veins. Part of me very much wanted to walk up to Porter, curve my fingers over his strong jaw and kiss the ever-loving stuffing out of him.

  Another wanted to toss the hot tea down the front of his shirt.

  I was having a hard time deciding which track I should take.

  I removed the tea bags, took out sugar and milk, and put them and the cups on the kitchen table.

  ‘Black, please.’

  I added sugar and milk to mine then took him his, close enough to smell his tangy lime cologne.

  Was that humming I heard? I was pretty sure that was humming. And I was also pretty sure I was the source of it.

  With me in my hideous slippers, he towered over me by about nine or ten inches, every bit of him hard, raw male.

  Double damn.

  I forced myself to sip my tea.

  ‘Whatever Abramopoulos is asking you to do?’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t.’

  I squinted at him.

  ‘I knew it! I knew this had something to do with Abramopoulos.’

  I began to turn away, but he caught my arm, strong enough to stop me, but not too much that I spilled either of our teas.

  ‘No, Sofie. This has to do with you . . .’

  Was he going to kiss me? It really looked like he was going to kiss me.

  Yeah, he was . . .

  I tried to decide whether or not I’d let him when his mouth pressed against mine . . . and my body decided for me by sighing against his.

  God, he tasted so very good . . .

  Every part of me melted on the spot, including my feet, which were now tingling inside my slippers for reasons not having to do with the cold.

  I’d pretty much figured out that even if I lived to be a hundred and two I’d never figure out what it was that drew me to Jake Porter. No matter what stunts he pulled, or secrets he kept, there was no fighting my attraction to him. In fact, the more I battled, the greater it grew, like a snowball rolling downhill.

  If only the sensation that an icy wall lay at the bottom of the hill would go away, I might have been able to stop fighting and surrender to him.