by Amy Corwin
“Skewer? Oh, my God,” she moaned.
Startled, Kethan glanced back. On the television, Bob pulled out a drawer full of disgustingly cute metal skewers adorned with little ceramic lamb heads.
“Just right,” Bob exclaimed, waving one in the air, “for Middle-Eastern lamb kabobs!”
“Oh, God, please don’t make me watch this! I don’t deserve it. I swear I don’t.” She squirmed in the chair, before hooking her arm over the back and facing Kethan.
Standing at the foot of the staircase, he eyed the wide screen television just beyond her.
Ray pulled out a soft brush. He began slowly slathering marinade over the skewer of meat and vegetables Bob held. They locked gazes, their eyes soft and moist with identical lascivious expressions, their tones thick with desire as they described how tender and succulent the meat would be.
“You don’t want to overcook it,” Bob said, dabbing on a bit more marinade. A drop spilled over onto his thumb. He licked it clean.
Ray nodded, his gaze following the motion of Bob’s tongue. “Oh, no. You want it to stay pink in the center to keep just the right amount of juicy tenderness, dripping with flavor….”
“Jesus, please,” she moaned, twisting her hands. “Just get me out of here! Strike me with lightning, I don’t care. Just do it fast.” The wooden chair squeaked as she wriggled and stared, transfixed, at the television. Her blond hair glowed in the subdued light, cascading over her shoulders.
Kethan’s mouth went dry.
Bob winked at Ray.
Weak laughter gurgled from Quicksilver’s throat.
Kethan stared at her back and thought, this woman is going to kill me.
Please, God. Just let it be merciful. And quick.
And try to wait at least until I’ve put on clean underwear.
Chapter Twelve
Quicksilver was sprawled across Kethan’s surprisingly comfortable loveseat when he returned, his hair damp and smelling of spicy soap. Her ankles dangled over the armrest, and despite the lack of a remote control, she had tuned the television to “Police in Action.” She flicked a quick glance at him, ready to give him a smart comment because she was still there and no longer watching food porn despite his depraved action in commandeering the remote.
To her annoyance, however, he didn’t even notice. He placed the remote control on the low table in the center of the room and picked up the necktie he’d forgotten earlier. Then he looked around like Betty Homemaker searching for that spot of dust she knew she’d missed.
“Have you thought about dinner?” He shoved the necktie into the back pocket of his jeans.
Although he’d combed his damp hair back, one stubborn lock had sprung back and begun to curl over his brow as it dried. Remembering the feel of his hair between her fingers, she fixed her gaze on the television. She longed to smooth that soft curl back as an excuse to lean against him again, to tempt him into doing something dangerous.
When he walked closer, she looked up. The glimmer of a smile on his wide mouth made her wonder if he guessed what she was thinking.
The rush of emotion made her feel…vulnerable, scared.
She flushed, hating the thought that he read her so easily.
Damn. He didn’t have to look so amused and confident. Don’t trust him. Her stomach clenched. Experience had proven that she could handle physical pain, but emotions, they were bad. They tore you up inside and wouldn’t let you sleep or forget.
However, she couldn’t suppress her reaction to his presence. He looked even better in casual clothes than his generic businessman’s suit. The jeans were well-worn with the right knee starting to wear through. Somehow, she sensed the wear and tear was due to heavy use and many washings instead of some designer’s artistic efforts at fashion.
The pale blue shirt he wore deepened the color of his eyes and turned them a rich, intense indigo, while the open collar revealed a light scattering of chest hair with a few silvery droplets of water clinging to the tips.
“Can you cook anything else? Real food?” she asked, trying to hold on to her cockiness while her body wanted to melt all over him like the gooey vanilla icing on the warm rolls. The scent of cinnamon and sweet, sugary icing lingered in the house, making her crazy.
Or crazier.
Why couldn’t he be mean? Or a really, really lousy baker?
Why did he have to make her feel as if, after all these years, she’d come home again where it was safe? Her chest tightened painfully.
That life was over. Gone. Safety was but an illusion for the innocent who did not know what walked behind them in the darkness.
“Oh, yeah. I’m Homo sapiens, sub-species, domesticus. I cook. I also do dishes.” He winked. “Followed with the occasional load of laundry.”
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Great. Just great. I am man, hear me roar.
“What do you have? I mean, there’s no point in me asking for steak,” she giggled, thinking of Bob and Ray’s skewers, “or lamb kabobs, if you only have hamburgers.”
“Curried chicken?”
“Oh.” She stared at him in surprise as her stomach rumbled in profound delight. She’d never have thought of asking for curry, but now that he mentioned it, she desperately craved the rich, complex spiciness. “Yes.”
“Come on, then. Keep me company. You can chop up the white grapes.”
“Grapes? In curry?”
“Don’t be afraid to try something different. Just wait.”
“I’m never afraid of things that are different.” She slid around him to stroll into the kitchen and lean against the counter.
Each time she thought she could predict Kethan’s behavior, he kicked her sideways, and he obviously knew it. Although he never glanced at her, a satisfied smile dimpled his cheeks as he pulled ingredients out of the refrigerator and got out two pans. The worst part was the answering smile she felt tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Refusing to fall in line so easily, she examined the room, the heart of his house. Had she been asked a few hours ago what she expected, she’d have described a modern kitchen with stainless steel appliances and high-tech cupboards.
Instead of glossy, characterless walls, the kitchen had bricks with a huge fireplace in the far end. A huge, green enamel stove with chrome trim, fashioned to look like an ornate Victorian wood stove, stood against the left wall. The elaborate stove and companion appliances would not have looked out of place in a Victorian farm house.
A counter of pale, tan marble ran from the stove to the brushed steel double sink. The refrigerator was another Victorian-looking monstrosity with green enamel and chrome trim, snuggly set between maple cupboards at the end of the counter.
“Who was your interior decorator? Laura Ingalls from ‘Little House on the Prairie’?”
He chuckled and pulled a package of chicken from the refrigerator. After retrieving a cutting board from a drawer in the center island, he arranged his supplies in front of him like a master chef.
“You don’t like Victorian?” His eyes twinkled.
“Well, it’s sort of, uh, not really a guy thing. You know?”
“Not everyone prefers to cook on a portable electric burner.”
“I don’t cook that much. What’s the point?”
“Friends? Family? Eating?”
“Friends are just people who haven’t had a chance to stab you in the back yet. Besides, who needs the calories?”
He was quiet for a moment before he replied, “You do.”
He cares about you…. Tears stung her eyes. Damn. This emotional chaos was not going to happen again. She was not going to break down every time she entered his Laura Ingalls’ kitchen. It evoked such painful longing it almost made her crumple where she stood, desperate for the past. The room didn’t even look like her grandmother’s vintage 70’s kitchen and yet it had to power to trigger such grief, such a sense of loss, that she choked, speechless for a full minute.
She turned away and ran her hand over t
he smooth, cool surface of the marble. Her fingers smudged the shiny surface. Blushing, she used the hem of her shirt to wipe the streaks away. “Didn’t you want me to do something? Cut grapes?”
He pointed the tip of his knife toward a bowl of fruit sitting on the counter. “Grab another cutting board and knife.” He gestured toward one of the shelves built into the island. “You’re not allergic to nuts, are you? I put garlic, shallots, raisins, and almonds in the rice. Speak now if that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’m good with that. No allergies.”
Nodding, he set to work sautéing chicken strips in butter. When they were done, he added shallots and garlic to the pan before sprinkling several tablespoons of curry seasoning over the mixture. When the spice hit the sizzling chicken, the room filled with the heady aroma, tantalizing, savory, yet subtly sweet.
Breathing deeply, she watched him make a rich sauce by deglazing the pan with white wine, allowing the billowing steam to reduce and concentrate the wine and finally adding cream. Constantly stirring, he let the ingredients simmer until the liquid thickened into a creamy, pale yellow sauce.
“Those grapes ready?” he asked.
Breathing deeply, she passed him the cutting board, impatient and starving as he added the chicken and grapes to the sauce. “Is it ready now?”
“If that rice is ready. Check it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He grinned. “You must be starving if you’re desperate enough to call me ‘sir’.”
“You have no idea.” She swallowed, trying not to drool as she stood over the stove. Her fingers hovered above the curried chicken, twitching as she resisted the strong urge to pluck out just one tender piece—anything—a grape or piece of chicken. The rich scent of curry filled the room. Her stomach rumbled again as her tongue flicked over her lips. She could almost taste the spices swirling in the moist, warm air.
When she glanced up, Kethan was standing in front of an open cupboard, a plate in each hand, studying her.
“What?” She stepped away from the stove, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment as he continued to examine her. He had a real talent for making her feel as self-conscious and awkward as a teenager.
“You just looked famished.”
“Well, this smells really good.” She looked around, noting two wooden bar stools on the other side of the island. “Can we eat out here?”
He laughed. “Walking twenty feet into the dining room isn’t going to kill you—” He stopped when she eyed him, a frown creasing her brow. “But we can eat here.”
Grabbing the plates out of his hand, she scooped out a huge helping of fragrant rice before ladling two lavish spoonfuls of curry onto it.
“There’s the cucumber salad,” he reminded her as she grabbed a fork out of his hand. “And white wine, if you’re interested.”
The first mouthful, redolent with the complex flavor of curry and sweet-tart green grapes, slid over her tongue, mingling textures and flavors that perfectly blended the savory with the sweet. She breathed through her mouth to create a burst of spicy flavor, savoring the rich perfume of curry before she swallowed. After three more bites, she realized she was still standing and Kethan was still waiting for her to join him. She snagged one of the stools with her foot and sat down as she eased another forkful between her lips. With a sigh, he eased a hip over the other stool and settled to eat next to her.
Barely noticing, she heard the crystalline ting of a wine glass being placed in front of her. When she glanced up, she noticed he’d also given her a small salad plate full of cucumber and yogurt salad. The curry was almost too good to stop eating, but she forced herself to pause and taste the cucumbers. The burst of cool greenness cleaned her palate instantly. The next bite of curry tasted even more complex. She couldn’t get enough.
“You really were hungry,” he commented as he lifted his fork. “How does it taste?”
“Oh, God,” she moaned. “This is fantastic! I mean it. And I watched you—I can make it at home on two burners. God, this is good.”
He nodded and took a bite, although as her hunger diminished, she realized he spent more time watching her than eating. Her foot swung in a jittery movement as she tried to pull her tattered manners around her like a cloak. Don’t wolf down your food. Be polite and smile. She was making a fool of herself, but she couldn’t stop eating. Her life had been so Spartan, so intensely disciplined for the last ten years, that the first hint of pleasure overwhelmed her fragile control.
Whether he intended it or not, this man had discovered a way through her defenses, and it scared the pants off of her.
Chapter Thirteen
She drained her glass of wine and sat back sated, watching him. “So…I’m curious—what made you think I’d stay after all?”
“Trust.”
She snorted and shook her head. “You don’t know me that well.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t trust you.” He smiled, and again she felt an answering tug. “Besides, I only needed a few minutes—enough time to take a shower. After that, if I heard the front door open, I could catch up with you.”
“Yeah, right.” She laughed, refilling her glass. “I can just imagine you sprinting after me, stark naked.” The suggestive image rose so sharply in her mind that she felt her face flush. Foot jiggling again even faster, she made an elaborate show of emptying the bottle into his glass to divert his attention.
I’m an idiot, worse than a shrieking, star-struck teenager tearing her blouse off.
“Unnecessary.” When she dared to look up, he was studying her with an amused expression. “Not to mention, criminal behavior. Public nudity.”
“So now what do we do?” Heat rose up her neck. She shifted again, both feet knocking the chair. If he really knew her….
“We negotiate.” He stretched out one long leg and planted it on one of the chair’s rungs, stopping its vibrations.
“Negotiate? I don’t negotiate.” Although she managed to press her feet together to stop the jiggling, her hand shook when she lifted her glass. Angry at herself, she set it down on the table. Remember the lessons of the past. Don’t be a fool. He negotiated with vampires, creatures that tortured and destroyed everything they touched.
“And why would that be?” he asked. “Why can’t you negotiate?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t, and I want to understand. Explain it to me.”
“Again?” She stood up abruptly and carried her empty plates to the sink. Her hands clamped to the stainless steel rim as she stared down at the brushed silver surface and tried to regain a sense of calm.
“Yes.”
Slowly, she rinsed her plates off and slid them into the dishwasher. The activity gave her time to work the edge off the sudden spurt of temper the word “negotiation” had triggered. No matter how hard she tried, she was helpless to stop the immediate, intense reaction triggered by the word.
Trust me, I’ll help you. You can escape…. Just trust me. Carol promised to help, only to betray her so they could inflict even more pain. But Quicksilver had been a slow learner and it took several such incidents before she realized she could not trust anything a vampire said, no matter how sincere.
“Negotiation is just a more civilized way to force someone to accede to your demands.” Her voice throbbed. She cleared her throat. “Someone wins, someone loses. Someone always gives in, or worse, neither one gets what she really wants.” Except the vampires. They always won in the end until the worm had finally turned in desperation and killed them.
“Now why would you think that?” He sat back, holding the fragile wine glass between his long fingers with a delicate touch as if it were a living thing.
She shrugged and worked to sound bored although her hands throbbed with remembered agony. “Mom wants chicken for dinner, Dad wants steak. So instead of either one giving in, they have fish which both hate, but at least they have the satisfaction of knowing the other one didn’t win. I’ve seen it a m
illion times.”
“Or they go out to dinner so each one can get what she or he wants.”
“So she wants to go to the Italian restaurant. He wants the steak place. They wind up in the drive-through line at Chez Burgers. Negotiating stinks. It’s a lose-lose scenario.”
“Not if you take the time to discover what each party really needs or wants.”
There it was again. The implication that anyone could make a deal. If she’d just tried harder, she could have negotiated her freedom. She could have left Carol and Carlos alive and walked away into a world of sunshine, sparkling rainbows, and leprechauns pooping out gold coins. Real life, or death, simply wasn’t that easy.
What if he’s right? A nasty little voice whispered in the back of her mind. What if that nightmare really was my fault? I asked for it and then was too stupid to deal with it.
And what about all the vampires I’ve killed since then?
She shook her head. Vampires were evil, pure and simple. She had to believe she’d done the right thing, that she’d saved lives by her actions. Her only redemption lay in the thought that she protected others from the same terror, and she clung to the thought. She had salvaged something good from her experience and helped others, even if they were unaware of it.
“You can’t negotiate away a fundamental difference,” she said at last.
“You can find acceptable compromise.” He sounded so confident. “There are always alternatives.”
“No. That’s where you’re wrong.” Drying off her trembling hands, she walked back to the island, trying not to show her anger. Why was he so difficult? What couldn’t he understand? There were some situations where there were no alternatives. Only ivory tower academics believed otherwise.
He didn’t try to convince her.
They finished cleaning up the kitchen together without further discussion, the only sounds coming from their feet clacking against the floor and the water swirling down the drain. When the silence grew strained, Kethan began to hum as he worked, appearing relaxed and at ease while she argued silently with herself. Her emotions churned in huge waves, crashing from guilt to anger and back to guilt again in remorseless, roiling tidal waves.