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The light on the landing was bleak, making the dusty air seem grainy. They moved down a staircase with a carved balustrade and through a small entrance hall into a narrow corridor that led to a kitchen. Once he’d flicked on the light, he let her go.
The kitchen was big. The walls and floor were covered with olive-green tiles. A cooking fireplace dominated one wall. All the old houses in the area had one. Copper pots and pans hung against the chimney. The only other means of cooking was a coal stove. Instead of doors, yellow and green curtains covered the cupboards. A buffet stood next to the shuttered window, the shelves filled with blue and green crockery. Everything looked old, but the room was spotless.
As if reading her mind, he said, “It’s old, but it’s clean.”
She stared at his stony face. “If you didn’t plan on coming back to this house, why did you have it cleaned?”
He turned his back on her and started packing ingredients from the fridge onto the counter. “I’m selling it.”
“Oh.” That meant he wasn’t staying in town.
“If you like, you can give me a hand.” He walked to the table and pulled out a chair. “Or you can sit here.”
She remained on the spot, questions running through her mind as he washed his hands and pulled a knife from the block on the counter. Silence stretched as he dribbled lemon juice over a fish fillet and flattened it with the blunt side of the knife.
Swallowing, she asked the question that held the answer to her fate. “When are you leaving?”
“When this is over,” he said without looking up from the cutting board.
She moved closer, willing him to face her. “When will it be over?”
He scraped the knife over the fish. “When I’ve done my job.”
Her heart started thumping, the direction of the conversation dragging it along. It was like approaching a waterfall, knowing she was going to tumble over. Rushing ahead, already feeling the dangerous pull of the current but unable to stop it, she asked, “Then you’ll let me go?”
He looked up, straight into her eyes. His jaw flexed. A moment’s battle raged in his silver eyes, and then his lips flattened on a single word. “No.”
A vice tightened around her throat. “What do you mean?”
He schooled his features, turning his face into an expressionless mask. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“I want to talk about it now,” she said, feeling a little hysterical. If he was going to kill her, she had a right to know. “You can’t keep me against my will.”
The words were idiotic and futile. They both knew it. He didn’t even acknowledge them. He only carved the fish into slices.
Looking around the kitchen, she searched for windows or doors. Everything that could open was barred. Claustrophobia wound around her, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe. The room closed in on her.
“Cle.”
His voice was dispersed through the blood that gushed in her ears. She ran to the backdoor and tried the knob. It was locked. She rushed to a window and pulled on the latch, shaking the glass in the frame. It didn’t budge.
She wanted out.
Now.
She ran from window to window, banging her fists on the glass. It was useless. Even if she broke the glass, the shutters were barred from the outside. She turned around the room in a circle, her panic escalating. She was trapped in a ghost house with a man who’d just admitted he wasn’t letting her go when his job here was done.
“Cle.”
She turned her face to the sound. Joss stood very still, regarding her with a strange expression on his face. Pity. Fury heated her clenched stomach. All of this was his fault. He had no right to pity her.
Her gaze found the dark hallway, the only way out. Joss followed the direction of her eyes, clearly anticipating her move, but her body was in flight mode, overriding any logical thoughts. Nothing mattered but getting out.
Putting everything she had into it, she sprinted toward the corridor. With a couple of sideways steps, Joss cut her off before she could make it.
“Cle,” he said again, holding out a hand.
She escaped that hand, the outstretched arm, retreating until her backside hit the counter.
“Easy,” Joss said. “That’s a good girl. You know I’m not going to hurt you.”
The words snapped her back to reality, to the threat hanging over her head. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt her, but he would kill her. He’d said so himself.
Not moving her gaze away from Joss, she searched behind her for the knife he’d been using. Arms crossed, he watched her quietly as her fingers gripped the shaft.
She swung the knife forward, aiming the sharp point at him with a shaky hand. “Let me go.”
“Or?” he asked in a flat tone.
Holding the knife in front of her, she took a step toward him. “I’ll use this if I must.”
