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He was a strange kidnapper. First he flashed his eye crinkles at her and tricked her into getting into his car. Then he locked her in the back of said car and hauled her deep into the mountains while she screamed. Then he yelled at her, told her she was beautiful, and gave her a gun and her own room in a millionaire mastermind’s chalet. To complicate matters, he was as handsome as he was confusing, and he was currently devoted to her every physical and psychological need.
What the freaking hell?
Melinda cleared her throat. “I’m coming out.”
“Okay.” The kidnapper’s footsteps receded. “I’ll hunt for food.”
With the gun trembling only slightly in her grip, Melinda cracked the door to the darkened kitchen and found jeans and a plaid shirt protruding from a pantry to her left. Lantern light deepened the creases of Grant’s clothing and he looked very much the rugged woodsman. Did that make her Snow White, led innocently to her doom? She gulped.
“There’s not much that’s easy to prepare for tonight,” he said, chagrined, emerging moments later. “It’s box after box of packaged food that you have to cook. Speaking of useless, I didn’t have time to save drinking water, so I’ll be melting snow. How do you feel about crackers and olives?” He placed a box and a jar of each on the countertop.
“Dandy,” she said, dry as day-old toast.
Grant gestured her toward a round table with a single tulip-style pedestal stationed to the right of the stove. “Have a seat. I’ll make you a plate.”
Melinda floated through the kitchen, her cheeks prickling with a familiar sensation—warmth, she realized. The fire was spreading heat slowly through the frosted house, though the bedroom remained an icebox. She dropped into the leather chair, laid the gun carefully on the table, and waited as Grant assembled their meal. In a moment he slid a plate in front of her—a clumsy yin-yang of seed-studded crackers and oily black olives. Firearm at her elbow, Melinda nibbled an olive and immediately felt ten percent more human. She ate another, then another. Thank God they’re pitted. The last thing she needed now was to be responsible for excavating anything from her food.
The kidnapper ate standing at the counter, twisting a can from a six-pack and holding it aloft. “Can I interest you in a sparkling beverage with”—he eyed the label—“‘Real fruit and no preservatives?’”
“Sure,” Melinda puffed through an unladylike mouthful of crackers. He pushed a can illustrated with dancing raspberries toward her and took the chair opposite her. Melinda cracked her beverage and sipped gingerly.
“God bless carbs,” she murmured aloud, and took another sip. Grant turned and she jerked her eyes to her plate. Was she getting chummy with a psychopath? Well, they were sharing a meal together... What next, compare hobbies?
“What’s your blog called?” he asked, on cue.
“Not a chance, Grant,” she countered and swallowed. “Tell me again why Paul kidnaps his girlfriend and why she’s into it.”
Apparently she was. She was getting chummy with a psychopath. But what the hell? If he was going to murder her, surely he wouldn’t fatten her up first. Perhaps they had combined fairy tales and were about to follow a trail of delectable breadcrumbs and meet a ravenous witch.
Melinda reached for a cracker. Ugh. Anyway, she didn’t want to befriend the guy, but she did get the sense that he was telling the truth. The insane, implausible, near-impossible truth.
Also, was this tabletop real marble? She stroked the surface with her palm. It is. It’s freaking marble. Stay humble, Mastermind Murderer.
Grant sighed and tossed olives into his mouth. “I don’t know all the details. A few years ago, she actually did get kidnapped and it was a pretty rough deal. As part of the process, either she or her shrink thought it’d be beneficial if she relived the kidnapping and fought her way out of it successfully. In the real deal, she got rescued, and that made her feel incapable or something. Gave her nightmares. Paul fake-kidnapped her the first time. The next time he got someone else to do it, and the time after that. The first time really helped her, and after that, it became a thing between them. It’s been three years, I think.”
Melinda stared at him, cracker suspended midair.
“That’s crazy.” She chewed and swallowed. “Clearly his wealth has rotted his brain if this is his idea of fun.”
Grant nodded and crunched crackers. “Safe to say it’s never gone wrong like this before.”
“I guess it’s kind of cool, though.”
Grant’s eyes widened. “You think?”
What the hell was she saying? Did Stockholm Syndrome kick in that fast? Melinda stared at the table’s gray veining and said nothing. No way could she defend that wild thought.
“Well,” he said, “I told him we’re here and need help. Said I didn’t know what you’d want to do but that whatever it was, we’re behind it one hundred percent. In terms of calling the cops,” he added. All that remained of his crackers were crumbs. “Melisa’s with him. She got a Kaar, a real one, went to their house, and scared the hell out of Paul. They tried to come up, but the storm got bad and the tunnel closed. They’re at a hotel in Georgetown.”
How cozy.“I’m ready to go to bed,” she blurted. She was as empty as her plate and had no energy to spare.
Grant didn’t answer but stood and walked behind her chair to pull it out for her. Oh, now he’s chivalrous. Thanks, Dr.Jekyll. He waited as she carried her pet firearm into the bedroom, then spoke from outside the door.
“I need to get you extra blankets and show you how to lock the door,” he said. “Can I come in for a minute?” Melinda nodded, surprised that she didn’t feel wary. She was on her way to trusting him, she realized. How’s that for a sucker. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, abduct me and feed me crackers. As unlikely as his story was, he was sticking to it and he wasn’t abusing her. He seemed to be doing everything in his power to make her feel safe. Plus she could hit him over the head with her duck if she wanted to.
Grant fairly tiptoed inside and veered left to open a small linen closet.
“Could you bring the lantern over here?”
