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Zhoglo turned to Nick, a smile curving his mouth. “Nice touch,” he said. “I appreciate initiative in an employee. A welcome gift? How kind.”
The bottom fell out of his gut, and tumbled down, down. He scrolled through the possible responses he could make, calculating how quickly—or, worse, how slowly, they would get her killed.
He swabbed the blood streaming out of his nose with his hand.
“Ah, actually…no,” he forced out, voice froggy.
Zhoglo’s smile froze. “No?”
Nick swallowed. Hot blood trickled down his throat. “She’s the, ah, cook.”
Becca stared at the guns. Feeling faint, she stared at the blood streaming from Mr. Big’s nose.
One of the men stepped forward. A short, fat man, in expensive clothes. He spoke, his voice low and cultured, in a language she didn’t know. Mr. Big replied in the same tongue. The fat man’s smile disappeared. He had not liked the response.
The temperature dropped. So did her stomach.
These were people from another world, a world she did not want to visit. Oh, was this ever a mistake, and oh, was she sorry. Forget keys, glasses, pride, self-esteem. All she wanted was to curl up on her couch, pig out on Oreos and binge on a Jane Austen miniseries.
Her eyes focused on Mr. Big. He looked unconcerned by the blood coursing down his chin, but he stared at her with a burning intensity.
She didn’t dare look away from him, with those guns pointing at her, those men staring at her body. He was her only point of reference.
It had taken her that whole night to work up the nerve to come back, and the whole morning to get ready. She hadn’t had much to choose from, just what she found in Marla’s closet, and the cosmetics rattling around in her purse. Her houndstooth power suit and stale white silk blouse and heels weren’t an option. Marla’s clothes were snug, though, and Becca hadn’t wanted to seem like she was looking for masculine attention. The jeans were tight, and she had to cover up the chubby bit of belly that hung over the waistband with something loose. The blue peasant blouse was the only thing that fit the bill. The low-cut neck was sort of provocative, but she figured he had seen everything she had last night anyway, so what the hell.
These men stared at her. As if she were stark naked all over again.
The fat man stepped closer to her. She shrank back, opened her mouth to say, excuse me, gentlemen, but I see that this is a very bad time, sorry to have intruded, now I’ll just disappear, OK? Bye!
Her mouth worked. A papery squeak came out. Not a word, or even part of one.
The fat man approaching her did not carry a gun. He was shorter, heavier and older than all the rest of them, but when his light gray eyes fixed on her, she shrank away. His lips curved into a nasty smile.
She stared back, a fuzzy little animal hypnotized by a snake.
His eyes were strange. Opaque, like tinted windows on a car. He laid his damp, heavy hand on her shoulder. Ran it up underneath her hair, and gripped the back of her neck. His long nails cut into her skin.
Goose bumps popped out over her body. He said something incomprehensible, in a questioning tone. Tilted up her chin. She felt horribly vulnerable, with her throat exposed, as if he were going to bite her. She sucked in air, tried to speak. Tried again. “I’m, ah, sorry?”
“You are American?”
Uh, what else? She nodded as best she could with her neck hyper-extended.
Mr. Big spoke up, from behind. “I was just telling him how I hired you to cook for him.”
She turned, her eyes flicking toward his. Mr. Big’s face was expressionless, but she caught the urgent flash in his eyes. She tried to nod again. “Yes,” she said in a strangled voice. “Cook. Yes. Of course. I’m a very good cook.”
“Really?” the fat man purred, petting the bump of her larynx with his forefinger, then pressing it. He settled his finger over her fluttering pulse point. “What is your name, my dear?”
“B-becca,” she stammered.
“Becca,” he repeated. “And what, exactly, do you cook?”
Her throat hurt under the pressure of his finger. She barely heard her own voice, her ears roared so loudly. Booming echoes, black spots dancing, she was going to yark, or faint—
“Crepes a l’orange,” she said, seizing at random on the recipe at the top of her head. Her brunch favorite when she wasn’t counting calories. “Or if you’d prefer savory instead of sweet, a soufflé laced with a creamy blend of f-four Italian cheeses. Accompanied by sourdough loaf, grilled ham, and a refreshing cocktail of fruit nectar and Prosecco.”
The silver-haired man’s eyebrows twitched up in surprise.
