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Butter he had, because toast was another one of those foolproof food items. Milk he had, being as how cold cereal was a third quick-n-dirty survival edible. A few more odds and ends…and that was it.
Becca made a disgusted noise, and flung open cabinets, rifling through the contents and plucking things out. There was flour but not much else. She whirled, eyes sharp. “Is this a sick joke? I cannot make a gourmet breakfast for that guy out of stale bagel chips, instant oatmeal and pimiento Cheez Whiz!”
“Don’t play diva on me, babe,” he said testily. “I didn’t come up with that fancy menu, you did. Look in the other fridge or the freezer—”
“Diva, my ass! I’ve got some decent food over at the A-frame. I’ll just, ah…go get it.”
Yeah. And try to disappear, writing both of their death warrants in one smooth move.“You can’t walk out of here,” he told her. “They’re covering the approach. I’ll go get the stuff. You just get started.”
“Here? Alone? With…them?” Her eyes widened.
“I’ll be quick,” he promised rashly. “You’ll be fine.”
She swallowed hard and he saw her back straighten up as she snapped into drill sergeant mode. “The small white boxes have specialty cakes in them,” she said briskly. “Get as many as you can. The cheese plate, the ham roast and the fruit are all in the two big white boxes in the fridge. Get both. There’s beef and vegetables. And condiments. Don’t forget the Prosecco. It’s chilling in the door of the fridge. Get as many bottles of wine as you can carry. I think we’ll need all the help we can get.”
Nick pounded up the back staircase and vaulted off the deck which curved around the huge outcropping of granite that the house had been built around. Clambering down that way put him at a thirty-yard uphill slog to the Sloane house, which he covered in seconds.
Once inside, he assembled the stuff Becca had asked for, tossing it helter-skelter into the boxes, packing wine bottles into plastic bags.
A thought occurred to him. He left the kitchen, and searched through the house until he found it. A little black purse. He dumped the contents, pawed through them. House keys, lipstick, tissue, comb.
He put the lipstick in his pocket for no very good reason.
Cell phone. Wallet. He thumbed through it, plucking out the plastic, the driver’s license, everything with her name and address printed on it. The wallet he tossed into an empty drawer by the bed. The credit cards and cell phone he shoved in his pocket, to bury under a rock outside.
He loaded himself up like a donkey, and took off. Sliding and scrambling through clinging vines and thorny bushes, all to make the perfect three-cheese soufflé for the evilest scum-sucking motherfucker in the known universe. It was surreal.
A sound jerked out of his chest, so rusty, he almost didn’t recognize it. Laughter.
Mr. Big?How the fuck had she come up with that?
Better not to speculate.
CHAPTER7
Keeping busy was the trick. Squinting fiercely, she located bowls, utensils and small appliances. Whiz, bang, and there it all was, neatly assembled on the central island. God, how she loved a kitchen with counter space. Too bad she was using it to feed her potential murderers. Or rapists.
Yeah. Béchamel first. Then the crepe batter. Watching butter melt and flour sizzle soothed her rattled nerves. She counted the slow stirs until the sauce thickened, up to ten and back down to zero, over and over, so she wouldn’t fall to screaming pieces.
No disasters so far. She set the white sauce aside to cool and whipped up batter for the crepes, grateful for the well-seasoned electric griddle she’d found in a bottom shelf. She’d be able to do six crepes at a time on that thing. Someday, when she’d finally landed Mr. Right and had the perfect kitchen, she’d get herself one of those. A professional-grade food processor, too.
Good girl. Keeping it together. Cool as a cucumber.
The door burst open. Startled, Becca sprang into the air and made a sound that only dogs could hear.
It was Mr. Big, laden with boxes and plastic bags. The wine bottles clanked together. She was so relieved, she almost burst into tears. “Oh, thank God.”
“This shit is heavy,” he grumbled.
She tore into the boxes. Mr. Big watched, his mouth dangling open. Ingredients for the soufflé, arrayed in a row on one section of the counter, elements for the crepes on another. Her mind whirled with logistics, timing, sequence. Should she get the soufflé in the oven before starting the sauce for the crepes? If the soufflé was done too soon, they wouldn’t be ready to serve it on the spot. It might fall. She couldn’t serve a flat soufflé to those guys. They had guns. They would shoot her.
She decided to grate and chop the savory ingredients, then whip up the orange sauce, then assemble the soufflé and pop it in the oven, which left exactly twenty-five minutes to bake the crepes on the griddle and get the ham browned, the fruit blended and the bread toasted. Assuming she had six arms, and that somebody else would deal with linens, dishes and cutlery. And she thought she had job stress at the club.
Mr. Big proved to be worse than useless as a line cook. He was slow, sullen, clouded and uncomprehending.
“What do you mean, orange zest?” he grumbled. “What the fuck is fucking orange zest?”
“If you have to ask, never mind,” she snapped. “Grate the cheese into this bowl, fast. Then wash the grater. I need it for the zest. And cut these herbs. Very fine. That should be simple enough for even you.”
