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“Don’t get masterful on me, Ranieri. I don’t respond well to that.”
“You need someone to make some decisions for you, babe,” he said. “Just a few. For a little while. Just rest. And trust me.”
She shook her head. “Don’t ask me to trust you, because I can’t. It’s nothing personal, I swear to God. I just don’t have the equipment.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he said.
It was true, she realized. She’d put herself smack dab in someone else’s power. Alone in a cabin in the armpit of the universe, with a guy who could pick her up and twirl her on his pinkie if he felt like it. But there was no reasoning with her urge to micromanage.
“They’ll be listening to the McClouds,” she said stubbornly.
“The phone calls will be encrypted up the wazoo,” he repeated. “These people run a security company, Lily. They’re ex-military, ex-special forces, ex-everything. Plus, they were raised by a paranoid survivalist freak with global conspiracy theories.” He blinked at her, and gave her a swift grin. “You know, your kind of guy.”
She bristled. “Smart-ass.”
He snorted, and got right back to work. Lily stared at dust motes dancing in the beam of light that sliced through the window, determined to stay alert.
Next thing she knew, the smell of coffee and frying onions was dragging her out of sleep. She forced herself up onto her elbow, trying not to wince. The shoulder hurt, a lot. The room was warm. The angle of the light had changed, moved up the wall.
Bruno stood over a gas range, stirring onions that sizzled in a cast iron skillet. They smelled amazing. He looked different. A fresh black sweatshirt. Wet, clean hair, no bloodstains. He looked yummy.
She rubbed her eyes. “Hey.”
He gave her a smile that would bend metal with its sheer charm load. “Water’s hot, in the shower tank. You like steak?”
“Wow.” Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t been able to afford anything with that much protein in it since D-Day, and rarely enough before that, either. The rich scent made her dizzy. “Where did all this food come from?”
“Aaro got some groceries for us, in Bingen. I call it ten minutes to sit-down. Can you shower in that time?”
“I’ll try.” She got to her feet, took the battered terrycloth bathrobe he offered her, and closeted herself in the miniscule bathroom.
The shower was heaven. She stayed under until it turned tepid, then chilly, then glacial. It took that much scrubbing to get the makeup off. But afterwards, the face in the mirror was her own. Not Mata Hari.
When she came out, the table was set for two, and loaded with fragrant, steaming food. “Sit,” he said.
She was intensely conscious of her nudity under the damp terrycloth. “Shouldn’t I dress?”
“The room’s warm. And the food’s hot. And it’s just me.”
True enough. She sat down, and dug in. The steak was pan seared, pink and juicy and melting, and heaped with caremelized onions. He’d done cheesy buttered noodles, some sort of long pasta with frilly edges, dripping and rich. A heap of peppery coleslaw. Slices of hothouse tomatoes. Crisp, warty sour pickles. Fresh sourdough bread to sop up drippings. Mmm. He kept refilling her plate. She kept eating.
“I’d offer you a beer, but it’s not a great idea,” he said. “It would take the starch out of you for the hike. So it’s water, for now.”
“That’s OK,” she said. “I don’t drink.”
“Oh?” He buttered a hunk of his bread. “Not ever, or not now?”
“Not ever.” She looked down, wishing she hadn’t said anything.
“Any reason for that?”
“Does there have to be?”
His shrug was elaborately casual. “You’re the one who was flapping it in front of my face.”
She sighed. It was relevant, she supposed, in a painful, oblique sort of way, so whatever. “My dad was an alcoholic, and a junkie.”
He took it in, his face impassive. “This would be the father who--”
