Too Hot to Handle. Nancy Warren
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of an upscale hotel—so she slipped it on and opened the drawers and cupboards in the bathroom hoping for a comb or brush.
She found both. Also hairstyling products and a limited supply of essential cosmetics still in their packaging. Her first instinct was to refuse to make herself pretty for a kidnapper, but she soon threw that idea aside. She had her own confidence to think of and it was amazing what a little lip gloss and some mascara could do.
Blow-drying her hair, putting on a little makeup, these small tasks steadied her and gave her some sense of normality.
When she returned to the bedroom and checked out the closet and drawers, she was only mildly surprised to find clean T-shirts, pajamas, track pants, a hoodie, outside jackets, rain boots and blessedly unopened packages of underwear and socks. He either had a lot of unexpected guests, or the kidnapping business had a high turnover.
She dressed swiftly—the only thing of her own she wore was her jeans—and then, pushing her shoulders back and her chin up, she left the bedroom in search of her captor.
Her feet were soundless on the thick carpet that covered the floors. The upscale mountain retreat look continued in the hallway. A muted palette of taupes and grays on the walls and woodwork highlighted several paintings and drawings that were so good she suspected they were originals. Hot ones, no doubt.
At the bottom of the stairs, she hit a slate entrance hall and landing. She listened, but heard no sound coming from anywhere. A flutter of panic in her chest as she wondered if she’d been abandoned here, but then she remembered the 4×4 out front.
She went searching. And discovered that Mr. Pendegraff had exquisite taste. Everything was of the finest from the leather furniture in the living room to the liquor in the cabinet.
She found the kitchen at last, and found Charles Pendegraff III sitting in a deep chair in a den area off the kitchen sipping coffee and watching a plasma TV. He glanced up when she entered the room and immediately flicked off the television.
He’d changed yet again, she noted warily. From rich fop to black-clad jewel thief, now he looked like an upscale mountain man. He wore jeans, a chambray shirt and hiking boots.
“Good morning. Would you like some coffee?”
“Is it drugged?”
His eyes clouded. “No. And I’m sorry about that, by the way. I couldn’t think of another way to handle things.”
There wasn’t any point in him drugging her now, she was pretty certain. And she was a weak, weak woman unable to resist the scent coming from the sleek coffeemaker. “All right, then.”
He rose, went behind the granite breakfast bar and poured a dark stream of coffee into a blue pottery mug that was much too ordinary and cheerful to be part of this house.
“Milk?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door of a stainless steel fridge that she saw was fully stocked, withdrew a carton and placed it on the black granite countertop beside the coffee mug. “Sugar’s in the pot there,” he said.
She took her time preparing her coffee exactly the way she liked it. She was determined to stay calm. The coffee was delicious. Strong and rich and she felt the caffeine punching up her energy. Good.
“What would you like to go with your coffee?” he asked, as though he was her waiter. “I’ve got eggs, breakfast muffins, some—”
“I’d like some answers.”
“I know. And you’ll get them. Over breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be. You like omelets?”
Frustration enveloped her, and forgetting her vow to remain calm, she marched up to him, right behind the granite breakfast bar and into his space. She stalked up until there were only a couple of inches between their bodies. She was so close she could smell him, hints of sandalwood from his shower gel or shampoo or something, the fresh laundered smell of his shirt, the smell of thieving hot man underneath it all.
His green eyes were wary and he’d missed a spot when he shaved. All that her mind processed while her anger boiled.
She slammed her coffee mug down on the counter. “I don’t want eggs. I want answers. Yesterday you came into my life, into my store, into my work space.” She began to list his crimes on her fingers, from mildest to most venal. “You lied to me, you broke in after dark and stole from me.” Her third finger hurt when she hit it to emphasize the third item on her list. “You kidnapped me.” Bang she hit her fourth finger. “And you drugged me. Now I have no idea who you are or where I am and I want to know.” Her fingers curled into a fist. Even though she wanted to punch him as hard as she could, she wasn’t foolish enough to do it. Instead she rapped her closed fist against the other open palm. Smack, smack.
“And I want to know, now.”
For a second he simply stood, gazing down at her. She wished she were over six feet tall so she wouldn’t have to look up to meet his eyes. It was infuriating being shorter and slighter than her foe.
It took her a second to realize that he was looking at her, not in a kidnapper to victim way, but in a man to woman way that made her blood stir. What was wrong with her?
How could her body respond to a criminal?
Needing an excuse to back away from this far-too-close contact, she picked up her mug of coffee. A tiny crack had formed in the bottom where she’d smacked the pottery on the granite. She only wished it was Pendegraff’s head she’d cracked.
And she stepped back.
“Okay,” he said. “You want to talk first, we’ll talk.”
“You’ll talk,” she reminded him.
THE DEEP, COMFY CHAIRS in the den made her want to curl her feet beneath her. Under different circumstances she thought she’d like this place. Wherever it was. There were no newspapers conveniently lying around, no phone book sitting by a phone that might give her hints to her current location.
She sat up straight, her feet on the floor.
He refilled his mug and took the other chair. Sipped, slowly, in a way that suggested he was stalling for time. Her foot began to tap against the floor.
“I actually am Charles Pendegraff,” he began.
“The third?” Skepticism tinged her tone.
A brief grin lit his face. “Yes, though I only mention the number when I want to come off as a pompous ass.”
“You’re good at it,” she said sweetly.
“As you’ve obviously gathered, I’m a thief.” He paused, shaking his head. “Was a thief. I’m retired.” He glanced at her and his gaze darkened. “And, until last night, I’d never been caught. I must be losing my edge.”
“Caught by me and the cops.”
“Lexy, those weren’t cops.”
“Oh, come on. Why would I believe you?”
He reached for the remote control. “You’re not going to like this. I recorded a news broadcast from New York this morning.”
He flicked on the screen and pushed a couple of buttons. A newscast she knew well, one she often watched as she was getting ready in the morning, told her it was going to be cooler in Manhattan today, then there was the usual banter between the show’s host and the meteorologist. Then the news.
“I’m really not sure what the U.N. funding crisis has to do with—”
He held up a finger. “Wait.”
And then there was news footage of a block of buildings she knew intimately. It was her street.
“A suspicious fire broke out last night at a well-known jewelry designer’s