Raintree. Linda Winstead Jones
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back into the bedroom, she locked the door just in case he decided to waltz in again, then removed the robe and began dressing. The precaution was useless, she thought bitterly, because if he wanted in, all he had to do was order her to unlock the door and she would do what he said, whether she wanted to or not. She hated that, and she hated him.
She didn’t want to put on his shirt. She picked it up and turned it so she could see the tag. She didn’t recognize the brand name, but that wasn’t what she was looking for, anyway. The tag with the care instructions read 100% Silk—Dry-clean Only.
Maybe she could smear some jelly on the shirt. Accidentally, of course.
She started to slip her arms into the sleeves, then paused, remembering how he’d phrased his last statement: When you’re dressed, come to the kitchen. Once she was dressed, she probably wouldn’t have a choice about going to the kitchen, so anything she wanted to do, she should do before putting on that shirt.
She dropped the shirt back on the bed and retrieved the tiny scissors from the bathroom, slipping them into her right pocket. Then she systematically searched both the bathroom and bedroom, looking for anything she might use as a weapon or to help her somehow escape. If she saw any opening, however small, she had to be prepared to take it.
One big obstacle was that she didn’t have any shoes. She doubted the ones she’d been wearing could be saved, but at least they would protect her feet. Raintree hadn’t brought them to the bedroom, but they might still be in the bathroom she’d used last night. She didn’t want to run barefoot through the countryside, though she would if she had to. How far would she have to run before she was free? How far out did Raintree’s sphere of influence reach? There had to be a distance at which his mind tricks wouldn’t work—didn’t there? Did she have to hear him speak the command, or could he just think it at her?
Uneasily, she hoped he had somehow simply hypnotized her, because otherwise she was so deep in The Twilight Zone doo-doo she might never get the weird crap off her shoes.
Other than the scissors, neither the bath nor the bedroom supplied anything usable. There were no pistols in the built-in drawers, no stray hammer she could use to bash him in the head, not even any extra clothes in the huge closet that she could have used to suffocate him. Regretfully, with no other option left, she finally put on the silk shirt. As she was rolling up the too-long sleeves, she wondered when the command stuff would kick in. The slippery material didn’t roll up very well, so she redid the sleeves several times before she gave up and let the rolls droop over her wrists. Even then, she didn’t feel an irresistible urge to go to the kitchen.
She was on her own. He hadn’t put the command mojo on her.
Tremendously annoyed that, under her own free will, she was doing what he’d told her to do anyway, she unlocked the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway.
Two sets of stairs opened before her, the one on the right going up to the next floor and leading to what appeared to be a balcony. The set on the left went down, widening to a graceful fan at the bottom. She frowned, not remembering any stairs from the night before. Had she been that out of it? She definitely remembered arriving at the house, remembered noticing that it had three separate levels, so of course there were stairs—she just didn’t remember them. Having this kind of hole in her memory was frightening, because what else did she not remember?
She took the down staircase, pausing when she got to the bottom. She was in a spectacular…living room? If so, it wasn’t like any living room she’d ever seen. The arched ceiling soared three stories above her head. At one end was an enormous fireplace, while the wall at the other end was glass. Evidently he was fond of glass, because he had a lot of it. The view was literally breathtaking. But she didn’t remember this, either. Any of it.
A hallway led off to the side, and cautiously she followed it. Something about this seemed familiar, at least, and she opened one door to discover the bathroom in which she’d showered last night—and in which he’d ripped off her clothes. Setting her jaw, she went in and looked around for her shoes. They weren’t there. Resigned to being barefoot, she walked through the den, past the powder room she’d used and into the kitchen.
He was sitting at the bar, long legs hooked around a stool, a cup of coffee in one hand and the morning newspaper in the other. He looked up when she entered. “I found some tea, and the water is boiling.”
“I’ll drink water.”
“Because tea is what you share with friends, right?” He put down the newspaper and got up, opening a cabinet door and taking down a water glass, which he filled from the faucet. “I hope you don’t expect designer water, because I think it’s a huge waste of money.”
She shrugged. “Water’s water.”
He gave her the glass, then lifted his brows—both of them. “Cereal or bagel?”
“Bagel.”
“Good choice.”
Only then did she notice a small plate with his own bagel on it, revealed when he’d put down the paper. Maybe it was petty of her, but she wished they weren’t eating the same thing. She didn’t wish it enough to eat cereal, though.
He put a plain bagel in the toaster and got the cream cheese from the refrigerator. While the bagel was toasting, she looked around. “What time is it? I haven’t seen a clock anywhere.”
“It’s ten fifty-seven,” he said, without turning around. “And I don’t own a clock—well, except for the one on the oven behind you. And maybe one on the microwave. Yeah, I guess a microwave has to have a clock nowadays.”
She looked behind her. The oven clock was digital, showing ten fifty-seven in blue numbers. The only thing was, she’d been blocking the oven from his view—and he hadn’t turned around, anyway. He must have looked while he was getting the cream cheese.
“My cell phone has the time, too,” he continued. “And my computers and cars have clocks. So I guess I do own clocks, but I don’t have just a clock. All of them are attached to something else.”
“If small talk is supposed to make me relax and forget I hate you, it isn’t working.”
“I didn’t think it would.” He glanced up, the green in his eyes so intense she almost fell back a step. “I needed to know if you were Ansara, and to get the answer I was rough in the way I handled you. I apologize.”
Frustration boiled in her. Half of what he said made no sense to her at all, and she was tired of it. “Just who the hell are these Aunt Sarah people, and where the hell are my shoes?”
Chapter Eleven
“The answer to the second part of your question is easy. I threw them away.”
“Great,” she muttered, looking down at her bare feet, toes curling on the cold stone tiles.
“I ordered a pair for you from Macy’s. One of my employees is on the way with them.”
Lorna frowned. She didn’t like accepting anything from anyone, and she especially didn’t like accepting anything from him—but it seemed she was having to do a lot of it no matter how she felt. On the other hand, he had thrown away her shoes and destroyed her blouse, so replacing them was the least he could do.
“And the Aunt Sarah people?” She knew he’d said “Ansara”—not that that made any more sense to her—but she hoped mangling the word would annoy him.
“That’s a longer explanation. But after last night, you’re entitled to hear it.” A little ding sounded, and the toaster spat up the bagel. Using the knife he’d got to spread the cream cheese, he flipped the two bagel halves out of the toaster slot and onto a small plate, then passed knife, plate and cream cheese to her.
She took the bar stool farthest from him and spread cream cheese on one slice of bagel. “So let’s hear it,” she said curtly.