A Cut Above (15 page)

A strip search is no picnic.

Even if Doña Rosario, as the housekeeper called our hostess, refrained from touching me. Especially since she’d had the outraged Max taken away before he could intervene.

Still, being forced to bare my body to the hateful stare of such an evil person was more than I could stand. I broke down. Tears rolled down my face.

But I clenched my fists and refused to let a sob escape. I might not have been able to stop my tear ducts from going hyper on me, but I could sure stuff down any sob that even tried to give Creepella the satisfaction.

I roll over on my side into a tighter ball in the middle of the bed.

After she’d demeaned me to her satisfaction, and ripped out every hem in my pants, blouse, and jacket, Doña Rosario had the housekeeper, Milagros, lead me to a room. To her credit, Milagros had seemed as horrified by what had taken place as I was—still am.

The quiet servant had been gentle, and she’d plumped up the pillows on the large, hand-carved mahogany bed, clearly giving me a moment to regain some composure. Then she’d walked into the attached bathroom, drawn a hot tub, handed me a towel, and then left. The only sound she’d made was the tumbling of the lock on the door as she closed it from the other side.

I’d torn off my trashed clothes and soaked until my skin pruned. Then I’d scrubbed until I’d turned fuchsia all over. Still, even now, after all that, I feel filthy. Humiliation does that to a person.

The tears flow again. “Lord? This really hurt. Please pour your healing love, the balm of your mercy, all over me. I need it. I need
you
.”

As I struggle with my ravaged emotions, I miss my Bible most of all. Right now, when I could really use a mega measure of his Word, I have to remember the Scriptures I’ve learned over the years. As distraught as I am, I find they come more easily than I expected.

“Thank you, Father. Even in this mess I can give you

BANG, BANG, BANG!

I leap upright, my heart racing, my head spinning. Hard to believe, I’d fallen asleep. God had been merciful, for sure. I couldn’t have stood to lie there and remember the search— No! I’m not going to go back there. Not while someone’s pounding on my door.

“Who’s there?”

“Señorita Andrea. La cena está lista.”

The housekeeper! What’s she saying? Come on, Spanish 1. Don’t desert me now.
La
. . .
la
. . . the. Okay, the what?
Cena
. What’s
cena
?
Está
—that one I remember. The something-or-other is . . . Oh! Okay. Got it.

As if on cue, my stomach gurgles. I’m hungry. Dinner’s ready. “I’m coming.”

I look down at myself with a grimace. I’m still wearing the filthy, ragged clothes Doña Rosario searched to the max. And speaking of Max, I hope I see him at the table. Last I’d seen of him, he was being dragged out of Doña Rosario’s office by two of her goons.

I grab the century-old door latch, and go to open the door, but find it still locked. “Sure,” I mutter. “Come tease a girl with the promise of food, and then leave her behind locked doors.”

Hysteria gooses the edges of my consciousness, but I fight it off. I have to keep it together if I’m to have any hope of getting out of the madwoman’s clutches. And poor Max. Ever since he came to work for the S.T.U.D. he’s been chased by Burmese . . . was it soldiers or just crooks? Then he was arrested in Kashmir. With me. Oh, and there was that time the maybe-maybe-not Taliban guys followed us down the side of a Himalayan peak. Not to mention, the times he’s been suspected of heinous crimes.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Even by me. Mostly by me.

Now he’s in the clutches of a Colombian nutcase in jetset-ter’s clothing. Oh, and that faboo emerald of hers . . . Can’t forget that bauble.

The key clicks in the lock, and I don’t waste a second. I open up, and nearly crash into Milagros, the housekeeper. “Oooops!”

She gives me a tentative smile, then gestures for me to head down the corridor to the left side of the beautiful courtyard, now shaded in the muted light of dusk. If my situation weren’t so . . . so insane, I’d be loving every second of my time in this gorgeous place.

Too bad.

A handful of seconds later, we enter a huge room dominated by an equally vast table. A pristine white tablecloth lays over its top, and fine china, cut crystal, candelabra, and silver are unexpected niceties. Again, I feel disoriented. I mean, Doña Rosario is a criminal—she’s a wannabe thief and successful hijacker-slash-kidnapper. But she’s also living this deluded life of luxury. In the State of Denial, I’d say.

Tall white tapers rise from the candelabra in the middle of the table, and the scent of Latin spiced food sends my empty stomach off into a set of cartwheels.

A large, warm hand covers my shoulder. “Are you okay?” I place my own hand over Max’s. “Slightly worse for the wear, but by the grace of God, I’ll be fine—I’m trusting
he’ll
make it fine.”

He squeezes. “Amen.”

When I lean back against him, needing and welcoming the reassurance, he slips his other arm around my waist. “Andie—”

“I see you’re both here,” Doña Rosario says as she sweeps in. She’s taken the time while I slept to dress for dinner. Her russet silk dress fits her like a caress, and her high heels tap against the aged and gleaming brick floor tiles. Her hair, while still upswept, is no longer in the coronet but rather in a loose knot. She looks about a decade younger than I suspect she must be.

How someone as outwardly lovely as she is, with all the advantages of wealth—inherited from a noble family, from the looks of this place—could possibly be so hideous inside, I’ll never know. Other than it’s the result of rejecting the Lord and his will for her life. I wonder if she’s ever met the Savior?

But she doesn’t give me long to ponder much of anything.

“Please take a seat,” she says with a grand gesture. “I hope you’ll enjoy your meal.”

By now, my curiosity is about to kill me—
meow
. “Have you lived here long?” I take my seat.

“My whole life.” She rings a small silver bell beside her place setting.

Milagros hurries in.

They speak in fiery Spanish, of which I catch little. Actually, I don’t catch any of it. Before long, though, I figure out what they’d discussed. Milagros returns with a carafe full of dark, red wine.

She pours a tall goblet of the rich-hued liquid for her boss and turns to me, the decanter lifted in silent query.

I shake my head. “I don’t drink—but thanks.”

Max covers his glass.

Doña Rosario studies first Max, then me. After a moment, she shrugs and takes a long drink. “Excellent. Chilean wines are actually better than those from France or Italy, but you know how it is. The European ones have the long history and fame.”

Dandy. She’s acting as though she’s at some high-powered soirée here, not playing cat to our mouse—mice. I take a sip from my water glass. Max shifts in his chair.

Doña Rosario sighs. She puts her wineglass back on the table, picks up her bell, and rings for Milagros. The housekeeper enters the room, holds the door open with her body, and eases a serving cart over the threshold. Silver domes cover a number of platters. The fragrance makes my mouth water.

In no time, I have a slab of roast pork, a mound of golden browned potatoes, crisp salad, a roll, marinated tomatoes and cucumbers, an ear of corn, and a tiny dish of butter in front of me. I catch Max’s gaze; we swap smiles.

He knows I enjoy eating. And he also knows my concern for the size of my hips.

“What hips?” he asks, a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

I pause. First I knew what he’d been thinking a bit earlier; now he’s just read my mind.
Lord, is this for real?

Oh, Andie, Andie, Andie. This isn’t the time to think about Max, his blue eyes, or how he’s begun to do some kind of mind-meld on you.

I bow my head, breathe a quick prayer, pick up my fork. As I bring bright green salad to my mouth, it occurs to me to wonder why this woman, so intent in robbing us, would go to so much trouble to entertain us with such a lavish meal. A kidnapper’s hardly the queen of hospitality or anything.

Does the meal hide an ulterior motive?

Has she poisoned our food?

I shoot her a look, and watch her slice a piece of pork from her generous serving. She slips it in her mouth without pause, her eyes narrowed in pleasure, her shoulders at ease. I look down at the plate before me, fear suddenly stealing my appetite.

Across from me, Max is about to dig in. I clear my throat. He meets my gaze. I mouth the word, “Poison.”

His fork clatters back down to his plate.

I wince.

Doña Rosario looks from one to the other of us, then stuns me by bursting into heavy-duty laughter. “Oh my!” she says. “You are something, aren’t you? Go ahead. Eat. Your food is fine. What earthly good would you be to me dead?”

Okay. So maybe Max isn’t doing any kind of romantic mind-meld with me. Maybe I’m just one of those people who blare their last puny little secret on their faces.

I look back at our maniacal hostess, at Max, and finally at my food again. It’s time for the rubber to hit the road. Am I going to trust God? Really trust him?

Fine, fine. If it’s his will for me to zip on upstairs to get face-to-face with him for eternity, then I’m going to have to be ready. I
am
ready. I guess. I do love him—that I know for sure.

The salad is cool and the dressing tangy. The pork is seasoned with herbs, a whisper of garlic. The potatoes were cooked in super-rich olive oil; the roll is cloud light; the butter creamy and very lightly salted. I’m in foodie heaven.

The cheesecake . . . well, what can I say about cheesecake? It rocks.

During the entire meal, you could hear the proverbial pin drop. None of us says a word—other than the woman at the head of the table, but it’s only to give instructions to her housekeeper. I have the awful feeling of treading water. Nothing happens. At least nothing bad happens. But then again, nothing good happens either.

When we’re all done, I deliberately wipe my mouth on the linen napkin, fold it and place it next to my dessert plate, then turn to study my hostess. But, in keeping with the silent treatment she’s given us so far, I say nothing right back.

She arches a brow. “Have you decided to give me the emeralds?”

It figures I’d stumble across a highly discerning thief with impeccable taste in rocks. I hadn’t been willing to settle for Rodolfo’s second-best either. I sigh. “I don’t have them.”

Then what to my horrified eyes should appear but my snazzy pink cell phone and replacement purse too. I scrape up all my bravado, stand, and say, “I’ll take that back now.” Our hostess laughs. “I don’t think so.”

While my frustration reaches stratospheric heights, she pops open the phone and starts fiddling with the buttons. Her eyes grow wide after a few clicks. A pure de-malevolent look spreads on her face.

“You would be wise not to speak.” Her wicked smile says volumes. “Listen.”

Moments later, I hear Miss Mona answer. She calls my name, twice, three times, each one more frantic than the last. “Are you all right, Andie girl?”

“Miss Mona—”

Doña Rosario’s threatening glare shuts me up. She stands, looming larger than life with that aura of menace.

I bite my tongue, but everything in me wishes I could’ve reassured Miss Mona. As my boss continues to call my name, more frantic by the minute, our hostess makes a production of closing the phone. She then sits back down and slips the phone under the lip of her large dinner dish.

“How could you?” I ask, ready to . . . ready to—oh, I don’t know what I want to or worse, can do.

She shrugs. “The emeralds?”

I dig in my heels. “I don’t have them.”

She flips open my phone again. Clicks a couple of buttons. Aunt Weeby answers.

“How’s your trip going, sugarplum?”

The much-loved voice touches something deep in my heart. I glare at our jailor. “You didn’t have to involve my aunt. She has nothing to do with the studio’s business.”

“Speak up, girl,” my aunt calls out. “I can’t hardly hear you!”

When I don’t dare say another word, her voice rises with anxiety.

“Tell me you haven’t gone chasing some good-for-nothing kid down a back alley again. Oh, no! Surely y’ain’t been rolling around in dirty trash heaps again . . . Andie? Andie!”

My heart aches, and tears burn my eyes.

Our hostess looks bewildered.

Max laughs. “Only your aunt, Andie.”

“It’s not funny. She’s going to be so worried. How can you laugh at a time like this?”

“What else do you want me to do?”

“Exactly,” Creepella says, snapping my phone shut again. “There’s nothing for you to do but give me the emeralds.”

“Repetitious, aren’t you?” I’m now fed up, worried, anxious to leave and reassure Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby. There’s more than a little frustration buzzing around in me too.

She shrugs. “Well, then. I suppose you must be ready for bed. I had Milagros send one of her girls to fetch your suitcase earlier. It should be waiting for you in your room.” She turns to Max. “Yours too.”