My Dangerous Pleasure (12 page)
“Why’d you do that?” She grabbed for her phone, but he held it out of her reach. “Give that back! I own a business, Iskander. I need that phone. Maybe you can afford to sit around all day, but I can’t.”
“Relax, cupcake. I’m not going to cut you off.”
“Then give me back my phone.”
“You have this thing with you, he can use it to track you.” Iskander took out her SIM card and tossed all the parts onto the table. “I’ll get you a new phone, new number from Google Voice. Keep paying the bill on the old one, though. From now on, give people your Google voice number, not your new cell number. We’ll work out what numbers forward where.”
Paisley stayed where she was. There was something unsettling about his lack of hesitation about what to do. Like he’d done this sort of thing before. “Thank you. I suppose.”
“No problem.” Iskander gave her a to-die-for smile. “You’ve had a hell of a day. I’ll show you your room, and you can get some sleep.”
She didn’t sleep well. The upstairs bedroom Iskander put her in got more light than she was used to without the extra-heavy curtains she’d bought for her apartment, and that made it hard to stay asleep. Her headache got worse, too, and the healing blister on her wrist ached enough to wake her up several times. Whenever that happened, she’d realize she’d been dreaming about Iskander. Disturbing dreams where he ripped Rasmus Kessler’s heart out of his chest and then made passionate love to her.
The alarm on her cheap digital watch went off at one-thirty. In the morning. She was already wide awake, though. Definitely not the best morning she’d ever had. Her head pounded something fierce, and her wrist ached.
She rolled out of bed and got ready to go to work. Obscenely early hours were the norm for a bakery like hers. The morning bake took several hours to prep and start. Various doughs had to be taken out of the fridge and allowed to rise, batters needed to be mixed, inventories done. The ovens needed time to heat up. She was glad she’d given herself extra time to get ready, because nothing in the house was familiar to her. Not the bedroom, not the few clothes she had—nothing.
In the downstairs bathroom, she found Iskander had cleaned up and put out fresh towels for her. The new toiletries Iskander’s friend Gray had bought for her were lined up on the counter. She showered and got dressed in her one and only change of clothes.
Iskander was watching television when she wandered into the living room on her way to the kitchen for toast and coffee—if there was any. But note to self, Iskander was a night owl. That meant she was going to have to be quiet on the days she did the late shift and was home in the morning. “Breakfast?” she said on her way. It seemed impolite not to at least ask him.
He hesitated, but only, she thought, because her question was unexpected. “Sure.”
There was a high-end espresso machine in the kitchen. She found coffee beans among the supplies Iskander’s friend Gray had brought over, and while she got the coffee going, she started making French toast. There wasn’t time to let the bread thoroughly soak in the egg mixture, but, hey, good enough for going on two in the morning. She threw in a dash of vanilla, cream, and some cinnamon.
Iskander came in just as the first of the espresso was gurgling into the cups. Even with her usual morning grumpiness, she couldn’t help but admire him. Gorgeous man. The worst part was, he knew. “Coffee?” she asked. “Or is it too late for you?”
He leaned over with his forearms on the counter. “Never too late for caffeine.”
The smell of good coffee improved her mood considerably. Her lips twitched into an almost-smile. “Latté or capp?”
“Neither. Give it to me dark as sin and strong enough to straighten my hair.”
Mornings were just not her thing. At all. “Your hair is straight.”
He waited a beat. “Not that hair.”
She turned away because she didn’t want him to see her smile. “Good grief.”
“Whatcha making?”
“French toast.” She found demitasse cups and poured espresso into one. She slid a full cup to him, started another serving, then got the toast onto the griddle. Before long, the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla filled the air.
“That’s good coffee, ma’am,” he said.
“Besides good beans, the secret is in making sure the water isn’t too hot. Otherwise it tastes burned.” She patted the machine. “This is a good one.”
While she waited for the toast to cook, she made herself a foamy cappuccino. “Oh, God,” she said when she had her first sip of her cappuccino. “Heaven.” She closed her eyes and savored the taste and smell. “Almost enough to make me human at this hour.”
“Me too,” Iskander said. He drank more of his coffee.
When the toast was done, she served them both. The coffee, the butter, the sifter, and the powdered sugar stayed on the counter between them. She watched Iskander take his first bite, nervous the way she always was when someone tasted her food for the first time. While he chewed, he put down his fork and closed his eyes.
“This,” he said when he finished his first bite, “is the best French toast I’ve ever had.” He picked up his fork and knife. “Don’t even talk to me until I’m done.”
She snorted, and they ate French toast and drank their coffee in comfortable silence. God love a man who could be quiet at this hour. “All right,” she said, taking her empty plate to the sink. “I have to head out pretty soon.”
Iskander pointed at her with his fork. “Don’t touch the dishes. I’ll clean up.”
“Thanks.” Paisley scooped up her purse and the keys to her scooter. She couldn’t afford a car, but her scooter was a cheap way to get around when public transportation wouldn’t do. “How do I get back into the house?”
He threw a set of keys at her. “The one with the red rubber doohickey on it is for the top lock.”
She remembered him talking about his professional security. “Alarm codes?”
He gave her a blank look. “For what?”
“Your security system.”
“Oh, that.” He waved her off. “It’s automatic. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay.” She headed for the back door since it was closer to the garage, where she kept her scooter. “See you later.”
He frowned. “Cupcake. Where do you think you’re going?”
“To work?”
“From now on, I’m driving you. And picking you up.”
“Oh.” He was serious, and that made her feel… odd. And better. “You know if Rasmus sees you with me, he’s going to start harassing you, too.”
Iskander smiled like he had the winning lottery ticket. “I think I can deal with that.”
“He’ll tell you lies about me.”
“I know that.”
“Thank you.” The words sounded completely inadequate. She walked back to him and touched his arm. “Really,” she said. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
He drove her downtown in a battered Chevy pickup with no radio and wire looped around the right side-view mirror to keep it attached. He parked so the truck blocked the alley near the back entrance of the bakery and left the motor running. Before she got out, he handed her a throwaway phone. “This is temporary until your new phone comes. I put my number in there for you. Give me a call when you’re ready to leave. I can be here in ten minutes.”
She slid the phone into her coat pocket. “Thanks. Again.” Hand on the door handle, she said, “I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”
“Have a good day.” He glanced out the window. “Night. Whatever. Bring home something good to eat.”
For half a second, she thought he was going to lean over and kiss her, and that set off a whole flock of butterflies in her stomach. He didn’t, though.
“I promise,” she said.
He waited while she walked to the back door. She didn’t hear his truck leave until several minutes after she was safely inside. Thank goodness he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. If he was, she’d fall for him pretty hard.
Ten hours later, alley behind Paisley Bakery and Café
P
aisley closed the back door of the bakery and rubbed the nape of her neck. Her shoulders were knotted up tight and her legs were stiff, but today, the tension was just from working at the job. Rasmus hadn’t shown up at the bakery, and since he didn’t have the number of the phone Iskander had given her, she hadn’t had to deal with any calls from him. The staff knew to hang up on him if he called the bakery, and they’d all learned the hard way to throw away anything he sent through the mail.
A day without Rasmus was… pure bliss. She arched her back to work out some of the kinks of standing for nearly ten hours and looked up at the sliver of blue sky that showed between the buildings. The wind, though, was blowing, and she was glad of the peacoat Gray had bought for her.
She walked to the mouth of the alley to wait for Iskander. The alley, just wide enough for a car, served several other businesses that fronted Kearney and exited to Clay Street, the nearest cross street to her right. She was looking in that direction since Iskander would have to come down Clay and either park there or drive down the alley.
A dark blue sedan was parked a few yards away near a set of stairs that led to the rear entrance of the Chinese grocer a few doors down from the bakery. The motor was idling, and the driver’s side wheels were on the alley sidewalk so it didn’t block access. She didn’t think anything of it. People parked like that all the time. She thought about walking down to Clay Street and waiting there.
“Paisley.” The all-too-familiar voice came from just ahead of her.
She jumped, heart slamming against her chest. She knew it was Rasmus even before he stepped from a shadowed area of the alley. Not far from the idling sedan. His suit was out of place, incongruously pristine against the dark, unfinished stone walls, Dumpsters, and broken-down crates and boxes. He moved into the center of the alley, blocking her way to the street. How the hell had she missed seeing him?
“You made your point with my apartment, Rasmus. Leave me alone.”
He drew a hand through his braids, his fingers lingering on the beads that softly clicked. “I wish to talk to you. That’s all. You have to understand me. If you’ll just come with me, we can have a quiet discussion, and everything will be fine.”
There was no point trying to convince him to leave her alone. His mind didn’t work logically where she was concerned. She turned on her heel, fumbling to get her purse around to the front so she could grab her phone and call for help. And run like hell for the bakery. Rasmus followed her, and oh, Lord, he was faster than she expected. Too close. And she wasn’t close enough to the bakery.
She sprinted for the bakery door, the phone clutched in her hand. Two more steps, but she could hear him breathing. She yelled at the top of her lungs, high and shrill over the sound of his shoes on the concrete, and felt the chill certainty that she wasn’t fast enough to make it to the door before he caught her.
And she wasn’t.
He reached around her and knocked the phone from her hands. It spun across the alley to land God knows where. She opened her mouth to scream again, and she saw stars as heat shot up her arm and, swear to God, ended up in her head.
His arm clamped around her waist and his other hand covered her mouth hard enough to pull her head back. She told herself not to panic, to pay attention to what he was doing. The pain in her head practically blinded her, but she went still, as if she were giving in.
“That’s right,” he said. He loosened his grip on her, and she struck out however she could, arms, legs, feet and hands. Rasmus swore and wrapped his arm around her throat, tight enough to make it hard for her to breathe. He was bigger and stronger than she was, and this was it. She knew he was going to kill her now. He dragged her backward, toward Clay Street, his arm tight over her throat. “You will come with me, Paisley Nichols.”
The sedan’s motor rumbled in her ears. Of course the car was his. She should have known. She ought to have been more suspicious. His goal was to get her inside the car. If that happened, she was as good as dead. At one point, she managed to get her foot tangled in his legs, and Rasmus stumbled. She whipped her head to the side, and his arm over her throat slipped. She sucked in a deep, blessed breath and screamed as loud as she could.