Those blue eyes are cold as they flick over me. “Come on, time for dinner.”
Before I open my mouth to respond, he’s gone. For two seconds, I consider not following him. Fear drives me out after him. I’m behind him before he makes it to the stairs. My eyes cling to him. The suit jacket is gone and he’s unbuttoned his shirt to the third button down and rolled back his sleeves above his forearms.
For a man as large as he is, he moves fluidly, muscle and sinew in perfect beautiful harmony. The wicked knife around his left forearm doesn’t even register until the brighter lights of the kitchen glint off it.
Following him i
nto the kitchen, I can’t hold in a sigh at the room. There is a large center island with a sink and white marble surface. The countertops running along the walls are worn, golden brown butcher block that complements the deep rich red of the upper and lower cabinets. A dark blue stove with six burners, gold knobs, and two ovens gleams, yet it’s obviously used often.
The kitchen is massive, with an eat-in area featuring a long, rustic kitchen table with seating for eight. An elegant hutch is along one wall with china so beautiful I can’t imagine eating off it.
He nods toward the table. “Sit. Stuffed shells okay?”
I spot his silk suit jacket over the back of a chair already. I take the chair across the table from it—which also gives me a view of the kitchen. “Sounds good to me.” Like I was going to argue and ask for something else. I’m not a picky eater and I love Italian food.
His attention is on the inside of the open refrigerator. I’m supposed to be looking for a means of escape, but I cannot take my eyes off him. The word magnetic flashes as I study him. Seriously, none of those pictures did him justice. I understand now why so few people have met him. If he was intent on keeping a low profile, he would be hard to forget.
He takes out a glass dish from the stainless steel double refrigerator and sets it into a toaster oven. I eye the microwave in the corner, it’s the only thing that doesn’t appear used in the large kitchen. As he opens a door, I see it’s a pantry, and for two minutes he goes so deep inside I lose sight of him. When he comes out, he’s carrying a bottle of red wine. He opens it with casual finesse.
Carrying the bottle and two wine glasses, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. He pours the wine and sets a glass down in front of me. I’m not much of a wine drinker. I was always afraid of becoming an alcoholic like my mother. I also don’t like the taste of wood that always seemed strong in most wine. Running my fingers around the base of the stem, I study him as he pours his own glass then sips on it.
It’s only now in the quiet that I recognize the music has changed from the classical when I first came into the house to blues music. I recognize Stevie Ray Vaughan’s guitar. The words are out before I think, “What’s with the music?”
A lazy shrug as he sips again. “I like music.”
Okay...I decide to bluff my way out of this; it’s the only move I have. “I thought you said I can walk away if I wanted to. I want to leave.”
An exhale comes from him, like a laugh but not quite. “It's too late for that. It was too late the moment you walked into the room.”
“Then why did you say it?” I push. He hasn’t looked at me, not really, since he opened the bedroom door. It’s becoming unnerving.
“I was lying to keep you there while I figured out what to do with you.”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean, while you figured out what to do with me?”
Blue meets mine. I shiver from the cold there. “While I figured out how to keep you in front of me so I didn't have to worry about you putting a bullet in my head from behind.” The words drop like heavy stones on the table between us.
7
Christy
Ice slides down my back. “Lisa told you.” I don’t know why I bother saying it. My lips are so numb the words barely make sense to my own ears.
A nod. “Lisa told me. She was trying to save your life.”
I can’t take his cold stare anymore. Squeezing my eyes shut, I work to keep air moving in and out of my lungs. He knows I wanted to kill him. That means he is going to kill me. It means he has to kill me.
“So, what? Is this my last supper?”
“Do you want it to be?”
I’m confused.
“You did a piss poor job of trying to kill me. Did you want to get caught? Do you want me to be the one to kill you? One more sin you could lay at my feet?”
Shaking my head, I open my mouth intent on defending myself. I made mistakes sure. It’s not every day you try to figure out how to kill someone. Yet, I can’t find the words. For the first time, I stop and go back to the beginning of the idea. I don’t know anymore.
A bell sounds. He gets up and crosses the kitchen. I stare at the glass of wine in front of me. At least I don’t have to worry about becoming an alcoholic. Liquid courage it is, I sip tentatively. There isn’t the wood taste I’m used to. Once I start, I don’t stop until it’s gone. Reaching across for the bottle, I refill my glass to the top and am almost done with the second glass when he sets a plate down in front of me.