Page 140 of The Black Trilogy

I blinked a few times, trying my best to get rid of the blurriness. What the…? When I’d left Virginia, my bedroom was done out tastefully in muted shades of blue and cream. Now it looked like the love child of a ripe plum and a pitcher of grape Kool-Aid had thrown up all over it. Good grief. How much time had Bradley spent decorating while I wasn’t around to fasten him into a straitjacket? Did I dare venture into the rest of the house to find out?

Please, say he hadn’t installed disco lights in the ballroom.

Procrastinating, I reached for the remote to catch up on the news headlines. Uh, where was the remote? Come to think of it, where was the TV? My forty-inch flat screen had been replaced with a print of an elephant painted by either a three-year-old or the elephant itself.

“Bradleeeeeey!” I screeched to empty air. “What have you done?”

To avoid murdering my assistant, I took a long hot shower then threw on a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt. No make-up, and I left my hair wet. Life was too short to waste on tarting myself up if I wasn’t going out somewhere formal.

Hunger pangs hit me as I walked downstairs. I hadn’t eaten since I picked at a salad on the trip back from England yesterday, and my stomach sounded like an angry bear.

What culinary delights awaited? On the plane, Bradley had mentioned that Toby, my nutritionist, had prepared a diet plan. On past form, a prisoner of war would eat better. Had Toby’s instructions filtered down to Mrs. Fairfax, my housekeeper, or was there a possibility she’d left something edible in the fridge?

A steak. The makings of a cheeseburger. A lasagne. Something I could cook without burning the kitchen down or giving myself food poisoning. Knowing my luck, I’d find tofu and a crunchy salad.

But hold on, what was that? As I tiptoed through the silent house, the delicious aroma of frying meat drifted past. Who on earth was here? Few people knew I’d come back, and I certainly hadn’t invited any of them over. Just the thought of being sociable filled me with a cold dread.

Perhaps I could turn around and go back to bed? Or better still, leave the country?

No, Emmy, you’ve got to deal with this.

Just in case, I popped open the hidden compartment in the oversized floral sculpture that dominated my atrium and grabbed a spare Walther P88, pausing to kiss the barrel. Baby, I missed you.

Probably a burglar wouldn’t be cooking me dinner, but it always paid to be prepared. But why were my knuckles white as I squeezed the grip? I mean, the only way a burglar could get into my house without going through three layers of security was with a flipping rocket launcher.

I peered around the doorjamb.

“Carmen? What are you doing?”

She glanced at the pan in front of her and raised one eyebrow as if to say, “Seriously?”

“Okay, so you’re cooking. But why?”

She didn’t answer right away, just left the food and strode over to hug me.

“I missed you, loca mocosa.”

Only Carmen could make calling me a mad brat sound like a term of endearment.

“Missed you too, hotshot.”

Behind her at the kitchen table, Nate, her husband, sat tapping away on his iPad. He’d been my husband’s best friend and one of his business partners. The other, Nick, had stayed behind in England to tie up loose ends in the kidnapping case.

“I thought you might be hungry, so I’m making fajitas. Although according to Toby’s chart, today you’re supposed to be having…” She turned to the fridge door and squinted at the list. “Grilled chicken breasts with steamed carrots and broccoli. But I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“No chance of me spilling the beans.” The organic haricot beans with no sauce and no seasoning. “What you’re cooking smells great. Can I do anything to help?”

“We need plates.”

Sure, if I could find them. Usually, they magically appeared on my counter complete with food. I wandered around, opening and closing cupboards.

“What’s this?”

Carmen turned to take a look. “I think it’s a panini grill.”

“And this?”

“A waffle maker. Why? Does it matter?”

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