Page 58 of Hot for Hostage

The men only stared back at me blankly, and I adjusted my grip on the banister.

“Your shirts,” I clarified, gesturing at the blotches of dark red. “Wine stains aren’t fun to… They aren’t fun to…”

I glanced at the stains again—belatedly realizing they looked more like splatters than spills—and my throat tightened.

“Oh.Oh.” My stomach churned, and I rested a hand over it as my voice came out strangled. “That’s not wine, is it?”

They exchanged a wordless glance but didn’t answer, and I cleared my throat—fighting to keep my face straight. From the way one of them flinched, I hadn’t succeeded.

I tried again. “Um, hypothetically, if the stuff on your clothes is what I think it is—and I’m not saying it is—then you’ll want to run it under cold water as soon as you can. Vinegar will help get it out. Blot, though—don’t scrub.”

The guys shared another look, then the one who’d flinched glanced down at his shirt and shrugged. “We usually just throw out anything that gets blood on it. It’s easier.”

The other one jabbed an elbow into his friend’s side and sent me a smile that looked more like a grimace. “But thanks for the tip.”

The grimacing one tugged on his friend’s arm, and they rushed off like they couldn’t get away fast enough.

As soon as they disappeared, I loosened my grip on the banister and let out a shaky breath.

“What a waste of perfectly fine clothes,” I muttered to Bear, shaking my head. But we had other things to worry about. Mysterious bloodstains weren’t on my agenda today, so I put my hands on my hips and studied the many doors around the room. Davian’s foyer alone was bigger than my whole apartment. “Any chance you remember the way to the kitchen, boy?”

Bear only stared up at me with his tongue out, panting and happily waiting for me to do something.

With a sigh, I walked to the nearest door. “Okay, let’s see what’s behind door number one.”

Door number one led to a giant office with rows of bookshelves along one wall, a large desk, and a long table dominating the center that could seat at least twenty people.

The room was dark and ominous and sent a chill down my spine.

Definitely not a kitchen.

Carefully backing into the foyer and closing the door as quietly as possible, I let out a breath and moved to the next door.

Door number two led to another dark room with couches and a pool table. Another bust.

We skipped the door those men had come out of—I was pretty sure it went down to a basement I had no desire to explore—and wandered through the only open doorway.

It led to a living room area with a handful of corridors sprouting from it.

After eleven more doors, four corridors, and a few more run-ins with stoic men who didn’t return my greetings but had no problem stealing perturbed glances at me and Bear, we found a swinging door that opened into the most gorgeous kitchen I’d ever laid eyes on.

It belonged in amagazine.

Natural light filled the room. The vast counter space was a baker’s dream, and there weren’t just one, buttwoindustrial ovens!

I salivated at the sight.

Two giant islands with granite countertops played a starring role in the middle of the space—one with a large sink. An older man stood at the second one, dicing a few dozen onions from a bucket, and he looked up as soon as we cleared the doorway.

A scowl twisted below the man’s bushy grey mustache, and he pointed his very large chef’s knife straight at us. “Dai!No animals in the kitchen! Out!”

I jumped at the bark in his tone and grabbed Bear’s collar.

“Sorry, sorry!” I stumbled backward and pulled Bear with me through the swinging door.

Back in the hallway, I barely stopped myself from slamming straight into the last person I wanted to see after what happened out on the patio.

“Vince!” I caught myself and held tighter to Bear’s collar, trying to ignore the way my cheeks burned.

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