Page 43 of Eyes in the Shadows

It’s the size of my apartment, first of all, which probably isn’t saying that much. I doubt there’s a single room in this house that isn’t. The room has one of those no-clutter, clean lines, modern/minimalist designs. The top-of-the-line appliances gleam spotlessly from the perfect kitchen triangle they create. Two sinks—one just for prep on the island—two dishwashers, a huge, funky light fixture spanning the width of an enormous island…

Chef Robert was bragging once about remodeling his home and made a joke that the fancier the kitchen, the harder it is to find the garbage. I look around at identical cabinets without handles—I wouldn’t even know where to start looking—and decide this probably puts his to shame. No stashing the trash in a corner or under the sink, here.

I run my hand across the counter and shake my head. Marble. When will rich people stop using porous stones for kitchen surfaces? Grease doesn’t care that it costs $35K, it’ll ruin it just the same without regular preventative maintenance.

I walk around, letting my fingers trail over the tops of the stools, which appear to be some kind of polished natural-edge wood. I peek into the bathtub-sized stainless-steel sink, and find nothing but a shiny surface. No dishes.

And the stove… Oh my God.

60 inches wide, dual-fuel, six full-sized burners with built-in griddle and grill, two ovens and a touch panel that is probably the most intimidating thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

I think I just came.

Then, I gasp suddenly, seeing the espresso machine.

I hear a low, angry exclamation in a language I don’t understand behind me. When I turn, that huge, scarred, menacing looking guy is grabbing the vodka from the table where I left it and shooting me a glare.

I gulp. Apparently, Dimitri doesn’t like to share.

“S-sorry,” I manage.

It does nothing to mollify him. With steps so heavy they make the glasses in the cupboards behind me tinkle as they tremble against each other, he stalks around the island. I fall back up as he comes closer, but he stops and disappears behind one of the long cabinet doors briefly. When he shuts it, I see he’s gotten a water bottle out. The vodka is tucked under his arm.

His eyes scan me, head to toe, and he shakes his head dismissively and turns around.

A breath of relief spills from my lips, as indignation refills my lungs. I’m not sure why I care about his approval, considering he might as well have the wordMurderertattooed across his forehead from the way menace fills the air around him. Plus, now that I’ve gotten another look at him, I’m pretty sure he’s the guy from that grainy picture Officer McCloskey showed me. Which means he’s as deep in this world as any of the rest of them.

But the awareness of being judged by a stranger is deeply ingrained, and its effects are cumulative, even if the moments themselves pass quickly.

“Whatcha up to, darlin’?”

I jump, startled, and the way my heart continues to hammer at the sound of Mac’s deep voice? I have to get that under control. But he’s not making it easy. His long-sleeved shirt is just loose enough that it still stretches against his torso, making it look broad and flat, but I lose the taper of his hips. The sleeves are pushed over his elbows, and his hands are stuck into his pockets. That’s some serious forearm-porn. And his black pants hug his thighs and he’s doing that leaning thing against the doorframe…

He seems more relaxed now than he was before he left me in here, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.

I bend down to scratch my knee idly, then look away, letting my hand rest on the marble. “Just looking around. This kitchen is… wow.”

“I knew you’d like it.”

I tap my fingers a few times, suddenly antsy in my attempt not to feel any sort of way about that. “What chef wouldn’t? It’s a dream.”

“Are you hungry? I’m not sure what we have—”

“No.” The burning feeling behind my eyes makes me want to rub them. “I’m tired. Can we go—I mean, can you show me somewhere I can sleep? I don’t know what time it is, but… wait,” I pat the pockets of my shorts and look around the kitchen, just to be sure I didn’t leave it at the table or something. “Where’s my phone? Oh, right. Coat pocket.”

“About that,” Mac begins ruefully, lifting his eyebrows. He pushes off the wall and steps towards the island. “Some rules while you’re here. Safe house rules.”

“Okay,” I say hesitantly.

“You can’t leave.”

“For how long?”

I watch his jaw work a little before he replies, “Until I say it’s safe. As long as it takes.”

Translating that vague Mac speak… “So, I can’t go to work?”

He shakes his head.

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