Page 14 of Hidden Raphael
Chapter 5
"I want to visit the graves," Kimberly said the moment Raphael joined her with dirty dishes in his hand. She pressed her lips together and reminded herself to be polite and not pushy. They both carried their plates down a flight of stairs. At least he was back now from wherever he'd disappeared to.
Raphael nodded. "It's night now. I'll show you tomorrow afternoon."
"Why not first thing in the morning?" She walked next to him with a stack of dishes in her hand.
"I want to search for the servant who got you off the plane." He stared down the stairs with his tense shoulders. "If he's still alive, I will offer him safety."
"Safe." How he talked with that clenched jaw she had no idea. She hoped to help him stay calm. They reached the last step. "I like when you say it. I feel it."
Raphael held the door open for her.
She stepped inside. "You know you are paying me to be the help around here."
"Kimberly." His voice was deep, and she leaned against the counter to help steady her. "I don't think you'd ever… I have to go."
He placed his dish in the sink. "I’ll do those.” His hand brushed against hers, but then he flinched. It reminded her of a puppy that had been kicked too many times. She didn’t move and lowered her voice. “Are you okay?"
"I shouldn't be here,” he said. “I'll see you tomorrow." He stormed out the door again, like he needed to hug the shadows for safety. She tilted her head and stared at his muscular backside. Her cheeks heated and she smiled. Raphael's body was built for a battlefield, and in bed, he'd take up so much more room than her last boyfriend.
Then she glared at the mess in the sink and the electricity in her body waned. She squared her shoulders, picked up the first plate, and started rinsing. Her last boyfriend was skinny, and Raphael was all muscle. She used the cold spray to cool her thoughts.
Kimberly quickly loaded the dishwasher. The top of the wall had slits for her to glance out, and that would help light the room—if there was light outside. Outside the rain continued its constant patter.
A few minutes later, she placed the pans she had washed earlier away and finished packing the machine with the dishes. Her work was done and the machine made that buzz sound. The sink was empty, and she dried her hands on a soft dishtowel.
Something in her life had worked as directed.
Then she stared out the tiny slit of a window and hugged her waist. Dusk was already upon them, and darkness of night magnified the sound of the storm. The snow and rain mixed and almost blocked her view from here. She sighed, unsure what to do. She’d bet money that every day till April, it stormed. She'd turn into a zombie if she never saw sunlight.
She closed her eyes, made a circle with her thumb and her index finger and counted her breaths.
Worse would be if she let that thought rule her. All rainstorms ended eventually. She opened her eyes and rolled her shoulders until she stared at the emptiness of the kitchen. If the pilot had survival skills then she was in serious trouble. She forced herself to take a few steps. Raphael had been surprised, so with luck the servant who'd saved her was outside and possessed survival skills.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Why had Roger killed her friends? They were good people as far as she knew, but then, who ever truly knows. She didn’t know Raphael or anything about him. And how had she mixed herself up in this?
Another thought slapped her in the face. Raphael was hardly a real angel, as they didn’t exist any more than ghosts or anything supernatural. His almost-smile at dinner replayed in her mind. The wind howled. Despite that, she placed her fingers in that circle to stop her heart from racing. He had a body that set every cell in her body off course. She laughed under her breath. She wasn't a woman who mixed herself up with sexy, hot men. To her, most hot men weren't smart, and besides, she'd been hot and cold in his presence. Attraction meant heat, not a mix of both, and Raphael's name alone created goose bumps on her body.
He must be a recluse, and if she lived here, it was best to make him smile.
She crossed her arms again, and stepped away from the window. First things first, though. Raphael had walked out without speaking to her, twice. He flat-out told her not to trust him, and normally, she’d listen to that warning. Raphael offered her protection and a place to stay, but what if he lied? If a pilot could shoot his passengers, for no reason, then anything was possible. Who lived without the internet and off the grid? Was he a former spy, a criminal, a man with a sinister secret? Why would he have no phone? Was it in this house? Her stomach hardened. Something about him struck her as a big, fat lie. The goose bumps on her arms returned again, but this time she was cold.
Why did he choose to live alone? The portrait of the modern blonde woman in the library flashed in her memory. Kimberly's mind stayed on the picture, and she assumed the woman was related to Raphael's life in some way. Next time she saw him, she'd ask.
She clenched her hands, turned, and walked out the kitchen, her socks whispering along the polished wood floors.
Unlike the women in the stories she read or the women in his family portraits, she had no skills with guns, knives, bows, or karate.
Despite this, she’d messed with his life and asked for too much. It was her job to take care of herself and find answers to her questions. She hadn't told him that she'd go with him, but he swore to go out and search. It was time for her to straighten out her mess.
It was spiritually one more step in apologizing to her mom and sister. She’d been a brat.
With a spring in her step, she picked up her candelabrum that would need new candles in the morning. The wax was almost melted. The last thing she needed was to get stuck in the dark halls without light. She went to the stairs, and a cold, howling wind hit her spine. She turned around then shook her head. She cleared her mind and then turned back to the stairs and took a step forward. Suddenly she stopped and shuffled backward. Next to the kitchen was a small door. A closet? Another room?
Supplies, probably, she thought. She gripped the candelabrum, remembering how Meg had warned her to stay to the right of the hall. But she needed candles and hated to bother anybody.
The door creaked open. She peered inside and stared into the black room, lifting the silver candelabrum so she could see.
