“Are those your dinner plans?” He pushed away from the wall and stepped closer, my heartbeat stuttering at the sight, too. “Not much in here, but I think…”
Standing right behind me, he checked out the pantry until he suddenly leaned over, and I took a deep breath in. He smelled like soap and something else I couldn’t name. He smelled like that the first night. The shopping trip. The time on the roof. Something fresh and indulgent.
“I think we can make dinner with this.”
He was so close I could count his pretty eyelashes. Instead of turning to me fully, though, he withdrew an unopened package of flour from the shelf and set it on the counter before strolling over to the fridge.
I just watched. Stood there like a tree and watched the giant tattooed man move around the small kitchen so casually.
“You have eggs? Only organic, free-run, I’m assuming?” He swung the fridge door open and peered inside, slowly taking out what he needed.
Eggs, flour, salt, olive oil. The ingredients were set on the counter while he turned on the stove and filled a pot with water. Then, as if this washishouse, he reached for the precise drawer where the knives were kept and withdrew one, grabbing a bulb of garlic and squishing it with the blade.
“Do you own this house?” I asked, clutching the jar of coconut oil and watching him closely, afraid to miss how my kidnapper sliced the garlic like a professional chef.
He chuckled. “Why? You like it? Want me to add you to the deed?”
“So we can play house together legally?”
Amused, he looked up from the garlic for a second before dropping his gaze to my legs again. “I don’t reallydolegal.”
The gentle aroma of warm olive oil filled the kitchen, and none of this seemed strange anymore.
“I figured that much. What other illegal things do you do?”
He stretched the pause while he added a few tomatoes to the pan. “My business is multifaceted, Malyshka. Want to sit down?”
He pointed the knife toward the counter chair, and I followed his instructions, my mind sifting through the catalogue of all the cases our office was working on. There werea lot.We served more than half of Florida’s counties and all our work dealt with the dirty underbelly of humanity.
Drug and human trafficking. I watched Alex twist the cap off a jar of cannellini beans and throw them in the sauce after the garlic. He didn’t look like he’d be involved in either one of those crimes. I mentally scratched those off the list, praying I wasn’t wrong.
Racketeering and organized crime. Perhaps. Kidnapping fell under that too, but…I had strong doubts that Alex had kidnapped anyone in the past.
Grand theft auto. Maybe. We were working on one case for a long time, and while we made great strides in the past year, we still had no idea who was at the top.
White collar crimes or cyber-crimes. Strong,strongpossibility. They kidnapped me from a crowded nightclub—no doubt with cameras on every corner—so how come no one could locate me? The only logical conclusion was that Alex and his crew hacked and crashed the security system.
Firearms trafficking? The list was endless.
“What are you planning to make with your coconut oil?” Alex turned to me momentarily, the smile on his face a bit shy.
“I’m planning to eat whatever you make. This is for my hair.”
“Oh. Too bad. I was looking forward to a coconut oil soufflé or a frittata at least.”
I hugged my jar of coconut oil, enjoying the view of Alex sifting the flour. Like this was his day job, he made a well in the middle, cracked a few eggs into it, and quickly mixed it with a fork. The utensil looked miniature in his large and tattooed hand—what a wild juxtaposition.
He mixed it, kneaded the dough, and rolled out a thin, delicate sheet. Carefully,gently, he sliced through his creation to make perfect long strips of fresh linguine. Wow. The tattooed giant knew his way around the kitchen.
Did he know his way around…Was he just as gentle in the bedr—
“Do you like Parmesan?”
I shot my eyes up and away from his hands, panicking that he’d heard my thoughts. “Yes,” I whispered, enjoying the warmth in his eyes.
Five short minutes later, Alex placed a bowl of steaming pasta in front of me. Carefully.Gently. He set it on the counter slowly and quietly, as if he was serving royalty. I gulped down the saliva pooling in my mouth just from the aroma.
I picked up the fork—also attentively placed beside a knife on a white napkin—and stuck it into the bowl, watching the Parmesan cheese snowflakes melt into the hot sauce.