Free Hostage Page 7

  Reluctance emanates in fumes from her compliment. She doesn’t actually believe I’m pretty and only said so out of obligation.

  “Pretty name, too!” I smile wider. “So, I guess the mystery of Jaxon’s whereabouts over the past few days is solved.” I waggle my brows, as much as I hate myself for it.

  Nadine frowns at me as if I’m a complicated math problem, her gaze going up and down my body, taking in my baggy, unflattering attire. Her mouth hooks to the side as she asks Jaxon, “Is she Jo’s?”

  Jo’s what? Huh?

  “You mind?” Jaxon directs this at me instead of answering Nadine.

  “Actually, I do,” I deadpan. “As I said, you’re blocking the coffee machine.”

  “You don’t drink coffee,” he points out.

  I’m defiant. “Oh, so you think you know me, yeah? I suppose you think you can dance, too.” Taking a step toward him, I jab a finger at his chest, not at all surprised by its hardness. “Well, listen up, buster. I do drink coffee, and you can’t dance.”

  Jaxon sucks in his cheeks, studying me.

  Nadine looks even more confused. “What’s happening right now?”

  At length, he wordlessly grabs Nadine’s hand and leads her out of the kitchen.

  “Nope, not Jo’s. Definitely Col’s,” she mumbles, struggling to keep up with Jaxon’s quick, long steps. “He always goes for the weird ones.”

  Pointing a gun finger to the coffeemaker, I wink and say, “Thank you for helping me break that up, mate.” It looks back at me, waiting to be used. “Sorry, but the stuff you whip up tastes like shite.”

  I make French toast and green tea. And force the unwelcome image of Jaxon seducing Nadine out of my head. Is she a legit bedmate, or is she his current con in progress?

  She’s a beauty. And I don’t like that. I also don’t like that she’s familiar with the others enough to know their sexual tastes.

  I especially don’t like that she’s spent the past few days with Jaxon.

  A con in progress…maybe I can live with that. But a legit girlfriend means I have my work cut out me. Because I want him.

  I’m a good girl. Sure, I’ve lied and stolen and deceived—but only in the name of meaningful research. All those bad acts were reversed and forgiven after I succeeded in proving it could be done. None of anything I’ve ever taken was taken because I saw it and decided I had to have it. Or needed money.

  Every bad I’ve ever done served a purpose.

  That said, I have, for the first time in my life, seen something that I want. Need. Must have.

  Jaxon.

  For the first time in my life, I’ll attempt to steal what isn’t mine, for entirely selfish reasons. I see it, I need it, and I must have it.

  “I like the color of your coffee.”

  Uh-oh.

  In no hurry, I raise my head and look behind me to see Jaxon standing in the archway, hands in his pockets. Man, he’s crazy handsome.

  “Oh. Right. You need to keep an eye on that coffeemaker. It’s not acting right. So, I gave up and made tea instead. Green tea.”

  With an infinitesimal arch of his brow, Jaxon walks over to coffeemaker. As his body is blocking it, I only see his hands moving and hear a few beeps.

  “Hey, want to hear six great benefits of green tea?” I prattle on, but inwardly, I’m screaming. “It helps with dementia, one. It helps prevent heart disease, two. It helps prevent cancer, three. It helps lower cholesterol, four. It can help prevent stroke, five. And it helps with weight loss, six. Number six, though, is the number one reason most people drink it.”

  With his back still to me, he opens one of the cupboards, gets out a can of Maxwell House and sets it on the counter. More hand movements. More beeps.

  He then steps to the side and motions at the brewing coffeemaker as if presenting it at an expo. “Appears to be working just fine to me.”

  Backed into a corner, I blurt, “It doesn’t like me because I’m British.” I point an accusing finger at the innocent machine. “It’s prejudiced!”

  He stares back at me, unamused.

  Maintaining an expression of offense and indignation, I say quietly, “British coffee drinkers matter.”

  “Whatever that was,” he warns in a hard tone, “do not ever do it again.”

  I make wide, innocent eyes. “Sorry, but I’m not sure I understand.”

  In two strides, he’s at the table, at my chair, looming over me, forcing me to crane my head to meet his glare. “You’re not innocent. You’re not naive. You’re not authentic. You are smart. You are conscious. You are playing a game here. Not once since you got here have you attempted to escape or to summon help. You gave me a bullshit name. You gave it up to Col too quick. And of course, women have always been his weakness so he’s the first to fall for your tricks.”

  Jaxon presses one hand flat to the table, the other on the back of my chair, and he leans down, shoving his face into mine. “But no one plays me.”

  Even in the face of his menacing meanness, all I can think about is how it had felt in the lift, having him suck on my tongue, touch my body.

  Had he not been sucking someone else’s tongue moments ago, I would grab his face—in spite of the danger—and press my lips to his to taste him one more time.

  The mere thought of it has my neck burning and my breath quickening. My thighs press together under the table, and I grip my teacup to prevent myself from actually doing it.

  His head tips to the side. He frowns. And his lips part.

  Whether he thinks I’m terrified of his words or aroused by his nearness, I don’t know. What I do know is that I want to kiss him.

  So very, very badly.

  Just an inch…I move my face closer, to show I’m not terrified.

  He doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t speak.

  And I can’t take it anymore. I make my mind up right there.

  Screw playing games. Screw that he kissed someone else.

  I’m just going to take.

  Because I want.

  “Natural pearls are formed in one of every ten thousand oysters, and the natural process can take up to three years,” he says out of the blue.

  I freeze. What the hell?

  “Jewelers seeking to make money refuse to leave it to time and chance to form pearls. Hence, the process devised by pearl-makers called culturing. It allows them to abuse and exploit oysters expeditiously and inexpensively.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off.

  “I’m betting you know how culturing works, Smart Girl, but let me remind you. The oysters are surgically opened and a parasite is inserted. Half the time, the oysters do not survive this. The oysters are further stressed by being suspended in water cages where they’re subjected to various temperatures in order to create a desired color, shape, or size. Once the process is over, some of the oysters are recycled. That is, they are subjected to the same process all over again. While others are killed.”

  I just gape at him, mute.

  “Next time you decide to share facts, share all the facts,” he grits out. “The good and the bad.”

  Taken completely aback, I blink up at him. Because, what the hell?

  Just as I’m about to ask, an explosion rocks through the house.

  Utensils rattle, the ground trembles beneath our feet.

  “Say hello to my little friend!” someone shouts.

  “What the—” Jaxon starts to say, only to be cut off by a riot of popping explosions.

  He straightens. He doesn’t appear frightened or panicked. Just…very confused.

  But I grin, pushing up from the chair. Not confused at all.

  He notices my grin, then narrows his eyes dangerously. “What did you do?”

  “Me?” I say with an offended gasp. “I’m innocent.” I fold my hands under my chin, tip my head to side, and say sweetly, “I’m an angel.”

  Shaking his head, he turns and stalks out of the kitchen, through t
he house, and out to the foyer. I follow, noticing the others crawling out of their slumber in sleepy confusion and mild panic.

  Smack in the middle of the smoking foyer is a stainless-steel pan, popping nonstop with firecrackers.

  The front door—made of heavy metal—is blown clean off.

  In the midst of it all, stands a tall Indian girl in knee-length khaki cargo shorts, an army-green Aéropostale T-shirt, and ratty black Chucks. Goggles cover her eyes—safety first—and a massive water gun is gripped in both of her hands.

  As the explosions from the firecrackers die down, drifts of acrid smoke wafting on the air, my captors start to close in on the intruder with wide-eyed bewilderment.

  She gestures her water gun in a sweeping motion. “Stay back, puny humans! Or I’ll melt your skin off your bones!”

  At this, my grin widens.

  My hero.

  Melanie’s here.

  Chapter Eight

  “What’s happening?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s happening,” Melanie lets her voice be heard. “You lot took my mate hostage, and I’m here to say, What’s crackalacking!”

  She drops the water gun and rips off the goggles, corrects her glasses that were under the goggles, and rushes toward me, colliding into me, her arms coming around and squeezing the daylights out of me.

  I’m cackling. “Took you long enough.”

  Pulling back, she examines me from forehead to sole. “I see you’re still sane. Hmm. How have you managed that around this lot? I mean, look at them”—she jerks her head around the room—“all gathered around with their chins to their chests like a bunch of imbecilic monkeys.”

  “Oh, great, there’s two of them,” grumbles Jo. “Kill me now.”

  “Hang on,” Kavon speaks up. “Let me get this straight. You blew our door off its hinges, set off firecrackers, and came storming in here like Go-Go Gadget just to say hello to your friend?”

  Melanie nods once. “Right. You don’t have a friend who would blow someone’s door off just to give you a hug? If not, then you most definitely need new friends.”

  Kavon’s mouth opens and closes, incredulous.

  Jo scrubs both hands down her face.

  Eduardo’s checking out the abandoned water gun.

  Collin’s grinning from ear to ear as if this is the most exciting thing he’s seen all week.

  And Jaxon is…staring. At me. There’s no anger, or irritation, or threat. He just…looks. At me. And that look doesn’t have a damn thing to do with his front door being blown off. But…something else.

  “Careful with that, Fool Number One,” Melanie cautions Eduardo. “That’s hydrofluoric acid. Not urine. In case you were thirsty and hoping you could drink it.”

  Eduardo throws her a dirty look.

  Jo—clad in black boxers and a thermal shirt, overnight makeup splotching her face, leather cuffs around both her wrists—steps into Jaxon’s line of sight, effectively freeing me from the captivity of his stare, her arms thrown up in frustration. “You still think it’s a good idea keeping her here? Look at this shit! Another one who’s batshit crazier than she is!”

  “Oh. Wow.” This from Melanie as she focuses on Jo, wonder in her voice, as if she’s just noticing her. “A real-life Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.”

  Jo cocks her head like a bird, casting Melanie the filthiest of scowls.

  Melanie, however, is fascinated. Unfazed by Jo’s glare, she abandons me and approaches Jo. With two fingers, she reaches out and touches the swirls of ink that creep from beneath the collar of Jo’s thermal right up her neck. “Ace. What inspired these?”

  Jo stiffens, brows drawn together, her dark eyes glinting with questions while fixed on Melanie. Abruptly, she slaps Melanie’s hand away. “Keep your hands off me, weirdo.”

  “Mel,” Melanie corrects, looking right back at Jo, undaunted.

  “What?”

  “My name’s Mel. Not weirdo.”

  “I don’t care what your stupid name is,” Jo snaps.

  With a challenging smirk, Melanie lifts a hand and ruffles Jo’s wild pixie hair, telling her, “Oh, you will.” And then she turns, claps her hands together, and grins at everyone. “So, where’s my room?”

  The others exchange puzzled glances, but Jaxon steps forward and speaks for the first time, “Room?”

  To be honest, I’m puzzled, too. Melanie should be here to collect me. It’s only now that her earlier words register. She’s here to say hi?

  If she’s not here to get me and leave, that means something’s up.

  Melanie doesn’t like people enough to want to be in a house with a bunch of strangers. Especially strangers who’re supposedly criminals. Nope. She’s here for a more important reason than my safety. And I’ll just have to play along until there’s an opportunity for her to divulge what that reason is.

  She takes a theatrically impatient sigh—God I love her—takes off her glasses, wipes each lens with the hem of her T-shirt, and puts them back on before meeting Jaxon’s gaze. “Listen, Mr. I’m-Too-Pretty-to-Be-a-Man. Timber and I are joined at the hip. But you stole her, yeah? I’m here to rejoin my hip to hers. Meaning, you will be holding us both as hostages until you get whatever it is you think she can give you. Or, you let her go so we can carry on with our lives as if none of this ever happened. Otherwise, next time it will be more than your door that gets blown off. So, what’s it going to be?”

  “I’m sorry, but are you for real?” Jo half-shouts. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  Melanie turns to her with a megawatt smile. “Well, my great-great-grandmother was rescued from the slums of India and brought to London by a very wealthy English doctor. They had three sons, one daughter. That daughter happened to fall in love with a pharmaceutical billionaire who was also an Indian. They married, had four daughters—one of whom fell in love with a successful black physician, and later conceived two sons, one daughter. That daughter fell in love with a pompous pharmaceutical tycoon. They married, later conceived one ridiculously brilliant, effortlessly genius of a daughter who was able to track down five infamous thieves and blow their door off to say hello to her best friend. That daughter being me.” She pauses and dips her chin. “Does that answer your question?”

  While everyone else blinks in stunned speechlessness, I smile broadly.

  This is Melanie. Intrepid, defiant, insultingly sarcastic, and filled with hubris. I love the cow out of her. I can always count on her to save me, to be my strength when I’m weak, my voice when I lose mine, and to love me back in her own crazy-weird way.

  Her attention returns to Jaxon. “What’s it going to be, Pretty Face?”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose and dips his head. Before he can respond, a sound like an alarm goes off.

  I glance about, trying to place where the sound is coming from. By the time my eyes return to Jaxon, he’s holding a small gadget in one hand, the source of the sound.

  Swearing under his breath, he clicks something on the device that kills the noise, then shoves it in his back pocket. He looks to Eduardo. “Sort that door out.” Then to Jo. “Security revamp.” To Kavon. “Keep an eye on these two. I’ll deal with them when I get back.” To Collin, “You’re with me.”

  Although still wearing just his pajamas, Collin follows him out.

  Jo glowers at everyone, then huffs and stomps off.

  Eduardo stares at the blown off door, scratches his chin in thought, and wanders off, mumbling something about a tool kit.

  And so we’re left with Kavon, who’s currently looking down at the both of us as if we are three-eyed alien babies.

  “Whoa.”

  All three of our heads swing to the doorway, now shadowed by a slack-jawed courier standing frozen with a trolley stacked with four large boxes, staring at the commotion of smoke and explosives in the foyer.

  Yay. My new clothes are here.

  Chapter Nine

  I turn on the faucet and let it run, then flip the loo’s l
id closed and plop down on it. Mel turns on the shower to let it run before taking a seat on the rim of the bathtub.

  Jaxon is still out with Collin, Eduardo is mending the front door, Jo’s working on the security overhaul, and Kavon has been watching us like a hawk, taking “keep an eye on these two” quite seriously. We just managed to talk him into letting us come to the bathroom to try on some of the clothes and raunchy lingerie Collin purchased for me online a few nights ago, per Jaxon’s orders.

  Knowing our time in here is limited, I get straight to it. “What took you so long? And why aren’t we leaving?”

  Expression sober, she utters one word. “Markus.”

  Well, duh, I figured she’d go to Markus for help with locating me, but… “What does he have to do with these guys?”

  She licks her lips and leans in closer. “He tasked us. We have to make them keep us.”

  Who is Markus, you ask? Markus is the “very important man” that Dr. Brookbanks, our physics professor, introduced us to in college. The very important man who gave us lucrative contracts and travel opportunities, and made very important things happen for us.

  We know this much about Markus: he works for the U.S. government, and he knows all things and can make anything happen. He gives us contracts, and we fulfill them. We build gadgets, and he buys them. Our relationship is cold and sterile. We know nothing about him—not even his last name—but he knows everything about us without us ever telling him. He’s never been the least bit menacing toward us, but… The man is dead scary.

  I shake my head. “What kind of task could we possibly have here?”

  She jerks her head to the bathroom door to indicate the people beyond it. “Do you know who they are?”

  “Well, it’s glaringly obvious they’re professional thieves. But they seem benign enough—”

  “Shh, Tim. Let me relay what Markus told me before that big bloke comes banging. They’re called the Unseen. They’re infamous, yet unknown. Exclusive. Elite. They pull off some of the biggest, boldest heists around the world without a trace or a face. Or so people speculate, but there’s never any proof. The only ones who know what the Unseen looks like are the Unseen.”