Burn: A Novel Read online

  The jackass was probably sitting out in the parlor, slugging down the last of the coffee and eating the last croissant, rather than waking her so she could eat, too. If he wasn’t here, one of the others would be, to make certain she didn’t poke her nose outside the suite without a guard by her side. She hoped he was gone, because dealing with Faith or Bridget would be easier right now than dealing with him.

  She took her time showering, then dressed in one of her favorite outfits, cotton and silk blend teal capris with a skimpy white top trimmed in the same teal. Little sandals, which cost more than she used to earn in two weeks, decorated her feet. From her jewelry roll she took out platinum earrings, a couple of bracelets, and a tiny diamond toe ring. The outfit gave her confidence, because she knew she looked good in it. He wouldn’t know it, but how she was dressing was a sort of flip-off to him. She was damned if she’d give up, damned if she’d try to fade into the background, damned if she’d be Miss Meek and Mild. Oh, she’d play along with him in public, because she had to—Remember Syd, she reminded herself—but in private … that was a different matter entirely.

  She sailed out of the bedroom and found Cael seated at the dining table, a round pedestal table with four upholstered chairs grouped around it. A large oblong serving tray sat on the table, filled with coffee service and two covers. A mostly empty plate sat to his left, a cup of coffee to his right. Directly in front of him was the laptop, and his earbud was in place.

  He looked up when she entered, tapped a command on the laptop, and removed the earbud. “Breakfast,” he said, indicating the two round covers on the tray. “Still fairly warm. It was delivered while you were in the shower.”

  She didn’t know which was worse, not having any breakfast, or having a breakfast that he’d ordered without consulting her. Opting for coffee first, she upended the second cream-colored porcelain cup—no polystyrene for the Silver Mist—and filled it with coffee. He watched in silence as she sipped appreciatively before lifting the covers to check out the food.

  The ordinariness of the meal was a little disappointing: whole wheat toast, scrambled eggs, potatoes, bacon. She’d been expecting something disgusting, like cold oatmeal, or soft-boiled eggs. Oatmeal was okay when it was hot, but there was nothing that would ever make her like soft-boiled eggs, no matter how fancy the little utensils used to crack the egg and scoop out the contents. She wouldn’t have put it past him to have burdened her with both cold oatmeal and a soft-boiled egg, but he’d surprised her. The plain old breakfast was almost a … peace offering?

  “Have a seat,” he invited genially, getting to his feet and pulling out a chair for her. She gave him a suspicious look as she sat down; she’d become accustomed to good manners, but she didn’t expect courtesy from him. On the other hand, there was something … Continental about him, little things that were somehow different, like his clothing. As well as he dressed, her life was filled with people who dressed well, and expensively, so it wasn’t that. It was more the cut of the clothing, the fluidity and drape that spoke of … Italy, maybe? His accent was pure American, but she couldn’t identify the region. It was as if he’d traveled so much that his original accent had long since evolved into something more homogeneous.

  “Where are you from?” she asked as she began buttering her toast.

  He didn’t answer, merely gave a half smile as if acknowledging her effort to dig information out of him.

  “Not where you live now,” she explained. “Originally.” She started to add that she meant what area of the country he was from but at the last second some little frisson of instinct had her saying, “What country?”

  His blue gaze lifted, and the smile was gone now. Bingo! She barely hid her sudden satisfaction; a blind thrust had hit home.

  “What do you mean?” he asked softly.

  It occurred to her that Cael Traylor could be a very dangerous man, that prying into his affairs might not be a smart thing to do. She was teasing the beast, just to show him that she wasn’t some stupid pawn to be moved hither and yon at his whim. At least, she wasn’t stupid, because right now she was definitely a pawn.

  As casually as possible, she took a bite of toast. “Your accent. There’s something about it—”

  “Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m American.”

  Uh-huh. Sure.

  Letting the subject drop, she devoted herself to breakfast. Despite the covers on the food, the eggs had gotten too cold for her to choke down, especially when he sat there watching her. The bacon and toast were tolerable, because even cold bacon and toast were pretty damn good, but with him sitting there watching every move she made, each bite became harder and harder to swallow. Finally she dropped the slice of toast on the plate and said, “Stop staring at me! I’m not a monkey in a zoo.”

  His mouth quirked. “Then there’s no reason for me to duck?”

  “I didn’t say that.” In fact, she wished she had something gross to throw at him. “Just … stop watching me. Don’t you have something more important to do?”

  “Nope.”

  Maybe going after the key last night hadn’t been such a good idea, because he didn’t seem inclined to cut her any slack. Continuing to eat was impossible, though, so she grumbled, “Show’s over,” and got up. She refilled her coffee cup from the carafe and took it out onto the balcony, not looking back to see if he was following but certain that he would.

  She sat down in one of the deck chairs. She craved a moment alone, a precious sliver of time to take a deep breath and gather her wits about her, but he seemed determined not to allow her any more time alone than it took to shower and dress, take care of the necessities. Bathroom time was important, but she didn’t want to spend hours in there. Besides, she was afraid that if she lingered in the shower too long he’d think she was up to something and walk in to check on her, to make sure she hadn’t found a way to make poison out of mascara and shampoo, or something else even more heinous.

  She didn’t know what to make of Cael, and that bothered her. Normally she had pretty good people-instincts, but she couldn’t make up her mind about him. He and the others were obviously spying on Mr. Larkin, whom at first glance she didn’t care for but he might be one of those people who improved on acquaintance. The big question was, who was the bad guy: Cael, or Mr. Larkin? Or was there no good guy at all? Maybe there was bad, and badder.

  Last night’s revelation had confused her even more. Cael was maddening and annoying and bossy, unyielding, arrogant, and he’d had Syd kidnapped—some might even say he’d kidnapped her, too—but she wasn’t afraid of him, as any right-minded woman should be. She’d been terrified at first, but over the course of two nights she’d lost that fear. If she’d been truly afraid, she never would have gone for the key. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink with him beside her. Then again, it wasn’t as if her track record was flawless where men were concerned. There had been times in her life when hormones had knocked common sense and good instincts right out the window. It had happened before, and it could happen again, though no one had slipped under her guard since Dylan. She was older now, more wary. So had she lost her mind, or were her instincts telling her Cael was the good guy here—or at least not the worst?

  She sighed as she stared out at the blue water, wishing she knew what was going on, hoping Syd wasn’t frightened, wishing Cael would fall overboard, hoping she’d have a chance to help him over the railing … wishing and hoping, like the old song.

  The balcony was private, or at least gave the illusion of privacy as there were floor-to-ceiling walls between this balcony and the ones on either side. In other circumstances, she might find the view and the fresh air a real pleasure, but these circumstances didn’t leave room for even the simplest pleasure.

  Her first cruise. And her last one, damn it. There was no way she’d ever willingly set foot aboard a ship again. She hated being in a position where she literally had nowhere to go.