Nancy Warren: Too Hot to Handle

“You must be a pretty successful thief if you can afford limos and Italian loafers.” She stumbled over the final word as a wave of fatigue washed over her. She was more tired than she’d realized.

“How about you?” he asked. “Do you have a significant other? Husband, boyfriend?”

“Worried someone will come looking for me?” she asked. At least she tried to ask the question. The words formed in her head but it felt as if there was a wad of cotton stopping them from making it to her mouth. Her head began to swim and in that moment she realized that there was more than scotch in her glass.

She jerked her head to face him. “You bastard.”

He reached out slowly, oh, so slowly it seemed, his arm snaking like a Dali image, all long and loopy, to take the glass from her hand. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

She struggled to keep her wits about her, jabbed the window control. If she could get some fresh air, maybe she could fight whatever he’d used to drug her. But even as she flailed for the button, she could feel herself slipping from consciousness.

LEXY WOKE WITH A SENSE of disorientation, as though she were on vacation and waking in a strange bed. But as her eyes opened slowly, the horror of what had happened to her came rushing back. She’d been in the back of a limo, she’d drunk scotch—not more than a few sips—and then she’d passed out.

Her mouth felt dry, her eyes were heavy and scratchy, and her head ached. She raised a hand to her face, rubbed her eyes. Then she looked around.

There was a little natural light coming in through a shuttered window. Enough to show her the ghostly outlines of a bedroom. She was in bed. Not her own. And she was alone.

She threw back the covers. Discovered she was in the same clothes she’d been wearing when she was kidnapped. But someone had removed her slipper socks. She pushed her bare feet to the floor and got up. Whoa. A little wobbly. She waited for her legs to steady, then padded to the shutters and opened them.

Gray light pushed sullenly into the room. As she looked out, she saw snow and trees. Huge, dark green trees and plenty of them.

Snow?

Something told her she wasn’t in Manhattan anymore. Her window was in an upper story of what looked like an architecturally interesting house, which sat in a snow-covered clearing in the middle of a forest. A single set of tire tracks led to a parked 4×4. If there were neighboring houses she didn’t see them. All she saw were trees. Everywhere she looked, trees, a gray sky and it was eerily quiet. It felt as though this place had been stuck in the middle of nowhere. To a woman who’d spent most of her life in Manhattan, all these trees and isolation were a little freaky.

There was no sign of anyone around. She unlocked the window and hauled up the sash, half surprised to find it opened. But then what was she going to do? Jump? At the very least a two-story fall would leave her with broken bones. She stuck her head out the window, filling her lungs with cool, moist air. The house was gray cedar shingle, all sleek lines and modern angles. A satellite dish perched incongruously from the roof.

A large bird swooped low over the trees and a chipmunk chattered. Apart from pigeons and crows, she wasn’t really good at identifying birds, but she thought this might be some kind of hawk. Some predator that pounced on innocent animals, those that were smaller and inoffensively going about their business. Rather like she had before Charles Pendegraff III had pounced on her.

Lexy didn’t like being a victim. And she most certainly didn’t like that she’d been spirited to heaven knew where, with a thief who’d stolen property out of her safe. Not only did she have Mrs. Grayson’s commission to design, but she had several other projects on the go. No time for a kidnapping.

When she crossed to the door she discovered it opened as easily as the window. She closed it softly and retreated back into her room. She needed to think before confronting her kidnapper.

She also needed to brush her teeth. This place seemed pretty ritzy. The furniture in her room was simple pine, but it had the high-end country look of simple furniture that cost a fortune. The bed was big and comfy; a couple of large armchairs flanked a fireplace and a partly open door led to an en suite.

The room reminded her of a luxury ski resort. Expensive, comfortable and in the middle of nowhere.

The bathroom thankfully possessed not only a toothbrush still in its wrapper but a basket of toiletries and a stack of fluffy white towels. The tap water tasted fresh and clean so she filled one of the two glasses she found on the granite vanity and filled it, drank the contents down in a couple of gulps and refilled the glass.

Sipping her second glass of water more slowly, she took stock of her reflection, which was a mess. Her hair was all over the place, her makeup had smudged and her clothes—which were pretty casual to begin with—looked as though she’d slept in them.

She brushed her teeth, then took a long, hot shower, washing away the last of her drug-induced grogginess.

A white bathrobe hung on the back of the door—reminding her more and more of an upscale hotel—so she slipped it on and opened the drawers and cupboards in the bathroom hoping for a comb or brush.

She found both. Also hairstyling products and a limited supply of essential cosmetics still in their packaging. Her first instinct was to refuse to make herself pretty for a kidnapper, but she soon threw that idea aside. She had her own confidence to think of and it was amazing what a little lip gloss and some mascara could do.

Blow-drying her hair, putting on a little makeup, these small tasks steadied her and gave her some sense of normality.

When she returned to the bedroom and checked out the closet and drawers, she was only mildly surprised to find clean T-shirts, pajamas, track pants, a hoodie, outside jackets, rain boots and blessedly unopened packages of underwear and socks. He either had a lot of unexpected guests, or the kidnapping business had a high turnover.

She dressed swiftly—the only thing of her own she wore was her jeans—and then, pushing her shoulders back and her chin up, she left the bedroom in search of her captor.

Her feet were soundless on the thick carpet that covered the floors. The upscale mountain retreat look continued in the hallway. A muted palette of taupes and grays on the walls and woodwork highlighted several paintings and drawings that were so good she suspected they were originals. Hot ones, no doubt.

At the bottom of the stairs, she hit a slate entrance hall and landing. She listened, but heard no sound coming from anywhere. A flutter of panic in her chest as she wondered if she’d been abandoned here, but then she remembered the 4×4 out front.

She went searching. And discovered that Mr. Pendegraff had exquisite taste. Everything was of the finest from the leather furniture in the living room to the liquor in the cabinet.

She found the kitchen at last, and found Charles Pendegraff III sitting in a deep chair in a den area off the kitchen sipping coffee and watching a plasma TV. He glanced up when she entered the room and immediately flicked off the television.

He’d changed yet again, she noted warily. From rich fop to black-clad jewel thief, now he looked like an upscale mountain man. He wore jeans, a chambray shirt and hiking boots.

“Good morning. Would you like some coffee?”

“Is it drugged?”

His eyes clouded. “No. And I’m sorry about that, by the way. I couldn’t think of another way to handle things.”

There wasn’t any point in him drugging her now, she was pretty certain. And she was a weak, weak woman unable to resist the scent coming from the sleek coffeemaker. “All right, then.”