Nancy Warren - Too Hot to Handle

He rose, went behind the granite breakfast bar and poured a dark stream of coffee into a blue pottery mug that was much too ordinary and cheerful to be part of this house.

“Milk?”

“Yes.”

He opened the door of a stainless steel fridge that she saw was fully stocked, withdrew a carton and placed it on the black granite countertop beside the coffee mug. “Sugar’s in the pot there,” he said.

She took her time preparing her coffee exactly the way she liked it. She was determined to stay calm. The coffee was delicious. Strong and rich and she felt the caffeine punching up her energy. Good.

“What would you like to go with your coffee?” he asked, as though he was her waiter. “I’ve got eggs, breakfast muffins, some—”

“I’d like some answers.”

“I know. And you’ll get them. Over breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You will be. You like omelets?”

Frustration enveloped her, and forgetting her vow to remain calm, she marched up to him, right behind the granite breakfast bar and into his space. She stalked up until there were only a couple of inches between their bodies. She was so close she could smell him, hints of sandalwood from his shower gel or shampoo or something, the fresh laundered smell of his shirt, the smell of thieving hot man underneath it all.

His green eyes were wary and he’d missed a spot when he shaved. All that her mind processed while her anger boiled.

She slammed her coffee mug down on the counter. “I don’t want eggs. I want answers. Yesterday you came into my life, into my store, into my work space.” She began to list his crimes on her fingers, from mildest to most venal. “You lied to me, you broke in after dark and stole from me.” Her third finger hurt when she hit it to emphasize the third item on her list. “You kidnapped me.” Bang she hit her fourth finger. “And you drugged me. Now I have no idea who you are or where I am and I want to know.” Her fingers curled into a fist. Even though she wanted to punch him as hard as she could, she wasn’t foolish enough to do it. Instead she rapped her closed fist against the other open palm. Smack, smack.

“And I want to know, now.”

For a second he simply stood, gazing down at her. She wished she were over six feet tall so she wouldn’t have to look up to meet his eyes. It was infuriating being shorter and slighter than her foe.

It took her a second to realize that he was looking at her, not in a kidnapper to victim way, but in a man to woman way that made her blood stir. What was wrong with her?

How could her body respond to a criminal?

Needing an excuse to back away from this far-too-close contact, she picked up her mug of coffee. A tiny crack had formed in the bottom where she’d smacked the pottery on the granite. She only wished it was Pendegraff’s head she’d cracked.

And she stepped back.

“Okay,” he said. “You want to talk first, we’ll talk.”

“You’ll talk,” she reminded him.

THE DEEP, COMFY CHAIRS in the den made her want to curl her feet beneath her. Under different circumstances she thought she’d like this place. Wherever it was. There were no newspapers conveniently lying around, no phone book sitting by a phone that might give her hints to her current location.

She sat up straight, her feet on the floor.

He refilled his mug and took the other chair. Sipped, slowly, in a way that suggested he was stalling for time. Her foot began to tap against the floor.

“I actually am Charles Pendegraff,” he began.

“The third?” Skepticism tinged her tone.

A brief grin lit his face. “Yes, though I only mention the number when I want to come off as a pompous ass.”

“You’re good at it,” she said sweetly.

“As you’ve obviously gathered, I’m a thief.” He paused, shaking his head. “Was a thief. I’m retired.” He glanced at her and his gaze darkened. “And, until last night, I’d never been caught. I must be losing my edge.”

“Caught by me and the cops.”

“Lexy, those weren’t cops.”

“Oh, come on. Why would I believe you?”

He reached for the remote control. “You’re not going to like this. I recorded a news broadcast from New York this morning.”

He flicked on the screen and pushed a couple of buttons. A newscast she knew well, one she often watched as she was getting ready in the morning, told her it was going to be cooler in Manhattan today, then there was the usual banter between the show’s host and the meteorologist. Then the news.

“I’m really not sure what the U.N. funding crisis has to do with—”

He held up a finger. “Wait.”

And then there was news footage of a block of buildings she knew intimately. It was her street.

“A suspicious fire broke out last night at a well-known jewelry designer’s SoHo premises, destroying the store and the living space above it.”

“A fire?” she whispered.

The film that went with the voice-over showed her street, the blackened front of her store, the pretty blue paint all bubbled and black, all the windows smashed and uniformed firefighters spraying water into her apartment.

“Emergency crews responded at 4:11 a.m. when a neighbor saw flames coming from the building that houses Alexandra Drake Designs. Ms. Drake’s residence was above the studio.”

Like a horror movie, she watched as a man rushed to the store’s entrance and had to be forcibly restrained by the police officers standing out front.

“Carl,” she cried softly.

Next thing, her friend was being interviewed, clearly distraught.

“Lexy’s a good friend. We asked her to come out with us tonight, but she said she had to stay in and work. I was walking home and saw the fire truck.” He glanced around frantically. “I can’t find her. Did she get out okay?”

The camera cut back to the on-the-scene reporter. “Police and fire crews aren’t saying much at this point, only that they will be investigating the cause of the fire, which they are calling ‘suspicious’ and that robbery is suspected.”

The pictures of the fire crews at work continued to play as the morning news anchor took up the story. “Investigators recovered the body of a woman from the scene. It will be several days before a positive identification can be made of the victim, but at this hour, Alexandra Drake is still unaccounted for.”

Then there was video playing of her at a gala, taken a few months ago, wearing one of her own necklaces. A jeweled collar. Talking about her work.

The host continued: “Alexandra Drake was a fast-rising young jewelry designer in New York. Her work appears in the collections of movie stars, royalty around the globe, and has been featured in a handful of recent movies. Her specialty was wedding and commitment rings.” Close-up of Lexy at the gala, speaking. “I believe every love story is unique, so shouldn’t your wedding ring be as personal?” Back to the host. “Alexandra Drake was twenty-eight years old. And in the meat packing district today, a suspicious package in a garbage bag turned out to be—” Pendegraff flipped off the TV.

“Was? They said was.” Her shock must have shown on her face; she couldn’t have stopped it.

The man beside her nodded. Looking grim.

“They said there was a dead woman in my place. Why would there be a dead body in my apartment?”

“I don’t know, Lexy. We’ll figure this out.”

She rose. Unable to sit still one more second. “Yesterday my life was so normal. Exciting even. And today, my business and home are destroyed, I have no idea where I am.”

She glared at her companion. “Oh, yeah, and I’m dead.”

“YOU’RE NOT DEAD.”