Chapter Seven

Jaxon goes MIA for three full days.

During those three days, babysitting duties rotate from Collin to Eduardo to Kavon. Never Jo.

Small favors.

Kavon is serious and observing, and keeps only one eye on me.

Eduardo stares and grins me at me nonstop.

Collin is the one I feel most comfortable around, what with his kiddish charms and knowing smirks. Alas, he has an actual life and can’t afford to babysit me all the time.

I learn quickly that these people aren’t just a group of degenerates who sleep through the day and rob museums at night. Nope. Not at all. Despite their giant salaries, I learn it’s mandatory that they all have normal jobs and normal low-key, non-extravagant lives. Which, I admit, makes sense.

Jo’s still in college, majoring in computer science and engineering. Kavon’s a part-time chef at a top-shelf restaurant in SoHo, as well as an on-call chef to a handful of privileged families. Eduardo’s a very successful electrician. And Collin’s a freelance math tutor and financial adviser, and a part-time accounting instructor. He—shockingly—graduated summa cum laude, with a master’s in both mathematics and accounting. An MBA and MSF achieved a year later.

Yeah, I’m surprised, too.

As for Jaxon, no one seems to know what he does aside from heists, where he goes when he leaves, or what he’s about off the clock.

Like now, for instance. I’ve no knowledge of his whereabouts, and neither do the others. What I do know is that my fascination with the No Name Five is waning, and I’m growing irritatingly bored.

I miss Melanie, and if she doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to be breaking out of here to go find her.

On the third Jaxon-less night, I fall asleep in a foul mood, waking up no better the next morning. Surly. A rarity for me.

Collin’s in a deep sleep beside me. He’s even hotter while asleep. But man, he snores like a pig.

Clambering from his ridiculously high bed, I pad to the bathroom to freshen up, feeling so frigging grumpy I can barely stand it. I really should’ve thought this hostage thing through better. No way can I go for days on end doing absolutely nothing. My brain is alive and forever active, and when I’m unable to put it to genius uses, I go batty.

And what’s the point if Jaxon isn’t even here for me to gaze and sigh at?

I head downstairs, knowing that although it’s almost 9 a.m., I’ll probably be the only one awake in this house.

With a hand under my T-shirt scratching my belly, a yawn stretching my mouth open, I stop short in the archway to the kitchen. My mouth goes dry, and my heart squeezes in a way that just doesn’t feel right. My right eye twitches. Not in a good way.

Jaxon’s back.

And he’s not alone.

I can see only the slender hands of his companion, as he’s got her backed up against the kitchen counter, trapped between his arms. His hands are bracketed on either side of her, his head bent, and her hands are locked around his neck.

He whispers. She giggles.

He presses into her. She curls her fingers in his hair.

Neither is aware I’m standing behind them.

I should turn and go back upstairs. I should leave them to their privacy.

Better yet, I should scream for help. Out of spite.

After all, I am a hostage.

Yet, I do none of those things. Instead, I continue striding into the kitchen, straight to where they’re sucking face, and say, “Pardon me, I don’t mean to disturb you, but you’re blocking the coffeemaker.” As if I drink coffee.

Surprised, both Jaxon and his partner’s heads whip to me, staring at me as if I’m an apparition. Then, slowly, with those damned expressionless eyes on me, he backs away from her, despite his companion’s reluctance to let go.

She’s pretty. Young. Somewhere between twenty-five and twenty-seven. Classy, too. Swathed in expensive garbs and pearl jewelry.

Both are nicely dressed. Jaxon in a black button-down tucked into black trousers, his hair finger-groomed, while she’s in a swish, square-necked, formfitting black dress, simple black heels, her hair in a neat office wrap.

She fits him.

I instantly hate her.

I can’t tell if they’re coming or going.

“Hi!” My voice is deliberately chipper, concealing my mood. I stick my hand out. “I’m Timber. Newest addition to the house. You’re pretty. I like your earrings. Beautiful pearls. Do you know how they are made? Cool fact—a natural pearl starts out as a parasite or irritant trapped inside an oyster or a clam. To protect itself from this parasite, the oyster releases this hard but smooth crystalline substance called nacre to coat around it. As long as the parasite remains within the oyster, it continues to coat it with layer upon layer of nacre. In time, all those layers affect the inimitable beauty that we call a pearl. In other words, you’re wearing parasites.”

“I— U-uh,” she stutters, glancing to Jaxon with a quizzical expression.

But Jaxon’s eyes are on me. I refuse to feel satisfaction at that.

“Good morning, Timber,” he says without animosity.

His partner finds her voice. A voice that’s strong and confident. Which should scare me straight. “Hello, Timber. I’m Nadine. You’re, um, er, pretty, too.”

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 the 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.