He didn’t have an ounce of sympathy.
“What were you saying, Andy?”
“Nothing.” He must have thought better of that, and explained, “Same shit as Terrance.”
Ross waited.
As the tension grew, Terrance put his head back and closed his eyes. The other men looked away. Andy shifted—and groaned.
“Jesus H. Christ, Andy. Just spit it out,” Olsen snapped. “You’re making everyone uneasy.”
Sullen, Andy stared at his feet. “I made a joke about gagging her.”
Unaccountable rage gripped Ross. “And?”
“I just said she’d be perfect except for her mouth, and I joked—joked, Ross—about checking on her so I could gag her. I knew she wouldn’t be peacefully sitting down there, waiting like you told her to, and you did warn her what would happen if she didn’t behave. I figured she was up to something, and I guess I was right, wasn’t I? Somehow she called that prick and—”
“Did you actually touch her, Andy? Did you lay a single finger on her? Even get close to her?”
All of the men stared at him, aware that he just might snap if—
Terrance said quickly, “We never even opened the door, Ross. It was just talk, that’s all.”
Gradually, Ross got his shit together. He was making a fool of himself over her, but damn, he’d been studying her for so long, he felt like she belonged to him.
Being with her today, having control of her while also being her protection, had affected him in ways it shouldn’t have.
Means to an end.
That’s what she was, what she had to be. Allowing himself to feel anything else was beyond stupid. It didn’t matter that she was gutsy and fearless, refined despite the circumstances, bold and intelligent... He clamped down on all those wayward thoughts.
Means to an end, goddamn it.
Forcing himself to sound reasonable, Ross said, “She had no way to call anyone from the basement.”
“So she was down there behaving?”
Olsen snorted. “Hell no. She took apart the heater. Parts are missing. I’m guessing she made a weapon.” He grinned, seeing the surprise on Andy’s and Terrance’s faces. “If her boyfriend hadn’t stomped on you, she might’ve done it herself.”
“He’s not her boyfriend,” Ross said, his voice deliberately devoid of inflection. “She doesn’t date, not since Scott went missing.”
“Not a bodyguard, not a boyfriend,” Terrance said. “Then who was he?”
“I don’t know.” That fact really pissed him off. “But I intend to find out.” No, he silently promised her, we’re not done, Sahara. Not by a long shot.
And the next time I get you, I’ll make damn sure you don’t get away.
* * *
BRAND TRIED NOT to look as uncomfortable as he felt standing in Sahara’s grand foyer. Far as he was concerned, it was a terrible idea, never mind that she had a locked gate and a high-tech security system. She shouldn’t be alone, period. But she’d ignored all his arguments, damn it, and the other guys hadn’t been any more successful.
He suspected it was her pride insisting she stay in the house; she wasn’t a woman who’d easily show her fear. He knew it, he understood it, but Jesus, he hated it.
Now, after unsuccessfully trying to convince her to at least bring in the cops, the others had left.
“No,” she’d asserted. “This is personal. They know something about Scott. I’m going to handle it my way, so get used to it.”
Her way, for the remainder of the evening at least, was to pretend she hadn’t been taken hostage.
Her car, which probably cost more than some houses, had been parked in the end of the driveway just as, she claimed, the kidnappers had promised. She’d wanted to drive it up to the front door herself, but the men had outvoted her on that.
Once Miles had done a full sweep of the car, Justice drove it up to her garage. Of course, they’d wanted to take turns standing guard, but Sahara refused that, too. They all had upcoming assignments to prep for, and she felt safe in her own home, so they’d only hung around long enough to ensure she wasn’t too upset—ha!—and that no one had tampered with her house.
Brand would stay with her—she’d agreed to that much—but the guys didn’t like it. They trusted him, but as they’d said, he wasn’t a bodyguard. Still, he assured them that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, and he intended to make good on that promise.
The keyless entries, one at the street that opened wide arched gates, and another at the end of the long lighted private lane that secured the main entrance, were still set.
If anyone without the passcode had tried to intrude, alarms would have gone directly to a security company.
Showing no residual effects from her adventures, Sahara stepped out of her shoes, wiggled her toes, shrugged off her coat and hung it on a coat tree. The enormous shiv she placed at the bottom of the stairs.
“What,” he asked, “do you plan to do with that?”
“I’m partial to it now, so it’ll probably reside in my bedroom.”
With her bra still used as a grip for the handle?
She gave him a tentative smile. “Come on.”
Brand wasn’t sure if he should remove his shoes as well. His running shoes wouldn’t hurt the polished marble floors, but then again, what did he know about the protocol for a mansion?
Without him having to ask, Sahara answered by hooking her arm through his and leading him to the kitchen. He felt the full curve of her breast against his upper arm and it kept his body humming with tension.
Any other woman and he’d have already checked the invitation to see how far it extended. But not with Sahara Silver, owner of Body Armor, self-proclaimed shark.
The kitchen was something out of storybooks, momentarily distracting him once she let him go. He turned a full circle taking it in. “Damn.” The detailed ceiling was its own work of art. One end boasted a sectional couch under tall windows, a center island held plenty of bar stools and at the other end was the thick wooden table that could seat six.
“Grab a seat. Do you want something to drink while I throw together a meal?”
Yeah, he wouldn’t mind the whole bottle. Maybe it’d help him get through this bizarre night. He shook his head as he pulled out a chair at the table. “I’m good.”
“Coffee then.” On bare feet she went to a massive refrigerator and retrieved several things, including chicken fillets. Going on tiptoe, stretching those sexy calves, she got down a bowl and dropped the chicken inside, then poured in Italian dressing, dashed in some other seasonings, and used a fork to stir it around. Next she set her oven, then washed her hands and got the coffee started.
She seemed to do it all with planned movements meant to best utilize her time and streamline all processes.
Nothing new in that. Sahara was one of the most efficient people he’d ever met.
After grabbing a cookie from a big round jar, she joined him at the table, watching him while she nibbled. She held it out. “Want a bite?”
He shook his head. “What are you cooking?”
“Italian chicken, baked potatoes and salad.”
Hell of a meal to “throw together” after midnight. He lifted a brow. “Dessert first?”
“Oh, honey, a single cookie could never be dessert.” She popped the rest