The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

I was halfway over to the pile when another thought hit me, though.

I’d locked the door.

I was sure of it.

I always locked the door.

Hell, I locked the door to my bedroom at home when I was all alone.

There was no way I had forgotten to do so while in a strange man’s house surrounded by other strange men.

No way.

So he either had a key, or he had picked the lock to get in.

There was a small, utterly irrational, thrill at the idea. What can I say? I appreciated a bad boy with some lock-picking skills.

It was the next thought that chilled me a bit.

What if it hadn’t been Christopher who had done it? What if it had been one of his random men?

Sure, you would imagine that they were under orders not to touch me, but I had dealt with a lot of men who employed a lot of men who thought they didn’t have to play by the rules.

I would have to have words with him about it.

But, for now, I grabbed a simple red wine-colored sundress, some undies, and the packaged toothbrush and razor, and made my way into the bathroom to get myself together.

It was when I got into the bathroom that I realized my fears were unjustified. That neither Christopher nor one of his men were in my room when I was asleep.

No.

It had been Cora.

Because not a single man on earth would have gone into the bathroom, brought in fresh flowers, folded the towels on the counter, and placed a giant chunk of fancy soap infused with flower petals on top of them.

That was something women did to make other women feel comfortable.

And, well, I did.

So I showered, pampered myself a little, slid into the panties that were the cheeky sort like Christopher had seen me in the day before, but in a tan lace color, then slipped on the dress, and made my way toward the kitchen.

“Oh, Cora. This is too much,” I insisted as I walked over to the counter, finding a lovely table setting just for me with fancy plates and bowls, a hot coffee mug, a juice cup, and a fresh flower in a glass.

“You’re a guest. Sit, sit. I will get your breakfast. You want coffee? Frappe? Both?”

“Both.” Because, well, why not. When in Greece…

“Good, good,” she agreed, moving around, making things, and making me feel guilty in the process. Even if she was getting paid to do this job.

“Cora, can I help you with anything?”

“No, no. You sit. Christopher says your legs hurt.”

“I’m out of shape,” I admitted.

“The steps. They’re not for everyone. You use the donkey next time.”

It really wasn’t a suggestion. More like a demand.

Orange juice flowed into my cup.

A big bowl of thick yogurt, fresh berries, walnuts, and a honey drizzle was set down in front of me.

“Eat. Eat. More coming.”

I very rarely needed to be told twice to enjoy my food. So I did. Every last bite of it.

Before I could even fully drop the spoon down, though, another dish was pushed in front of me.

“Eliopsomo,” she told me. “Olive bread,” she added.

It was topped with what looked to be a little cheese and one over-easy egg.

And, yes, I was going to eat every last bit of that as well.

But when I got to the last bite of that, Cora was already making her way back to me with yet another dish.

“Cora, really, I don’t think I can do it. I am going to need a pair of Spanx after this.”

“Spanx? What is this?”

“Spanx. Like control-top pantyhose. They suck all your fat in, so you don’t pop out all over the place.”

“Fat?” she scoffed, waving a dishrag in the air at me like it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “Christopher, tell her she has no fat.”

Surprised, I turned, finding him standing there in the doorway, watching me.

“You’re not fat,” he said very matter-of-factly as he moved inward, accepting the bowl of yogurt much like I had as Cora offered it.

“She’s trying to fatten me up. Like a pig heading to market. This is my third course. At breakfast,” I added, voice dropping low.

“Greek mothers, they like to cook,” he said, shrugging.

“Yes. Yes. Because Greek men like to eat,” Cora agreed, giving me a firm nod. Like this was information I needed to know. “Miss Miller. You must learn to make some good, Greek food while you are here, yes?”

“I, ah, I don’t know how long I will be here, Cora, I told her, taking a bite of the salad she’d placed in front of me. Salad was a bit odd for breakfast, but it was likely the healthiest thing I had eaten in a week, so I figured my body would thank me for it.

“She should stay,” Cora said, giving Christopher a firm look. “We never have guests. It is nice to have a woman in the house.”