His nerves frayed, his shoulders twitching with the impulse to turn back.
Then he saw her.
Past a wall of crates, she stood with her back to him.
His gaze caught on the shimmering beauty of red hair, the nip of a tiny waist, and the flashing tease of creamy white legs beneath her dress.
A fucking dress. In a headstone factory. In the middle of the desert.
It cinched at her waist and flared out around her knees. Black fabric with red cherries. Red heels with little red bows. Impractical as fuck. Eye-catching beyond reason.
He couldn’t stop staring.
She turned, angling her face into the glow of the windows. Pale shimmers of light accentuated the delicate curves of her profile and illuminated the stunning spirals and brilliant red tones of her hair. Her bangs looped into some sort of pompadour at the front, with the side parts rolling under and down. Strangely vintage. Fashionably retro. Her entire look screamed 1950s.
He’d never seen anything so shockingly exquisite, so uniquely beautiful. Flawless skin, luscious lips, and voluptuous curves. A statuesque woman with the appearance of a goddess, the heart of demoness, and a fashion style all her own.
She touched her chin to her shoulder and gave a slow blink, her unnaturally long lashes fanning over porcelain cheeks. Then her sea-green eyes latched onto his.
Their stares locked for a full second. Long enough to forget where he was or how he got here. A million things needed to be said, but words didn’t exist in the space of their eye contact. Only sensations. Buzzing along the skin. Static in the air. Fire over ice in a heart that couldn’t melt.
In that unexpected moment between them, he was a normal man, standing before a woman, with a rush of warmth in his chest. She felt it, too, her lips parting, her gaze losing focus. The world blurred, disorientating, and at the same time, perfectly balanced.
She straightened, turning away, and he released a soundless breath, thunderstruck.
And infuriated.
What the fuck just happened? Did they drug the hot dogs? Or was this a side-effect of prolonged isolation?
He was losing his fucking mind.
Nothing about that woman was real. From her dazzling hair color to her cherry red smile, she wore a false face and a glamorous facade.
Mike prowled over to her and slid a hand around her waist with intimate familiarity. She shifted toward him, and their foreheads came together, touching affectionately. He spoke quietly against her mouth and stroked her hair, her arm, her lower back.
The man’s entire manner seemed to transform in her presence, his expression softening, shoulders relaxing, his posture leaning as if sucked in by her orbit.
The pathetic fool loved her.
Hard to tell if she reciprocated the sentiment. She didn’t reject his touch. She also didn’t look at him in the same way. Not in the breathless, gobsmacked way she’d just looked at Cole.
Mike said a few words near her ear and stepped away, his demeanor hardening, turning cold as he focused on Cole.
“I mentioned a job.” He clasped his hands behind him, his head down and eyes up. “We want you to work for us.”
Like hell he would.
If it was a reasonable job, they wouldn’t have threatened his friends, forced him here against his will, and locked him in isolation. No, they knew he would never agree to this.
Assuming they knew his range of skills, they probably wanted to recruit him for a heist or infiltration mission to steal something of value—a person, a treasure, or priceless information. Whatever it was, the job would be dangerous, undesirable, and in no way worth his time or risk.
Not that they intended to give him a choice.
He met Mike’s eyes, exuding the cagey, reticent persona he’d maintained over the past couple of weeks. They had no idea what was going on in his head, if he was slowly going crazy or completely unaffected by the situation.
A silent man who didn’t stand up for himself was often perceived as ignorant and malleable. He needed them to underestimate him and would continue to play that role until they let their guards down.
“Now, I know you’re thinking you could never work for us. But I have something you won’t be able to resist.” Mike moved toward the wall of crates and slid a box into view with his boot. “You want to eat like a king?”
From the box, he removed a can of chicken, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of beer.
Cole’s mouth watered at the sight of the beer. Fucking Christ, what he wouldn’t give for a taste of hops on his tongue.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Mike chuckled. “It’s not really a royal feast, but it’s better than the alternative, yeah?”
Better than hot dogs? Damn straight.
“The task is simple.” Mike tapped his toe against a pallet of broken granite. “Move these pieces to the pallet over there.”