Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

My heart beats faster and not just because of surprise or shock. There’s also a spark of excitement, which I try hard to ignore.

“Your high school photos are cute,” he says, turning the potatoes. “Why aren’t you on social media?”

A smell of garlic fills the air. Despite the situation, my stomach grumbles, reminding me I only had a small salad and an apple for lunch. Even so, I don’t have an appetite. “I prefer to keep my personal life private.”

The look he pins me with is so heated, I almost falter under his stare. “As I said before, my kind of girl.”

The nuance of his words is disconcerting, or maybe I’m making too much of it. Still, I have to fight for composure. “You haven’t answered my question about the heists.”

“Money.” He shrugs. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“There are other ways of getting money.”

“Not this much money.”

Curious, I can’t stop myself from asking, “Why do you need that much money? Don’t you have enough by now?” From what I’ve read in the news, he should be one of the wealthiest men in the world with the amount his gang has stolen.

A bite of hardness sets into his tone. “One can never have enough.”

“There are three of you.”

His friendliness evaporates. “Your point is?”

“Are they hanging around here too?” Are they waiting somewhere for him while he’s cooking me dinner?

“Don’t worry, baby doll. It’s just us.” He starts scraping the carrots. “How do you like your curry?”

“Medium, please.”

He’s not adding chicken or meat. How does he know I’m vegetarian? Did he go through my food cupboards when he broke into my apartment? Where else did he snoop? My underwear drawers? The notion that he’s been in my private space shakes me anew.

“The food should be done in twenty. Why don’t you set the table? There’s wine in the cupboard.”

I hop from the stool to do as I’ve been told, watching him from under my lashes as he slices carrots and celery. When he adds the spices, the rich fragrance of curry fills the air. He stirs in a can of chickpeas and coconut milk that he thickens with flour. While he cooks, he cleans, so by the time the food is ready, the kitchen is as spotless as when he started.

He dishes up two plates and carries them to the table. With a dishcloth thrown over his shoulder, he looks strangely domesticated.

“Sit,” he says.

I take a seat, and he puts a plate of vegetable curry and garlic potatoes in front of me. The sun won’t set for another hour still, but he lights a red candle and places it in the center of the table before opening the wine. It’s one of my favorite reds, a fact that shakes me as much as the ambience he’s creating.

“How did you know?” I ask, motioning at the wine he pours into my glass.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I saw you at the restaurant.”

My heart jerks in my chest. That he noticed me is bad enough. Much worse is that he paid attention to what I was eating and drinking—a beer on arrival, the same brand he just served me, and a veggie burger with a glass of red wine. What am I supposed to make of that? The restaurant was busy. It took a long time for the main meal to arrive after our beers had been served.

“How long were you watching me?” I ask with my heart in my throat.

He throws the dishcloth over one of the chairs and takes the seat opposite me. “Long enough.”

The revelation is huge. The shock rattles me. My brain clings to the possibility that I’m misunderstanding.

“Why did you take Mint’s car, Ian?” When he only continues to look at me with a shuttered expression, I say, “The tank of your truck was full. The police told me.”

Silence.

He didn’t need me to nurse him. His friends could’ve taken care of him. That only leaves one explanation. I don’t want to think of it, not now when I’m here—trapped—and I can’t get away.

The heat of his palm as he cups my hand on the tabletop startles me.

“Eat,” he says. “Your food is getting cold.”

I pull away, freeing my hand from underneath his. He doesn’t immediately draw back. He lets his hand rest there for a moment, in my space, before slowly retracting to pick up his knife. It’s a message. All the space is his, even—no, especially—my personal space.

He regards me from under thick, dark lashes as he scoops vegetables onto his fork and lifts it to his mouth. He chews and swallows, all the while watching my face. “It’s good. You should try it.”

It’s not the promise of tastiness that compels me to obey, but the warning that tightens his eyes and darkens his tone.

Swallowing, I pick up my cutlery.

“Told you,” he says, spearing a wedge of potato, “I don’t bite.”