The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

I was of value.

I would only cease to be if I couldn’t save his brother.

And, well, even being a bit of a hostage, I wanted to help. It was a pet peeve of mine when men such as Chernev got innocent children involved in their puny drug wars. The money was an added benefit.

Alexander Adamos was the priority.

Even knowing that, though, I was all too aware of the way his arms cradled me, the hard muscles of his chest, and the way he carried me like it was no strain at all.

Sure, I was relatively short and compact, but I doubted anyone would call me waifish or dainty. Men just didn’t carry me around.

It was a surprisingly comforting sensation.

It had to be something primeval, something encoded in my DNA. Wanting a big, strong man to make me feel small and soft, while at the same time protected, safe.

Maybe it was why I was always so damn attracted to dangerous men.

I mean, not that I was attracted to Christopher Adamos, of course. It would be a whole new level of fucked up if I was into a guy who would not hesitate to lock me up to get what he needed out of me.

It was just, you know, nice. To be held. To be carried.

I would never admit that out loud.

But I was digging it.

“You can put me down now,” I told him as we reached the final step.

A long, low, stark white garden wall with a bright blue gate was before us, two men standing guard beside it.

“When we’re safely behind the gate, yes,” he agreed, nodding his chin toward his men who moved to open the gate, allowing us through.

Christopher’s home was like most of the other cave houses we’d passed on the way up, but massive, long, low and sprawling. Up this high, set against the bright sun and the blue sky, the white was almost painful to look at, it took a long moment for my eyes to adjust.

A few feet inside the front garden, my weight finally shifted, my feet meeting the ground.

And, well, my poor, underused thighs? Yeah, they kind of gave up on me, making my arm shoot out, grabbing Christopher’s arm, holding on to keep my balance as I willed my legs to just bear with me for a few more moments. Just allow me the dignity of making it to a chair, then they could weep and fail me all they wanted. Hell, I might weep along with them. And I was not someone who cried easily. What can I say, it had been a trying twenty-four hours. My body and mind were all over the place.

I needed some sleep.

I would be in better shape in the morning.

“Come on,” he offered, grabbing me at the elbow, helping me toward the door.

The inside of the house was much like the outside: exposed walls, whiteness. The floor was a warm sandy stone, the furniture to the room on the left the same shade of blue as the garden gate and the front door.

There wasn’t art on the walls or much by the way of decoration. It should have been cold. Instead, I found it oddly homey. The lack of stimulation was simple. And simple was comforting in its own way.

I never expected to think that.

My home was a mismatch of all the things I loved. I had crowded shelves full of knick-knacks from all the places I had traveled. My furniture was oversized and plush. I had a ton of pillows, none of which matched. There were colorful blankets draped over the back of the couch.

I liked soft and cozy. Likely because I spent so much time in hotels, places that pretended to be those things, but always managed to fail.

I shouldn’t have been so into this cave house.

But as we walked past a dining room that had a long, empty table—no candles, no runner, no ornate China cabinet against the wall boasting great-grandma’s favorite tea cups and spoons—I felt oddly at home.

“Cora,” he called, leading me into the kitchen- arguably the smallest room we’d passed through so far. There was a short span of countertop—white with white cabinets—that butted up against the fridge and stove. There was an undersized island where Christopher led me, pulling out a stool for me to sit on top of.

“Christopher,” a woman called, voice warm, loving. Not the lady of the house in terms of wife, but more like a mother figure.

Cora was a woman likely in her early sixties in a simple, somewhat baggy blue dress with a floral apron. Her short, dark hair was curled. Her lightly lined face spoke to many years of reasons to laugh and smile.

And right then, she was smiling at Christopher as she walked up to him, patting his jaw.

“You missed breakfast,” she tut-tutted, shaking her head at him.