The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

“Miller, no.”

“Mr. Adamos. You can’t just keep me here.”

“It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“Actually, it’s not. At all. That is my job to do.”

“You need help.”

“I have a whole crew of people back home.”

“And still, you will be accepting my hospitality for a little while still. At least until we handle Chernev.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am very serious.”

“You can’t just keep me prisoner here, Mr. Adamos.”

“I prefer the term ‘guest,’ but you are free to call it whatever you want.”

“This is absurd,” I told him, shaking my head. “Let me call Quin. They can keep me safe without keeping me against my will.”

“Possibly, yes. But it is not safe for you to be traveling right now.”

“I will have Fenway come back. Can’t get safer than a private yacht.”

“There is no guarantee of that.”

“There’s no guarantee that I am safe here either.”

“Perhaps not. But I am here.”

“And you think you are more capable than my crew full of ex-military personnel?”

He chose to ignore this. Because, well, it was hard to argue illogically against a logical statement.

“Please let me or Cora know if there is anything you need for your stay.”

“Mr. Adamos—”

“My decision has been made, Miss Miller. Better to accept it than fight against it.”

“Or what? You’ll chain me to my bed?” I spat back, knowing they were the wrong words to say as soon as they were out of my mouth because a heat bloomed across my belly at the idea. And, if I wasn’t completely mistaken, his eyes went a bit molten at the mention as well.

Great.

This was just great.

I was probably going to sleep with the client.

Or, worse yet, sleep with my captor. I’d never live that shit down. And Quin would probably insist I get counseling for freaking Stockholm Syndrome.

“If that is required to keep you safe, yes,” he finally answered, voice a little rougher than usual.

There really was going to be no arguing with him. And with security ramping up, there was a very small chance for escape. Even if I got out of the house, what were the chances of getting anyone to agree to helping me? His reach was long. If he had put the word out that if anyone saw me, to call him, I would be screwed.

I had no choice.

I was going to be stuck here for the time being.

That didn’t mean I didn’t have to be easy going about it, though, did it?

“I need to write a list of things I need,” I told him. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

If he suspected anything about the saccharine-sweet change to my voice, he said nothing, just stood, going around his desk, sliding open the drawer.

This man even had fancy paper.

He didn’t hand me a pile of loose leaf or even a yellow-lined notepad. Nope. He had a leather-bound binder full of thick sheets of monogrammed paper. And a pen that probably cost a month’s worth of my car payment, white and real gold.

“Just leave it in here when it is finished,” he told me. “I will get everything as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” I agreed, waving the folder at him, then making my way down the hall toward my room, sitting up on the bed, racking my brain for the most ridiculous things I could demand from him. Either hard to secure or obnoxiously expensive—or both.

If he was going to force me to stay here, I was going to put a little dent in his pocketbook out of spite.

What can I say? I just didn’t have it in me to be a model prisoner.

Two hours and one full sheet—back and front—later, I made my way back out of my room, dropping the binder on Christopher’s desk in his empty office, following the sounds and smells of lunch in the kitchen.

I spent the rest of the day helping Cora with lunch, with early preparations for dinner.

It was around six when Alexander finally sauntered in, hair bed-messy, wearing basketball pants and a loose-fitting band tee. His hand was raised, further ruffling his hair.

“I hear you’re a prisoner here too,” he greeted me as he walked over to Cora, giving her a small smile as she handed him a plate of almond cookies.

“What? Prisoner? No. You’re both very safe here,” Cora insisted.

“What is that phrase you use in the States?” Alexander asked. “About drinking juice?”

“The Kool-Aid,” I corrected.

“Yes, she’s been drinking the Kool-Aid,” he said, giving me a wobbly smile.

“Did you sleep those drugs out of your system? I’ve recently experienced that myself,” I added when he started to stiffen, like I was calling him out. Oh, the teenaged ego. Always so fragile. “The hangover from it was a bitch.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, nodding, dropping down beside me.

“I bet Cora’s legendary frappe might help with that,” I added. “I got Mr. Adamos to put some mocha in mine for me, and it was di-vine.”