Читать книгу Killer Cargo - Dana Mentink - Страница 12

The handle revolved until the catch gave. A man stepped inside.

She screamed, grabbed a frying pan from the stove and swung with all her might.

The man dropped his flashlight and warded off the blow with a powerful forearm.

She staggered back against the wall and snapped on the light.

Cy’s eyes were wide, his mouth open in shock.

“Cy…what…what are you doing here?”

“I came to make sure I’d locked the windows.” He inhaled deeply. “You nearly brained me with that frying pan. Are you all right?”

Maria sagged in relief and sank onto the chair. Her face was coated with sweat and her hands shook as she pressed them to her face. “I thought you were…never mind.”

He sat across from her. “I apologize for scaring you. I couldn’t sleep and I began to wonder if I’d locked up properly. I didn’t want to wake you, but maybe I should have.”

She looked closely into his face to gauge the sincerity in his words but he was predictably unreadable. “It’s okay. No harm done.”

“Anyway, I’ll just take a look around and see that the place is secure.”

Maria listened to him glide around the house, checking the windows in every room and all the doors.

“All locked up tight,” he said on his return. “Are you sure…um, would you like me to fix you a cup of tea?”

His awkwardness would have made her smile if she wasn’t so steeped in fear and fatigue. “No. No, thank you. I think I’ll head back to bed now. Good night.”

“Good night, Maria.”

The thought struck her as she walked back to her room. Had he really returned to check for her safety? Or did he have a less noble purpose in mind?

At first she thought she was still at the bottom of the ravine, trapped in the Demon. When her brain began to function and her puffy eyes finally opened fully, she found herself in the same tiny room, tangled in the sheets, as watery morning sunshine crept through the cotton curtains. The smell of baking bread made her stomach rumble. For a moment her breath caught. Cy was back. Maybe he’d come to finish her off. Then she reminded herself it was his house and he probably did need to make breakfast.

She tamped down her fear and hauled herself upright, head throbbing, the muscles in her back tense from the previous day’s crash. After pulling on the pink sweatshirt and pants, she took a long look at the frog. She could see no sign of life from the poor creature, save for a tiny telltale vibration of the throat. The golden eyes swiveled slightly to look at her.

“Good morning, frog. I’m glad you’re still alive,” she whispered. “Hang in there.”

With a sigh, she tiptoed to the bathroom. A small bathtub-shower combo filled half the tiled space, leaving just enough room for a sink and tiny toilet. There were a few men’s toiletries, including a razor and shampoo, lined up neatly along the edge of the tub.

There was a dry towel on the counter with a folded wash-cloth and a bar of wrapped soap. She made a note to be a little kinder to her surly host as she prepared the hottest bath she could muster. He couldn’t really be a murderer, could he? A man who thought to provide her with towels and soap? Thinking about his stealthy entry into the kitchen last night made her shiver.

“Maria, Maria. Even Jack the Ripper probably had his good points. Goodness knows, you thought Shell had some fine qualities.” She turned off the faucet and eased into the water. She imagined herself in a gorgeous four-star hotel spa. The walls were the palest green and clouds of lemon-scented steam enveloped her in the massive Roman tub. On her floating tray was a breathtaking array of her grandmother’s finest sweets. Piles of crispy fried bananas with cinnamon sugar and dozens of docinhos, the little rolls filled with sweet cheese and soaked in sweetened condensed milk, danced across her closed eyelids.

She could hear her father’s voice, soft and musical.

“How can you eat so many, Maria, when you are already so sweet?”

How had he gotten in her daydream? She blinked to clear away the remnants from her imagination and soaked until the water cooled and she let it swirl away down the drain.

It wasn’t docinhos she smelled as she made her way to the kitchen, but frying bacon. And sausages. And eggs along with an assortment of other scents that made her salivary glands kick into overdrive.

Cy was at the small stove, stirring a pot. The table was set for four and there was already a loaf of brown bread and a pot of tea on the table.

“Wow,” was all she could manage. “Is this how you breakfast all the time?”

He looked over his shoulder and gave her a thin smile. “Yes, Miss de Silva. We enjoy a hearty meal in the morning. That’s what gets us through the day. Sit down, it will just be a minute.”

The guy must have some Latin in his blood, she thought as she stared at the piles of food. It seemed innocuous, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep a close eye on things. “Could you use some help? Oh, never mind. I forgot. You are used to taking care of yourself.”

He added the pot to the table and handed her the spoon. “Tell you what. You can dish up the oatmeal.”

She ladled the creamy stuff into the four bowls. “Who else are you expecting?”

“As soon as the smell of food hits the air, you’ll meet Loren. He’s never missed a breakfast yet. I consider it part of his wages since I can’t pay him much. There’s another gal, Sonya, coming to work later.”

As if on cue, a tall, lanky man sauntered through the doorway and slid into a chair. His short sandy-brown hair thinned slightly at the temples, his face marked by an occasional red blemish. He tore his blue eyes away from the feast to Maria.

“Hey. Good morning. You must be the lady who crashed the car in the creek.”

She blushed. “Er, yes. I’m Maria de Silva.”

He extended a hand. “Loren Swann. Nice to meet you. That’s a sweet car, even if it is a little dented.”