Means to an end, goddamn it.
Forcing himself to sound reasonable, Ross said, “She had no way to call anyone from the basement.”
“So she was down there behaving?”
Olsen snorted. “Hell no. She took apart the heater. Parts are missing. I’m guessing she made a weapon.” He grinned, seeing the surprise on Andy’s and Terrance’s faces. “If her boyfriend hadn’t stomped on you, she might’ve done it herself.”
“He’s not her boyfriend,” Ross said, his voice deliberately devoid of inflection. “She doesn’t date, not since Scott went missing.”
“Not a bodyguard, not a boyfriend,” Terrance said. “Then who was he?”
“I don’t know.” That fact really pissed him off. “But I intend to find out.” No, he silently promised her, we’re not done, Sahara. Not by a long shot.
And the next time I get you, I’ll make damn sure you don’t get away.
*
BRAND TRIED NOT to look as uncomfortable as he felt standing in Sahara’s grand foyer. Far as he was concerned, it was a terrible idea, never mind that she had a locked gate and a high-tech security system. She shouldn’t be alone, period. But she’d ignored all his arguments, damn it, and the other guys hadn’t been any more successful.
He suspected it was her pride insisting she stay in the house; she wasn’t a woman who’d easily show her fear. He knew it, he understood it, but Jesus, he hated it.
Now, after unsuccessfully trying to convince her to at least bring in the cops, the others had left.
“No,” she’d asserted. “This is personal. They know something about Scott. I’m going to handle it my way, so get used to it.”
Her way, for the remainder of the evening at least, was to pretend she hadn’t been taken hostage.
Her car, which probably cost more than some houses, had been parked in the end of the driveway just as, she claimed, the kidnappers had promised. She’d wanted to drive it up to the front door herself, but the men had outvoted her on that.
Once Miles had done a full sweep of the car, Justice drove it up to her garage. Of course, they’d wanted to take turns standing guard, but Sahara refused that, too. They all had upcoming assignments to prep for, and she felt safe in her own home, so they’d only hung around long enough to ensure she wasn’t too upset—ha!—and that no one had tampered with her house.
Brand would stay with her—she’d agreed to that much—but the guys didn’t like it. They trusted him, but as they’d said, he wasn’t a bodyguard. Still, he assured them that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, and he intended to make good on that promise.
The keyless entries, one at the street that opened wide arched gates, and another at the end of the long lighted private lane that secured the main entrance, were still set.
If anyone without the passcode had tried to intrude, alarms would have gone directly to a security company.
Showing no residual effects from her adventures, Sahara stepped out of her shoes, wiggled her toes, shrugged off her coat and hung it on a coat tree. The enormous shiv she placed at the bottom of the stairs.
“What,” he asked, “do you plan to do with that?”
“I’m partial to it now, so it’ll probably reside in my bedroom.”
With her bra still used as a grip for the handle?
She gave him a tentative smile. “Come on.”
Brand wasn’t sure if he should remove his shoes as well. His running shoes wouldn’t hurt the polished marble floors, but then again, what did he know about the protocol for a mansion?
Without him having to ask, Sahara answered by hooking her arm through his and leading him to the kitchen. He felt the full curve of her breast against his upper arm and it kept his body humming with tension.
Any other woman and he’d have already checked the invitation to see how far it extended. But not with Sahara Silver, owner of Body Armor, self-proclaimed shark.
The kitchen was something out of storybooks, momentarily distracting him once she let him go. He turned a full circle taking it in. “Damn.” The detailed ceiling was its own work of art. One end boasted a sectional couch under tall windows, a center island held plenty of bar stools and at the other end was the thick wooden table that could seat six.
“Grab a seat. Do you want something to drink while I throw together a meal?”
Yeah, he wouldn’t mind the whole bottle. Maybe it’d help him get through this bizarre night. He shook his head as he pulled out a chair at the table. “I’m good.”
“Coffee then.” On bare feet she went to a massive refrigerator and retrieved several things, including chicken fillets. Going on tiptoe, stretching those sexy calves, she got down a bowl and dropped the chicken inside, then poured in Italian dressing, dashed in some other seasonings, and used a fork to stir it around. Next she set her oven, then washed her hands and got the coffee started.
She seemed to do it all with planned movements meant to best utilize her time and streamline all processes.
Nothing new in that. Sahara was one of the most efficient people he’d ever met.
After grabbing a cookie from a big round jar, she joined him at the table, watching him while she nibbled. She held it out. “Want a bite?”
He shook his head. “What are you cooking?”
“Italian chicken, baked potatoes and salad.”
Hell of a meal to “throw together” after midnight. He lifted a brow. “Dessert first?”
“Oh, honey, a single cookie could never be dessert.” She popped the rest in her mouth, left her seat to poke at the chicken with the fork, then got out a dish and prepped it with butter. “How hungry are you?”
Starving...but not for food. Every time she went on tiptoe, he had the burning urge to run his palms up the inside of her thighs. The movement of her breasts under that soft sweater kept drawing his attention, too. Her nipples were just tight enough to be visible—and to make his mouth water.
She looked over her shoulder in a provocative way—deliberately or not, he wasn’t sure. “Brand?”
He met her gaze with a piercing stare, very deliberately. “I would have been fine with a sandwich.”
Blue eyes lit up. “Something fast and easy, huh?” Her mouth curled. “Not my style.” Looking away from him again, she washed two potatoes, then put them on a plate and into the microwave. “Although, this meal is pretty quick and not all that difficult.”
Brand was still pondering her “fast and easy” comment, knowing he might be fast with her, but not easy. No, he wanted to claim her. He wanted that bad. “I get the feeling you’re teasing me, Sahara.”
His tone alerted her, and she turned to face him. “Maybe a little. You always resist easily enough.”
Not tonight. “Trying to see how far you can push it?”
She braced her hands behind her on the counter, which pushed out her breasts. One leg bent, her gaze sultry, she said, “I’m curious. Aren’t you?”
He already knew his breaking point, and he was damn near it already. Smiling just to confuse her, he asked, “So how long is this meal going to take?”
The oven dinged and she turned away. “Thirty minutes.”
He watched as she got everything in the oven. She ate another cookie while putting together a salad, and then she set the table, leaning close to him, brushing against him.
She was really feeling frisky tonight—or was it something more?
When she started to move away, Brand caught her arm. Her skin was soft and warm, her bones delicate, but the woman had iron in her blood and a will made of titanium.
Brushing his thumb over the silken skin inside her elbow, he asked, “Is this your way of reacting to the evening?”
A flash of uncertainty filled her blue eyes, then cleared behind a big grin. She put a hand to his chest. “One of the most appealing men I’ve ever known is in my kitchen, and you want to dissect my mood?”
That evasive nonanswer only made him more determined. “Yeah, I think I do.” He tugged.
Of course she resisted his efforts.
And of course he won the small battle.