down." He voiced the words with a dead calm that raised goosebumps on her flesh.
Kristi pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. He passed her and dropped into a second chair, his gun still trained on her.
The first thing she noticed was the dried blood stain on his shirt. The blood came from the right side of his midsection. Had he been shot? Light eyes, maybe green, stared at her. He had a straight nose and a mouth with lips that were full, but not too full. Hair the color of brown sugar touched his collar. He didn’t look like a criminal, not dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt. The profile didn’t fit. Who was he? A million questions raced through her mind and she wondered if he’d answer any of them.
"Lady, you picked the wrong day to come to the beach," he said, his eyes doing a slow rove over her. With the gun still on her, he poked through the groceries. "Food, great. I’m starving. Can you cook?"
Could she cook? Was he crazy? She wasn’t about to cook anything for him.
"No." She lifted her chin. A spark of defiance lit within her and at that moment she made the decision to fight for her survival.
"You got a cell phone?" he asked.
"No."
"No?" he repeated as if she were a liar. "Don’t make me frisk you." The insolent look he gave her led her to believe he’d enjoy doing just that.
The thought of his hands on her turned her stomach. "I have a phone, but it’s in the car, plugged into the charger."
"Where’s your purse?" he asked.
"In the car. I just grabbed the groceries, that’s it."
"Stand up."
"Why?"
"Let me spell something out for you," he said. "I have nothing to lose by killing you. Nothing. Now, stand up."
She shot to her feet.
"Turn your pockets inside out."
She did.
"Turn around."
Kristi did as he asked. She wore khaki capris and a white T-shirt. There wasn’t really anywhere she could hide her phone that he wouldn’t see it.
"Okay, take a seat."
She sat. "Why are you here? What did you do?"
"I killed a man." His eyes were so cold, like hard chips of glass. She saw no remorse, no guilt.
"Why?"
He frowned. "That doesn’t matter." He gestured toward the groceries. "I don’t care if you can cook; I need to eat. Get up; make us a meal, and no funny stuff. What’d you bring to eat?"
She’d brought comfort food, but she didn’t tell him that. She’d intended to drown her sorrows in all her favorites. "I can make macaroni and cheese."
"Seriously?" he asked with a lift of his eyebrows. "Any meat in those bags?"
"I’m not a big meat eater."
"Well, get to it." He pushed the bag of groceries toward her.
"You really should go to a doctor," she said, eyeing his injury. She thought about the blood on the deck and assumed the blood on his shirt belonged to him. She prayed his injury was significant. If he’d lost a lot of blood her chance for escape was greater.
"You worry about yourself, lady," he said. "I’ll worry about me."
"My name is Kristi," she said, wanting him to see her as a person, not as a nameless victim of whatever was going on with him.
"I know what your name is," he said.
Surprise stole the words she’d been about to say.
"Your name is all over this place, along with your photo."
So he’d been here long enough to look through the personal things she kept in the back bedroom? The thought unsettled her even more.
"Cook," he demanded.
Kristi rose, picking up both bags of groceries, taking them over to the counter near the stove. Even with her back to him, his stare penetrated her, made her sick with fear. Her hands shook as she filled a pan with water. She removed the pasta, setting the rotini to the side. When she started to open a drawer, he said, "Hold on."
She glanced over at him. "I need the cheese grater," but even as she said the words, she knew the drawer also held knives.
"Move slowly," he said.
Kristi nodded, opening the drawer. Her fingers found the long-handled knife. She whirled around, lunging for him. He moved faster. His
Kristi pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. He passed her and dropped into a second chair, his gun still trained on her.
The first thing she noticed was the dried blood stain on his shirt. The blood came from the right side of his midsection. Had he been shot? Light eyes, maybe green, stared at her. He had a straight nose and a mouth with lips that were full, but not too full. Hair the color of brown sugar touched his collar. He didn’t look like a criminal, not dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt. The profile didn’t fit. Who was he? A million questions raced through her mind and she wondered if he’d answer any of them.
"Lady, you picked the wrong day to come to the beach," he said, his eyes doing a slow rove over her. With the gun still on her, he poked through the groceries. "Food, great. I’m starving. Can you cook?"
Could she cook? Was he crazy? She wasn’t about to cook anything for him.
"No." She lifted her chin. A spark of defiance lit within her and at that moment she made the decision to fight for her survival.
"You got a cell phone?" he asked.
"No."
"No?" he repeated as if she were a liar. "Don’t make me frisk you." The insolent look he gave her led her to believe he’d enjoy doing just that.
The thought of his hands on her turned her stomach. "I have a phone, but it’s in the car, plugged into the charger."
"Where’s your purse?" he asked.
"In the car. I just grabbed the groceries, that’s it."
"Stand up."
"Why?"
"Let me spell something out for you," he said. "I have nothing to lose by killing you. Nothing. Now, stand up."
She shot to her feet.
"Turn your pockets inside out."
She did.
"Turn around."
Kristi did as he asked. She wore khaki capris and a white T-shirt. There wasn’t really anywhere she could hide her phone that he wouldn’t see it.
"Okay, take a seat."
She sat. "Why are you here? What did you do?"
"I killed a man." His eyes were so cold, like hard chips of glass. She saw no remorse, no guilt.
"Why?"
He frowned. "That doesn’t matter." He gestured toward the groceries. "I don’t care if you can cook; I need to eat. Get up; make us a meal, and no funny stuff. What’d you bring to eat?"
She’d brought comfort food, but she didn’t tell him that. She’d intended to drown her sorrows in all her favorites. "I can make macaroni and cheese."
"Seriously?" he asked with a lift of his eyebrows. "Any meat in those bags?"
"I’m not a big meat eater."
"Well, get to it." He pushed the bag of groceries toward her.
"You really should go to a doctor," she said, eyeing his injury. She thought about the blood on the deck and assumed the blood on his shirt belonged to him. She prayed his injury was significant. If he’d lost a lot of blood her chance for escape was greater.
"You worry about yourself, lady," he said. "I’ll worry about me."
"My name is Kristi," she said, wanting him to see her as a person, not as a nameless victim of whatever was going on with him.
"I know what your name is," he said.
Surprise stole the words she’d been about to say.
"Your name is all over this place, along with your photo."
So he’d been here long enough to look through the personal things she kept in the back bedroom? The thought unsettled her even more.
"Cook," he demanded.
Kristi rose, picking up both bags of groceries, taking them over to the counter near the stove. Even with her back to him, his stare penetrated her, made her sick with fear. Her hands shook as she filled a pan with water. She removed the pasta, setting the rotini to the side. When she started to open a drawer, he said, "Hold on."
She glanced over at him. "I need the cheese grater," but even as she said the words, she knew the drawer also held knives.
"Move slowly," he said.
Kristi nodded, opening the drawer. Her fingers found the long-handled knife. She whirled around, lunging for him. He moved faster. His
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