Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“You didn’t have to wait for me,” I say and go to the nearby bathroom to wash my hands. I hate how he acts like he knows all my habits, but I’m not about to compromise my health to spite him.
“Really, I mean it,” I say when I return. “You didn’t have to be here at all. You know feeding me isn’t part of your stalker duties, right?”
He grins as I take a seat across from him and hang my handbag on the back of my chair. “Is that right?”
“That’s what all the stalker job postings say.” I spear a piece of tomato and mozzarella with my fork and bring it to my plate. My hand is steady, showing nothing of the anxiety shredding me inside. I want to clutch my bag against me, keep it on my lap and within easy reach, but if I do, he’ll get suspicious. I’m already taking a chance by hanging it on my chair when I normally plop it carelessly on the couch in the family room. I’m hoping he ascribes that to the fact that I came straight to the kitchen/dining area instead of making my usual detour to the couch.
“Well, if that’s what they say, who am I to argue?” Peter pours us each a glass of wine before placing some of the mozzarella salad on his plate. “I’m no expert.”
“You haven’t stalked other women before?”
He cuts a piece of mozzarella, brings it to his mouth, and chews it slowly. “Not like this, no,” he says when he’s done.
“Oh?” I find myself morbidly curious. “How did you stalk them?”
He gives me a level look. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
He’s probably right, but since there’s a chance I might not see him after tonight, I feel a bizarre urge to find out more about him. “No, I actually do,” I say, drawing comfort from the handbag strap brushing against my back. “I want to know. Tell me.”
He hesitates, then says, “The majority of my assignments have always been men, but I’ve followed women as part of my job, too. Different jobs, different women, different reasons. Back in Russia, it was often the wives and girlfriends of the men who threatened my country; we followed and questioned them to locate our real targets. Later, when I became a fugitive, I tracked a couple of women as part of my work for various cartel leaders, arms dealers, and such; usually it was because they posed a threat of some kind, or betrayed the men I worked for.”
The bite of tomato I just consumed feels stuck in my throat. “You just… tracked them?”
“Not always.” He reaches for the linguini, winds a fork in it, and brings a sizable portion of the pasta to his plate without spilling any of the buttery sauce. “Sometimes I had to do more.”
The tips of my fingers are starting to feel cold. I know I should shut up, but instead, I hear myself asking, “What did you have to do?”
“It depended on the situation. One time, my quarry was a nurse who sold out my employer—the arms dealer I mentioned to you before—to some terrorist clients of his. As a result, his then-girlfriend was kidnapped, and he was nearly killed rescuing her. It was an ugly situation, and when I found the nurse, I had to resort to an ugly solution.” He pauses, his gray eyes gleaming. “Do you want me to elaborate?”
“No, that’s…” I reach for my glass of wine and take a big gulp. “That’s okay.”
He nods and begins eating. I have no appetite anymore, but I force myself to follow his example, transferring some pasta onto my plate. It’s delicious, the seafood and the pasta perfectly cooked and coated in the rich, savory sauce, but I can barely taste it. I’m dying to reach into my bag and take out the little vial sitting there, but for that, I need Peter to be distracted, to look away from his wine glass for at least twenty seconds. I timed it back in the hospital, practicing with a vial of water: five seconds to open the vial, five more to reach across the table and tip the contents of the vial into the wine glass, and three more to yank my hand back and compose myself. That’s about thirteen seconds, not twenty, but I can’t have him suspect anything, so I need the extra cushion.
“So, tell me about your day, Sara,” he says after most of the linguini on his plate is gone. Looking up, he pins me with a cool silver gaze. “Anything interesting happen?”
My stomach contracts, knotting around the linguini I forced down my throat. Peter couldn’t know about me running into Joe, could he? My tormentor hasn’t said anything, but if in his mind, this weird thing between us is some kind of courtship, he might object to me talking to—and making plans with—other men.