Nice? More like deadly! I lift my eyes and give him a baleful look. “I thought it was water.”
Now he looks absolutely aghast. “Water? Why would I ruin a good cigar?”
“I don’t know. Because water’s good for you? Staying hydrated is important.” Not only that, it’s good at helping manage hunger. If I drink enough water throughout the day, I can get by on just a couple of meals. And that adds up fast.
“Vodka is liquid.”
Whatever. I’m too emotionally drained by what happened in the last two days to argue.
He gets up and goes to the kitchen. A moment later, he brings me a blue-tinged bottle from the refrigerator. “Here.”
“Is this water?”
He gives me a look. “Yes.”
“Thank you.” I twist the cap, breaking the seal, and take a careful sip. The bottle could have been tampered with. A seal isn’t going to stop somebody like Tolyan.
As I drink the icy water, my throat and mouth no longer feel like they’re about to spontaneously combust, although my nose still stings.
Tolyan checks his watch, then goes back over to his chair and snuffs out his cigar. “Dinner time.”
Did my stomach growl again without me noticing? “Oh, I’m not hungry,” I say hurriedly.
To be honest, I am a little hungry, but I don’t want to start talking about dinner without getting an answer to my question. I need to know if he plans to help, and if so, how much he plans to charge. I haven’t quite hit my goal of ten thousand dollars. If I had that, I might feel better. It’s such a neat, even number. A lot better than nine thousand and change.
He gives me a level look. “Up to you if you don’t want to eat, but I am hungry. Unlike certain people, I like to feed myself regularly.”
Then he walks over to the kitchen without a backward glance.
Should I go after him or stay here? The scent of the cigar lingers, and the empty armchair faces me.
I’m not here to sit on the sofa alone. Okay, I didn’t come here voluntarily, but now that I am, I’m going to make something of the situation.
Holding the almost-full water bottle like a weapon, I move gingerly toward the kitchen. The Dobermans follow, whining softly.
Tolyan’s heating up an indoor gas grill, the exhaust fan whirring quietly over the stove. He’s rolled his sleeves up, revealing thick forearms that look hewn out of railroad ties. He puts on a black apron with three dogs of indeterminant breed on the chest. The apron doesn’t lessen the impact of his presence—all that raw power and masculine appeal.
He lays two huge steaks on the grill. The sound of sizzling meat fills the kitchen immediately, followed by an absolutely mouth-watering scent.
The dogs are sitting, lined up along some invisible border. One hesitantly tries to cross into the kitchen.
“Mussorgsky, no!” Tolyan says firmly.
The dog drops its head, chastened, and goes back to the mini-pack. Another Doberman gives him an “I told you so” look, then turns to Tolyan, licking his chops.
I don’t blame the poor animals. The steaks smell incredible. Tolyan pulls out a small bowl of salad, just enough for maybe two, and tosses it lightly with some vinaigrette dressing.
My stomach lets out a loud growl. One of the Dobermans looks at me for a moment. I cover hot cheeks with my hands, my elbows tucked tightly to keep the sheet up.
Tolyan turns just enough that I can see him in profile and cocks an eyebrow. “Not hungry, eh?” he says, then flips the steak.
“It was one of the dogs.”
“Was it now. Which one?”
The Dobermans look at me accusingly. Fine, I can’t blame the innocent canines. On top of that, I owe them. They fought off the flasher yesterday. “I, uh, wasn’t paying attention.”
Tolyan grunts.