Trapped by a Dangerous Man by Cleo Peitsche Read Free Book Online

sleeves, drained the pasta and shook it back into the pan along with a bit of olive oil. Then he added a cup of what looked like melted butter and herbs and dumped that into a bowl. His strong forearms flexed as he rhythmically shook the contents. I watched, baffled, as he transferred the whole thing to a baking dish. He chopped several olives, then distributed them over the dish. Finally he pulled a plate of grated cheese out of the refrigerator and sprinkled most of the cheese evenly on top of his concoction, his movements graceful and effortless.
    To me it just seemed like a lot of work, but then I did most of my cooking with a hotpot and a toaster oven, and the only reason I used those was because my microwave had been broken for six months.
    He slid the pan into the oven, then set two plates on the table. When he returned the cheese to the refrigerator, he came out with a large salad bowl, the top covered in plastic wrap.  
    Salad. Yech. Though this one looked fairly yummy… not a bit of hard, white lettuce in sight. I allowed Corbin to serve me a heaping plateful because hey, it was food.  
    “Do you have dressing in the refrigerator?” I asked as he served himself.
    “Already mixed in.”
    I squinted at the salad. My opinion was that if I couldn’t see the dressing, there clearly wasn’t enough of it, but I decided to keep that to myself. Corbin sat across from me, and we picked up our forks at the same time.  
    “How far are we from where you found me? I want to look for my phone.”
    “My guess is that it either got flattened by a car or is wet and shorted out.” He forked up a heaping of salad. “You can try calling it.”
    “I wasn’t getting reception,” I said, my heart sinking.  
    “Then you can borrow mine after we eat.”
    “That would be great,” I said, disappointed that I’d have to find another pretext to inspect my coat and wallet. I took a bite. The salad was delicious. A melody of light flavors mixed in my mouth: a nutty oil, something slightly spicy. “What is in this? It’s…” Words failed me. “Amazing,” was the best I could do.
    Corbin smiled. “I used to be a chef.”
    “Where? For the White House?”
    “New York. Actually, I had former presidents in my restaurant. Princes. Celebrities. Lots of celebrities.”
    I looked at him, startled. It was a pretty elaborate cover story, and yet the man knew his way around a kitchen. “Why’d you stop? What do you do now?”
    “My circumstances changed,” he said. “I don’t like talking about it.”
    I bet he didn’t. I hid my smirk behind another forkful of salad. It had toasted nuts on it, and little curly green lettuce I’d never had before.
    “And you? What do you do?” Corbin asked. He seemed nonchalant, and I relaxed, confident that he didn’t know who I was.
    “I’m a jumper.”
    “Jumper?”
    “Family business. Day in and day out, the only words out of my mouth are ‘how high?’ Professional jumper.”
    “Is that why you need to call your brother? You work on the weekends?”
    I nodded. “He’ll be wondering where I am.”
    Corbin pushed aside his plate and leaned on the table, his eyes boring into mine. “What kind of business is this, exactly?”
    “Um…” I wondered if those electric eyes of his had some kind of built-in lie detector. “It’s a type of government subcontracting.” How was that for vague? “Can’t really talk about it.”
    Corbin didn’t ask any followup questions, and neither did I.  
    ~~~
    After lunch I was wiped out—couldn’t keep my eyes open—so I went to take a nap. I woke when the door opened. Corbin stood there, cell phone in hand. “Bad news. I looked at the radar and the forecasts, and we’re definitely not getting out of here before tomorrow afternoon. Call your brother.” He sat at the edge of the bed, far away enough that I didn’t feel threatened.
    But I couldn’t order Rob to summon backup and get his ass out there with Corbin sitting three feet