Trafficked by Kim Purcell Read Free Book Online

kitchen.”
    Hannah’s words stuck in her throat like a hard piece of old celery. She could feel tears tugging at her eyes, and finally, she managed to speak. “Of course.” She rushed to remove her utensils and her plate, and turned to get out of the room before she burst into tears like a fool.
    Lillian was still standing in the doorway. She touched Hannah softly on the shoulder, as if she felt sorry. “We need our private family time. I hope you understand.”
    Hannah had imagined helping this mother throughout the day and thought she’d be included in all family activities. It hadn’t occurred to her that she’d be just a nanny, nothing more, not part of this family, not part of any family. That wasn’t how the agent, Olga, had put it.
    â€œI’m sorry I threw out the bars,” Hannah rushed. “I don’t—that’s not normal for me.”
    Lillian nodded briefly. “It’s fine.” Michael renewed his escape efforts, wiggling and kicking, and Lillian stepped to the side to put him in his high chair.
    Hannah hurried into the kitchen, where she eased her plate, glass, fork, and knife down onto the table, trying not to make a sound on the glass. Since she couldn’t seem to stop making mistakes, she stood by the table and waited until they told her what to do.
    â€œSit,” Sergey said.
    She sat. He took her plate from the table and she worried that once again she’d made a mistake. Maybe they didn’t think she should eat tonight? Then he filled the plate with a large serving of the pasta salad and a leg from the chicken and put it back down in front of her.
    â€œYou’re too thin,” he said. “Eat.”
    It was unbelievable that he’d served her. Men didn’t serve food, and certainly not to their employees. On top of that, he’d given her the leg. In Moldova, dark chicken meat was what everyone preferred, and young people never got it. She’d have to write Babulya and tell her about it. The chicken leg alone would reassure her that she was with a good family.
    Sergey headed into the dining room, carrying the pasta salad and chicken. The door slid shut behind him.
    The smell of the food was making Hannah’s stomach growl. She reached for her fork and was about to take a bite of the chicken when the doorbell rang.
    â€œWho’s that?” Lillian asked.
    A chair scraped on the hardwood floor. “Paavo,” Sergey said, opening the dining room door. “He wants to see her.” He looked at Hannah, his brow creasing, and then strode through the kitchen and down the hall to the front door.
    She put her fork down. It was like they’d bought a new TV and their friend was coming to see it, except that she was the TV.
    She pushed her chair back and stood up so she could look this person in the eye.

Chapter seven
    T he man was a hippopotamus. Sergey had seemed large before, but he looked small compared to this man, whose neck was as thick as one of Hannah’s thighs. The man was wearing billowing gray dress pants and a black shirt, unbuttoned to the third button, revealing black chest hairs on sickly white skin. He had on white socks, no slippers, and smelled of French cologne, sweet cigars, and a yeasty body odor.
    His little black eyes examined her.
    â€œSo, you’re the girl,” he said in a brusque dialect—not Ukrainian but not Russian either. Siberian?
    â€œI guess,” she said with a shrug, trying to pretend she didn’t care.
    â€œThis is my friend Paavo,” said Sergey. “He introduced us to your agent and helped us with the documents.”
    â€œWhich agent?” Her voice squeaked, but neither man seemed to notice.
    Paavo leaned against the counter and looked her up and down. She gave him her cold stare, the same one she gave to any man who couldn’t keep his eyes or his hands to himself.
    â€œElena.” He said her fake name like a statement, as