Not yet.
He stood in a massive, rectangular warehouse the length of a football field with concrete floors and brick walls. The rafters soared several stories above, and windows lined the upper half, far too high to reach. Grime coated the glass, obscuring the view of the sky. But sunlight filtered through the smudges, bright and hot, burning his eyes.
Up ahead, Mike waited with his arms relaxed at his sides and a lopsided smile tipping his mouth. That smile couldn’t be trusted, no matter how friendly it appeared.
Cole pulled up his jeans enough to not trip over the dragging cuffs. Then he made his way toward Mike.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Two guards on his trail.
He could disarm one of them and use the weapon to kill them both. Mike didn’t appear to be carrying a gun, so Cole could take him out, too. But what about the three men at the exit? And the other ten beyond the door? Since arriving, he’d counted sixteen altogether, including Lydia. If he started a gunfight, he wouldn’t make it out alive.
“We’re not going far,” Mike said over his shoulder, walking ahead.
Pallets of discarded stones and cracked blocks of granite cluttered the length of the warehouse. Steel siding sealed up the doors at the far end. No way out. So where the hell were they going?
His nerves frayed, his shoulders twitching with the impulse to turn back.
Then he saw her.
Past a wall of crates, she stood with her back to him.
His gaze caught on the shimmering beauty of red hair, the nip of a tiny waist, and the flashing tease of creamy white legs beneath her dress.
A fucking dress. In a headstone factory. In the middle of the desert.
It cinched at her waist and flared out around her knees. Black fabric with red cherries. Red heels with little red bows. Impractical as fuck. Eye-catching beyond reason.
He couldn’t stop staring.
She turned, angling her face into the glow of the windows. Pale shimmers of light accentuated the delicate curves of her profile and illuminated the stunning spirals and brilliant red tones of her hair. Her bangs looped into some sort of pompadour at the front, with the side parts rolling under and down. Strangely vintage. Fashionably retro. Her entire look screamed 1950s.
He’d never seen anything so shockingly exquisite, so uniquely beautiful. Flawless skin, luscious lips, and voluptuous curves. A statuesque woman with the appearance of a goddess, the heart of demoness, and a fashion style all her own.
She touched her chin to her shoulder and gave a slow blink, her unnaturally long lashes fanning over porcelain cheeks. Then her sea-green eyes latched onto his.
Their stares locked for a full second. Long enough to forget where he was or how he got here. A million things needed to be said, but words didn’t exist in the space of their eye contact. Only sensations. Buzzing along the skin. Static in the air. Fire over ice in a heart that couldn’t melt.
In that unexpected moment between them, he was a normal man, standing before a woman, with a rush of warmth in his chest. She felt it, too, her lips parting, her gaze losing focus. The world blurred, disorientating, and at the same time, perfectly balanced.
She straightened, turning away, and he released a soundless breath, thunderstruck.
And infuriated.
What the fuck just happened? Did they drug the hot dogs? Or was this a side-effect of prolonged isolation?
He was losing his fucking mind.
Nothing about that woman was real. From her dazzling hair color to her cherry red smile, she wore a false face and a glamorous facade.
Mike prowled over to her and slid a hand around her waist with intimate familiarity. She shifted toward him, and their foreheads came together, touching affectionately. He spoke quietly against her mouth and stroked her hair, her arm, her lower back.
The man’s entire manner seemed to transform in her presence, his expression softening, shoulders relaxing, his posture leaning as if sucked in by her orbit.
The pathetic fool loved her.
Hard to tell if she reciprocated the sentiment. She didn’t reject his touch. She also didn’t look at him in the same way. Not in the breathless, gobsmacked way she’d just looked at Cole.
Mike said a few words near her ear and stepped away, his demeanor hardening, turning cold as he focused on Cole.
“I mentioned a job.” He clasped his hands behind him, his head down and eyes up. “We want you to work for us.”
Like hell he would.
If it was a reasonable job, they wouldn’t have threatened his friends, forced him here against his will, and locked him in isolation. No, they knew he would never agree to this.
Assuming they knew his range of skills, they probably wanted to recruit him for a heist or infiltration mission to steal something of value—a person, a treasure, or priceless information. Whatever it was, the job would be dangerous, undesirable, and in no way worth his time or risk.
Not that they intended to give him a choice.
He met Mike’s eyes, exuding the cagey, reticent persona he’d maintained over the past couple of weeks. They had no idea what was going on in his head, if he was slowly going crazy or completely unaffected by the situation.
A silent man who didn’t stand up for himself was often perceived as ignorant and malleable. He needed them to underestimate him and would continue to play that role until they let their guards down.
“Now, I know you’re thinking you could never work for us. But I have something you won’t be able to resist.” Mike moved toward the wall of crates and slid a box into view with his boot. “You want to eat like a king?”
From the box, he removed a can of chicken, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of beer.
Cole’s mouth watered at the sight of the beer. Fucking Christ, what he wouldn’t give for a taste of hops on his tongue.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Mike chuckled. “It’s not really a royal feast, but it’s better than the alternative, yeah?”
Better than hot dogs? Damn straight.
“The task is simple.” Mike tapped his toe against a pallet of broken granite. “Move these pieces to the pallet over there.”
He motioned at the empty platform forty yards away.
The rock pile spanned six-feet high by six-feet wide, and each chunk was wider than his chest. Brutally heavy, no question. His back and feet would bear the brunt of it.
Why did they want debris moved from one platform to another? To test his strength? To torture him psychologically? Maybe they were just bored?
“I want my boots.”
“Holy shit, he can talk.” Mike pointed at him and arched a brow at Lydia. “After sixteen days of silence, I was starting to wonder.”
Sixteen fucking days. He’d guessed it had been that long, but hearing it didn’t make it easier to stomach. If they owned this building, which was highly likely, this could go on for months.
Unless the thing they wanted from him had a time limit.
“I know it’s lonely in that cell, and you’re wondering what the point of all this is.” Mike patted him on the shoulder. “Well, we’re working up to that. Little steps. Right now, those steps go from this pallet to that pallet. Without your boots. Do a good job and you’ll get the food in that box.”
He needed the carbohydrates. He desperately wanted the beer. But more than that, it was imperative that he spend as much time as possible outside of that cell. Not only for his mental wellbeing but to observe his captors and do what he did best—listen and learn, make small talk and befriend, all the while subtly extracting information.