“I didn’t realize you were such a lightweight,” Tolyan says. “And so tense.”
I pretend I didn’t hear his second comment. “What is this?” I gasp, gesturing at the cup.
“Vodka.” Then he adds, “A nice brand.”
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.
“But since you’re making two steaks, I’ll have the one you don’t want,” I say. Hunger has the most incredible ability to overcome pride and better sense, especially when there’s potentially free food to be had. And even if Tolyan plans to charge me for it later, the smell in the kitchen is too much of a torture. I’m not strong enough to withstand it.
He lets out a small sound that’s somewhere between scoff and laugh. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”
“They can’t both be for you,” I say.
“My dogs love steak. They’re hungry and grateful, unlike some people.”
Oh. I didn’t think about that. I glance at the three Dobermans vibrating with anticipation, then back at Tolyan. Well, this is embarrassing and awkward…
Then I note a corner of his lips quirking upward. Guess this is his small half revenge, half teasing for my earlier comment. “Okay. I’m hungry and grateful.”
Silently he pulls out two asymmetrical bowls and scoops out piping-hot mashed potatoes from a small appliance I’ve never seen before.
“Put the salad on the table,” he says.
I retie the knot with the sheet to make sure it stays in place, then take the bowl and put it on the table, which is big enough for six. I come back to the kitchen. “Want me to get the utensils, too?”
“The drawer to your left.”
I pull it out. Lying neatly inside are forks, spoons, bread knives and steak knives.
For a brief moment, I want to take one and hide it on me somewhere, just in case. But he’s trusting me with the knives, so I shouldn’t betray that trust if I want him to like me enough to want to help.
I set the table. Tolyan takes off his apron and carries two plates with steak and mashed potatoes. He places one in front of me. The steak is enormous.
“If you can’t finish it all, you can give some to them.” He tilts his chin at the Dobermans sitting between us.
They look at me, eyes full of hope.
Sorry, doggies. I think you’re adorable, but I’m starving.
“Shouldn’t they get some dinner?” I ask.
“Don’t let them fool you. They’ve been fed already,” he says.
Really? From the way they’re staring, you’d think they hadn’t had a bite in ages.
“Anything else to drink?” he asks.
“I’m okay with the water.” Don’t need to experience another liquid fireball of “hydration.”
He pours himself another glass of vodka and sits down.
The steak’s rare. I prefer medium rare, but it’s cooked to perfection, the outside seared and crusted, and I’m not going to complain. I cut into the tender meat and sigh quietly at how flavorful and juicy it is. I haven’t eaten this well in ages. The sandwich last night was great, but it can’t compare to this. And the mashed potatoes are buttery and smooth, almost creamy on my tongue.
If this is going to be my last meal, it’s a damn good one.
Tolyan’s eating quietly, slicing his meat with professional precision. The Dobermans whine slightly, but they don’t move to beg for food.
After I finish about half the steak, he finally opens his mouth. “About what you said…”