Addicted In Cold Blood (22 page)

The way his gaze raked her body like a fine tooth comb, the way he grabbed her chin—he was attracted to her, he’d already admitted it, it wasn’t a secret. Yet, he had it in check. No weakness in this man.

Damn him!

He hadn’t attempted to assault her, only to protect himself. She couldn’t wrap her mind around this. What a horrifying enigma he was, wrapped in superlative packaging.

She’d taken countless hostage classes, even taught a few to the newbies, and not one of them gave a profile like the one she was currently enduring, witnessing with her very own eyes. If she couldn’t get a grasp on any of his flaws, how could she manipulate him to escape from his snare? She was a good people reader but he came up blank, like a temperamental e-book reader. It was the first time she’d failed a capture of a suspect, and now, she understood why. Atypical in every sense of the word—and here he was, locked in a room with her, a beautiful, albeit cold room, full of blue and white light and steel furniture...cold, steel furniture to match his uncaring persona regarding his misdeeds and horrendous transgressions.

The rumpled sheets beneath his head, contrasted with the choppy darkness of his cropped military style haircut and skin tone...and now she stared at him again. He’d had a fresh haircut...his hair had been longer than that when he’d first knocked her out. Unnerved by the attraction to him, she sighed, but couldn’t look away from him. Something was pulling her toward him—sure, blame it on an invisible force...

She shook her head in confusion and disgust as she studied him.

He didn’t look real...not one flaw, blemish or mark took up space on his masculine, chiseled face. Everything about him exuded confidence and strength—but beneath the veneer was pure irrationality...and she was far from safe.

That’s it. That is how he makes people come to him. They feel safe, and then, when he has them in the palm of his hand, he strikes. How else could he get Carter, Betel and all the others? They don’t trust anyone. Jayme, don’t do this...but why doesn’t my heart leap a little less in fear when he comes in the room? What is happening to me?

She wouldn’t let him see her break down again. She beat herself up inside for the unraveling earlier, where she pulled on the door knob and believed for a split second she could make a clean getaway. She’d gone crazy after obsessing herself with thoughts of all the ways he may torture and kill her. She was no longer a cop in those moments—just a kidnapped woman fighting for her damn life—and all her training went out the damn window. Her will to survive was stronger than a textbook, that was for damn sure. She had to keep her cool from now on. Internally is where all of the jumbled fears would nest, and she couldn’t expose her weaknesses, borne from the knowledge that she’d been played, lied to and that she’d bought it hook, line and sinker.

He’d delight in that. Just like he delighted in this news he just showed me. Okay, so I’ve been fucked...

The FBI didn’t give a damn about her, and now she knew it. She respected these men, – held them in high regard. It was an ugly truth and there was no escaping it now. The man beside her had told the truth. Blood on his hands, and blood on theirs, too...

Gently placing the computer down on the bed between them, she moved toward the headboard, on the unoccupied side. She sat there for a while, watching his eyes twitch under the thin lids, his thick, dark lashes flickering against his upper cheekbones. Soon, his deep, groggy voice interrupted her thoughts.

“You’ve been staring at me for quite some time. I’m sure you’d like to clean up, eat a little...” He kept his eyes closed and after that, he went silent again.

After a few moments, he stretched and yawned. He didn’t bring up what she’d read. He left her alone with it, let it marinate inside her, and he seemed disinterested in a discussion about it. Instead, he allowed the slow simmer. He was being kind to her—not asking her for much, just keeping her there, but why? She didn’t understand, and she
needed
to understand.

“What do you want from me? Please, just tell me,” she asked, clutching the sheets against her body.

Maybe just being a straight shooter would work...

“I’m going to turn up the temperature in this room. It slipped my mind or I would have done it before I fell asleep. Please feel free to shower or take a bath. Everything you need is already in there.” He pointed toward the lavatory. “I’ll be back in approximately forty minutes with a meal for you. I will also allow you to watch the television...you may even be on the news tonight.”

And with that, he left the room, making her grunt in exasperation as he locked her in...

****

Xzion picked up the bright red cookbook and re-read the chicken cacciatore recipe. A small trickle of sweat slid down the side of his face.

I hate being hot. This stove is cooking me alive. Damn it.  Stop belly aching and just get through it...no big deal. You’re hot, so what...don’t whine.

Xzion’s lack of many pores, as with all of his people, was part of the problem. They had about half the number as humans, which caused them to overheat rapidly, especially their computerized brains.  But he was still far better off than most. That was the whole reason he was there, frustrated with himself for at times still finding it unbearable. He was okay in Earthly topography. He didn’t perish or become deathly ill like so many others, but that didn’t mean the shit didn’t hurt. Regardless, he kept a ceramic bowl of ice chips handy as he toiled.

Steam rose from the boiling pot on the right stove eye, the sizzling sound of the hot grease was his cue as he looked over the colorful photo once more. Delicately, he placed the lightly floured chicken cutlets into the olive oil, sprinkling fresh ground pepper and sea salt onto them. He hadn’t cooked a dinner such as this before. It wasn’t something he’d normally eat, but it wasn’t for him; it was for
her
. He wanted her to feel comfortable and have all the luxuries of home, even if it was at his own expense. He’d already adjusted her bedroom temperature and soon heard the bathroom water start. It pleased him that she was in his home, even if it wasn’t of her own free will. He could feel their relationship forming, the foundation being established. He had to build trust, for he was putting a lot on the line to keep her there.

What am I going to do with her?

He sprinkled the capers and thinly sliced red peppers into the pan, then placed the cookbook face down onto the stark white kitchen counter. He was skating on thin ice, but he enjoyed ice... He’d taken a prisoner for God’s sake—in his mind, a lover—unbeknown to Aton, and she was no ordinary captive. In his favor, he relayed to himself, running through perfidious mental ground called rationalization with hills of justification. The hectic thought process brought him right here, that it was
she,
that came to him; he didn’t steal her from her home or force her inside.

She did what she did, and he responded in swift order. Plain and simple. He had taken advantage of the situation and his mixture of pleasure and irritation blended once he saw her in his laboratory, taking snap shots of his experiments with her cute little pink iPhone, oblivious to the fact that the lion had found her in his den. While she was unconscious, he’d briefly blamed her for the predicament. She’d put him in a precarious position, and now he was face to face with his obsession. It was no longer that he didn’t want to let her go; he
couldn’t
let her go, and he knew it was much deeper than her simply being a liability at this point...

He hoped for many things, though he believed they may be unrealistic. He hadn’t forgotten that she was a human; their thought processes were completely different. He’d learned English as a youth while in training and the next day, he learned Spanish, and spoke both fluently. Still,  they still had a failure to communicate. The language wasn’t the problem—it was the heart. As long as her human emotions were in the way, he would never be able to have her, fully and completely but without her emotions; he’d never get what he wanted from her, either. The double-edged sword cut to the core, at times immobilizing his greatest aspiration. Regardless, she was substandard, frail, weak in that regard but instead of feeling disgust regarding her emotional handicap, he felt sorry for her and lest he admit it—a twinge of envy. Once again, he was competing with an entity that he was no match for—her perfume, the sun, now this.

This…
emotion.

He stirred in the white wine sauce, enjoying the smells from his gleaming glass and silvery kitchen. A place fit for interior design magazine covers—not to be actually used, only as a stage presence. Nzion was more into the visual pleasing aesthetics. The comfort of a place was the least of his concern. As long as he found it appealing then the goal was met, but now there was this new issue to contend with: coziness. Humans needed to be comfortable in order to perform at their optimization. He’d seen it over the years. Things he would not have batted his camera lensed right eye at would make a human counterpart double over and hurl their dinner or at the very least, throw up their hands in refusal.  In some ways, they
were
similar beings; in others, polar opposites. And now that he was interested in
one
, beyond the superficial or for his vocational training, things had become far more fascinating.

Since he’d had her in his custody, he’d taken to reading about and observing these Earth creatures. He’d moved past his vast knowledge of drugs, intoxication, narcotic dealing and the like, and delved deeper into an aspect of their world that he had little to no understanding of—and frankly, had never desired to find out more about. Until now...

What does she like? What does she desire? What does she want? Can I make her happy? What would make her trust me? How could she ever understand me? Will we ever make love?

****

Nzion entered the bedroom to hear the shower water shut off and taper until all that was left was the plopping of water droplets against the shower tiled floor. As tempting as it was, he hadn’t installed a camera inside of the bathroom though he was certain she’d checked. She’d been in there quite some time, and he wondered what thoughts roamed her mind. He set the sleek, burgundy tray down on the nightstand. He’d carefully placed each item upon it—the oval white plate garnished with a sprig of fresh parsley, the tender sautéed chicken breast soaking in light fragrant sauce. A small salver contained a house salad with a dollop of home-made Italian dressing. Two thick slices of bread spread with garlic butter and a small glass of Sangiovese completed the meal.

The bathroom door opened. Steam bellowed out, but somehow, the heat did not disturb him. She looked startled to see him there, but didn’t say anything as she gripped the white towel tighter around her naked body, her knuckles clenching, as if the Egyptian cotton in some way had magical powers to protect her. She cautiously entered the bedroom, while he stared at the water droplets on her shoulders...now jealous of them, too...

Her eyes darted to the tray.

I know you’re hungry, love.

Love? I called her love—well, in my mind I did. It’s a term of endearment affiliated with that perplexing emotion. Hmmm, it sounded right, just flowed I suppose.

He stepped away from his thoughts, cleared his throat and pointed to his handiwork.

“I, uh, turned up the heat and made you some dinner. I hope it is to your liking.” He then removed a remote control from his pocket and pointed it at a blank wall. Suddenly, a panel in the partition flipped, exposing a wide flat screen television.

“You can turn this on whenever you wish. Let me know if you have any problems with it.” He scratched at the new scruff growing along his jaw, making a mental note to shave later that evening as he made his way back toward the bedroom door to leave.

“Cristiano Hernández,” she said, breaking the tension. “I don’t know what your intentions are toward me, but if you care about my feelings, as you are least pretending to, please reconsider what you’re doing. The longer you keep me here, the worse it will be for you. I know you may be afraid that I will tell the...”

“I’m afraid of
nothing
,” he growled as he turned back to her. “Feelings are pointless, Officer Knight. That isn’t what I care about and I’m not sure where you got your information, but my name isn’t Cristiano Hernández.”

Tension lines creased her forehead and he knew damn well where she’d gotten the appellation. It was the false name he used to obtain a fake driver’s license and registration, and make his purchases. Every place he went, he changed it—but like a good cop, she’d scanned his license plate and found out the bogus information, buying it as if it were the last of a rare, clearance, highly-sought after item in Walmart.

“Well, then, what
do
you care about?” she questioned as she sat on the bed, tucking her leg beneath her.

“A little bit of nothing, and absolutely everything...and my name is Xzion.” He walked out, closing and locking the door behind him.

*
***

Three days later...

“I’ve put it off long enough.”

Xzion slid his dark brown leather gloves on, along with his coat. He checked his prize on the camera, seeing that she was sound asleep. Aton was pressing the issue like a hungry dog a few feet away from a Thanksgiving ham, his urgings incessant. He wanted to know what was going on, causing the delay. Xzion knew he’d better act fast or the man would be down to see him—and if Aton had to come, there would be major issues and big trouble. Things were more involved now; he didn’t want Aton to ruin his progress. The night before, he’d permitted Jayme access to one additional room, catty corner to his bedroom. He admitted to himself he sought her pleasure as he watched her moving about the area, cautiously, yet seemingly happy to be somewhere else, even if it was still under his roof.