Free Extreme Danger by Shannon McKenna Page B

for masculine attention. The jeans were tight, and she had to cover up the chubby bit of belly that hung over the waistband with something loose. The blue peasant blouse was the only thing that fit the bill. The low-cut neck was sort of provocative, but she figured he had seen everything she had last night anyway, so what the hell.
    These men stared at her. As if she were stark naked all over again.
    The fat man stepped closer to her. She shrank back, opened her mouth to say, excuse me, gentlemen, but I see that this is a very bad time, sorry to have intruded, now I’ll just disappear, OK? Bye!
    Her mouth worked. A papery squeak came out. Not a word, or even part of one.
    The fat man approaching her did not carry a gun. He was shorter, heavier and older than all the rest of them, but when his light gray eyes fixed on her, she shrank away. His lips curved into a nasty smile.
    She stared back, a fuzzy little animal hypnotized by a snake.
    His eyes were strange. Opaque, like tinted windows on a car. He laid his damp, heavy hand on her shoulder. Ran it up underneath her hair, and gripped the back of her neck. His long nails cut into her skin.
    Goose bumps popped out over her body. He said something incomprehensible, in a questioning tone. Tilted up her chin. She felt horribly vulnerable, with her throat exposed, as if he were going to bite her. She sucked in air, tried to speak. Tried again. “I’m, ah, sorry?”
    “You are American?”
    Uh, what else? She nodded as best she could with her neck hyper-extended.
    Mr. Big spoke up, from the back of the room. “I was just telling him how I hired you to cook for him.”
    Her eyes flicked toward his. Mr. Big’s face was expressionless, but she caught the urgent flash in his eyes. She tried to nod again. “Yes,” she said in a strangled voice. “Cook. Yes. Of course. I’m a very good cook.”
    “Really?” the fat man purred, petting the bump of her larynx with his forefinger, then pressing it. He settled his finger over her fluttering pulse point. “What is your name, my dear?”
    “B-becca,” she stammered.
    “Becca,” he repeated. “And what, exactly, do you cook?”
    Her throat hurt under the pressure of his finger. She barely heard her own voice, her ears roared so loudly. Booming echoes, black spots dancing, she was going to yark, or faint—
    “Crepes a l’orange,” she said, seizing at random on the recipe at the top of her head. Her brunch favorite when she wasn’t counting calories. “Or if you’d prefer savory instead of sweet, a soufflé laced with a creamy blend of f-four Italian cheeses. Accompanied by sourdough loaf, grilled ham, and a refreshing cocktail of fruit nectar and prosecco.”
    The silver-haired man’s eyebrows twitched up in surprise.
    “Mouthwatering,” he said. “I will sample both.”
    “If you w-wish,” she quavered. “No problem at all.”
    “But look at you.” He spun her around until she faced him, ran his finger along the loose neckline of the blouse. “Explain this. To me, this shirt, this hair, these breasts, so beautifully displayed…” His fingers closed around one of them, squeezing until she gasped. “You are not dressed to cook. I think that you are here…to fuck.”
    “We didn’t know you were coming this morning,” Mr. Big broke in. “She didn’t know that—”
    “Shut up.” The man’s hands tightened on her breasts. “I am tired of listening to you bark like a dog. What is your name, dog?”
    Mr. Big’s eyes looked like a caged predator’s. “Solokov.”
    “If you speak again out of turn, Solokov, I will have you clubbed unconscious,” Silver Hair said. His breath was hot against Becca’s neck, scented with licorice. She shrank from the smell as if it were poison gas. Felt the nasty lump of his erection pressing her bottom.
    Her gorge rose. She’d never been so afraid.
    “So. If you did not bring her here for my enjoyment, Solokov, I can only conclude that you brought her here for your