Page 49 of The Diamond Thief
20
Jade
Iwonder if Jacob has a bunker designer. And if he does, did he do like the old Egyptian kings and blind them afterward, or bury them, so they couldn’t reveal the locations?
Jacob looks up from the stove. A wine sauce bubbles around two perfect chicken breasts. He knows his way around a kitchen, that’s for sure.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
I sit on a stool at the bar opposite the stove. “Just wondering if the bones of the people who built this place are stacked behind the walls.”
He laughs. Funny, he said that first night that he never laughs, but he seems to laugh plenty around me. “Your mind goes the quirkiest places.”
He has no idea. Watching him chop basil and drop it into a pan has me sparking in the girl parts like nothing I’ve experienced.
I squirm on my stool. Cool your jets, I remind myself. You’re basically his prisoner at the moment. Stockholm syndrome is not sexy.
And yet I have caused him grievous harm. Honestly, nobody in the Den would blink an eye at his behavior if he locked me in a dungeon and shoved me bread and water. Luckily, no buyer has paid for the swords yet. No one was coming for them on that count.
Jacob chose his heist well. Stealing from the bad guys means you have a singular enemy, and virtually no one will help them find you.
I have to respect his methods, even if I’m not thrilled about where we stand now.
At some point I’m going to have to ‘fess up about this whole game, but it’s not now. I’ll eat some chicken in wine sauce and play the hostage. I’ll get out of here when I’m good and ready. It’s just a matter of finding a moment to defeat the security.
He lifts the pan and expertly shakes it, distributing the ingredients evenly around the perfectly cooked chicken.
“You want me to fix the salad?” I ask. He’s already chopped celery, tomatoes, and green onion, as well as perfectly julienned carrots and cucumbers. I can assemble.
“Sure,” he says. He lifts a glass of wine. He doesn’t even cook with the cheap stuff. I can’t believe he’d use a red this perfect in a dinner dish, but something tells me Jacob doesn’t do anything halfway.
I try to rise to his occasion, prettily arranging the fluffy romaine lettuce pieces in the wide bowls, sprinkling the other vegetables on top.
He grins at my artwork. “Nice.”
I shake the bottle of vinaigrette he prepared earlier, full of wonder. What are we doing here? It feels like a date. But it’s captivity. This whole situation is so screwed up.
He slides the chicken breasts onto plates and spoons sauce over them.
“Lovely,” I say.
We carry the plates and bowls and wine over to a small table against the wall. There’s a small vase of fresh flowers on it.
Fresh. Flowers.
So someone comes in here regularly. Or he contacted them to come in before we arrived.
I’m betting on the latter. This provides critical information. For one, there has to be some distance between where we were, about a half hour into Pennsylvania past the New Jersey border, and here. Time for somebody in his employ to stock the fridge and set out flowers. Freshen up the place.
Or maybe they did it while I was still unconscious.
God, we could be anywhere.
I cut off a bite of chicken and almost moan. “This is really good,” I say.
“I’m glad you enjoy it.”
“Who taught you to cook?”
