Page 14 of Stolen By the Billionaire
The papery black leather covers fell open in her hands to the verse: Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour. (1 Peter 5:8)
Oh, that advice wasn’t too little, too late or anything. Maybe if she’d read the injunction to be vigilant against a devil who was walking around and ready to devour earlier this morning, she would have been adequately prepared for a home invasion with a gun or a pitchfork or some other weapon.
Sarah looked up from the Bible and stared around her living room, taking a good hard look at the turkey red drapes and the black-and-neon geometric quilt Abigail had given to Sarah for Christmas a few years back, and then she read the verse again.
It was the same as the first time.
Exactly the same.
Not a dream.
Darn it.
Well, that meant the money was real, too.
Fifteen thousand dollars was a heck of a lot of money for her.
Muffintop had returned to Sarah’s feet and was staring up at her, the cat’s yellow eyes unblinking as she tried to mind-control Sarah into giving her the cat treats from the big box in the cupboard.
Sarah said to the cat, “I have no flippin’ idea what just happened, either.”
6
A Hot One
Sarah
Despite having recently had a gun pressed against her temple and feeling the chill of a cold knife on her throat, the midday chores had to be done.
It was a little early, but Sarah needed to walk off some of the adrenaline still rushing in her blood. Her muscles felt crampy.
Remi trotted out to the barn with her, peeking in on the chicks in the chicken coop on the way. He was a trained livestock guardian dog, and Sarah thought he might consider the entire farm his responsibility.
Farms did that to dogs and people.
After pumping water from the hand pump, Sarah gave the chickens a pan to drink from while she was watering the plants. The sun beat hot on the back of her dark shirt even though it wasn’t noon yet. The day was going to be a hot one.
Speaking of hot ones—
No.
No, no, no. Sarah was not Melinda Johnson, who was still boy-crazy even though they’d graduated from high school five years ago. Melinda had three kids with her husband.
Maybe that was why Melinda had three kids with her husband.
Nevertheless, Sarah was not boy-crazy, or man-nuts—no, not that—or whatever the term would be for a grown woman lusting over an unnamed man who was evidently a violent criminal who broke into houses and threatened people.
The guy was extraordinarily tall, too, well over six feet because her doorframe was six feet, eight inches high. He was probably six-four or -five.
The only part of him she’d seen without camouflage grease paint, his lower arm, had been muscular, ripped, thick with heavy muscle that slid under his skin as he’d twisted his wrist and whacked himself with the dull knife.
If he was really an ex-Navy SEAL, his whole body was probably all strong muscle like that: his chest, his abs, his legs, and even his back.
Tattoos probably covered most of his skin, too. Navy guys, especially, seemed to have tattoos. An anchor might be drawn on him somewhere, or maybe some special SEAL insignia or a tribal sleeve on one of his strong, muscular arms. Perhaps that part of a tattoo she’d seen was only the beginning of a whole lot of sexy ink all over his body.
However, the guy couldn’t tell one Mary Varvara Bell, a historian in New York City, from a Russian mob boss. That didn’t bode well for him in the brains department.
Good Lord, Sarah was mooning over the guy like a lovesick puppy. Maybe she needed to get out and meet some new guys.
