Page 82 of Stolen By the Billionaire
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Aaron Savoie
Sarah
The sleek black and steel coffee machine on a side counter in the kitchen looked like a Frankenstein appliance.
One side of the contraption was a coffeemaker with the usual glass pot and basket for the grounds. The other half looked like machine shop equipment.
Sarah could work with the normal side.
She puttered around the kitchen, peeking into the meticulously organized cabinets and the pantry—the spice drawer was alphabetized—until she found filters and coffee grounds in the cupboard next to the machine.
Bagged coffee instead of a plastic can, huh? Fancy.
The men’s low voices murmured around the corner in the giant living room while Sarah measured the dark-scented grounds into the filter and splashed water from the faucet into the pot. The words of their bass voices ran together, and their hushed, deliberate tone suggested something important was going on.
Dang, she wished she could make out what they were saying. She felt like a womanfolk banished to the kitchen while the menfolk discussed the important things in the study.
Maybe she should just barge on out there.
The coffee gurgled and started percolating.
Sarah scooped the stray coffee granules off the counter and dusted her hands above the trash can.
When she straightened, the guy wearing an unrelieved black military uniform stood on the other side of the island, staring straight at her.
His eyes and expression were as dark as his clothes. Holstered handguns and small canisters hung heavy on his black webbed belt, and bullet-filled magazines were strapped to bandoliers across his chest.
Sarah finished brushing off her hands over the open bin and then lifted her foot gently to let the metal lid drift downward. “The coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”
He nodded.
Sarah extended her hand across the white marble expanse of the island. “I’m Sarah Bell.”
His slow movement to reach across the counter and shake her hand was calculated. “Aaron Savoie.”
His accent, low in his throat, was different than she’d ever heard before, but she’d only ever heard Amish Deutch people with their German accents and that one high school teacher’s bad Spanish inflections.
And Russian, of course. But that didn’t count.
Aaron Savoie’s accent sounded somewhat more like Amish Deutch than anything else when he growled his Rs in the back of his throat, and that was all she could say about it.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Savoie.” She did her best not to mangle his name, but she couldn’t say it like he had. Her throat didn’t do that.
He dropped her hand, and his expression didn’t waver.
She pointed with her open hand toward the bar stools next to him. “You can take a seat while you’re waiting for the coffee if you want.”
“I will stand.”
“Suit yourself.” No use telling grown people what to do if they didn’t want to do it. “Um, were you in the SEALs with—” Mr. Robinson—no, too formal. Blaze—too casual and implied too much. “—him?”
The man’s measured voice was as unsettling as the way he stood so motionless. “No. I am Israeli.”
“Oh. Oh, that’s nice.” She had no idea what else to say but continued babbling nevertheless while she poked through the pantry, just seeing what Blaze’s kitchen was stocked with. “Were you in Israel’s military?”
“Everyone is.”
