Page 84 of Stolen By the Billionaire
Mr. Savoie tilted his head. “There were unusual circumstances.”
Her other suspicions bubbled to the surface. “I didn’t think a military pension after just a few years would let someone buy a house like this.”
Mr. Savoie shrugged and finally pulled out a barstool to sit on it. “I haven’t been here before. I don’t know how he can stand being so exposed all the time.” He gestured toward the wall of windows at the end of the kitchen overlooking the house’s stone courtyard. “I feel like a hamster in a cage.”
Sarah started dumping powdered sugar on the sticky chocolate mixture in the mixing bowl. “The glass is solid. I kicked it a few times, and it didn’t even rattle.”
“It is still very exposed. I am surprised Robinson has not replaced it with something with more cover. One person with a machine gun could set up on that pool deck and annihilate everyone in this house.”
That wasn’t reassuring at all.
The last coffee sputtered into the pot, and Sarah poured Savoie a cup and pushed it across the counter to him. She found a carton of cream in the fridge and a sugar jar in the cabinet, which she offered but he did not use. “Blaze said the house was an investment and that he has to keep everything exactly as it is because the architect built it that way for a reason. He said somebody told him he can’t even have a recliner in front of his TV because it would mess the house up.”
The smallest hint of a smile curved Savoie’s mouth. “And so, Robinson will maintain the house as it was meant to be because it is his job as caretaker to do so, even though he would like to have a recliner to watch the television.”
Sarah went back to mixing the powdered sugar into the chocolate-covered cereal. The squares were beginning to separate. “So, you know him pretty well?”
Mr. Savoie’s dark eyes rotated upward, and his gaze drifted toward the ceiling. “I think so.”
“He’s a good guy, right?”
He glared right into her eyes. “None of us are.”
“But he isn’t a serial killer or anything, right? I won’t end up with my head in the freezer, will I?”
Mr. Savoie actually smirked. Sarah wondered if it hurt him. “Robinson is not a murderer. In operations, he has always been scrupulously ethical. If there is such a thing in our field, he is on the side of the angels. It is my belief that you are very safe with him, as safe as you can be if the White Russian Syndicate is after you.”
Blaze had mentioned those words earlier. “What do you mean, the White Russians?”
He was watching her closely again. “You don’t know who they are?”
“I mean, I know historically, the White Russians were the people who supported the tsars and fought against the communists, who were the Red Russians, during the Russian Revolution. I read books.”
Savoie shook his head. “There may be a vague historical connection, but the contemporary crime syndicate threatening you calls itself the White Russians. Robinson said you are in trouble with them. That means you are not safe anywhere. However, he has decided to keep you safe, so you are much better off with him than away from him.”
Each piece of the chocolate-covered cereal was finally coated with powdered sugar and rattled separately in the bowl. She flipped the treats in the bowl so they were thoroughly sugar-coated like tossing fried onions in a skillet and then pushed the bowl toward Mr. Savoie. “I feel like I can’t trust my own mind. I thought I might be feeling safe with him because I was getting Stockholm Syndrome.”
Savoie tilted his head, examining the snacks in the mixing bowl. “You don’t have Stockholm Syndrome. Blaze Robinson saved you from people who were trying to kill you. He is protecting you from criminals.”
“Yeah, I mean, it seems that way, but—”
“There is no but,” Mr. Savoie said as he pinched one of the chocolate-covered cereal pieces between his fingers and studied it. “Stockholm Syndrome takes weeks or months of deliberate brainwashing to influence a hostage’s mind. You met him less than two days ago. It is impossible. What is this?”
“It’s a snack. It’s dark chocolate and sugar for quick energy.”
He nodded and put one in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before he swallowed. “You Americans and your desserts at any time of the day.” He grabbed a substantial handful. “What is it called?”
“Well, it’s Midwestern downhome cooking, so we call it Puppy Chow to be funny.”
He paused while holding one near his lips. “But it is not dog food? It doesn’t contain pork, right?”
“No, no. No pork. There’s no meat in it at all. It’s a sweet. You saw me make it. It’s even gluten-free. It has butter, so that’s dairy, even if it was from a commercial factory farm instead of made at home. You could make it with fake butter to make it vegan, if you wanted to. But this batch has butter in it.”
“Dairy is fine. It is very good.” He tossed several into his mouth and chewed with his eyes closed.
“Well, I’m glad you like it.” A smidgeon of accomplishment lifted Sarah’s heart. “It’s getting on to be morning. I should see if I could make something for a proper breakfast.” She started poking in the cupboards and pantry again.
Cold cereal, bread, peanut butter, nuts, brown sugar. Surely, there was something better than cold cereal and toast to serve the people who’d come to rescue them.
