Page 26 of The Queen (Masterpiece Duet 2)
My eyes widen. “Wow.”
“Well, not only work,” she says with a private smile. “We all have our hobbies.”
We all have our addictions. Drugs. Gambling. My addiction is something maybe more dangerous. Someone with a wicked smile. “I understand.”
“And the truth is, I prefer action. I don’t usually accept jobs like this, but Damon Scott can be very persuasive when he wants something.”
My stomach twists in jealousy, even though I have no hold on him. No right to him, actually. “Why did he want you to take the job so bad?”
“Aside from the fact that I’m the best?” she asks without arrogance. “Because I’m a woman, probably. And I’m guarding the woman he’s keeping in his bedroom.”
My mind trips on the implication, that Damon Scott might be jealous. “It’s not like that between us.”
“Maybe not, but it wouldn’t matter. If I wanted to steal you away from him, I could.”
I laugh out loud, a flood of relief to find normalcy in such a strange situation. She laughs with me, even though I’m pretty sure she’s dead serious.
“So what kind of information does a gun magazine have. New guns?”
“New models. New attachments. Firsthand accounts of combat, that kind of thing.”
“That sounds…” Terrifying. “Specific to your profession. Is there a wide gun enthusiast audience?”
“Wider than you probably want to think about,” she answers almost cheerfully. “But you don’t have to worry. As long as I’m here, you’re safe. Though you should probably stay away from the windows.”
I blink at her, thinking of the small room I have upstairs with no windows. Thinking of Nina’s words about it. This room. It doesn’t only keep you inside. It keeps everyone else out. They’d have to go through him to get to you.
Chapter Seventeen
I wait until midafternoon before venturing out again. Outside the room there’s a landing with a wide balcony and curving stairs. I follow the scent of roasting chicken, my mouth watering in anticipation. Whatever dish is being prepared in the kitchen, it will probably end up on a beautiful tray outside my door.
Who’s cooking it? And why have I never met that person?
Maybe it’s not an important mystery in context, but it pulls me in.
As I get closer to the kitchen I hear strains of classical music coming from the speakers perched in the corner of the dining room. It’s soft enough that I can still hear a faint clatter of metal pots inside.
I push open the swinging door, struck silent by what I see.
Damon Scott, his white shirt sleeves rolled up, his jacket and vest draped over a barstool, stirring something as it simmers on a professional stainless steel cooktop. Proof is tucked into every corner—the fresh parsley chopped on a board, a homemade broth defrosting on the counter.
“What are you doing?” I ask, proving how very little IQ points actually count for anything.
He doesn’t turn to face me. “You don’t like chicken masala?”
“You’re the one who’s been cooking. The French toast. That was you?”
A quiet laugh. “You finished it off, so I assumed it was to your liking.”
The fact that this man can cook at all seems strange. This man who once roasted fish he caught from a lake with only dirt and stones and twigs to help him. Then again maybe that’s exactly why he knows how to cook. Because he makes himself delicious food without any help at all.
“I thought you’d have a chef. Maybe someone famous. With a few cookbooks published, that kind of thing.”
“No chefs. I could never trust one enough to eat what they make.”
That’s some intense paranoia. Then again, knowing the city and its vagaries, it might be a valid fear. “You could hire a tester,” I say, cautiously walking into the room. The whole place seems strange to me, even though I’ve worked in diners and the Emerald’s kitchen for years now. The diner had surly cooks. The Emerald, somewhat snooty chefs. I have no idea how to quantify Damon as a creator of comfort and art. It goes against all my experiences of cooking. He seems… relaxed.
“Poison isn’t always immediate,” he says to my tester idea. “Besides, what if he did drop dead? How would I ever find someone to replace him?”
I scrunch my nose at Damon, scooting onto one of the empty barstools that circle the island. “I guess that’s kind of morbid, the whole idea of a tester.”
“Not any more morbid than a bodyguard. They’re putting their life on the line.”
“Bodyguards like Hiro.”
He glances at me. “You met her.”
“She seems competent. And a little bit scary.”
“Those are the actual job requirements for her position.”
“Do you really think I need security? Isn’t the Den secure?”
“Yes, but there’s someone working for me who I don’t trust.”
“Who?” Realization hits me before the word fully leaves my mouth. “Oh.”
“Yes,” he says. “Your father had access to the Den, to my businesses. Access to me. And that makes him a liability now that he’s gone missing.”
