Playing with Fire. Gena Showalter

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      Pretty Boy crossed his arms over his chest and pinned me with a dark, almost hypnotic stare. “That’s none of your concern. Now, “ he said, speaking to the entire room, “I have questions, and you’re going to answer me.”

      Those eyes … they were intense, commanding, a little scary. “I just called the cops, “ I gulped out. “If you hurt us, you’ll be thrown in prison and become Big Daddy’s bitch.”

      His gaze flicked to one of Lab Coat’s pursuers, now our guard. He was a beast of a man, with a thick, black beard (were those peas between the hairs?) and more muscles than Arnold in his prime. “Take care of it.”

      Take care of what? Beast radioed … the cops? He spoke too quietly for me to hear what he was saying. Meanwhile, the other guard ushered everyone into chairs. Everyone except me, that is. Maybe I looked menacing and they didn’t want to mess with me. Hey, it was a possibility.

      But I didn’t understand why they were content to remain in here instead of chasing Lab Coat. Or had they caught him and ushered him away while I was on the phone? Why question us, then, if they already had him?

      “That man is a dangerous criminal, “ Pretty Boy told me. He must have realized that I wouldn’t cooperate otherwise. “It’s in your best interest to help us.”

      Dangerous criminal—the magic words of my capitulation. “All right, fine, “ I said grudgingly, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had a badge, after all. “But if anyone pulls a weapon on me, I’m going PMS on their ass.”

      “So noted,” he said with a dry edge, completely unimpressed.

      Thankfully, the table I’d occupied earlier remained upright. My latte sat on the surface, unharmed. I plopped down and lifted the cup to my lips, sipping. Warm and sweet—sweeter than it had been earlier, as if the chocolate had thickened. Mmm. I continued sipping, taking comfort from it.

      Pretty Boy questioned us one at a time, writing names and answers in a notebook. How very detective he was. He asked everyone the same three questions: 1) What is your name and address? 2) Did you see the man in the lab coat? 3) Did he say anything to you or give you anything?

      Pretty Boy spoke with me the longest and had more than the standard three questions for me. What had made me want to help Lab Coat—“the doctor,” Pretty Boy called him, careful not to use his real name. Did we secretly plan to meet later? Had I ever met with the doctor before this?

      I didn’t bother lying. Actually, I wasn’t sure I could lie to this man. Every time he turned those intense brown eyes on me, I felt compelled to share my deepest, darkest secrets. Not in a girls’ sleepover kind of way, but an I’ll-die-if-I-don’t kind of way. Very weird.

      And you know what? I didn’t get any answers to my questions. What was his name? Why were they chasing Lab Coat? What made the man so dangerous? Was Pretty Boy going to eat the chocolate éclair he’d pilfered from the fridge? I was starved.

      Finally, Pretty Boy and his men left, followed quickly by the customers. I’d expected him to threaten us if we told the press or cops—or anyone, really—what had happened, but he didn’t. I’d expected the police to arrive (as promised), but they never did. I guess they really had been taken care of, which probably meant Pretty Boy was the CIA agent he’d claimed to be and Lab Coat actually was a criminal. I hoped I didn’t get in trouble for having tried to aid him.

      Left alone at last, I helped Ron, Jenni and the rest of Utopia’s employees clean up the mess. Strangely enough, we worked in silence, not discussing the events. Maybe we were too scared. Maybe we were too confused. Maybe both. As I cleaned, I looked for Lab Coat but found no trace of him.

      What a shit-infested day this had turned out to be. The only silver lining was when Ron decided to close the café for the rest of the day, giving me the opportunity I needed to escape to my interview—albeit late.

      Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d be hit by a car and could sue for millions.

       CHAPTER TWO

      BY THE TIME I REACHED the Ambassador Suites—without being hit by a car, damn it—I’d successfully forced the day’s events to the back of my mind, to be considered and dissected later. Why not worry about it now, you ask? Because my head was about to explode into tiny Belle fragments, that’s why. A sharp ache pounded in my temples and beads of sweat dotted my skin. My stomach pricked and burned as if I’d swallowed a thousand acid-coated needles.

      Hunger pains, maybe? No, surely not. I’d skipped lunch, true, but I’d skipped meals before and never reacted this way.

      I stumbled into the hotel’s bathroom, the black-and-white-tiled floor spinning and making me dizzy. My eyes were normally hazel, a green-brown mix, but right now, in the mirror, they appeared a glassy emerald. Too bright. Dilated.

      My hands shook as I splashed cold water on my face. But the liquid didn’t trickle down; my skin seemed to open up and absorb every drop. It happened so quickly I would have missed it if I blinked. My pores screamed in protest, burning, burning.

      A moan slipped from my lips. What the hell was wrong with me? Had I picked up a vicious, fast-acting virus after leaving Utopia?

      God, I hurt everywhere, the pain growing stronger with every passing second. My joints were swelling, and I was having trouble drawing in a decent breath. Straightening as best I could, I stared again at my reflection. Bruises had formed under my eyes and bright red spots of color painted my cheeks. My lips were pulled tight.

      I looked liked a drug addict. In desperate need of a fix.

      I could just imagine how a potential employer would respond to that: throw me out on my ass and post my picture all over the building with a notice that I was to be arrested if I set one foot inside the place ever again. Great. Freaking great.

      A sudden cramp doubled me over, and I cried out. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Gradually, the pain subsided. I straightened again, my ears ringing loudly as blood pounded through them.

      “Holy hell.” Just get the interview over with so you can go home and rest.

      Somehow, and God only knew how, I pulled myself together enough to walk into the interviewer’s office with my head held high and my shoulders squared. An older man with thick silver hair and a stiff brown suit sat behind the room’s only desk. He grinned when he spotted me, his eye crinkling at the corners. Kindness radiated from him.

      “You must be Belle.”

      “Yes.” I forced my lips into an answering smile. I wouldn’t be able to keep up the facade for long. I realized that when the interviewer—what the hell was his name?— shook hands with me. The feel of his palm against my too- sensitized flesh nearly dropped me to the ground, huddling in a fetal ball and crying for the mommy I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years. The contact, though brief, cut through me like a barrage of slashing knives.

      “You’re a little late, “ he said, glancing at his wristwatch, “but I think there’s just enough time to get to know each other.”

      “Thank you. Thank you so much. I had an unavoidable delay, but I promise you now, I’ll never be late again.” Hurriedly I unfolded my résumé from my pocket and handed it to him, careful not to touch him.

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