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That wasn’t what he meant. But we could both pretend. “It felt good to clean up,” I said.
I doubted I looked much better in shapeless, oversized clothes with wet hair plastered to my head. The baggy pants had bunched up around my waist after I’d cinched and tied the drawstring. The long-sleeved V-neck T-shirt fit so loosely, if I leaned over, he’d get a glimpse of the goods.
“You’d gotten rather dirty.”
Of all the nerve! I couldn’t deny I’d needed to bathe, but how rude to say so. Would it kill you to say, “You didn’t look that bad?”
Why should I care what he thought? He’s LOP. Or a kidnapper. The jury’s still out. The fact that he was tall and good-looking, and we were alone together shouldn’t factor into any equation.
My stomach growled again. “What’s for dinner?”
“Lasagna. It’s what you said you wanted.” He motioned to the dining table. “If you’re ready to eat, sit. The food is ready.”
I started to ask if I could help but then shut my mouth. This wasn’t a date or a get-together with a friend. I’d been dragged here against my will; the only difference between being a detainee in protective custody and a kidnapped prisoner was who had done the abducting.
And maybe the chance of survival.
And the meal. No dry cat food. Lasagna. My favorite.
I took a seat and saw he had opened a bottle of red wine. “Would you care for some wine?” I asked politely.
He hesitated and then said, “Yes, thank you.”
I filled his glass halfway then poured myself some and took a tiny sip, cognizant I was drinking on an empty stomach. The wine tasted velvety and smooth, and its plum bouquet smelled delightful.
He brought in two plates of steaming, cheesy lasagna and set one in front of me before sliding into the opposite seat. My heart fluttered. The only thing sexier than a muscular handsome man was a muscular handsome man who brought food. Don’t forget how he shocked you and then said you looked like a pig. Feeding me is part of his evil plot to win my cooperation.
He started to eat, and I did the same. I stifled a moan of pleasure at the meaty, cheesy layered pasta. He’d gotten the good stuff. Most people ate meals concocted at giant food formulation plants. How much you were willing to pay determined what you got. At the budget end, food was lab-created and artificially flavored, although fortified to provide essential nutrients, while at the high end, you got the good stuff. Genuine food. Cheese made from cow’s milk. Real meat. Sun-ripened tomatoes.
“Clothing, food, wine—your safe house is well-stocked,” I commented, wondering how many people had been brought here. The house slept six if two people shared the room with the big bed, and there was no reason why they couldn’t. It was massive.
“It’s important to be prepared for any eventuality.”
“Is this place used often? Who stays here?” Why does the LOP need a safe house?
Instead of answering, he forked a bit of lasagna into his mouth and chewed.
Sometimes silence unearthed the best answers, so I didn’t probe further, just let my question hang out there. Tangentially, I wondered if he liked our food. Did Copans eat what Arasetans ate? I had no idea. Araset food had been different from ours; it had taken getting used to. How long had Maxx been stationed on our planet?
I took another bite and watched his mouth move as he chewed. He had full lips. A strong jaw. Golden eyes. Cute, rather than massive, horns. Watching him, it struck me that he reminded me of somebody? But who? The only two Copans I’d met were Joule, Giselle’s bond-mate, and Nadir, who was half Arasetan.
“Whoever needs to remain hidden,” Maxx said.
I swallowed. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s who stays in the safe houses.”
“And then what happens to them?”
“When the danger is past, they return to their lives.”
“So, you’re going to let me leave?”
“Eventually.”
Could I believe him? And how long was ‘eventually’?
“Provided you don’t do anything stupid and get yourself killed first,” he added.
