Lizzie Lynn Lee (5 page)

“What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer her. His gaze went back to her boobs. “You sure you don’t want to work as my girl? You can pull a grand in tips each night, easily. And, with tits like yours, the sky is the limit.”

Cat was convinced Oliver wouldn’t give her straight answers. He definitely knew something, but he was too slick, no matter how hard she tried to squeeze the scum out of this man. “That’s a generous offer, but I think I’ll pass. I like my job.”

Oliver only replied with an even more derisive laugh. “You’re wasting your talents, honey. I’ll let you know a little secret. I have a knack of finding out what people do best. Like our fella over here—Roman. He used to work in a restaurant, cooking some damn burgers. One day I had lunch and wasn’t happy with his burger, so I paid him a visit in the back of the kitchen. I saw the fella and I just knew what he’d be good at. Roman’s a people person. He should be serving customers out front. Like now he’s serving my customers, but also keeping everybody on their toes. And you”—Oliver’s mouth curved into a leer—“you ain’t cut out to work as a private investigator. Those tits of yours are a gift from heaven. I reckon those are real too, yes? What you need to do is to lose those shitty pantsuits and wiggle your money-maker on the pole. Let me tell you, Kovac, men would drop their green in your panties faster than you could spend it.”

Cat gritted her teeth. “You know what? Fuck you.” She had had enough of Oliver Duval. Or Albert Hastings. Whatever. She itched to get the hell out of this depressing place. How had Jon kept his cool at moments like this? She knew her brother would have been able to manage his temper in front of pigs like Oliver.

She strode towards the door.

Oliver called to her, “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

Yeah. Like that will ever happen.
Cat was halfway to the door when her knees suddenly felt wobbly. The walls and ceiling around her spun. A freak wave of vertigo slammed her skull.

What the…? The Coke.

Cat lurched forward but her body wasn’t cooperating. It felt as if she were wading through a sea of thick molasses. She stumbled over a chair and crashed to the floor.

Darkness engulfed her.

Chapter Three

“Where is she?”

Gabe slammed his car door in a hurry. Danielson and Wyatt, two of his security execs, were waiting for his arrival in the driveway of a run-down strip joint. Danielson had also dispatched several of his men to the entrance of the building. Maybe a few more inside. The place was crawling with Gabe’s private security. Gave hadn’t wanted to take any risks as soon as he’d heard Catherine had been in the process of being kidnapped. Danielson, a trained ex-Special Forces operative, had taken the initiative of neutralising the threat—the man who’d drugged Catherine and his crony—and called for backup.

“In my car, sir.” Danielson waved at his black, nondescript SUV.

“Is she still unconscious?

“In and out.”

“Does she need medical attention?”

“I don’t think so, sir. But, just to be safe, we might want to take her to the ER for a check-up.” Danielson yanked the SUV door open. Catherine was lying on the passenger seat, her head lolled on the headrest, her eyes closed as she moaned softly.

A surge of anger rose in Gabe’s throat.
How dare someone do this to her?
“Did you find any injuries on her?”

“No. It appears she was drugged.”

“Sedative?”

“My best guess is roofie. Date rape drug.”

Gabe unconsciously fisted his hands. His lion growled, demanding a hunt and revenge. “Where are the perps?”

“Wyatt has them detained.” Danielson flicked his gaze at the building. “One of the men—we identified him as Alfred Hastings—is quite unusual.”

“What do you mean?”

Danielson lowered his voice. “Hastings’s a pride’s rogue.”

Gabe furrowed his eyebrows. Danielson had worked for him for years, and he knew the true nature of his employer and his brothers. There weren’t many lion shifters in the city. The major supernatural population was made up of wolves and other weres. “Alex will deal with Hastings. I’ll take Catherine with me.”

* * * *

Cat woke up in a strange place.

She rubbed her eyes, then stared at the cream-painted ceiling before the realisation registered that she was in someone’s bed. She felt sluggish. A hangover feeling hovered like a thick cloud, a mixture between sleepiness and an alcohol-like buzz.

She remembered being at
Chantale’s
, questioning that slime ball Oliver Duval.

And that bastard had drugged her.

The thought brought instant alertness. She hauled herself into a sitting position and found she was wearing a weird dress. She shoved the blanket down. No. Not a dress. A hospital gown. Her body was wrapped in a striped, blue Johnny shirt with snap buttons on the back. Nothing underneath it.

Her mind spun.

If Oliver had sexually assaulted her, she wouldn’t be in a hospital gown, would she? She lifted her arm and noticed she was wearing a plastic bracelet that hospitals use to identify patients. Her name was on it, along with a barcode. Usually the patient’s insurance carrier was printed with the patient’s name. She didn’t have any health insurance. She’d been dropped from the policy a few months ago because she couldn’t afford to pay the premiums. Instead, the name Gabriel Larousse was on the bracelet.

Gabriel Larousse.

Her heart stirred.

What happened here? Am I in his place?

Cat slid down from the bed. Her feet touched the cool, Venetian marble floor. She scanned her surroundings. The bedroom was furnished in a modern, contemporary style. Not an ounce of femininity was evident. Whoever had designed the room had had a male client in mind. A
rich
male client. The walls were upholstered in a light beige, suede fabric. The furniture was all black and sleek, made from an interesting grain of wood, polished to a shine. The bed itself was huge, California king size, swathed in crisp, white bedding. Nightstands flanked each side.

She looked around. The place was as quiet as a morgue. She listened closer and heard somebody. Perhaps in the kitchen. Something sizzled in a hot pan.

Cat searched for her clothes, her shoes, or her purse. She couldn’t find any of them, and she didn’t like the hospital gown she was wearing. Her ass was exposed. She opened the closet and turned on the light. The walk-in closet was massive—every fashionista’s wet dream. Rows of shirts and jacket suits were lined up tidily. Judging from the size and highly tailored material, she was sure they didn’t belong to Oliver Duval. That piece of shit dressed like a pimp.

She took a white shirt from a hanger and exchanged it for the hospital gown. The shirt was too big for her. It hung close to her knees. Cat preferred that to the gown.

She turned on her heels towards the door, looking for the owner of the place.

She wandered out of the bedroom, to the source of the sizzling pan noise. Gabriel was in the kitchen, cooking. He was deftly chopping some shallots on the butcher block and tossing them into the pan with the grace of a professional chef. He then poured some wine into it, making the pan crackle even more. The delicious smell of caramelised shallots drifted into her nostrils. Cat’s stomach growled hungrily. The last meal she’d had was her cereal breakfast.

She glanced at the windows. The skyline was dark behind the shade.
Must be the evening.
She had been out for several hours.

Gabriel noticed her. He dropped what he was doing to whisk her out of the entrance of the kitchen and ushered her to sit on a dining-room chair.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. Genuine concern was in his tone and his face.

Holy shit.
It was surreal. She was in Gabriel Larousse’s dining room. And the man cooked. Who would have guessed? Didn’t men like him usually have somebody doing the cooking for them?

“I-I’m fine.” Cat swallowed hard. “Thirsty, though.”

“I’ll get you some water.” Gabriel grabbed a bottle of Evian from the fridge and poured it into a crystal glass. “The doctor said you have to drink a lot of liquid. To flush out the Rohypnol from your system.”

“Rohypnol?”

“They found traces of flunitrazepam in your blood. Are you aware you were drugged?”

“That fucker. Oliver Duval’s bartender.”

Gabriel gave her the glass. She drank it down in several large gulps. Her throat was parched. Gabriel refilled the glass.

“Thank you,” she said. She drank some more. Cool water soothed her thirst.

Gabriel went back to his cooking. He lowered the heat and put the glass lid on the sizzling pan. “What were you doing in a place like
Chantale’s?
”

“Following a lead. How did I end up here?”

“My man witnessed the incident. He foiled the kidnapping attempt and alerted me.”

Cat glanced at the plastic wristband. “You took me to the hospital?”

“ER. I had to make sure what exactly had been done to you. You had a light seizure. I was afraid you’d been overdosed.”

“That bartender. I don’t know how he did it. He opened the can right in front of me.”

“You are really naïve, you know that? Slipping a pill into a soda can isn’t as hard as you think in the hands of a professional.”

“Give me a break. I’m a rookie, remember? How come you didn’t leave me at the hospital?”

“Safety reasons.”

Cat lifted an eyebrow, shooting him a withering look.

“Okay. I want to avoid publicity.”

She harrumphed. “You said your man saw me being kidnapped? You had someone following me around?”

“I had you on personal detail.”

“Stalking, you mean? Why? I knew it. You’re hiding something.”

Gabriel only smiled. He turned off the stove and took off the lid. With a wooden spatula, he tasted whatever he was cooking and nodded in approval. He grabbed two white plates from the cabinet and scooped the contents of the pan onto the plates, then brought them to the table. It was chicken scaloppini in a buttery cream sauce. It looked mouth-watering. “I figured you would be hungry when you woke.” He strode back to the kitchen and fumbled in the drawer for some eating utensils, then offered her a fork. When Cat didn’t make any attempt to take it, he sighed and said, “Don’t worry. I didn’t poison my cooking. If I wanted to try something sinister, I wouldn’t have bothered taking you to the ER and the whole nine yards. Dig in.”

Cat snatched it. She cut into the chicken with the fork and shovelled a piece into her mouth.
Oh, God.
It was delicious. The chicken temporarily distracted her from her suspicion. “Where did you learn to cook like this? This is really good.”

Gabriel looked pleased with the compliment. “I’m glad you like it.” He pulled out a chair and joined her in eating.

“Where are my clothes, by the way? Are they at the hospital?”

“My housekeeper is washing them.”

“What about my shoes and purse?”

“I have them.”

Cat paused. “Well? Can I have them back?”

“Sure. After I straighten out a few kinks in these matters.”

“I want to file charges against Oliver Duval.”

“Naturally.”

“I can’t get out of here without my shoes and my clothes.”

“Of course.”

Cat put down her fork, squinting. “You want to keep me here, don’t you?”

“Babe, I want to keep you here forever. I don’t want you to leave this place until I settle the problems.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

“That’s breaking the law, mister, holding someone against their will.”

“I know.”

She looked around. “Your phones are everywhere. I could call the cops on you.”

“Be my guest. My secretary filters all lines, in and out.”

Cat scowled. Exasperation coursed through her. She looked around and gauged that Gabriel had brought her to his penthouse apartment, in the building he owned in the heart of Manhattan. According to her file, Gabriel owned several properties in New York City and all around the world. And, according to her file, this very apartment was Gabriel’s sanctuary. Two floors below the penthouse were actually living quarters for his bodyguards. One didn’t just saunter into the famous Gabriel Larousse’s lair without bypassing a wall of his security forces.

She changed her tactic. “So. Did you kill Cameron Rossi?”

Gabriel chewed his food slowly. The crinkle around his eyes told her he was more amused than threatened. “
Quid pro quo
?”

“I only have your shirt.”

“You have five buttons.”

“You just want to see me naked.”

“Babe, all men in this city, with the exception of the gays, want to see you naked.”

Cat harrumphed. She pushed her plate away. “Thank you for the food. I’ll be in your room.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No.”

His rich laughter exploded behind her as she strode into the bedroom.
Men.
She needed a hot bath and a rethink of her strategy.

* * * *

Danielson had just finished giving his report on Oliver Duval and his grunt Ramon Ramirez over the phone, when Gabe saw Cat poke her head into his home office.

“Knock, knock,” she said.

Gabe waved her in. “What can I do for you, kitty?”

She cringed. “My brother used to call me that. Makes me feel like a little kid.”

“What can I do for you, Catherine?”

“Much better.” She cleared his planner and pen from her way and flopped on his desk. “We need to talk.”

Gabe spread his hands in compliance. “I’m all yours.”

Cat cleared her throat as she examined his office with interest. Her gaze skittered from paintings on the walls, the bronze sculptures on the credenza, to the gold-gilded tomes on the shelves. Cat had taken a shower, and her hair was still damp. The fresh smell of soap drifted to his nostrils. She had changed to another of his shirts. This time she had chosen a Lacoste Oxford shirt. She’d rolled the sleeves up to her mid-forearms. The hem hung just above her knees. She had also helped herself to a pair of his white, athletic socks. They wrapped her shapely legs up to her knees. Gabe couldn’t help but smile. He loved the way she had comfortably helped herself to his clothes. He found it very sexy. Intimate.