Taken With The Enemy Read Online Free

my own ears.
    In my peripheral vision, I saw him rub his square jaw before leaning back in the chair and folding his arms across his broad chest. “I'm not going to say that I expected you to take me on my word, but I'm curious to know what's prompting this question."
    "Didn't he tell you to shoot me?” I whispered. “The man you were with?"
    My captor gave no response, but he didn't have to. The little vein on the side of his temple twitched and I knew the answer.
    Shaking my head, a sad smile touched my lips. “I don't understand Arabic, but it was very clear what he wanted. I expected to die, and I was okay with that. But I have to know ... Why didn't you kill me?"
    "I would never hurt you,” he said softly.
    "And had he not left when he did? Had he stayed to see the deed done?"
    "Then I would have killed him."
    My eyes misted at the shocking answer and darkness that laced his reply. God help me, I was falling for this bullshit.
    Before I could ask him why he would choose my life over ‘the cause', he leaned forward and covered my restless fingers with his rough hand. His thumb caressed the inside of my wrist. The intimate gesture was probably meant to be comforting, but it unnerved me.
    I looked up and met his gaze. What exactly did he want ... really want?
    "I don't have much time. I want to show you around the flat before I go.” He gently squeezed my hand. “Please."
    Nodding, I allowed him to help me off the bed. He held on to my elbow as we went into the living room. It looked like any other house in America, warm and comfortable, with cushy couches, high-tech stereo system, big screen TV, and a bookshelf filled with reading material, CDs, DVDs—even a small plant. Tasteful artwork hung on the walls, thick curtains lined the barred windows, throw pillows dotted the furniture, and an area rug lay on the marble floor beneath the coffee table.
    "All the remotes can be found on top of the DVD player. There are board games in the bottom cabinet, as well as video games, books, and magazines. Just to let you know, sometimes the electric goes out. But don't worry, that's just us switching over the generators.” He pointed to a door. “And I'm sure you remember the guest bathroom."
    He guided me to the adjoining room with a wood table and six matching chairs. “Dining room,” he said, then led me past that to a swinging door. “Kitchen."
    The kitchen was nice. Granite countertops, microwave, dishwasher, full-size refrigerator. Ah ... coffeemaker.
    He opened and closed the cabinets as he listed their contents. “Dishes, glasses, spices, soups, and snacks. Pots and pans are in the bottom cabinets, and everything else is in the drawers.” The refrigerator came next. “Besides leftover Biryani, there is also bottled water, soda, milk, eggs, vegetables, and meat in here."
    "So you're not only a dark and mysterious kidnapper, but a gourmet chef?” I asked.
    Refusing to take the bait, he fixed a stern gaze on me and continued, “Once a week, someone will stop by and replenish the perishables, and anything else you might need.” He moved and opened a door off the kitchen. “Laundry room."
    Cupping my elbow in his palm, he moved us back through the dining room and into the hallway. “What do you think?"
    His question caught me off guard. “Um, it's a very nice place. It has everything a person could want. Thank you."
    What is wrong with me? This is my prison cell, not my vacation house. I'm not supposed to thank him for allowing me to stay here!
    He grinned. “I'm glad you like it. But really, it's not as luxurious as you might think. In this part of the world stone building materials, like marble and granite, cost less than wood, and electronics are easy to come by, being that we are so close to Asia."
    I got it: The ‘benefits’ of cheap labor and low import taxes. But who cared? What did that have to do with me being here against my will?
    "This is the most important thing in the house,” he said, laying