After they were inside, Christy glanced around the large space, noting the masculine yet tasteful furnishings for the first time. The walls of the great room were painted a deep maroon, and he’d filled up the living space with chocolate brown leather sofas that faced each other. Dark green, maroon and tan woven quilts were draped over the back of each couch which were separated by a low coffee table that had been crafted from an old barn door. The dark hardwood floors contrasted nicely with the framed artwork that was displayed. He walked up behind her as she stood and stared at a unique piece of art that hung above the fireplace.

He cleared his throat noisily, and she swung around. Catching a tantalizing whiff of his skin, she blurted out, “Is Alexander here?”

"His bike is gone. Why?" Anthony asked.

"No reason." Christy shrugged. She started to look uneasy, and Anthony asked her what was wrong.

"I didn't eat at Nadine's. Just picked. And I guess that little bit of toast I had this morning has worn off."

Anthony gestured toward the kitchen and told her to help herself.

He left Christy and went to his office to page X. He wanted Alexander back at the house to discuss his recent suspicions concerning those men that had been looking for Christy and to make a plan. She appeared in his doorway before he had a chance to pick up the phone.

"Did I imagine it or did I smell chicken soup?" She stood with her hand on her stomach, her big blue eyes appearing almost childlike.

Anthony squinted in concentration. "My sister stayed with me for a few days, and she made some the first day she was here. There's some in the refrigerator and you're welcome to it."

She nodded her thanks and headed back toward the kitchen, not realizing that Anthony had followed her in.

"That was days ago, and my house still smells like soup?" he asked her. "I don't smell it."

Without looking at him she retrieved the container from his refrigerator and poured it into a small pot. "Weird fact. And not that you'd be interested, but I have a heightened sense of smell. I can tell you what kind of dish soap they use in the kitchen the minute I walk into a restaurant." She started to open his cabinets, obviously looking for a bowl. When she found them, she stood with her hands on her hips looking up. Glancing around and not seeing a stepstool she turned to him. "Can you get a bowl for me, please?" she asked as she nodded toward the top shelf. "Two if you're eating."

He effortlessly reached over her head for a bowl and handed it to her. "Same with my hearing," she continued. Snatching a spoon from a drawer, she stood with her back to him and stirred the soup. She turned to him and said, "I can hear the proverbial pin drop. Kind of like The Bionic Woman." She started to smile and stopped herself, her face going slack. "My hearing has only failed me once," she told him, turning away again. She stared down into the pot of soup.

"When was that?" he asked, studying her profile. Her smooth, flawless cheek, slightly upturned nose and the prominent bump that protruded from her forehead.

Without looking at him, she replied, "Yesterday. When you snuck up the stairs at Van and Vivian's."

The question was out before he could stop it. "Any other strange and weird facts I should know about you?" he asked. This was wrong. This was more than wrong. Chatting it up with an abduction victim? He didn't usually want to know these things. And worse yet, he couldn't understand why he wanted to know these things about her.

"I have double-jointed thumbs," she answered, interrupting his thoughts. "They look kind of weird when I bend them backward. And they make it hard for me to squeeze certain things. Like those doorknobs that aren't round, but the kind that are like a handle that requires you to press down with your thumb. I have a hard time with those."

She'd already seated herself at his kitchen table. Taking a delicate sip of soup, she looked up at him. He was leaning back against the kitchen counter, his arms folded across his chest.

"What about you?" she asked, before taking another sip from her spoon.

"My thumbs are fine," he told her.

She smiled and said, "No, I'm not asking about your thumbs. I'm sure they're fine. I meant are there any strange or weird facts about you?" She placed her spoon in her bowl and added, "Other than the fact that for someone your size, you're as quiet as a mouse."

Fireworks were suddenly going off in his head. A million points of light exploding at the same time. No. Not exploding. Misfiring. He was engaging a woman in small talk. And not just any woman. Van Chapman's stepdaughter. His kidnapping victim. The woman he was holding for ransom, but refused to let go when she offered to pay it herself.

"There must be something," she said. The comment was gentle and soothing. Like an invitation to a warm shower after standing in the freezing rain.

"I'm color blind," he blurted out.

"I already knew that," she replied and went back to stirring and looking at her soup.

"How could you possibly know that?" he challenged, stepping away from the counter and walking toward the table.

"I noticed it when we first met. In Van's driveway," she answered.

"Impossible. No way," he told her, his lip starting to curl.

"Yes way," she replied. "You can only see black and white and nothing else." She stood then and took her bowl to the sink.

"Ah," he said, his tone a bit calmer. "You mean your white car. Your Rabbit?" It was the only time he could remember mentioning a color, any color, in front of her and it was in his driveway, not Van's. He thought back to when she'd first pulled up in the red Corvette. He was certain he hadn't mentioned the car's color in front of her and even if he had, red wasn't one of the colors he had difficulty discerning.

With her back to him, she washed her bowl and spoon, and then the soup pot, placing them in the dish rack to drain.

"No, not my car," she told him. She swung around to face him. "I mean my skin. You can only see my white skin."

Without giving him a chance to acknowledge her remarks, she asked, "How is the search for Van going?" Before he could answer, she quickly added, "Maybe I can help."

"If you can't tell me where he is I don't see how you can help," he answered gruffly. Her earlier observation of his colorblindness caught him off guard. He'd never considered himself a racist. Racists were people who disliked anybody with a skin color that was different from their own. They didn't need a reason, they just hated. But not him. He'd had many reasons to dislike white people. Especially white women. Besides, he didn't dislike all white people. Only certain ones that he knew considered themselves to be better than people like him. People with a misplaced air of superiority and privilege. People like Christy Chapman. Or so he wanted to believe.

She rolled her eyes. "If you give me a phone book and use of a phone I can start calling travel agencies or even the airlines. It's better than nothing." She blew out a breath. "Besides, I have to do something. I can't sit around all day doing nothing."

Anthony already had someone trying to trace Van, but it couldn't hurt to have her do it as well. He was going to answer her when she let out a long yawn.

"You're tired," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a fact.

"A little," she answered. "But not too tired to make some calls." She tried to stifle another yawn.

"I'll let you make one phone call."

She started to object when he added, "To the florist that sends you flowers every week."

She jumped to attention and offered, "You're right! I'll have them sent here."

"No," he interjected loudly. In a softer tone, he said, "I think the men that were looking for you work for other sharks that Van owes money to."

She blinked at Anthony, caught off guard. "How do you know Van owes money to other people?"

"I just do," he snapped, a scowl on his face.

"Those men at my apartment?" she asked, biting the side of her lip.

"Yes," was all he offered.

She nodded her understanding, and he continued. "If they were to ask around, it wouldn't surprise me that some of your neighbors notice that once-a-week delivery. Those men would definitely check with the florist. If you give the florist my address, it will lead them right to you."

Her eyes got wide as the seriousness of her situation finally sank in. "Are you sure they would check with the florist? You know, to see if I'm having the flowers sent elsewhere?

He gave her a hard look. "I would."

She gulped then and nodded her head. He followed her to the phone in his office and listened as she suspended the flower order, telling the clerk that she was taking a month-long vacation out of the country.

"Now what?" she asked after laying down the receiver. "And don't tell me to take a nap. I'm too wired to sleep after that epiphany."

Without saying anything, he walked to a large built-in mahogany bookcase. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a phone book. He walked toward her and stopped, the question in his eyes obvious.

"You don't trust me to use the phone by myself, and you're not up to babysitting?" she asked. "I feel like I've proven myself over and over," she sighed, shaking her head in disbelief.

"If there are other people looking for you, the police can't protect you like I can," he said, his voice sincere.

His tone surprised her. He sounded almost...almost...concerned for her. She stammered, "And...and, I believe that. I'm not going to call the police, Anthony. I'm going to help you find Van."

He nodded his head slowly and laid the phone book on the desk with a thump. "Go ahead. Start making some calls. Saying you're Van and Vivian’s daughter will give you some clout. If anyone asks, you're calling from out of the country, you don't need to say where, just that you need to get in touch with your parents due to an emergency."

He's awfully quick to offer up lies and side stories, she thought. He was definitely a criminal and the sooner she helped him find and bring Van back to face his creditors, the sooner she could get out from under his thumb. After all, that was what she wanted. Right? Instead of allowing her mind to wander down that rabbit hole, she grabbed the phone book and dug in.

"I'll be in the spare bedroom lifting weights," he told her as he retrieved her car keys from his desk and put them in his pocket. "When you're finished, you can dig through my fridge and make us some dinner."

"That won't be possible," she offered up a little too quickly.

He cocked his head to one side and sneered, "Let me guess. You don't cook."

"Not that I don't because I’m not willing," she told him matter-of-factly. "I don't know how. I usually live off takeout and TV dinners or something easy like soup." She paused and thoughtfully added, "Or I eat out or have something delivered."

"Of course you do," he said cynically. "Someone like you doesn't have to learn how to cook when you're used to being waited on hand and foot," he mocked as he turned his back on her. He needed a reason to keep her at a distance and going back to his original assumptions was safe. However, a lot of people didn't know how to cook. His sister being one of them. He was surprised Christy ate the soup Nisha had left. He'd certainly had no intention of keeping it. He just hadn't gotten around to tossing it. She doesn't cook because she's never had to, played like a broken record in his head. She’s used to being waited on hand and foot and would never lower herself by lifting a finger or a frying pan. It was a stretch, but it was one he would cling too.

The princess he'd met in the Chapmans’ driveway was back, he convinced himself. And he couldn't have been more relieved.