Spying Under the Mistletoe (Love Undercover #2) - Stina Lindenblatt Page 0,97
are we going?” I ask a few minutes later, after somewhat recovering from the realization of what had actually gone down the day my cousin died.
Eric doesn’t bother to answer. He must have missed the part in the movies where the bad guy does the longwinded monologue.
Instead, he removes his phone from his suit pocket and talks to someone in Russian.
Damn, why did I have be so inept at learning languages? If I had been fluent like my cousins, I’d be able listen to Eric’s side of the conversation.
Although from the terse way he’s speaking, maybe it’s just as well I can’t understand him. I doubt he’s talking to his lover about their great sex life.
For a while, I deliberate my escape plans. But it’s hard to plot your escape if you don’t know where you’re going.
I can’t even text Landon on the sly about my predicament. My phone’s in my purse at the seniors’ residence.
My only hope is that he and Adam have noticed I’m missing. But again, that won’t be of much help if they have no idea where I’m headed.
Yep. I’m screwed.
That thought echoes loudly in my head once we leave the city limits.
I go back to contemplating all the possible methods of escape I’ve seen in movies and TV shows over the years.
Which doesn’t amount to much. It’s not often the heroine of a romantic comedy finds herself in a similar situation.
I mentally curse myself for not recently marathoning on 007, Mission Impossible, and the Bourne movies. And any other movie that would’ve trained me to make my daring escape.
After two hours of driving, I’m beginning to wonder if we’re going to Canada. I’ve always wanted to go there—Vancouver sounds nice—but I’ve never had the opportunity.
But visiting the country as a hostage isn’t exactly how I envisioned finally getting there.
My hopes of Eric and Evil Sidekick being caught at the Canadian border come to a screeching halt, as the signposts along the highway indicate we’re heading toward Lake Tahoe.
Snowflakes swirl in the air and splat against the windshield. Pine trees add to the wintery wonderland. And all hope of escape gets buried under an avalanche of snow.
Even Frosty the Snowman and Olaf can’t help rescue it.
The car eventually pulls to a stop in front of a secluded house built of logs and stones. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing else within several miles.
Any other time, I’d consider it romantic, a great setting for a couple to escape to for a few days. The house is large, with picturesque windows and a wraparound porch.
“Wow,” I say, forgetting myself for a moment. “The place is gorgeous.”
Gorgeous and very familiar.
I’ve been here before.
Several times when I was a kid. This is where Nikolai and I had talked about making wishes and shooting stars.
The image of the shooting-star ornament he gave me flickers in my memory. “Remember the star. It has the answer to everything.”
What were you trying to tell me? I silently ask him.
“It belonged to your cousin.” Eric doesn’t sound as impressed with the location as I am. “It’s where he’s been hiding since your grandfather’s arrest, causing all kinds of havoc on my boss’s business.”
Which means the FBI is clueless about this property—not exactly good news for me.
“According to Nikolai’s lawyer,” Eric continues, “Nikolai bequeathed it to you.”
“His lawyer told you that?” So much for attorney-client privilege.
“His lawyer’s been working on our side for the past year.”
“And now that Nikolai’s dead, you’re taking over his cabin for your evil clubhouse?”
“More or less. For now, anyway. Until the Feds discover its existence.” He climbs out of the car while Evil Sidekick opens the door for me.
“You, out,” Evil Sidekick barks, waving his gun at me. I’m seriously thinking of renaming him Evil Asshole.
I slowly slide out of the car, glancing around the area that still reminds me of an Enchanted Forest. Nikolai and I used to pretend that magical creatures resided here. Some wondrous, like unicorns and hippogriffs. Others scary and devious.
My gaze shifts toward Evil Asshole. Well, I guess I know what category he falls under.
The cold air grips its icy tendrils around me, penetrating the light-knit fabric of my dress. I attempt wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the chill—not easy when your forearm is in a cast.
“Inside,” he-of-so-few-words grunts.
Not wanting to give him a reason to shoot me now, I walk up the wooden steps, pull open the door, and cross the threshold.