Countdown to Zero Hour Read Online Free PDF Page B

she found ripe tomatoes and bought them. While the transaction went down, Art waited, his hands holding the lapels of his jacket again. It made him lean back a bit and peer down toward the world while the sides of his neck flexed. There was something casual about the posture, yet he was still ready to spring into action.
    Part of her wished he was merely there to market with her. It would’ve been so much simpler. Flirting, talking about food. She’d cook him a meal with everything they found. He’d be fun to watch eat. Despite the tough exterior, he sensed the world. She’d seen it when he’d tried her pelmeni. So she’d experiment on him with new recipes. After dinner and the last of the wine, that strong body of his would experiment on her...
    Sweat rose on the back of her neck when she imagined his mouth there. Her breath fell short as if his arms were around her and she pressed herself back into his chest. The need came on too strong. She shook off the thoughts. It didn’t matter how much physical potential there was between them. He worked for the mob boss she was paying a cut to. There was nothing innocent about strolling through the rows of food.
    Pausing at the intersection of aisles, she turned to him. “You’re not here for the produce.”
    He shook his head, mouth a serious, thin line. “I’m here for business.” His whole posture changed, transforming into that wary predator. He glanced at the people around them. “There’s got to be someplace more private we can talk.”
    She led them away from the farmer’s market, toward a small food court on the other side of one of the office buildings. It would be quiet, but public. She wasn’t ready to get behind closed doors with Art when he was acting this sketchy.
    Once they’d cleared past most of the people, she asked, “Is this about the guys with the knives?”
    “No. That’ll never touch you.”
    Her mind spun, trying to think about what other business there was. The only deal she had with Rolan was for her steam cart. Maybe this was his way of renegotiating.
    “They were really going after your boss?”
    “Yeah.” He rubbed absently at his knuckles.
    “But no guns?”
    He tilted his head toward her. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who only wants to sell dumplings.”
    “I can’t sell dumplings if bullets are flying.”
    “You got that right, Chef.” He chuckled. “For a hit in a public place like that, they use knives instead of guns to keep collateral damage down. Innocent bystanders get shot, and the cops get interested. Knives are quiet.”
    “Mine are just for cooking.”
    His temper darkened again. He hardly moved his jaw to utter, “Let’s keep it that way.”
    They reached the contained food court and skirted to the far side of a wide stone fountain. It was the farthest spot from any of the other people at the small metal tables. They settled at their own table, joined only by the burbling of the fountain and the occasional bird flitting past.
    Nerves ground into her. What was his business? It was something serious. And so dire that it appeared like he didn’t even want to be here discussing it.
    Art took a long breath and removed his sunglasses to stare at her. She was about to find out the cost of making a deal with Rolan.
    The wry glimmer deadened in his eyes. This wasn’t the man who’d stood by her at the cart, smelling the food and letting it transport him to whatever past he had. At the table with her now was what she expected from a mob enforcer. A hard, unfeeling mask. But she knew what was beneath that mask. Did that make her dangerous to him?
    Her palms sweat and her chest tightened. Her mind traced back to when they’d entered the food court. Where were the exits? Could she get to them before he caught her? She wasn’t sure if there was any possibility of running from what was coming. Art’s role in everything remained a mystery.
    “My boss, Rolan,” he finally informed her, “wants you to cook