Page 14 of Wanted 2
As I rinsed out the blender and our glasses, my eyes caught on a piece of paper resting on the countertop.
Eggs. Gruyere Cheese. Rosemary.
The list went on, each item written in elegant calligraphy, complete with flourishes.
I blinked. So, a grocery list, Count style? I guess he was getting tired of eating whatever ethereal food he’d been downing besides his strange wine. Somewhere, deep inside, part of me heaved a sigh of relief. It was an odd reaction. I guess I’d been bothered by his strange dining habits—or lack thereof.
“I’ve got to head out,” I told Jeremy as I snagged the list. “You stay here and study. You’ve got a science project, right?”
He didn’t mind staying in my room. I dumped off his school backpack on the bed, and before I left, made him recite the rules and pinky-promise not to explore.
I’d just droppedthe last grocery bag into the trunk of my car when hands gripped my shoulders from behind.
I whirled, lashing out, as I heard the word, “Four.”
Don grabbed my wrist before my fist could connect with his face.
“Whoa, girl.” His eyes took on that sick mix of anger and interest. Violence always turned him on. “Maybe you should detour over to my place, huh?”
“Only got four days, Don,” I snapped, wrenching myself free. I hated his skin touching mine. “Gotta go.”
He blocked my path. “So, you got Jeremy living with you now, huh?”
How the hell did he know that? Was he stalking me?
“Just don’t get any ideas in that head of yours,” he warned, flicking me on the side of the head. “Stick to the plan. Or else.”
He walked away with that self-important swagger of his and I dashed inside my car and locked the door, my palms slick with sweat and my heart hammering against my chest.
How did he know so much about mine and Jeremy's day-to-day life? And the Count’s business, too?
It struck me as I pulled off the road and into the mansion’s long driveway.
Don must have bugged the place. And he was listening to everything we did and said.
I checked the cameras,but I didn’t see anything. My mind wasn’t really on the safe’s code, anyway. I was still trying to figure out how Don was spying on us. He'd either set up surveillance before I’d even arrived at the mansion for my interview, or else he’d dropped a few bugs the night I’d forgotten to lock the door. In either case, a thorough cleaning job was on the books tonight.
Since I couldn’t afford any more gadgets, I’d done a little research on how to locate bugs on the cheap. Brute force and using your cellphone were my only two options. At least I’d gotten my phone back and wouldn't have to sneak it in for this.
I inspected the entryway first, thoroughly ‘dusting’ every lamp, unscrewing every lightbulb, and peeking under every piece of furniture. The suit of armor in the corner was particularly time-consuming.
My search turned up nothing, and before I moved on to the next room, I called the bank. Why the bank? Well, according to the internet, wireless cameras and microphones emitted specific radio frequencies that interfered with cellphone signals. Apparently, you just had to walk around on a call and if you heard clicks in a specific area…voila, bug found. And since I didn’t have anyone I actually wanted totalkto that long, I’d settled for the number that always put me on hold.
I walked around the entryway slowly, listening to crappy elevator music and on the alert for clicking sounds.
“Bug free,” I muttered when I’d completed the circle.
One room down.
At least fifty more to go.
I winced, grabbed my supplies, and kicked the rolling cannister vacuum into the next room.
I’d prioritized searching the rooms encompassing all routes from the front door to the kitchen where I’d found Don that night. By the time I’d retraced that path, my back ached, and I had every cheesy piano rendition on the bank’s waiting loop memorized.
The delicious scent of rosemary greeted my nostrils when I stepped into the kitchen, but at the sight of Jeremy standing at the stove, a chef’s hat perched sideways on his head and a wooden spoon in my hand, my heart jumped into my throat.
God. He’d made a mess. There had to be at least a dozen eggshells on the island mixed with broccoli stalks and the roots of green onions. It. Was. A. Fricking. Mess.