Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [109]
Miranda could see the muscles in Wes’s chiseled jaw working. “All the same, I think I’ll hang around.”
Adam spoke up cautiously. “Maybe, Rob, if you’re okay with Wes going, he could head out into the dining room, round up the guests, get them out of here. They don’t have anything to do with this, either, right?”
Rob squeezed his eyes tight and pressed the butt of the gun to his forehead, missing the look Adam telegraphed across the kitchen. Miranda saw it, though, and so did Wes, who nodded slightly in acknowledgment.
“Fine, fine, whatever,” Rob said peevishly. “Shit, my head.”
Wasting no time, but not running, Wes hurried out the swinging door. Miranda could sense him moving through the dining room behind her, heard movement and low voices. Chills coursed down her spine. Please, she prayed, get Jess out of here. Please, please, please.
“You ready to talk now, Rob?” Adam asked. “Why don’t you give me the gun, and we can get you some aspirin or something?” He took a step closer, hand outstretched. Miranda held her breath.
“I don’t want you to talk to me,” Rob spat, opening his eyes and bringing the gun to bear on Adam. “You had your chance. Now I want you to fucking listen. Can you do that, boss?”
Adam held up his hands placatingly. “Sure, sure I can do that. Whatever you say. Just put the gun down.”
“No. If I don’t have the gun, no one will listen to me.”
“I’ll listen, I swear it.”
“No! No one listens. Except Miranda. Hey, where is she? That you, Miranda? You hiding from me?”
Adam shifted in front of her, shielding her more closely with his body, but Miranda could hear the increasing desperation in Rob’s voice. They had to keep him calm.
“I’m right here,” she said, controlling the tremor in her voice and stepping out from behind Adam. She kept her grip on his jacket, though. Maybe it was weak, but she needed the anchor of that connection. Suddenly, exactly when Adam knew what and whether or not he chose to tell Miranda seemed monstrously unimportant. Even the all-encompassing guilt about the book faded into the background of this horrific situation.
Adam made a muffled sound of protest as she exposed herself to Rob’s view. She couldn’t look up and meet Adam’s eyes; that would break her calm façade for sure.
“Hi, Miranda,” Rob said. He didn’t seem all that happy to see her, but he let the barrel of the gun droop toward the floor.
“How are you?” she asked, falling back on manners. Really, what did one say to an armed gunman? Did Emily Post have a ruling on that?
Miranda’s vision swam, making her painfully aware that she was skirting the edge of hysteria. Her ribs heaved, expanding and contracting too fast, until she felt Adam’s big, warm hand settle at the small of her back. The weight and heat grounded her. She inhaled and actually got a breath into her lungs.
“Not so good,” Rob said morosely. “Since I got fired from here, no one else will hire me. I can’t go back to culinary school, they’ll fail me for sure. It’s all fucked up.” He raised his head, the gun in his hand coming up, too.
“It’s your fault, everything is.” Rob glowered at Adam, blinking furiously. “You never gave me a chance to show you what I could do. You spent all your time paying attention to the others, like that stuck-up bitch, Violet, and that little Mafia piece of shit, Milo. Even the fucking Mexican dishwasher! But the worst was Miranda. She showed up, and it was like you couldn’t even see anyone else.”
Adam’s hand tensed against her back. He shifted a few inches to the side, angling himself in front of her again. Miranda forced air in and out of her lungs in a rigidly slow tempo.
“I’m sorry if you feel I ignored you,” Adam said. He was using a deep, soft voice, as though he were coaxing a spitting cat down from a tree. “But it wasn’t Miranda’s fault.”
“She’s not even a cook,” Rob