Mayan Blood Read Online Free Page B

vanity. She rushed toward it and snatched up the silver letter opener.
    The Man could barge in at any second with a countless number of creatures at his command. If she were going to jar herself awake, she’d have to do something drastic.
    Holding her breath, she gripped the handle and drove the sharp, metal tip deep into her forearm. Pain shot up her arm in one swift spike of adrenaline.
    Zanya clenched her jaw as blood slid down to her elbow, splattering scarlet drops on the wood floor.
    In her dreams, self-inflicted pain was the only way to wake up. To escape. Her eyes widened when she realized—this wasn’t a dream.
    With a firm grip on the weapon, she silently walked across the room and pushed the door ajar. All was quiet. She slipped through the hall and descended a grand staircase with old wooden handrails. One last step put her in the foyer of a large Victorian-style home.
    Voices murmured softly from a room beyond an open entryway. Casually placed footsteps grew closer. She spun and pressed her back against the wall, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice her as they passed.
    A tall, lean man crossed the threshold and into the kitchen without so much as a glance in her direction. Cupboards opened and closed, followed by the clattering of dishes. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Zanya?” His voice curled with a charming accent.
    Cautious steps led her toward the kitchen. There was no way of telling if she would have to use her weapon. She swallowed. Please, God, don’t make her have to stab someone. She slowly approached the kitchen and spied around the corner at the man pouring coffee. She had seen that tall, lean frame before, with skin the color of toasted caramel, that complemented his dark eyes.
    The grip on her weapon relaxed slightly as her lips parted. “Dr. Fitzgerald?”
    He held out a steaming mug of coffee. “Yes, that was my name, wasn’t it?”
    Zanya pushed away the raw fear clawing up her spine.
    He peered at the weapon in her hand and frowned. “There is no need for that.”
    She glared. “So says the creepy kidnapper.”
    His gentle laugh caressed the air. “I suppose that’s true.” He noticed her bloodstained pajamas and frowned. “You’re wounded. How did that happen?”
    Classic pretend-to-care-so-she’ll-let-down-her-guard act. Not happening. “Who are you?”
    “My name is Renato Coreandero. You may call me Renato. Please, allow me to get you some bandages—”
    “Who. Are. You.”
    He examined her for a moment, then gestured toward the French doors. “Have some coffee with me on the veranda.”
    Her gaze flickered to the exit. Once she was outside, she’d make a run for it—or at least try.
    She cautiously took the mug from the counter. The brew smelled heavenly, but she’d been drugged once already, maybe, and wouldn’t take a chance of it happening again.
    When she stepped outside, hot, humid air smacked her in the face. The veranda was spacious, made of white, glittering stone and alabaster pillar railings.
    “Where are we?” She sat on a wicker chair and set down the coffee on a round stone table. The guardrail was at least twenty feet away. She slid to the edge of her chair, ready to sprint into action, her heels pressed firmly against the cool stone.
    He lunged toward her. Zanya jerked away and pushed back on instinct, skidding her chair across the veranda floor. He froze, watching her with parted lips and raised eyebrows. She aimed the letter opener at him, her hand quivering. “Back off.”
    “I’m sorry.” He sat back, taking a moment to collect his composure. “It will be much safer if neither of us has a weapon. I won’t hurt you.”
    Her wound throbbed. She stole another glance at the railing. It was tall and far away, a long chance, but still possible.
    “Perhaps if I told you a little about my home, you would feel inclined to put that away.”
    Irritation plucked her nerves. He must have thought she was stupid. “Not happening.”
    He crossed