It comes back to me as I’m sitting on the toilet: I jumped out of a moving vehicle.
No wonder my shoulder is killing me.
I try to piece together the memory, but the images are dark and shifting. There’s a vague recollection of running down a rainy street with Declan in pursuit, another of adopting a fighting stance in the middle of a circle of him and his thug buddies.
Then nothing.
My stomach is still unsettled, but it’s my throbbing skull that really worries me. I hit my head on the cement when Declan dragged me out of the car in the parking garage. I think I might have already lost consciousness before the drug knocked me out.
A head injury, even a small one, can be big trouble.
Bigger trouble even than being kidnapped and taken to see the leader of the Irish mafia.
I finish up, wash my hands, and head back to where Declan’s waiting at the front of the plane. He watches me approach, wearing an expression like he’s suffering from hemorrhoids.
I sit on the sofa I woke up on and fold my legs comfortably underneath me. “Question: why did I jump out of the car?”
Frowning, Declan looks at my folded legs. “You got one look at the handcuffs Kieran was going to put on you and took a flying leap.”
Yes, that would’ve done it. I’m the one who puts the handcuffs on men, not vice versa. “Was that before or after I broke his nose?”
His lashes lift, and now I’m being roasted by a pair of burning blue eyes. His voice is low and tight. “It must be that brain damage that’s making you forget rule number two.”
I think for a moment. “Which was number two?”
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m not so good with rules.”
“Or with following orders.”
“I’m not trying to aggravate you on purpose.” I pause. “Okay, maybe I am a little. But you did kidnap me.”
He glances at my legs again. His expression is one of distaste. Offended by his look, I say, “What?”
“Don’t sit like that.”
“Like what?”
He makes a dismissive motion with his hand to indicate my posture. “Like you’re on the ground in kindergarten class waiting for your teacher to start story time.”
“Floor.”
“Excuse me?”
“You mean floor, not ground. Ground is outside. Floor is in.”
His glare is withering, but I don’t wilt. I smile instead.
He says, “Whoever gave you the idea you’re charming was an idiot.”
“Oh, c’mon. Admit it. You’re already a big fan.”
His expression indicates he might throw up. Then he gets mad and snaps, “What kind of woman isn’t afraid of her kidnappers?”
“One who’s spent a lot of time around men in your line of work and knows how you operate.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the mafia is more anal than the military when it comes to hierarchy and commands. You already told me you weren’t going to hurt me. Which means when your boss ordered you to nab me and bring me to him for a chat, he also said to make sure I wasn’t harmed on the way. Which means you’ll go to extreme measures to make sure I don’t have anything negative to tell him about the way you treated me during my trip. May I please have a glass of water? My mouth is as dry as bone.”
We stare at each other for what feels like an hour. He seems to enjoy trying to intimidate me and failing.
Finally, he speaks. Working at the knot in his tie, he says darkly, “That mouth is going to get you into trouble one day, Tinker Bell.”
He whips off his tie and lunges at me.
A startled yelp is all I can manage before he’s on me, pushing me flat to my back and wedging his knee between my legs. We grapple for a moment as I try to get him off me—it’s impossible, this fucker is strong—until he manages to get both my arms over my head. Then there’s a flash of metal and a click, and I’m handcuffed.
And furious.
I shout, “You son of a—”
Declan wraps his tie over my mouth and around my jaw and knots it against the back of my head.
Now I’m gagged.
Breathing hard through my nose, I glare up at him in outrage. It’s of little satisfaction that he’s breathing hard, too.
“That’s better.” Now he’s smiling, the psychopath.
I try to yell Pig! but it comes out muffled. He gets the gist of it, anyway.
Clucking in mock dismay, he says, “Now, now, what kind of language is that for a charming young lady? Didn’t they teach you in finishing school that swearing is unbecoming?”
One more rhetorical question, and I’ll slice off your balls.
He’s sickeningly pleased with himself, the ass. Meanwhile, I’m so mad, I’m almost vibrating.
And he still hasn’t gotten off me.
His forearms are propped on either side of my head. Pelvis to chest, his body rests against mine. He’s warm and heavy, smells faintly of peppermint and something spicy, and I hope that’s a gun in his pants’ pocket, because holy…
Our eyes lock. His smile dies. A flicker of something other than disdain appears in his cold blue eyes.
In one swift motion, he rolls off me and stands.
His shoulders stiff and his back to me, he drags a hand through his thick dark hair and snaps, “I wasn’t ordered not to harm you, so don’t fucking test me.”
His voice is so rough and raspy, it sounds like he’s been swallowing rocks. I’m not sure which one of us is more disoriented.
I sit up. He turns and scowls down at me like he’s Lord Voldemort and I’m Harry Potter.
Why is this man so crabby?
I don’t care. I just want to kick him in the shin. No—somewhere more tender.
Before I can shout more muffled curses at him through his necktie, he hauls me up by my wrists, spins me around, backs me up a few steps, then pushes me into the chair he was sitting in. He fastens the lap belt over me, cinching it tightly across my lap. Then he leans down into my face, all muscular and murdery.
He snaps, “You have a choice to make, lass. Either you sit here quietly until the end of the flight, or you continue to test my patience. If you decide to go with option number two, the consequences will be dire.”
I must be psychically telegraphing that I doubt him, because he elaborates.
“I’ll call the boys back here and let them watch while I tear that ridiculous tutu off you and spank your naked ass until it’s red. Then I’ll let each of them have a turn. After that…” He pauses meaningfully. “I’ll let them take turns doing whatever they want.”
Sweet baby Jesus, I wish I knew Morse code. I would blink this asshole such a terrorist threat with my eyelids that he wouldn’t be able to sleep for the rest of his life.
Whatever he sees in my eyes makes him smile. I hate it that he gets a charge out of infuriating me.
“So, which will it be? One or two?”
He cocks his eyebrow and waits for me to respond. Maintaining eye contact, I lift my bound hands and raise a single finger.
The middle one.
A muscle flexes in his jaw. He exhales slowly through his nose. He grinds his back teeth for a while, because apparently it’s his thing, then he straightens and gazes down at me like I’m a turd on the bottom of his shoe.
When his cell phone rings, he whips it out of his pocket so fast, it’s a blur.
Sounding tense, he orders to whoever’s calling, “Talk to me.”
He listens intently, unmoving, his eyes narrowed, his gaze focused on a spot somewhere on the wall above my head. The hand not holding the phone clenches to a fist. Then he closes his eyes and mutters, “Fuck.”
He listens a while longer, then disconnects. He lowers his arm to his side.
Then he stands there with his eyes closed, every muscle in his body tensed. His hand is gripped so hard around the phone, his knuckles are white.
When he finally opens his eyes and looks down at me, his eyes aren’t blue anymore.
They’re black.
I decide this is the wrong time to demonstrate that he should’ve cuffed my hands behind my back, not in front. All I need to do to ungag myself is to reach up and pull the tie out of my mouth and down my jaw.
But he doesn’t seem in the mood for one-upmanship, so I wait.
He turns away abruptly and strides down the aisle toward his crew. He says a few words to them. Whatever his news is, it shocks them. They shift in their seats, muttering to each other and throwing me strange glances. Kieran looks especially unnerved.
I don’t have time to wonder what’s happening, because Declan is striding back to me, his eyes fierce, his jaw like stone.
He sweeps by and disappears into the galley behind the cockpit. In a moment, he reappears, holding a glass of water. He sits opposite me and holds out the glass without a word.
When I take it from him, he leans over and pries the tie out of my mouth, sliding it down my jaw until it drops to my chest and hangs there like a necklace. Or a noose.
Surprised at this reversal, I thank him.
He doesn’t respond. He simply sits and stares at me, his expression dark. One index finger taps a slow, steady beat on the arm of the sofa.
I polish off the glass of water, aware of him watching my every move. Aware of him thinking as he gazes at me. His eyes are speculative. Calculating. Hard.
Whatever that phone call was about, it had something to do with me.
We sit in awkward silence until I’m so self-conscious, I have to force myself not to squirm in my seat.
Finally, he says, “Do you know how to use a gun?”
The question startles me. Judging by his expression, I was expecting him to lunge at me again. “Yes.”
He doesn’t look surprised. “And I assume from the way you handled yourself with Kieran, you know some form of self-defense?”
Where is he going with this? “Yes.”
He mutters, “Good.”
Good? What’s going on here?
When he remains silent, brooding over whatever his call was about, I wiggle my fingers for permission to speak. He sends me a curt nod.
“What’s happened?”
His cold blue gaze on me is steady. “There’s been a change of plans.”
My mouth is dry again, despite the water I drank. “So I’m not going to meet the head of your family?”
Something about the question amuses him, but in a dark way. His chuckle is totally devoid of humor. “You’re meeting with him right now.”
It takes a moment for it to dawn on me. Declan is the new boss of the Irish mafia.
Whoever the old boss was, he’s dead.
And somehow, I’m the cause of it.
