I focus on the scruff covering his jaw—his very angled, cut, and masculine jaw—with the waiter’s blood down his neck. Surprising tears prick the back of my eyes.
All of a sudden, the driver yanks a phone to his ear and starts barking orders in Irish Gaelic. Something about three ports of entry and taking control of shipments. I taught myself Gaelic in order to read several histories about crystals . . . as well as poems. I enjoy Gaelic poems.
I love languages and I love to read, and many books aren’t in English, so I set myself to learning several languages on my own years ago. For now, I try to comprehend.
My captor lifts his own phone to his ear, his voice a low rumble that licks across my skin with both fear and something else I can’t identify. I tremble. What the heck is wrong with me? Did I hit my head? Am I suffering from some sort of nervous system malfunction from nearly being split in two by a bullet?
Why do my feet feel like they’re falling asleep? Does fear do that?
Snapping out a bloodcurdling series of orders dealing with movement, timing, and sanctioned bloodshed, the dark-haired brute next to me ends his call and slaps his phone against his muscular thigh.
Yep. Short-circuited. “Listen,” I say softly, scrambling again for a lever to open my door. Based on what I decipher from the calls, my captor is orchestrating strategic hits against the shipments of his rivals. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that he’s in the Irish mafia, which does not bode well for me. At all. The one good thing is that they have no idea I comprehend Gaelic. Most of the scary words, anyway. “It’s obvious you two are busy, so how about I take off now?”
He turns toward me, lifting his head slightly with his nostrils flaring, as if catching some sort of scent.
There’s nowhere for me to hide.
“Say something else,” he orders. No man has ever looked at me like he’s starving and I’m the perfect meal. Until now.
Air catches in my throat. I clear it. “Why?”
“Something sweet.”
If he’s trying to terrorize me, he’s doing a good job. I try to firm my jaw and face him directly, but my lips tremble. I lick them and then wince at the taste of copper.
“Damn it.” The driver swerves, one hand still on the phone at his ear. “Thorn? We should be at the port.” He spits the words in English.
Thorn? As in Thorn Beathach? I gulp. “Um . . .”
“This is more important,” Thorn growls. “The boys can handle the job.”
My fear of the Irish mafia pales as reality slaps me upside the head. Hard. “You’re Thorn Beathach?” I whisper, my heart clanging against my rib cage so fast my chest compresses. I hope I’m too young for a heart attack.
His lips part slightly. “Say my name again.”
There is a reason Beathach has stayed out of the public eye: he’s nuts—as well as being a cold-blooded killer. I can’t find the door handle and start to babble, as is my defense mechanism when terrorized. “I seriously doubt your boys will succeed without you at the port, so how about you drop me off and go get your work done?” No doubt the job is illegal and I don’t want to know anything more than what I just heard.
He breathes in as if he’s breathing me.
His phone buzzes and he lifts it to his ear, instantly launching into a spate of Gaelic.
I have to get out of this vehicle before he wraps those humongous hands around my neck. If my door is locked, perhaps his is not. The guy is twice my size, if not more, and looks like solid head-to-toe muscle. But I know better than to let them take me to the woods or wherever they plan to kill me. So it’s now or never.
When he turns to look out the window and issues even more orders, I find my chance. Taking a deep breath, I launch my body across the seat, elbow him hard in the throat and yank on his door handle. The door starts to open and my heart leaps into my throat at how fast the wet asphalt flies by. Doesn’t matter. I have to jump.
Without seeming to move, Thorn manacles an arm across my waist, dumps me onto his hard-assed lap, and slams the door shut.
I jerk and look up, meeting the driver’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Fuck,” he says, the tone almost admiring.
Sitting perfectly still, I try to calm my breathing, hunching in on myself to protect my face in case Thorn starts punching. My skirt has ridden up to my thighs, and the material is trapped beneath my rear, so I can’t pull it down. Not only are Thorn’s thighs hard, his entire body is warm. Hot, even. The heat seeps toward me, circling me hotter than any hellfire threat.
He finishes his call and places his phone on the armrest. “Look at me, princess.”
I feverishly push against him, trying to retake my seat. His abs are rock hard and ripple beneath the T-shirt. His arm doesn’t tighten but I’m held immobile. The arm is solid steel. Where is that knife of his? I almost whimper, reliving the murder of the waiter. So I turn, my breath catching at the raw heat in Thorn’s eyes. Instinctively, I know that begging won’t work with a monster like him. “Let me go.”
“No.” His gaze drops to my lips, and they swell. Or at least, they feel like they swell. None of this makes sense. He continues in that raw and now dominant tone. “I hadn’t planned on establishing your rules until we arrive, but apparently I need to do so now.”
Rules? My head jerks and my legs shake. “Rules? Before you kill me?”
He licks his bottom lip and lets out a soft hum. “I’m not going to kill you.”
Oh, God. My insides feel hollow, but I can’t ask the question—the one careening through my head. What are his plans? Instead, I focus on anything else. “Where are we going?” I ask, my butt feeling soft against his legs.
“My place.”
“You’re going to kill me at your house?” I lean in, studying his eyes. Clear pupils, no sign of being on drugs. Then I lose it, so much fear in my head all I can do is babble. “You know that’s a mistake, right?”
One of his dark eyebrows rises. “Do tell.”
My brain finally just explodes and my mouth takes over for my mind. “You know, DNA evidence—blood, saliva, tears, and all of that. If you’re going to murder somebody, you want to do it far away from your house. Also, leave the murder weapon.” Though, looking at him, I know he is the murder weapon.
He cocks his head and a glint of what I hope is humor flashes briefly in his eyes.
I take that as encouragement, my ears ringing. “Now that you know those facts, you should plan better. How about you let me off here, and I’ll meet you near the Golden Gate Bridge next Saturday night? That way, there’s nothing to connect us.” I know it’s stupid to hope he’s that crazy, but it’s all I have going for me right now.
“You promise you’ll be there?” he asks.
I brighten, a sliver of hope cutting through my fear. “Absolutely.”
