Carnal Urges

6

“Let’s go,” he says in a muted tone, reaching down to grasp my arm.

He pulls me to my feet, handling me more gently than before. The gentleness is confusing, considering he has even more reason to hate me now than he did earlier.

Not that he’s confirmed anything, but I’m reading between the lines.

Unlike the gag, my handcuffs remain in place. Declan guides me down the metal airstairs leading to the rain-swept tarmac, his hand wrapped firmly around my biceps. Both of us are getting wet in the cold, steady drizzle. My teeth start to chatter halfway down.

When we reach the bottom, I slip on the last step.

Before I do a face plant onto the wet asphalt, he catches me and swings me up into his arms, as easily as if I weighed no more than a feather.

Startled, I inhale sharply. I look at him, handsome in profile and very grim, and start to open my mouth.

“Not a word,” he warns, carrying me toward the waiting limo.

He’s furious, of that I’m certain. I’m less certain now, however, that his anger is directed at me. His arms feel less like a cage and more like a kind of protection.

The way his gaze sweeps the area feels protective, too, as if he’s expecting an armed gang to pounce from the shadows. If they are, he seems fully prepared to take them on.

Stavros and I were once caught in a gunfight. Well, technically, Stavros and his minions started a gunfight, and I was caught in it, but I digress. I remember very clearly how panicked he was, how even though he had a weapon and was doing his best to protect me, his hands shook and his voice came out high and he hyperventilated so badly, he almost passed out.

I can’t picture Declan hyperventilating.

I can’t picture him panicking.

I can picture irritating him to death, but that’s a different story.

A uniformed driver opens the back door of the limo as we approach. Two other vehicles wait behind the limo, SUVs that I assume are for the rest of the crew.

Declan sets me on my feet and helps me into the car, sliding across the leather bench seat to sit beside me. The driver slams shut the door and jumps into the front, gunning the engine before peeling out so fast, I gasp.

“Here.”

Declan holds out a hand towel he removed from a compartment near the door. When I take it from him, he says, “Wait.”

He removes a small key from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and uncuffs me. He looks at the glinting circles of metal in his hands, then abruptly throws them against the smoked-glass partition that divides the back of the limo from the driver’s seat. They bounce off and clatter to the floor. His suit jacket follows the cuffs, then he drops his head against the headrest and closes his eyes, muttering in Gaelic.

I sit holding the towel and stare at him, lost. “Are you okay?”

After a moment, he turns his head and peers at me.

“I mean, you just seem…oh, sorry. I forgot I’m not supposed to be talking.”

I busy myself with drying my hair and face, blotting my mascara carefully so I don’t wind up with raccoon eyes. I wipe the rain off my bare legs, too, wondering what I’m going to do for clothes for however long I’m going to be a captive.

All the while, I’m aware of him silently watching me. The air is thick with all the things he wants to say but doesn’t.

We drive. He takes phone calls, one after another, speaking in Gaelic through each one. After maybe a dozen, he hangs up and turns to me.

“Don’t try to run. It’s safer for you with me than anywhere else right now.”

“Trust me, my feet hurt too much to… What do you mean, it’s safer with you?”

“Exactly what I said.”

We gaze at each other as the limo speeds through the night. Wherever we’re going, we’re going there fast. “So all that stuff you threatened me with on the plane—”

He interrupts, “What kind of guns have you handled?”

When I blink, he growls, “Answer the f*****g question, please.”

Please. Astonished, I open my mouth, then close it again. My second attempt is successful. “.357 Desert Eagle. Glock G19. AK-47.”

His brows lift. He’s surprised by the AK.

“Stavros had rifles lying all over the place. He liked to shoot at fish in the lake.”

“Of course he did. f*****g Russians.” He shakes his head in disgust, then leans down and pulls a small black pistol from a holder around his ankle.

He hands it to me.

“If we’re separated, use it on anyone who approaches you, even if they seem friendly. Even if it’s a little old lady, shoot that b***h between the eyes.”

I stare at him with my mouth hanging open and my eyes wide.

He sends me a mirthless smile. “At last. Silence.”

I can’t form words. This psychotic blue-eyed gangster has rendered me speechless.

When I finally manage to regain control of my tongue, I say, “How do you know I’m not going to shoot you?”

“Are you?”

I consider it. “Maybe.”

“Decide. We don’t have much time.”

“You’re insane, is that it?”

“Believe me, lass, I sometimes wonder.”

Pulling a beefy silver semi-automatic handgun from his waistband at the small of his back, he continues. “Things are going to get bad. We’re going to take fire. The car is armored, but if the tires are compromised, we have about eighty kilometers before they die.”

He stops and looks at me. “That’s roughly fifty miles.”

I see. He doesn’t think I’m brain damaged, he thinks I’m just plain stupid.

“I don’t give a s**t about the tires. Rewind to the part about things getting bad and start over. What the hell is going on?”