Carnal Urges

3

They’re seated on opposite sides of the aisle in captain’s chairs with glossy wood tables between them. Two of them are playing cards. Two of them are drinking whiskey. A fifth has a magazine in his meaty hands, and the sixth looks like he wants to tear my head clear off my body.

He’s the biggest one with the black eyes, a strip of medical tape across the swollen bridge of his nose, and spots of blood decorating the collar of his white dress shirt.

I almost feel bad that I did that to him, especially in front of all his buddies. No wonder he’s looking at me like that. Beaten by a girl—his ego is a five-year-old having a screaming tantrum in the ice cream aisle.

But I might need an ally at some point in this adventure. A little groveling now could go a long way in the future.

I stop next to his chair and smile at him. “I’m sorry about your nose, Kieran.”

A few of the men snort. A couple others exchange surprised glances.

Kieran’s burning stare could melt steel. I’ve spent a lot of time around gangsters, however, so I’m immune to their tempers.

“If it makes a difference, I don’t remember anything. That ketamine you guys gave me knocked me out pretty good. I’m usually not so nasty. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for violence when it’s necessary, but I only go there as a last resort. When I’m conscious, that is.”

I think for a moment as Kieran glares at me.

“To tell the truth, I probably would’ve tried to break your nose even if I wasn’t on drugs. You were kidnapping me, after all. So there’s that. But in any case, I promise I won’t break anything else unless you make it necessary. In fact, I’ll make you a deal: if you need me to get into the trunk of a car or the cargo hold of a ship or onto another airplane or whatever, just ask politely, and I’ll be happy to oblige. This doesn’t have to be acrimonious.”

Kieran takes a moment to decide how to respond. Or maybe he’s trying to figure out what acrimonious means. Either way, this guy isn’t what you’d call a brilliant conversationalist. I’m going to have to do all the heavy lifting.

“What I mean is that we don’t have to be hostile toward each other. You have a job to do. I get it. I won’t try to make it harder than it has to be. Just communicate with me, okay? We’ll be out of each other’s hair in no time.”

Silence. He blinks, once. I take it as a yes and beam at him.

“Cool. Thanks. And thank you for not hitting me back. Your boss tells me he doesn’t have the same scruples.”

From the other end of the plane, Declan thunders, “Take your bloody piss!”

Shaking my head, I say, “I feel sorry for his mother. She should’ve swallowed instead.”

I go into the restroom, the sound of six gangsters’ stunned silence echoing behind me as I close the door.

2

Declan

K

idnapping a woman shouldn’t be this aggravating.

Part of me is surprised we even managed to get her onto the plane. From the moment we grabbed her in that parking garage in Manhattan, she’s been an absolute pain in the arse.

Most people—most sane people—do one of three things when subjected to a traumatic experience like kidnapping: they cry, they beg, or they shut down completely, paralyzed by fear. The rare person will fight for his life or try to escape. Few are that brave.

And then there’s this barmy lass.

Chatty, cheerful, and calm, she acts as if she’s starring in a biopic about a beloved historical figure who died at the height of her beauty while saving a group of starving orphans from a burning building or some such noble shite.

Her confidence is unshakeable. I’ve never met anyone more completely self-assured.

Or one with so little reason to be.

She teaches yoga, for f**k’s sake. In a tiny mountain lake town. The way she carries herself, you’d think she’s the Queen of England.

How the hell does a twenty-something yoga instructor who barely scraped through college, has never had a long-term boyfriend, and looks like she buys her clothes at a Tinker Bell estate sale get so confident?

I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

I’m curious about her fighting skills, though. She might not remember clobbering Kieran, but I certainly do. In all our years working together, I’ve never seen anyone take him down.

I hate to admit it, but it was impressive.

I know from the background check I ran on her that she didn’t serve in the military and has no formal combat or martial arts training. And there’s no indication in the thousands of selfies on her i********: page that she knows how to do anything other than eat kale, bend like a pretzel, and strike a pose in good lighting wearing tight, revealing athletic gear.

He was probably distracted by her t**s.

Or maybe it was her legs.

Or maybe it was that cocky grin she likes to flash, right before she says something that makes you want to put your hands around her neck and squeeze, if only to get her to stop talking.

The sooner this is over, the better. I’ve known her for all of two hours—half of that while she was unconscious—and I’m ready to shoot myself in the face.

I take out my cell, dial the same number I’ve been dialing since we picked her up, and listen to it ring.

Once again, it goes to voicemail.

And once again, my sense that something is very wrong grows stronger.