Page 5 of Bottles & Blades

She couldn’t afford ice cream.

And she bought my lunch.

Christ.

“I’ll have you back her in less than twenty.” A beat. “I promise.”

There’s a long blip of silence and then she mutters, “Kidnapping to repay someone twenty bucks seems like overkill.”

“It was $23.26.”

She goes quiet then, and whether it’s because I corrected the amount or because I’m exiting the freeway and turning into the complex where my office is, I don’t know.

It doesn’t really matter.

“I didn’t do it to be paid back,” she says as I pull into one of the stalls near the double glass doors.

“I know.” I shift the transmission into park, engage the emergency brake, then pop open the door and start to climb out.

I pause when I realize she’s not doing the same. “You coming?”

The woman’s dark brown eyes narrow at me. “Oh, you mean that you’re not going to lock me in again?”

That tart arrows straight for my cock. “Nope.”

I hop out, slam the metal panel shut, and am rounding the hood when I hear the telltale sign of her door opening.

Good.

My next problem is that I don’t have my badge to access the building.

Luckily, I spot Scottie through the glass and he hurries over, pushing the door toward me. “Mr. Dubois,” he says, and I have to give my head of security credit. He doesn’t so much as blink an eye at the sight of me covered in dirt and oil, the byproduct of one of the tractors at the vineyard breaking down.

Of course, this is far from the first time that I’ve showed up filthy after managing some crisis at Oak Ridge.

It’s why I keep more than one change of clothes in my office here.

Running a meeting with the shareholders of my multibillion dollar company covered in dirt and grape juice doesn’t tend to go well.

His browsdogo up, though, when I hold the door wide and the woman I’ve kidnapped follows me in. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Dubois?”

“Yes,” I say. “Can you call up to Marie and ask her to bring my checkbook down? It’s in the second drawer on the right side of my desk.”

He nods and moves behind the desk, lifting the phone there to his ear.

The woman spins in a circle, her brows lifting. “You workhere?”

I’m not offended.

I’m covered in grime and my building is the definition of luxury.

The atrium overhead is beyond impressive, even by my standards—multi-storied with numerous glass walkways overlooking the lobby and enclosed by walls of windows so plenty of California sunshine can fill up the space. But it’s not cold like so many of the corporate business buildings in the area (and it doesn’t look like a dumbass adult playground, like so many of the tech operations either). It’s professional, impressive, and just a smidge intimidating.

Some might say like me.

“Iownhere,” I say quietly.

She stills halfway through her circle. “Y-youown?—”

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