Page 10 of Under Pressure

But he’d just reappeared.

Why? What did he want? As the street darkened, she ran one hand up her face in embarrassment. She was being manipulated by him, yet again. She wasn’t quite sure how exactly, or why—but it was clear he had an endgame.

And that was when she decided to pull her car over onto the side of the road in a small shoulder in the rocky hill. Her car idling, she reached over to her bag and pulled the glove out, feeling the stiff fabric through the plastic evidence bag. She could throw it out of the window and be done with it. Or she could take it back to Delta and confront him, tell him off once and for all. What should I do? Biting her lip, she had to decide.

It took a minute or two, but emotion overcame her. She pulled a big U-turn and started heading back down the hill, driving away from her neighborhood. She grabbed her phone and scrolled through her contacts to find Delta’s old cell number. Does he still use that one? One hand on the wheel, one hand hitting the button to call Delta’s cell, she spun around a hairpin corner.

But just at the same time, another car rocketed up the turn—straight toward her, like it wasn’t going to turn at all. Her eyes widened and she screamed, whipping the steering wheel all the way to the right and accelerating to avoid collision. The other car’s tires squealed as it missed her only slightly, but it was too late. Her car had already driven into brush on the hilly side of the road. She smacked her head against the steering wheel as she impacted against a tree, sending a ripping pain through her forehead and into her skull.

Damn, she thought, as things got fuzzy. Blood trickled down her forehead and her view of the blinking lights of LA down the slope grew blurrier.

The other car peeled off, and her heart beat faster and faster, realizing that all that was saving her and her car from plummeting straight down the hillside was a sturdy little cactus tree that appeared to be partially lodged under the front of her car. Snapping noises permeated the air, sending a clear message. It wasn’t going to hold long, and she was going to crash down the steep, unforgiving hill into the rocks below

“Shit!” she shrieked, jamming her door open to jump out.

But the injury to her head was slowing her movements. She was fumbling, her aim inaccurate. Anything she’d learned in the police academy about vehicle extraction got lost in her aching skull, her roadside instincts dulled by too many years behind the microscope. Her car slowly crunched over the cactus, not offering apology as it consumed it. As she was edging down the fulcrum of the hillside, death calling for her, tears streamed down her cheek as she fumbled desperately at the door, searching for escape. Her distorted vision rendered her helpless, somewhere between lucid and not. The sound of a baby crying in the distance rang through her ears.

Then her car stopped edging forward.

And began to reverse.

Nausea darted through her throat as the ground shifted below her. Suddenly, the horizon was not where she thought it was. The LA lights were no longer in direct sight, but farther and farther away, as if her car was moving back up the hillside. Sitting cockeyed in the driver’s seat, she was going to throw up. Either she was already dying or her car was magically moving back and over the fulcrum of its own accord. Funny, I don’t believe in magic.

Her car came to a full stop back on the roadside, unmoving. Her driver’s door then whipped open, and a masculine form with a black mask covering his face and a black hood up reached in to grab her. Like she weighed nothing, he heaved her out, then threw her over his shoulder.

Then she blacked out.

When she woke up, after God knew how long, she was still in the arms of the masked man, being carried somewhere. In the darkness, she had no idea where she was. All she knew was that she wasn’t far from the crash, and he was moving her to a second location.

“No,” she slurred, her head still disconnected and pounding. Never go to the second location. Survival words flashed through her mind, but she had little recourse to offer.

Her captor slid her off his back and tried to stand her up against the side of what felt like a pickup truck, taking her shoulders in his hands to stabilize her. Still incapacitated and worsening, she tried to step away from him but lost her balance and collapsed into his warm, strong body. Holding her close, he grumbled words, though she couldn’t make out what. The sudden change to being back on her feet seemed to drive all the blood out of her head. As if realizing that, he quickly grabbed the back of her neck and held on to her while she fell, passing out again. The last thing she remembered was trying to catch her breath against his masculine, hard chest, inhaling a woody scent that was too good to be true.

Kendra didn’t know how long she was out or what happened to her, but when she woke up, she was in the darkness of her small backyard in the Malibu hills, seated comfortably upright on her favorite chaise.

She wasn’t alone.

Slowly blinking open her eyes, she sensed someone holding a wet cloth on her forehead. Through the dim moonlight, she could see a concerned masculine gaze looking down on her behind a black mask. Her captor. So, he hadn’t killed her…yet. Her back stiffening and alarmed as all hell, she tried to rise—but he pushed her back down, firm and commanding.

“Keep your head down,” he ordered, keeping his voice low. “The bleeding has stopped, but you still need to chill.” He touched above her brow with the cloth, retracting it to assess the amount of blood it had collected.

She felt deep soreness as she raised her eyebrows, trying to get a better look. Her head pounding, she struggled to rub two thoughts together.

“Who are you?” she coughed out. “How did you find me?”

He didn’t answer as he held her wrist with his fingers, counting the beats in her pulse. He ran his rough hands up her arm, likely inspecting for further damage. The way he moved them over her body, it was like he knew his way. She clenched her teeth as he ran his hand up her neck to her face, where the bruising was sure to be starting. She had no ability to push back, since she was still recovering from the blow on the steering wheel. Had she been concussed?

Perched on the edge of the chaise, studying her intently, his voice, his eyes—there was something too familiar to deny, but she didn’t want to concede it. She sucked in breath, tension tightening its hold on her throat. When was she going to wake up?

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded in a weak voice.

He locked his widened eyes with hers, exposing just how livid he was. Staring down into her aching face, he shot back with a question. “Why the hell would someone do this to you?”

“I don’t know. It was an accident. Someone was speeding—” she started to rationalize.

“No,” the masked man revised, very matter-of-factly. “Someone tried to force you off the road. This wasn’t an accident.”

She sucked in breath as he touched a sore spot on her head, wincing beneath his rough, thick fingers. Drive me off the road? It was intentional? That didn’t make sense.

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