Page 64 of Ewan

I lift my collar against my face to shield my skin from the cold and glance around, looking for a cab.

I don’t expect to see a car waiting for me.

Moving to the edge of the sidewalk, I notice the doorman stepping toward me about to offer some help when the headlights of a black car across the street come on, and the vehicle moves swiftly, crosses the lanes, and pulls up in front of me.

My heart pitter-patters as the black window moves down, and Ewan’s eyes push their light onto me.

“Get in,” he says.

A trickle of satisfaction and apprehension sweeps through me. On the one hand, I’m drawn to him like a moth to aflame. On the other hand, his way of doing things unsettle me profoundly.

I slide into the front seat and fasten my seatbelt. It’s an expensive sports car. If the dashboard wasn’t a total giveaway, the way the engine purrs and the car moves with that barely suppressed tension in its frame leaves no doubt about it.

The comfortable seat, low and tilted back, and the ease he drives it with.

They are all dead giveaways.

“I thought you forgot about me,” I say, peeking at the buildings outside. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home,” he says, not looking at me.

Oh, yeah…I forgot about that.

I do look at him. Perhaps too much.

He doesn’t mind me, allowing me to drag my gaze over his profile, his dress shirt, and the smooth fabric of his suit.

He doesn’t wear a coat, and honestly, I shouldn’t either. It’s warm enough inside his car, and our trip is fairly long, so I unbuckle my seat belt and remove my coat before placing it in the back.

I fasten the seat belt, get settled in my seat, and stare out the window again.

“You look nice,” he says as if someone has put the barrel of a gun to his head and forced him to speak.

“Thank you,” I say neutrally.

“I like that dress,” he says in the same monotone voice.

He either doesn’t like my dress, or he’s never paid someone a compliment in his life.

“You don’t need to be nice to me.”

“That’s not me being nice to you.”

“Clearly.”

He laughs, and I flick my gaze to him.

His eyes come to life in a dangerous way.

As beautiful and mesmerizing as they can be when he’s upset, as irresistible they become when he’s amused.

“Who are you?” I toss at him abruptly, and his laugh dies out, a pang of curiosity fleeting through his stare.

“Why are you asking?”

“I don’t know. You’re taking me home. We’re alone in this car. I think it’s wise to know who you are.”

The concern is thick and slightly muddy in my voice, and it’s significant enough for him to pull his guard up.

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