Page 3 of Kiss Me if You Can
A sigh escapes me before I can hold it back.
The poorly dressed criminal tightens his hold. “I’m sorry. You’ll thank me someday.”
“Why would I thank you for holding me hostage?” I ask, but it sounds like a bunch of muffled nonsense against his hand.
His thumb presses more firmly against my cheek, and I struggle uselessly for a few seconds. My body is starting to ache in places I didn’t know it could ache, and his hand is way too soft for a kidnapper. Just like how he smells far too good for a bad guy. What sort of criminal smells like eucalyptus and lemon?
He lets out a breath into my hair that almost sounds like a sigh of relief. “They’re finally gone. I’m going to let you go, but you have to promise not to scream or anything, okay? That will just bring them back.”
Why would I promise something like that?
In the strangest move I’ve ever seen, he wraps one leg around me and shifts, his shoulder twisting in a way it shouldn’t as he maneuvers himself so he’s straddling over me instead of beneath me, all without moving his hand from my mouth.
What, is he some sort of boneless demon? His arm shouldn’t be able to do that.
He chuckles, his gaze dropping down to his elbow. “Double jointed.” Then he swaps hands so he’s no longer holding me so bizarrely. “Promise not to make a sound?”
I shake my head, glaring at him.
His expression softens. “Please? I really don’t want to get shot, and I’m assuming you don’t either. But if that’s what you want, scream to your heart’s content but give me a thirty-second head start.”
He grins sheepishly, revealing a single deep dimple on his right side. Curse that dimple! Bad guys don’t have dimples, so now my brain is choosing to trust him. This is going to bite me in the butt, isn’t it? But what choice do I have?
I roll my eyes, which he must interpret as my reluctant agreement because he slowly lifts his hand from my mouth, watching me carefully for any sign that I might change my mind. Once I’ve proven that I’m not going to scream—still up for debate—he shifts away from me to let me sit up again.
“Thank you,” he says, right as he sheds his suit coat. The tie comes off next, and when he starts unbuttoning his shirt, my panic returns.
“Oh, no you don’t, buddy,” I growl, grabbing the nearest rock and holding it up, ready to throw it at him the second he makes a move.
He freezes, eyes on the rock and his hands in the air. “Easy,” he says. “I’m not going to do anything to you.” One hand returns to his buttons, though he keeps the other in the air as if to prove he’s not going to come at me.
When he reveals a wire taped to his surprisingly defined chest, my mouth gapes open. “Oh my gosh, are you a narc?”
He frowns. “A what?”
“You know, like a CI? Criminal informant? Bad guy forced into working for the good guys?”
As he peels the wire from his skin, bringing with it a little box that must hold the recording device, he keeps looking at me like I’m speaking nonsense. “You know the term isConfidentialInformant, right?”
That can’t be right. “No, it’s criminal. Because it’s always bad guys. Criminals. Who inform.”
He laughs again before tossing the device into the little stream at the bottom of the ravine. (Thank goodness we didn’t land in the stream. I am—was—having way too good of a hair day for that.) “It’sconfidentialbecause their information generally isn’t used against them.”
Okay, the longer I look at this guy, the more I think my brain might be right about him. There’s nothing sinister about his features or his body language as he buttons his shirt back up, and in any other circumstance I would consider him to be downright cute. He’s got the boy-next-door look to him, with that little dimple and thick brown hair that has no product or style whatsoever. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with it so he just lets it flop on his forehead and do whatever it wants.
And he has kind eyes. They’re a soft shade of green I’ve never seen before, and they really do make him look nice and approachable.
I mentally slap myself.This guy held you against your will, Isla!I really shouldn’t need that reminder, but apparently I do. And all because he has a pretty face.
Why does this always happen to me?
As he gets to his feet, his focus on the top of the hill, I decide to be brave.
“Who’s chasing you?”
“That’s a good question,” he mutters. “I probably shouldn’t stay here and find out. Do you need…” He glances down at my legs and then looks back up the hill where we came. “You said your, uh, leg might be up there?”
I roll my eyes. Leg, liner, sock—I lost it all in the fall. “Well, I was wearing it when you crashed into me, and now I’m not. You do the math.” I hop up to my foot, determined to get my prosthesis myself if I have to. I wobble when a sharp pain in my knee tells me I am more injured than I realized. A glance down reveals multiple cuts and bruises on my bare skin because I wore a mini skirt today.Ouch.
