Page 8 of Mercenary
My breath escapes me. Is he threatening me, or helping me—from what?
“Fucking move it.”
Something in his tone hits home and I immediately react, hurrying around to the passenger side, opening the door, clamoring inside, and shutting it with a firm pull behind me.
He slides his big body into the driver’s seat and turns the key already in the ignition. Hanging the gear shift into place and hitting the gas, he pulls the truck out. My head flies backward against the seat.
“Kylie,” I say.
“Long gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“Is she in trouble?” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m whispering. Maybe it’s because if I say the word trouble too loudly, it might ring true.
His body’s stone stiff, his eyes fixed on the road, his lips pressed into a long, thin line.
“The police . . . ?”
That does the trick.
“No police, if you value your life. You hear me, Madelyn. Just . . . disappear.”
There’s a tick in his beautiful masculine jaw. His eyes harden as he stares me down. Deadly, as he glares at me like I’ve just assaulted his person. Or blocked his path, forced him into my truck, and told him to disappear.
Holy crap. Is this the same man I kissed last night?
“Who are you?”
“No one you want to know.” He hands me a bottle of water. “Now shut up. Drink this.”
My hands shake as I twist off the cap and take a long sip, needing to feel the wetness coat my hoarse throat. Bitter wet liquid . . .
“Sleep,” he orders. “I’ll wake you up when we get there.”
“Kylie,” I mumble, fighting the fuzzy weight engulfing me, as if Mama’s afghan blanket, the one safely packed in a duffle bag, lay heavy around my shoulders. Bearing down on me and ready to snuff me out.
“As good as dead,” I think he responds, before the afghan wins, and the light goes out on me.
* * *
Reality staresme in the face when I wake. Literally. The stranger’s drawn in close, his face inches away from my own. I blink, then blink again.
His stark good looks cause my pulse to quicken. I thought his eyes were blue, the thought pulls together and out from the fog inside my sleepy head.
Not blue. Blue is for the birds. His eyes are green. A light seafoam color, like sunlight reflected off a field of grass. Why hadn’t I noticed them before?
“Your throat is going to hurt from dryness. A side effect from the roofie I gave you.”
“You drugged me?” I manage to croak out my question, sounding like I’m speaking raspy French for all the good it does me. Horrified, I sit up in the seat, immediately conscious of how the hem of my skirt is up around my waist, exposing my legs and my leopard bikini-style panties for all the world to see. Mama’s afghan lay heavily around my shoulders. He must have retrieved it from my duffel bag and placed it around me while I slept. What else happened while I was knocked out cold?
Reality comes crashing back full force.
I glance his way to find he’s relaxed in his seat and staring straight ahead, looking out the windshield.
“Where are we?”
