“I’ve only just met Ryan, but I think it’s safe to say he likes to shake things up.” She cut him a reprimanding stare. “Namely me.”
“And you like it,” Ryan assured her with a wink, before tugging the door shut, darkness consuming them as the overhead light shut off. Ryan’s thigh melted into hers, a shiver of awareness shimmied up her spine and back down.
Marco tapped the back of the driver’s seat, sparing Sabrina a witty comeback her brain simply wasn’t producing. “Drive like you were me,” Marco ordered. “I have a plane to catch.”
“If I could drive like you,” the man behind the wheel said, “I wouldn’t be shuttling you around. But I’ll give it my best shot.” The man hit the accelerator, and the car jerked into motion.
Sabrina jerked with it, her oversize purse with her notepad, pen and recorder tumbling to the floor at Ryan’s feet. Instinctively, she reached for something solid to keep from falling. That something solid turned out to be Ryan’s jeans-clad leg, the one she’d been admiring earlier. Instantly, his hand came down on hers, holding it captive. Her gaze snapped to his, and the twinkle of his eyes cut through the inky shadows.
“I assume Ryan warned you my sister is a big fan,” Marco commented from her left.
“Big fan?” she echoed, the question barely permeating the lusty Ryan-formed clouds muddling her brain. “I’m sorry. What did I miss?” She glanced between the two men, all too aware that her hand remained trapped beneath Ryan’s bigger, stronger one—on his thigh, impossible for Marco to miss.
“Sabrina and I didn’t get much time to talk,” Ryan replied, releasing her hand and settling into his seat.
“What didn’t we talk about that we should have?” she asked, wondering why her hand still tingled where Ryan had held it.
“It seems today is all about deals,” Ryan said, no mistaking his meaning. “Marco’s sister was with him at the Hotzone when I brought up the interview,” Ryan explained. “She knew you instantly from your column in the New York Prime.”
“And the bargaining began,” Marco said, with a disgusted snort. “She might as well be a politician. Oh, wait. She is. She’s on the city council with aspirations of more.”
Sabrina’s stomach tightened. “Oh, really,” she said, trying to fight the tension in her voice.
“Here’s the situation, Sabrina. My sister’s been trying to convince me to speak at some political fundraiser—and I won’t mention for which party because I try not to talk preferences. It gets me in trouble with the press.”
“Like drinking Red Rock Cola?” she asked, trying to change the subject from anything that involved politics and where his sister was headed.
He laughed. “Exactly like drinking Red Rock Cola. That’s what I get for being thirsty and drinking what someone pushed into my hand.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“Wait for the interview,” he said.
“So this isn’t the interview?” she asked, frustrated they were back to his sister, and a bargain for an interview with him. As in, Sabrina speaking at that political fundraiser in his place.
“Marco’s not asking you to take his place or I wouldn’t have brought him here, Sabrina,” Ryan said, seemingly reading her mind. “You have my word.”
His word—a loosely given vow uttered by many a politician. But Ryan wasn’t a politician, she reminded herself. He was a darn good kisser, and the man who’d gotten her in the car with Marco Montey.
“All I promised Calista was a chance to talk to you,” Marco assured her. “Speak or don’t speak at that engagement of hers. It’s of zero consequence to me. I did my part by arranging a call. In return, she stops pestering me about you, and you get your interview. As in a full, no-time-constraint interview—by phone, if you can deal with that. I’ll talk to you like no one else I talk to, on one condition. No politics. I know that’s your thing, but I don’t talk politics. Like I said, it pisses off my sponsors. Hell, I don’t even vote.”
“You don’t vote?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Marco pointed at her. “No politics, remember?”
Okay, fine. Good actually. She tested him to be sure. “I won’t speak at your sister’s political event.”
Marco smiled. “Then don’t,” he said. “And yes, you still get your interview.” He reached into his bag on the floor and pulled out a can of Can Cola and popped the top. “Be sure you mention I was drinking this when you met me.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Your interview request was well timed. I need some good press right now.”
Relief washed over her. This interview was going to happen and she had Ryan to thank for it. Ryan whom she had kissed. Ryan who was daring and dangerous. Ryan who made her hot, and considering they were in the same car—was most likely going back to her apartment with her.
***
A FEW MINUTES LATER, the short ride to the airport was over, the call to Calista and the interview with Marco had been arranged.
“The driver will take you back to your place,” Marco told her with a smile. “Talk to you soon.” Marco exited the car, leaving her and Ryan alone. Sitting next to each other. Close. Her mind raced—okay, stumbled—over what to do next. Move? Don’t move? Why wasn’t she moving? Wouldn’t moving be running? She couldn’t run. This was supposed to be the life she took charge of. This was the life in which she dictated what came next.
Ryan’s cell rang, and Sabrina said a silent thank-you for the reprieve. She slid to the other side of the car to give him space to snatch his phone off his belt and glance at the ID. She wasn’t running. She was simply being…courteous.
Ryan silenced the ringer and ignored the caller, then snatched her purse and held it out to her about the time the muffled ring of her cell radiated through the black leather.
“That’ll be Jennifer,” he said, as she accepted her purse. “I’m sure she wants to know how the meeting went with Marco.” He settled his back against his door again. “And if I managed to keep my hands off you as ordered.”
That was a conversation she wasn’t about to have in front of Ryan. And he knew it. She set her purse down. “I guess I’ll call her and let her know about Marco. And we both know you already failed the hands-off promise.”
“I didn’t promise,” he said. “She talked. I listened. Guess she’s afraid I’ll offend the delicate sensibilities of the politician’s daughter.”
“I do not have delicate sensibilities.” Sabrina bristled, folding her arms across her chest.
He arched a brow. “Jennifer appears to think you do.”
“Maybe she simply thinks you’re trouble,” she said.
“Then maybe you should run,” he suggested.
Run. That darn word again. “I don’t run.”
“Then why’d you leave New York?”