Silence. He blinks, once. I take it as a yes and beam at him.
“Cool. Thanks. And thank you for not hitting me back. Your boss tells me he doesn’t have the same scruples.”
From the other end of the plane, Declan thunders, “Take your bloody piss!”
Shaking my head, I say, “I feel sorry for his mother. She should’ve swallowed instead.”
I go into the restroom, the sound of six gangsters’ stunned silence echoing behind me as I close the door.
2
Declan
Kidnapping a woman shouldn’t be this aggravating.
Part of me is surprised we even managed to get her onto the plane. From the moment we grabbed her in that parking garage in Manhattan, she’s been an absolute pain in the arse.
Most people—most sane people—do one of three things when subjected to a traumatic experience like kidnapping: they cry, they beg, or they shut down completely, paralyzed by fear. The rare person will fight for his life or try to escape. Few are that brave.
And then there’s this barmy lass.
Chatty, cheerful, and calm, she acts as if she’s starring in a biopic about a beloved historical figure who died at the height of her beauty while saving a group of starving orphans from a burning building or some such noble shite.
Her confidence is unshakeable. I’ve never met anyone more completely self-assured.
Or one with so little reason to be.
She teaches yoga, for fuck’s sake. In a tiny mountain lake town. The way she carries herself, you’d think she’s the Queen of England.
How the hell does a twenty-something yoga instructor who barely scraped through college, has never had a long-term boyfriend, and looks like she buys her clothes at a Tinker Bell estate sale get so confident?
I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
I’m curious about her fighting skills, though. She might not remember clobbering Kieran, but I certainly do. In all our years working together, I’ve never seen anyone take him down.
I hate to admit it, but it was impressive.
I know from the background check I ran on her that she didn’t serve in the military and has no formal combat or martial arts training. And there’s no indication in the thousands of selfies on her Instagram page that she knows how to do anything other than eat kale, bend like a pretzel, and strike a pose in good lighting wearing tight, revealing athletic gear.
He was probably distracted by her tits.
Or maybe it was her legs.
Or maybe it was that cocky grin she likes to flash, right before she says something that makes you want to put your hands around her neck and squeeze, if only to get her to stop talking.
The sooner this is over, the better. I’ve known her for all of two hours—half of that while she was unconscious—and I’m ready to shoot myself in the face.
I take out my cell, dial the same number I’ve been dialing since we picked her up, and listen to it ring.
Once again, it goes to voicemail.
And once again, my sense that something is very wrong grows stronger.
3
Sloane
It comes back to me as I’m sitting on the toilet: I jumped out of a moving vehicle.
No wonder my shoulder is killing me.
I try to piece together the memory, but the images are dark and shifting. There’s a vague recollection of running down a rainy street with Declan in pursuit, another of adopting a fighting stance in the middle of a circle of him and his thug buddies.
Then nothing.
My stomach is still unsettled, but it’s my throbbing skull that really worries me. I hit my head on the cement when Declan dragged me out of the car in the parking garage. I think I might have already lost consciousness before the drug knocked me out.
A head injury, even a small one, can be big trouble.
Bigger trouble even than being kidnapped and taken to see the leader of the Irish mafia.
I finish up, wash my hands, and head back to where Declan’s waiting at the front of the plane. He watches me approach, wearing an expression like he’s suffering from hemorrhoids.
I sit on the sofa I woke up on and fold my legs comfortably underneath me. “Question: why did I jump out of the car?”
Frowning, Declan looks at my folded legs. “You got one look at the handcuffs Kieran was going to put on you and took a flying leap.”
Yes, that would’ve done it. I’m the one who puts the handcuffs on men, not vice versa. “Was that before or after I broke his nose?”
His lashes lift, and now I’m being roasted by a pair of burning blue eyes. His voice is low and tight. “It must be that brain damage that’s making you forget rule number two.”
I think for a moment. “Which was number two?”
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m not so good with rules.”
“Or with following orders.”
“I’m not trying to aggravate you on purpose.” I pause. “Okay, maybe I am a little. But you did kidnap me.”
He glances at my legs again. His expression is one of distaste. Offended by his look, I say, “What?”
“Don’t sit like that.”
“Like what?”
He makes a dismissive motion with his hand to indicate my posture. “Like you’re on the ground in kindergarten class waiting for your teacher to start story time.”
“Floor.”
“Excuse me?”
“You mean floor, not ground. Ground is outside. Floor is in.”
His glare is withering, but I don’t wilt. I smile instead.
He says, “Whoever gave you the idea you’re charming was an idiot.”
“Oh, c’mon. Admit it. You’re already a big fan.”
His expression indicates he might throw up. Then he gets mad and snaps, “What kind of woman isn’t afraid of her kidnappers?”
“One who’s spent a lot of time around men in your line of work and knows how you operate.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the mafia is more anal than the military when it comes to hierarchy and commands. You already told me you weren’t going to hurt me. Which means when your boss ordered you to nab me and bring me to him for a chat, he also said to make sure I wasn’t harmed on the way. Which means you’ll go to extreme measures to make sure I don’t have anything negative to tell him about the way you treated me during my trip. May I please have a glass of water? My mouth is as dry as bone.”
We stare at each other for what feels like an hour. He seems to enjoy trying to intimidate me and failing.
Finally, he speaks. Working at the knot in his tie, he says darkly, “That mouth is going to get you into trouble one day, Tinker Bell.”
He whips off his tie and lunges at me.
A startled yelp is all I can manage before he’s on me, pushing me flat to my back and wedging his knee between my legs. We grapple for a moment as I try to get him off me—it’s impossible, this fucker is strong—until he manages to get both my arms over my head. Then there’s a flash of metal and a click, and I’m handcuffed.
And furious.
I shout, “You son of a—”