by Diana Duncan
“Hide and watch.” She pulled free. “I would’ve shared what I found with you. I told you everything I know about the DiMarco investigation this afternoon. But why should I play fair when you don’t?”
“Nobody ever won a war playing fair, sweetheart.”
Disillusionment slapped her and scalding tears pressed behind her eyelids. She was more upset over his betrayal—over the fact that he’d only pretended to care—than at losing hard-won evidence. “You washed my clothes, and fed me, and wrapped me in charm and concern for my welfare. You sat at your kitchen table and laughed with me, and talked to me like...” Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “Like I meant something to you. But it was all a lie.”
His nostrils flared. “I didn’t lie to you. With words or actions.”
“I’m left with nothing.” She choked. Despite valiant effort, a tear leaked out. Then another. “While you got what you really wanted.”
“Dammit, Zoe.” His voice turned husky. Intense, smoky eyes locked on hers. “If I’d gone after what I really wanted, I would’ve done this.” He caught her hand and yanked her to him. An iron arm wrapped around her waist, and his mouth swooped over hers. Long, strong fingers plowed into her hair and a broad palm on the back of her head urged her closer, tilting her to the perfect angle for his plundering mouth.
Stunned shock flared into stormy desire. She leaned into his embrace and opened to the searing intimacy. His tongue thrust inside, silky hot. The world spun as her system went haywire. Desire, more brilliant and dazzling than the moonlight raced through her veins. All thought fled. She forgot how to breathe. Didn’t care.
Zoe dove into the kiss, starving for him, the dark, carnal rhythm of his seeking tongue as instinctive and natural as the dance they’d shared. God, he tasted hot and dangerous.
Fiery energy arced between them, and he groaned into her mouth, low and ragged. His heartbeat raged against hers, his big body shuddered.
He took, and took, took everything from her ... yet gave back so much more. His raw, thrilling power ignited her every nerve ending. Shaking, she wrapped both arms around his neck and pressed closer to his hardness and heat. She accepted what he offered, and shared with him all she had.
Wild to devour him, she pulled away just enough to gasp in a breath and nip his luscious lower lip. A primal growl rumbled from his throat as he recaptured her mouth. Deepening the kiss, he fiercely, arousingly feasted on her, as if only she could sate his hunger.
Fevered madness broke over them with the awesome power and glorious heat of a summer storm. He possessed her, claimed her—and she claimed him in return. He was everything she’d dreamed. Everything she’d ever wanted.
The only one she wanted.
She told him the only way she could. With her kiss.
Her pulse staggered when she felt Aidan’s shields melt, as he responded to her unspoken message by lowering his defenses. Inviting her into his hidden realm.
Revealing his heart.
Joy sang in every cell as she soared on their shared emotions. Reveled in their unique connection. There was no one before Aidan, would be no one after. With one kiss, he’d won her ... body, heart, and soul.
In that shining moment, she finally discovered the place where she fit.
Lightning crackled, a thunderbolt exploded inside her brain. Her legs gave out—then everything went black.
* * *
Aidan clawed his way out of unconsciousness. His woozy thoughts struggled to focus. He was curled on his side in utter darkness.
Am I dreaming again?
In this dream, he’d surrendered to the compulsion to kiss Zoe. And what a helluva kiss! Crackling with heat and energy, scorching him to his toes.
He’d teetered on the edge of the map, and then plunged right over the edge. But instead of falling into darkness, he’d found light.
Found life.
Found the part of himself he’d thought lost forever.
He dragged in a painful inhale. His survival instincts had been dead on-target regarding the sexy reporter. She wasn’t a threat to his family.
She was a threat to his heart.
Fear surged into determination. In a combat situation, knowing every detail about your destination, opponent, and mission goal was three-fourths of the battle. Now that he was fully briefed on the outcome, he’d manage this fatal attraction the same way he did everything. With unfailing logic, stubborn Irish determination, and steely self-control. All he had to do was develop a viable tactical plan and stick to it.
In real life, he just wouldn’t kiss her. Wouldn’t touch her. He’d stay far, far away from the tempting little gypsy.
Okay, boyo, plan’s in place. Wake up now.
He blinked, attempting to clear his vision.
Wait ... I am awake.
Another blink. Nothing was visible in the inky blackness. Where the hell am I? Jesus, I feel like roadkill. Did that confrontation with Zagretti in front of the fam at the reception drive me to drink?
His abhorrence for losing control kept his alcohol consumption moderate. Sure, he’d gotten shit-faced a time or two back in the day, but the last time had been after Pop’s memorial service.
Damn, this hangover was a ballbuster. His thoughts were scrambled, his weakened muscles ached, his gritty mouth rivaled the Sahara, and an escaped prisoner was drilling an exit hole out the back of his skull. He experienced a less hellish version of this death-warmed-over feeling only once a year—in annual SWAT training when he was required to take a hit from a Taser.
He tried to stretch and found himself pinned in a fetal position in the tight, dark space. His left hand was free, but his right snagged on something. He yanked. Metal rattled around his wrist and his arm felt heavy ... handcuffed to something?
What the fifty shades of fuck?
Using his free hand, he gingerly explored his surroundings. He was cuffed to another person. Judging by the soft tangle of limp extremities, his companion was a sleeping female. He frowned. Sonofabitch, how blitzed was I?
Enough to pick up some random woman? Not his MO at all. He didn’t do one night stands. And yeah, he’d occasionally indulged in handcuff fun-and-games with a willing partner he knew well, but never when either party had been drinking. Shit-faced or not, dubious consent was a line he’d never cross.
Not to mention he was always the cuffer, not the cuffee.
His fingertips brushed a lush mouth, pert nose, closed eyelids, and short, silky curls. Recognition slammed a two-by-four into his gut.
Zoe! The shape of her features was engraved in his memory. And if his alertness hadn’t been compromised, he’d have instantly recognized her unique scent.
His heart seized up, then began to pound icy blood through his veins. Not a dream. Not a drunken binge. He had been tased, and whoever zapped him had ramped up the voltage enough to put his lights out. Which meant that Zoe, who’d been mouth-to-mouth with him, had been zapped by the same high-voltage. And she was so much smaller—
Jesus.
“Zoe?” he croaked. He couldn’t feel any air whispering from her parted lips. His belly lurched. “Zoe?” As he pressed two fingers to her throat and felt nothing, his own pulse stopped.
He pressed in harder. There! Slow, steady throbs beneath his fingertips. Thank Christ!
“C’mon, Zoe.” He shook her, and she wheezed raggedly. Relief made him weaker than the Taser hit as he patted her face. “Sweetheart, wake up.”
Her low, broken whimper made every muscle in his body cramp. How long had he been out? Had their captor hurt her? “Zoe, can you hear me?”
She stirred, moaned something incoherent. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. If someone had put their hands on her, nothing would save the bastard from annihilation. “Zoe,” he demanded quietly. “Wake up.”
She moaned again, stiffened, then cried out.
“Hey, now. It’s okay.” He gathered her carefully into his embrace. “It’s Aidan. Are you hurt?”
“Aidan?” Pa
nic pitched her voice as she flailed. “It’s dark! Get me out of here!”
“Shh. We need to be quiet.” She was his to protect, now. He didn’t question it. Didn’t balk. Simply accepted the heart-shaking responsibility. “Listen to me.” Voice low, he held her close, trying to still her thrashing. “You have to stay calm. Take slow, deep breaths.”
“Help me!” Vibrating with terror, she clutched his jacket lapels and buried her face in his shirt.
“I won’t let anything happen to you, honey.” He curved his body in a shield around hers and hugged her tighter. “Talk to me. Did someone hurt you?”
She wheezed in another shuddering breath. “I feel terrible.” One more faltering breath, as he held his own. “But not injured. What happened? Were we hit by lightning? Are we dead?”
“We’re very much alive.” The anvil lifted from his chest. If she was asking questions, she was okay. “You’re not far off the mark with the lightning, though. Someone tasered us while we were kissing.”
“What? A stun gun?”
“Yeah. It short-circuits the central nervous system and causes temporary paralysis. Higher voltages can render a person unconscious.” He caressed her delicate wrist, bound in cold steel. “Apparently, they handcuffed us together and stuffed us in the trunk of a car.”
And/or a metal container that would become their coffin. Wisdom precluded mentioning that grisly theory. He surreptitiously brushed his pocket. Of course they’d taken his damn phone. And most certainly hers as well.
“Oh.” Every jerky movement of her tight, quivering muscles divulged her valiant struggle for control. “Wow. I wonder how much of the jolt was from the kiss and how much from the Taser?”
His mouth slanted wryly. I wonder that myself.
“Aidan? Why would anyone want to kidnap us?”
“Who have you ticked off lately?” He again kept his suspicions to himself. “Besides me?”
“Nobody.”
“That’s gotta be a first.”
“Nobody I know of, anyway.” She burrowed nearer. Any closer, and she’d be inside his jacket. “Maybe they’re after you, SWAT.”
“And brought you along for the ride? I doubt it.” His enemies would likely just blow him away. He gently rubbed the satiny skin of her back above the low-cut gown, grateful when her trembling eased a fraction. She’d constantly annoyed him over the past six months with her daring. But now ... thank heaven for her dauntless courage. If they were going to escape intact, he needed Zealous Zagretti firing on all cylinders.
“Nobody will know I’m gone until I don’t show up at work on Monday. Except Evander. I hope he’s okay all alone.” She sounded so forlorn, Aidan was tempted to kiss her again. Merely to comfort her, of course.
Right, wanker.
“Evander’s probably lounging on your bed with a cold drink in one paw and the TV remote in the other.” He settled for a brush of lips on her forehead. “Don’t worry. Before long, my brothers will notice me missing from the reception and call out the cavalry.” If they didn’t assume he’d swept Zoe off to bed. Which, after that knock-his-combat-boots-off kiss, was where they might be spending the weekend—if not for the fateful intervention.
“It must be wonderful to have family.” An edge of longing quavered in her reply. “To know you have people you can count on, no matter what.”
“Sometimes they’re a giant pain in the ass, but yeah. It is.” He feathered his fingers through her hair. “First the garbage rodeo, now this. Anybody ever tell you that you’re one hell of an exciting date?”
“I don’t date. Uh, much.”
Huh. Interesting. And strange. Didn’t she have anyone to lean on? He’d figured men would swarm around smart, upbeat, outgoing Zoe like bees to a tropical blossom. She sure kissed like she knew what she was doing. His aggressive hunger would’ve scared some women—shit, the searing intensity had freaked him. But her response had flared instantly. Without hesitation, her desire met and matched his. Bright and explosive, TNT to his flame.
“Aidan?” She shifted in his embrace, her voice rising. “We have to get out of here. I hate the dark. Phobia City. I can’t hold on much longer before I completely lose it and start screaming.”
“Absolutely no panicking. Hang in there, honey, I’ll get you out.”
He’d already war-gamed several scenarios. He just hoped like hell one of ’em worked. Timing, as always, was everything.
Damn, he wished they’d cuffed his left hand instead of his right. However, keeping her busy might stave off her panic. “Feel behind you where I can’t reach. Is there anything useful?”
“Just a sec.” Rustling noises. “My bag! My bag is here. I think we might be in my car.” More rustling. “I have a penlight in the bag!”
“Wait. Not a good idea.”
“Aidan, I need light. I’d rather have someone open the trunk and shoot me dead right now than be helplessly trapped in the dark!”
“Personally, that wouldn’t be my first choice.” Terrific. She was about to implode on him. The last thing they needed was to alert the kidnapper that his victims were conscious. One more round with a Taser tonight, and he could be his own nightlight. “All right. But cup your hands around it like a shield.”
Her fumbling movements brushed his chest. The small light blinked on, revealing stark terror etching every strained line of her elfin face.
He gave her a hearty smile and resorted to humor’s defusing effect in an effort to calm her. Leering at her in his best cartoon imitation, he growled, “What a tiny flashlight you have, my dear.”
Her lips wobbled as if she was veering between laughter and tears, but she managed to retort, “Hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’d be happy to share mine but seem to be without my Eveready at the moment.”
“Really?” Her lush mouth curled at one corner. Then a shaky smile finally broke free. “Could’ve fooled me.”
There was the woman he knew and ... whoa!
Okay, despite his best efforts to the contrary, she was growing on him. Eliciting her one small, trembling smile felt like a bigger victory than when he’d pitched his high-school baseball team to the state championship.
She glanced around. “Are you sure we’re in a car trunk? I don’t feel any engine vibration.”
“Listen.” He engaged her observational skills to help sublimate her fear. “What do you hear? What do you feel?”
She cocked her head. “A deep, vibrating hum, like a huge outboard motor. Sloshing water. And we’re rocking. Why?”
“I think we’re in your car parked on a ferry. Probably headed for one of the islands off the coast.” I hope.
The alternative destination was the middle of the ocean, where the vehicle would be shoved off and sunk. With them pinned in the trunk like rats on the Titanic.
She gulped. “So what’s the holdup, SWAT? Let’s bail.”
“I have to disable the interior light and spring the lock. And we need to wait until they drive off the ferry and onto a road.” Unless they started sinking to the bottom of the Pacific first. “Then we jump out, run like hell. Pray there’s cover and nobody notices we’re gone until it’s too late.”
Wide, scared hazel eyes stayed focused his face. “Can you spring the lock?”
“Sure. No problem.” Shit, he was bluffing more than during weekly poker night with the team. He kneaded both pockets. “They took my phone, keys, and knife, dammit. Pop gave each of us a Swiss Army knife on our thirteenth birthday.” He grieved the loss for sentimental as well as survival reasons. “What else do you have handy?”
“They must’ve taken my clutch, but didn’t notice my bag in the back of the trunk. That parking lot was fairly dark and I bet they were in a hurry to cram us inside before anyone caught them.” She rummaged in the bag. “Ha! Men think girly stuff is useless. How about manicure scissors and a nail file?”
He gave her a reassuring grin and echoed her words. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
&nbs
p; His movements were slow and awkward in the cramped quarters, not to mention severely hindered with his wrist chained to Zoe’s. Too bad he didn’t have room or leverage to kick the taillight out of the socket in order to assess their location. He found the wires to the interior light and sawed through them with the minuscule scissor blades. Then he worked at prying the lock with the nail file.
He’d begun to make progress when the damned file snapped in half. At the same moment, the penlight winked out, and Zoe yelped in distress. Goddamn. “Shh. We don’t want anybody to know we’re awake.”
“I can’t turn it back on.” Her frantic struggle jostled him, physically and emotionally. Seeing self-assured Zoe so vulnerable, so afraid, knotted his insides. “The battery’s dead. Oh, God, Aidan, hurry!”
“Almost there,” he lied. The only thing harder than jimmying a lock in murky light with a nail file while handcuffed to a semi-hysterical woman, was doing it in pitch blackness with half a nail file.
Sweat beaded his upper lip and trickled down his spine as he switched to the manicure scissors. “Hang on, sweetheart. I’m right here with you.”
Outside, the chugging ferry motor sputtered, slowed. Chains rattled. Adrenaline streaked through him, and he viciously wrenched the scissors. At any second they could be shoved to a watery grave. Could he loosen the lock before seawater flooded inside and they drowned? “Remember when you told me how much you like to swim? Been able to keep in practice since you moved to Riverside?”
“Yes, it’s part of my regular exercise routine.” Suspicion painted her reply. “Why?”
“Just passing time.” Can you swim miles in fifty-degree water in a beaded gown while cresting six-foot breakers and handcuffed to another person?
Don’t think about that. Work the lock.
“Do me a big favor and don’t lie to me, okay? You think they’re going to push the car into the water?”
He should’ve known he couldn’t bullshit his intrepid reporter.
Outside, metal scraped, and the ferry bumped something. A dock? Footsteps clattered—three or four men, judging by the weight and cadence. The car dipped, doors slammed, and the motor rumbled.
