Winters Heat (Titan) (3 page)

He cursed again. “Seriously, woman?”

Her free leg caught in the steering wheel, turning their trajectory. The truck jumped, then rocked back and forth. Mia’s forehead hit the front console. She lost her bearings, and stars exploded in her head. He let go of her and slammed on the brakes. She fell forward again. Her eyes watered instantaneously. She crumpled shoulders-first on the floorboards.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” He was angry. She would’ve said he roared at her, but roaring would have been an understatement.

She turned to see his face and watched him check his rearview and side mirrors, then put the truck in park. A deep breath later, he looked down at her, still on the floorboard, and glared.

They had run off the road.
Where was the neighborhood watch? A helpful cop?

He turned the radio off. The only noise was the hum of the air conditioning and the tap, tap, tap of his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. The floorboard was uncomfortable. The ridges of the plastic floor mat dug into her shoulder and elbow. She was eye level with a cigarette lighter knob and the new-car scent air freshener tied to it. The little pine tree with the rental company logo on it spun one direction, then the next, mocking her inability to move.

From her grounded position, the man above looked solid as a boulder. His long legs worked to tuck under the raised steering column. His slouch, more relaxed than poor posture, didn’t hide the muscles in his broad chest and stomach. His tight cotton shirt did little to obscure his brawn. She saw the sinew in his neck, and…was that restraint tightening his jaw?

This maneuver had been the wrong tactic. Mia rushed to dry her watering eyes and scoot off the floor, but she was at an awkward angle, with her feet splayed in different directions, and her shoulder jammed between the console and seat. She couldn’t reach the door handle, and she couldn’t get up.

Oh, no
. Claustrophobia grabbed her lungs and squeezed, driving her into a blood-pounding anxiety fit. She thrashed and kicked, shoving away from him, and pushed further into her console crevice, without a way to escape.

“You stuck down there?” This time the roar was gone, replaced by the tickle of amusement.

She wiped enough tears away to see his lips were upturned into a grin. Her face felt hot. She tried again to right herself, arms and legs churning in place, and failed in immaculate style. If she lived to tell about this, it would be the worst and most embarrassing day of her life.

After running a hand over his chin, he checked the mirrors again. “Need a hand up?”

Silence was the best answer. She couldn’t get out of this predicament without a smidge of help, but the heck if she would engage this kidnapping maniac.

He offered one dangerous hand. The gesture wasn’t threatening. Still, she had nowhere else to go. If she had to be stuck with him, she didn’t want to be upside down on his floorboard.

Mia wriggled her wedged arm toward him, and he clasped it. His hand was strong, coarse, and overwhelming. With a swift pull, he righted her next to him. He raked a gaze over her that made her shiver.

She returned the obvious once-over. He dressed straight out of an action movie, except she knew there weren’t blanks in his firearms. He crossed thick muscled arms across the expansive plane of his chest. Dang. She took on GI Joe and lost.

Avoiding his stare, she looked out the front windshield straight into a ditch, semi-near the red light she’d been hoping to escape at. They were at an impressive angle. The hood pointed down and the tailgate up. The horizon was higher than it should have been. Not one single car drove by. They were alone in their one-car accident.

She scooted toward the door, and his hand landed on her thigh.

“You’ve gone through hell to stay with that package. You’re just going to bolt now?” He shook his head. “I already told you I’m not a bad guy. Believe me. Don’t believe me. I don’t care. Maybe we can work something out. I don’t know. But I’ve been told to be on my best behavior. So, let’s just pretend this whole thing never happened.”

That was his best behavior? Gassing her in a motel room, tossing her over his shoulder, and locking her in a truck. His worst behavior was unimaginable. Definitely the stuff that kept FBI profilers busy. He was powerful, all-male, and awareness flushed through her. Her blood ran thick, pulsing in her neck, washing away the panic, replacing it with a stomach-knot.

But he was right, she’d put her life on the line already, and if there was the chance she could get her hands back on the package…

Without a second thought, Mia scampered back over the seat into the second row. Her moves were awkward and uncoordinated. Her butt stuck in the air longer than she thought it would as she pulled herself over, legs fluttering behind her. It took several seconds to move from her unintentional downward dog yoga position and sit upright on her bottom.

Why did she do that? Her face flushed again, and her stomach re-tied its knot. She pressed her knees together and hoped to lasso her unease. She needed to be clearheaded to survive him and
work something out
with the package.

He looked into the mirror and slapped the truck into gear. “Comfy back there?”

The man placed his mirrored sunglasses back on, fed the truck enough gas to rumble onto the road, and ran his fingers through his dark hair.

Mia tucked a fist under her chin and caught the smell of him on her knuckles from when he helped her up. He smelled red-blooded and robust, a mixture of soap, sweat, and gunpowder. She caught herself sighing.

What was that? Madmen kidnappers shouldn’t smell that memorable. This case of Stockholm Syndrome might’ve started earlier than normal.

She needed to think her next move through. Why did she try to escape without that disk? It brought her to Louisville and got her into this mess. She couldn’t abandon it now. It was too important.

Another option had to exist, and Mia decided to sit in the backseat until that opportunity arrived.

CHAPTER THREE

Cartagena, Colombia

“Find out who took her.” Juan Carlos Silva bellowed into his satellite phone and hung up. Standing poolside under the fierce Colombian sun, he dabbed at his brow with a freshly pressed linen kerchief, then smoothed his tailor-cut silk shirt.

It was bad enough his men traveled all the way to the United States and couldn’t complete their mission. The job was to collect a simple package containing a disk. But they ran halfway across that country, only to lose it again? Appalling.

He inspected the pristine pool water for a speck of dirt. He wanted to find something wrong. An excuse to yell at the knobby-kneed boy charged with his gardens and pool. Not that he needed one.

His neck pain flared, as it did when inept employees prattled their excuses. If he thought the job would be so complicated, he would have sent more men. Men experienced in American subterfuge. His judgment call on this one was foolish, and while it was his fault, it would be easier to take his frustrations out on someone’s hide. He cracked his knuckles and called out for the pool boy.

The phone chirped again, and he thought to ignore it. If those idiots couldn’t find a simple woman who escaped with the disk, he would kill them to prove a point. Maybe string them up by their necks and hang them from the front gate of his estate. Perhaps he would make them pick out a machete from his collection and select a limb to lose.

He never should have assigned junior members. But at least two of his men still trailed the woman and that wretched package, and Juan Carlos would grace them with another opportunity to make it right.

Answering the chirping phone, he didn’t listen to his man on the phone. “Retrieve what is mine. Take the woman. Both are more valuable than your life.”

America wasn’t Colombia. The practice of kidnapping was frowned upon more so in the States. Though much of his high-end product originated there, usually his men showed more finesse. Kidnapping was a practiced art.

Perhaps, he should give some direction. It was imperative both items were presented to him. He inspected his manicured fingernails. What advice would help? No, advice was wrong. Incentives were most effective. “Pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary for guidance. For if you fail, I will hand your mother your head.”

He disconnected the phone with a decisive click. Irritation made him sweat. The damp beads pooled along his cropped hairline. It was already hot enough outside. He didn’t need this added aggravation to sully his appearance. There was a certain look he expected of himself. Sweating was beneath him. He paid people to sweat for him.

Juan Carlos dabbed his brow again. There was work to do. Fresh inventory arrived earlier. Young women to inspect prior to their auction. Easy, untraceable money.

***

Winters rolled his head left to right, cracking his neck, and directed his attention to the woman behind him. “I’m Colby Winters. Most people call me Winters.”

He sounded flat and bearish when he wanted to be trustworthy. Trying to make her talk while balancing his irritation made this job more complicated by the mile.

The woman didn’t acknowledge him. Again, he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She wrinkled her nose at him, which was an improvement over the kicking and shouting.

“And you are?” His temples throbbed. Parker could easily pull her identity from any number of security cameras, but he wanted her to open up. Who knew why?

“None of your business. I don’t introduce myself to my kidnappers.” She gave him the snake-eyes, pursing her lips to complete her pissed off quip.

“Should have expected that.” He gave her a once-over, taking in her swollen lip and puffy cheek, and wanted to bend steel. “Those guys roughed you up?”

“What does it matter? I’m not saying anything to you either. So you’ll just do the same.”

“Aren’t you a tough one?” Intrigued, he gave a half-cocked smile. She was stronger than he gave her credit for. Must’ve been that deceptive sweater set she wore. The pastel colors lessened her bite.

As best he could from the driver’s seat, he studied her face and the slope of her neck to her collarbone. His backseat passenger was, by all standards, attractive. A little vanilla. Like a teacher or librarian, if he ignored the mussed makeup and hair.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He swallowed his gruffness. “Let’s try this again. My name is Colby Winters. You can call me Winters. And you are?”

No response.

“Tell me your name, and I’ll share a little about me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Fine. Mia.”

Their gazes clashed, and his chest warmed. Winters chewed the inside of his cheek before he turned the AC on high.

“Nice to meet you, Mia. We’ve made some progress here, haven’t we? Let’s jump to it, doll. Why were you at the airport?”

She shifted in her seat. “I had things to do.”

Evasive. Not scripted, but not careless enough to give him any details. “Who do you work for?”

“No one.”

“How did you know where that package was? That was mine.”

“Yours?” Her chin jutted up. “I don’t think so.”

Finally, a reaction.
She was resolute. Strong. Strident. Even angry. She glared at him in the mirror.

“Well, it sure as shit isn’t yours.”

She sighed. “That’s not true… It is now. But it wasn’t before.”

Her forceful rebuttal dissolved with a drop of her shoulders. What was her inflection? Unease or… Sadness? Whatever she felt it made him uncomfortable. He was out of practice with souped-up emotional interactions. She didn’t even make sense. Nothing but a carnival ride of crazy. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But we can work something out,
if
you stop being so cryptic.”

He flexed his grip on the steering wheel. What the hell did he care anyway? He had the package. For the time being, that was his only objective, and he’d accomplished it. But his curiosity was another thing. Why did a sweater-set-wearing, librarian-look-alike want anything of Titan’s?

As if reading his thoughts, she piped up in a hoarse whisper. “The person who owned that package told me to get it.”

She wasn’t giving him a lot, and the vagueness did nada to pacify his interest.

“You’re wrong. I was tasked with the pickup.” He didn’t want to scare her and summoned any empathy he might have squirreled away. “The owner hired my company to retrieve that package.”

“Well, Mr. Winters, that’s the difference. Owned versus owns.”

Mia didn’t elaborate, and he tried to decipher her meaning. What was she talking about—owned versus owns?

He ran his hand through his hair. It was too shaggy and unkempt. He needed a haircut and a shave. The scruff on his face was a scant thicker than usual, though he liked to keep a menacing shadow. Men backed off, and danger-junkie women gravitated toward him. Win-win.

He adjusted the sunglasses and focused more at her than at the road while he drove. “Why don’t we start from the beginning?”

“Why don’t you?” Her smirk was still defiant. She didn’t carry herself like a professional operative and didn’t act like someone on a job. But her challenging attitude took some major cojones.