Page 10 of Vicious Sabotage

“I can’t believe a woman with a dimple shot a man.”

The dimple vanished as she went stone-cold sober. “Stop looking at my dimple! I don’t even want you in my car, let alone staring at me.”

Fighting a laugh, he figured he’d give her a break and twisted his gaze to the windshield.

Thanks to her death grip on the steering wheel, her fingers blanched to the same color as the white fur cover she had on it.

Under her breath, she began to mutter. “It’s only a six-minute ride and it feels like six hours.”

“Would you consider yourself overworked, Livia?”

Her volcanic glare oozed with fury. “Would you consider yourself an asshole?”

“I do.” No point in denying that he’d learned from the best of the best in the United States military.

She let out a choked noise that wasn’t even close to the laugh he was hoping for.

“Usually women enjoy my frank responses.”

“Clearly you only know dumb women.”

“I can see you’re not like most women.”

“No. I’m not.” She bit the words off in violent chunks. He wouldn’t be surprised if she took a snap at him too, like a small, cute lapdog.

She began muttering again. “No idea why I agreed to this. I should stop the car and toss him in the ditch.”

“Do you always talk to yourself?” Stretching his legs in her compact car was impossible, and his knee struck the glove compartment. His thigh was getting a cramp. His head brushed the ceiling, and the tendons in his neck were starting to ache too.

“I only talk to myself when I have an irritating passenger. Can you be quiet for the next three minutes?”

He couldn’t stop his lips from quirking, but he gave no reply. The next three minutes would be well spent coming up with a plan for once they reached Livia’s house. First, he would check the door locks and then inspect every window for security risks.

But these thoughts shimmered in the background of his mind, nudged farther back as he drank in Livia’s appearance.

Her ginger hair hung in a thick swoop over one shoulder. The ends curled over her breast, which he determined to be the size of a small peach.

The black T-shirt she wore had the Badlands logo stretched across her chest, and the top barely skimmed the waist of her jeans. The hole slashed in the denim across her upper thigh was frayed, and the opening revealed very pale skin. It was too dark to see if her flesh was speckled with tiny freckles, but he was a betting man.

Her porcelain skin was so stark compared to his own natural tan that had been bronzed in the beating desert sun.

He abandoned his vow of silence. “How old are you?”

She slammed the heel of her hand against the wheel. The thump made no sound on the furry cover. Probably didn’t give her any satisfaction either. Like punching a pillow.

“I’m twenty-six. How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

She barked a low laugh. “You’re far too old for me.”

“Who said anything about hooking up?” He sent her a sidelong look.

For the next two minutes, she chewed her lip and that dimple played hide-and-seek in her cheek.

When she pulled up to a dark house without so much as a security light to guide her safely to the door, he threw out a hand to stay her. “Stay here. Lock the car door—”

He hadn’t finished the sentence before Livia jumped out of the car, purse in hand, and made a rush for the entrance.

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