Page 26 of White Wings of Desire

"Eve, who's that?" Lily asks, a curious but uneasy expression on her face.

I look back and forth between him and my friends. A lie, a quick and easy lie. Come on, Evelyn, you can do this. As panic builds inside me, my stomach churns and my vision blurs, the room spinning around me.

"My name is Noah Philip Holman," he says, wrapping his arm around my waist, his big palm resting on my hip as he pulls me closer to his side. "I'm really sorry for showing up like this. I know it's supposed to be a girls’ weekend." He talks in a gentle voice, so soft and captivating. All I want to do is listen to him. "Evelyn and I have been going out for a few weeks now. She texted me yesterday about the dead bird, and I got worried and came here right after work." He smiles.

I stare at him, my mouth falling open and my eyes widening, struggling to keep my face in check and from showing my absolute disbelief at what he just said. The sad thing is, his lie is probably the only one that makes sense.

"Wait, are you the guy she met at the wedding?" Lily asks, the expression on her face smoothing out, and only her curiosity remaining.

"Yes, that would be me," he says.

My friends begin to gather around us, and the room, which was completely quiet just a few minutes ago, is now filled with the excited chatter of my friends asking him dozens of questions, which he is happy to answer.

Chapter 24

Evelyn

Being trapped in a small space with him alone should be terrifying; it should make me nervous. But it doesn't. After we finished packing, he asked me if I wanted to go back to New York with him. I'm not an idiot. Even though he asked nicely, I knew I had no other choice; he would have forced me into his car one way or another. But in front of my friends, he has to act like the sweet guy I am dating.

He has been silent ever since we left the drive-through of the coffee shop. The only sound is the radio playing the latest Top Forty pop hits, interrupted by the news or the occasional traffic report.

My gaze shifts from the trees flying by at high speed back to him. With his attention on the road ahead, he sits comfortably in the driver's seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other arm resting against the window sill, a cigarette between his fingers, he flicks the dead ash out of the slightly cracked window. This is his third cigarette since we woke up. He had one with his morning coffee, then another after breakfast, and now this one. It's not a lot, I grew up around far worse smokers, but it still shows me that he is hooked on those little murderous sticks.

My eyes wander over the interior of the car, it isn’t the same as the one he drove when he followed us to the restaurant. My attention falls on the center console, which holds two cups of coffee, an iced latte for me and a regular coffee with milk for him. Besides that, there is his pack of cigarettes, cinnamon chewing gum, and his set of keys. The touchscreen shows the navigation system, and the red line on the screen shows the route to our destination. His phone sits securely in its mount. The screen has lit up a few times, but he hasn’t checked any of the incoming messages.

I want my phone back; I'm bored. He took it first thing in the morning and is refusing to give it back. I can understand the logic. If I had it, I could call the police, I could call for help, even though I know it's better not to, but he can't be sure I won't try.

I take my coffee and let out a deep sigh, as if releasing the frustration through my breath. Resting my head against the cold surface of the window, I turn my attention back to the trees flying by. Bringing the straw to my mouth, I wrap my lips around the plastic and sip at my drink. A cold chill runs down my spine when I feel his eyes on me for a brief moment. Glancing at him, I see that he has put out his cigarette and closed the window again.

I shift in my seat as far as my seat belt will allow and lean against the door, facing him. "Can we talk now?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"Sure," he replies, and with a push of a button on the steering wheel, he mutes the radio while keeping his eyes on the road. "What do you want to talk about?"

"First of all, what exactly are you going to do now that you caught me?"

"To be honest, I have no idea," he admits. "Yesterday I wanted to kill you. The idea that it might turn out the way it did never crossed my mind."

My heart sinks. So, he really wanted to kill me and not just play his stupid games with me. "Then what do we do now? Just drive around until you come up with something?"

"No, I’m taking you home."

"Just a wild guess. You're not taking me to my place, are you?" I ask, although I already know the answer.

"Correct, you will stay with me for the time being," he answers and throws a quick glance in my direction. I narrow my eyes and watch him closely; he's focused and his expression doesn't really change. None of his stupid pretty little smirks or grins cross his face.

There are many other hitwomen out there with much more experience and a wider range of skills who would be a better match for him than me. I don't think I will be of much use to him. He is known to be violent, and that just isn’t my style. Why does he want someone who works in a completely different way than he does?

"Why me, of all people?"

He sighs and switches hands, his left hand now gripping the steering wheel while his right one settles on my thigh, squeezing my muscles. "Don't worry your pretty little head about that right now."

I look down at his hand on my thigh, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of my leggings, heating up my skin. Putting my hand on top of his, I run my fingers over the scars that cover his skin.

He may not even know the reason. I can't deny the small spark of joy and the fluttering sensation in my stomach at the possibility that someone like him wants me. Out of all the hitmen out there, the White Dove Killer is the one who wants me. "What about the person who hired you to kill me?"

He twists his hands and intertwines his fingers with mine, his palm burning against mine. "Let that be my problem. I will take care of it," he says, bringing my hand up to his face, his lips brushing against my skin in a soft kiss.

Slumping back into my seat, our fingers remain intertwined as we fall back into silence. This is all too much for me. I lean my head back against the window and close my eyes, focusing on my breathing. I take slow, deliberate breaths in an attempt to relax. But then, I remember something important. "Can we stop at a pharmacy or drugstore before we get to your place?" I ask and open my eyes again.

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