Page 5 of Forbidden Pawn

We reach my car and I open the door for her to get in. She hesitates for a moment, throwing me another look from the side, before she takes a deep breath and sinks into the passenger seat. I lean down to reach for the seatbelt, and instantly regret my decision to get this close to her. I almost freeze mid-motion when I can feel her warm breath on my neck, and her intoxicating scent envelops me. She smells flowery, sweet, laced with a hint of citrus, and so fucking alluring that I have to pull away, yanking the seatbelt with me as I hurry to close it next to the tempting curve of her hip.

For fuck’s sake, why does she have to be like this? How the hell am I supposed to do this?

“You think I don’t know hot to put on a seatbelt?” She asks, chuckling.

She’s right, she’s not a little child. Why the hell did I just do this?

“Shut up,” I hiss at her, as I move away from her as quickly as possible.

I flinch when the car closes with a loud bang, and I almost feel the need to apologize to my McLaren for this unmerited treatment.

She doesn’t say a word after I get into the driver’s seat and start the engine. I glance at the building we just left. No one followed us outside, and I don’t see any henchmen hanging out on the premises.

Her eyes don’t linger on the building when we leave. She brought nothing with her but a little weekend bag, and I’m met with a sudden realization upon seeing the brown leather bag resting between her feet: I should have asked to check the contents before allowing her into my car. What if this is a setup? What if she brought a gun with her and is just waiting for theright moment to pull the trigger? Are the Reids using her to get rid of me, and thus free themselves of their debt?

I have to make sure she’s not a Venus trap.

She gasps in surprise when I bring the car to a sudden halt at the side of the road.

“Hand me that bag,” I order, as I unfasten my seatbelt. I might have to move freely—and quickly—if my suspicions hold true.

“What?” she asks, her eyes wide with confusion. “What do you want with my stuff?”

“Hand me that bag,” I repeat. “Now.”

A frown emerges on her pretty face when she asks again: “Why?”

“Just do as you’re told,” I say. “I would, if I were you.”

My threat gets through to her, and she bends over to reach between her legs. The bag is so heavy that she needs both hands to lift it up on her lap. I don’t wait for her to hand it over to me, but pull it onto my lap with a brute motion. She casts me an annoyed look, but says nothing.

My pulse speeds up and my body is stiff with tension when I reach for the zipper and drag it open. Now that my suspicion arose, it settled deep into my core, guiding every decision and every movement, while half of my focus stays on her. I’m watching her through the corner of my eye, noticing every inch of her hands move, the nervous tremor rattling through her fingers, and the way her breathing speeds up.

What is she hiding?

But when I tear the bag open and reveal its content, I see nothing but ordinary clothes. I reach inside and start rummaging, moving rolled up pieces of fabric from one side to the other in search for something more solid, something that could be used against me. Pepper spray, a knife, maybe even a gun.

But I find nothing of the sort. My heart stops for a second when my hand bumps against a long and solid object, but it turns out to be nothing but a hairbrush. I take it out and examine it to make sure that it’s not a weapon in disguise, but from the looks of it, it really serves no other purpose than to groom oneself.

“What are you doing?” She asks, as she watches me investigate.

“Just making sure you’re not trying to pull anything,” I say. “I should have done this before we got into the car.”

She nods. “Yeah, you should have.”

My head twirls around to face her, and I half expect her to pull out something from behind her back to attack me, but she just starts laughing.

“Do you really think I brought a gun with me?” She asks, still chuckling. “I wouldn’t even know how to use one.”

“I don’t believe you,” I reply. “No one grows up in a family like yours and doesn’t know how to fire a gun.”

“Well, I don’t,” she argues. “My father and my brothers were always strict about keeping me out of their business.”

“And look where that got you,” I say, still searching her bag.

She huffs. “Touché.”

I find a small plastic bag full of toiletries, filled to the brim with travel size bottles of shampoo, conditioner, face creme and other nonsense.

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