Page 6 of Winters Heat

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 andwork something outwith 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.

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