Page 5 of Winters Heat

CHAPTER TWO

Not a bad guy? He seemed like one. The man wasn’t law enforcement. He didn’t have a badge to go with that gun he slung around, and his mannerisms were more lethal than reassuring.

This nightmare was the makings of a television evening newscast special. The news anchor would look into the camera, earnest and pensive, wondering aloud in a dramatic voice about Mia Kensington’s last hours alive. Or maybe a reporter would interview her coworkers and family, everyone guessing about why she was in Kentucky or how she ended quartered into neat pieces that fit inside a handful of grocery bags.

Mia massaged the hammering in her head and tried to swallow against the raw burn in her throat. She sniffled again. Her nose still hadn’t stopped running since he threw tear gas at her. Her eyes stung, and no amount of rubbing helped. Mascara smudges covered her knuckles, and her swollen lips were in desperate need of balm. Too bad the men who took her from the airport trashed her purse on the way out the door.

She had no phone, no identification, and no way to get help. The man driving the pickup truck apparently didn’t care how many times she kicked the back of his seat. He just went about his business, making phone calls, and glancing at her in the rearview mirror. It was just as well. What would she do if he turned around? She shuddered. She was trapped in the vehicle with him and needed an escape plan desperately.

She studied him at the wheel. His dark brown hair was mussed from the fight at the motel room. Sweat dampened his short sideburns. His tanned neck was corded, and every few minutes, the man ran rough-knuckled hands to the back of his neck, rubbing his nape. He flipped the radio station at the end of every song, pushing the button several times in a row. Were those nervous tics? Interesting that someone so forceful, so brutal, was fidgeting.

Mia shook her head. Nothing she practiced as a psychologist could get her out of this truck. She needed to scrounge up every memory from the self-defense class provided to civilian women on base.

Too bad there wasn’t anything on escape and evade. That would have been useful. Far more helpful than practiced groin kicks on a plastic dummy. She glanced at the front seat. Her groin kicks to muscle-man up there failed. She tried the tactic over and over, and he had laughed each time her knee jabbed his muscled thighs and abdomen. Laughed and rolled his eyes like she was the campy comic relief during an action movie.

The man adjusted his rearview mirror again. It worked to her advantage this time, giving her a direct view of him. Too bad his eyes were hidden by sunglasses.

“Want to explain your side?” He sounded rough but more interested in conversation than harming her, which was just as alarming.

Nope, nothing to share here.

He had a strong jawline. His lips were fuller than she’d noticed. She would remember every detail for the sketch artist after she escaped. She wanted his face all over the eleven o’clock news. Headline: Madman Proficient in Gunplay Saves Woman.

No. Not saves. Madman Proficient in Gunplay Kidnaps Woman.She was nowhere near saved sitting in this truck.

He had used the child safety locks. Those only worked on the backdoors.Right? If she could time it correctly, she could surprise him and get out the front passenger door. They were still in a residential neighborhood. Stop signs and semi-regular traffic. If she could get out, a cop could swoop in and save her. Soon as they slowed she would make her move.

He decelerated for a red light.Deep breath in. Time to go.

She lunged over the headrest. Her foot caught his sunglasses, and she used the leverage pushing toward the passenger door.

The man cursed and grabbed her calf. The truck skidded. A thunder started from the depths of her lungs and blazed past her raw throat. An adrenaline blast pushed her, and she launched away, her hand clawing at the door handle, the window button, anything to get an outsider’s attention.

He still had hold on her leg, and she kicked, connecting with his face. Maybe his chin. Definitely his shoulder.

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?”

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