3. Dani
DANI
The hands on my neck.
The harsh, muffled breathing of the man as he drags me backward toward the waiting car.
This isn’t happening!
I struggle, ineffective, weighed down by my totes and laptop bag and purse. I try to elbow him, try to wrestle away from the other hand that’s a vise in a glove on my upper arm.
I’m so out of shape.
I should have started my New Year’s resolutions earlier.
Part of living my New York City dream is that I need to be thin.
But it’s hard when you can just go buy a giant cookie down the street, and then on the way you pass the best Italian place you’ve ever had, and then there’s pizza, and it’s only a dollar—and suddenly you can’t save yourself when you’re being kidnapped.
Kidnapped.
Me?
This can’t be happening to me.
“Help.” I choke out the word.
“I told you to keep your goddamn mouth shut.” The deep voice is angered, the hands more insistent as I’m dragged back to the car.
The trunk is open.
I dig my heels into the icy sidewalk. Strong hands clamp around me, hauling me into a wall of muscle.
Don’t get taken to a second location, I chant to myself.
I don’t even like true crime.
I like rom-coms. With snacks.
I always assumed I was too heavy to kidnap, that my pasta addiction had a purpose.
My knees buckle. I crash toward the sidewalk.
See, Mom? You wanted me to eat more salad. The carbs were strategic.
He grunts as I slip from his arms.
“Yes!” I gasp—until—
“No you don’t,” he growls. “You’re mine.” His hand fists the back of my coat. Fabric rips as I curl in on myself.
Think heavy thoughts. Think lasagna. Think baked ziti.
“You’re coming with me,” he demands. “You’re going to be my girlfriend.”
“Oh my god—help— Someone help me!”
Lulu is barking at the man. Why couldn’t the VP who dumped her on me have gotten a German shepherd instead?
I slide off the curb, scrape my palm, and land in a freezing puddle beside the car’s hot engine.
“Screw this.” His arms lock around me again and suddenly I’m airborne—bags, snack, all of it.
I scream bloody murder as he strides around the car like I weigh nothing.
He’s huge.
Ridiculously strong.
Three steps, then—
I’m dumped into the trunk.
I kick wildly as he tries to shove my legs in. His expensive wool scarf slips.
For one awful second, I see his face.
Handsome.
Emerald-green eyes.
Of course. The one time a hot guy shows interest in me… and he’s a violent kidnapper.
My screams cut off as he tosses in my laptop case. It lands on my ribs, knocking the breath out of me. He shoves my legs fully into the trunk, then tosses in the barking Lulu, then slams the door.
I assume it’s a mistake.
The expensive German car. The bespoke suit. The cologne that smells like money and expensive scotch—Men like him don’t grab women like me.
So why did he just shove me, in all my pizza-sauce-stained, Costco-clothes glory, into the trunk?
I needed a boyfriend, sure, but I did not expect him to arrive via a felony crime.
The engine purrs.
Wait.
Am I really being kidnapped?
Like… for real?
Sleet rattles against the roof as the realization hits.
Oh.
Oh no.
I’m trapped in the trunk of a stranger’s car. A dangerous man. Being driven God knows where.
Sure, he’s attractive—but that is deeply unhelpful information right now.
I’ll never see my family again. Never eat a dollar slice of pizza again—
Wait.
I squint.
Window.
This isn’t a sedan. This is an SUV.
I’m not trapped.
I haul myself up and pop my head over the back seat.
“You’re a crappy kidnapper!” I scream.
“Shit!” he yells—and nearly plows into a parked truck. “You—!”
The car jerks to a stop at a stop sign. He throws it into park and starts climbing over the seats toward me.
“You can’t kidnap me,” I say, panic creeping in. “You don’t want me. I’m not a girl anyone kidnaps.”
My dog barks.
Emerald-green eyes catch the light.
“Sit down,” he commands.
“My mom is going to be really upset if I don’t come home tonight,” I blurt. “Let me go.”
The doors lock.
I fumble in my purse. Find my pepper spray.
“Yes!” I whisper. “I’m a strong, independent —”
I spray… myself.
“Water,” I gasp, coughing, wheezing, blind.
I suck in a lungful of peppery air and yank at the door handle, begging it to open.
Too late.
“Stupid fucking girl,” he snarls, grabbing my jacket and dragging me forward.
“You didn’t even handcuff me!” I wheeze.
He pauses. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”
He loosens his tie.
I gulp.
“I cannot believe,” he sneers, “that I kidnapped the most unattractive woman in Manhattan.”
Oh.
So… not the future love of my life after all.
“Stop trying to fight me,” the kidnapper growls, his voice rough. He has the loose tie in one hand.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Do what I tell you, and I won’t have to hurt you.” He releases me. Shifts the car into gear.
Yeah. Screw that.
I jerk the steering wheel.
“Dammit!” he shouts as the car swerves, barely missing a lamppost.
I fling the passenger door open.
Freedom!
I’m delirious. I—who dresses like she’s auditioning for a nursing home and goes to bed early—have escaped a full-blown kidnapping.
Forget my laptop. Forget my purse. They can all burn.
I launch myself out of the car while the man wrestles with the wheel.
One foot hits pavement.
“I’m free!”
My dog whines.
My dog.
“Run!” I scream at Lulu.
But her leash is tangled around the gear shift.
“No. No no no.”
I dive back in, fumbling to unclip it—
“Gotcha.” That viselike hand clamps around my wrist.
“No! Let me go! Help!”
The wind howls. The rain lashes sideways. Everyone’s inside, safe and warm in their homes. No one hears me.
He lunges and grabs my jacket. My foot slips on the wet pavement.
And just like that, I’m dragged back inside the car.
His hand is in my hair. He shoves me down against the center console. The gear shift digs into my ribs.
“I can’t—”
“Shut up.” He shakes me.
I peer in the dim light, trying to get a look at him. Aren’t people always kidnapped by someone they know? Statistically?
But like—where do I even go? Work? The pizza place?
“Are you from the cupcake shop?” I wheeze as I pull at the fingers in my hair.
He releases it to grab my wrist, forcing it behind my back, wraps the silk tie around it, and binds my wrists together.
I struggle against the tie. The silk cuts into my skin.
He floors the gas, and I jostle.
Lulu loves to be in the car. She perches on top of me, happy with her spot, peering out the window.
I can’t believe I came back for you, I fume. Stupid dog. Stupid late nights. Stupid pizza. Stupid me for not taking an Uber. And stupid kidnapper for kidnapping me.
He opens the window, letting the chilly air in and clearing out the last of the pepper spray.
Should have bought a gun at Costco, Mom.
I’m still half leaning over the console, close to the gear shift. If I can just bump it into reverse or neutral…
He sees me.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” His hand is back in my hair, jerking my head down onto his lap.
I bite my tongue. His elbow leans on my head, holding me in place.
“Don’t fucking move for the rest of the drive. You’ve been more trouble than you’re worth.”
I struggle against him. He jerks my head so my jaw bumps against his belt buckle.
“I said don’t fucking move, or I’ll make sure you’re sorry.”
Crap! What does that mean?
“Fuck,” he mutters, over and over as we drive through the dark.
His breathing is harsh and fast. His gloved hand doesn’t move from my hair.
I’m starting to panic. I’m suffocating on the smell of him. I’m well aware of how close I am to his belt buckle. Is he getting off on this? I can’t tell from the dress slacks.
My arm is numb, and my knee hurts.
I expect him to keep driving—out of the city, toward an abandoned farmhouse where my disappearance becomes a true-crime episode.
Instead, the car veers into a dark concrete structure.
A parking deck.
… What?
The car stops. His hand is still at the back of my neck. I’m still trapped, my head on his lap, huffing in that intoxicating masculine scent of him, which I will be unpacking in therapy later, thank you very much—if I survive.
“Don’t fight me,” the deep voice orders me. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He waits a beat. “But I will.”
Fantastic.
He drags me out of the car, my legs flailing, and throws me over his shoulder. For half a second, I’m impressed by how strong he is.
No.
Absolutely not.
Get it together.
“Loser,” I croak, kicking uselessly, wishing I were the kind of woman who wore heels to work and could weaponize them.
“Run! Get help!” I scream at my Frenchie.
She does not run.
She follows him into a private elevator.
“Traitor.”
I catch my reflection in the polished marble floor as the doors slide shut.
I’m dreaming, I tell myself. This is what happens when you eat three slices of pizza instead of one. A pepperoni-grease nightmare.
“Fuck,” he mutters as the elevator opens onto a marble foyer. “What am I doing?”
“You kidnapped someone and you don’t know what you’re doing?” I shriek.
“Shut up.”
His hand comes down sharply on the back of my thigh. Hard.
Also—unfortunately—on a spot I’m pretty sure no one has ever touched before. Ever. Certainly not a man.
Do not think about that. Do not.
I try not to think about why a kidnapper would bring me here. What his hand on my thigh means.
He starts up a staircase with exotic inlaid hardwood treads.
My dog pads along behind us.
I brace my hands against his black wool coat as he carries me through obscene luxury and past two-story windows with an impressive view of Manhattan.
“You’d have to be a millionaire to live here,” I gasp.
“Billionaire,” he corrects.
I smack his back. His gloved hand tightens warningly on my inner thigh.
“What kind of billionaire kidnaps a girl?” I demand. “Can’t you just—I don’t know—buy one?”
“I told you,” he says flatly. “I need a girlfriend.” He keeps climbing. “In the next five hours.”
My stomach drops.
“And you were my only option.”
The wood floor changes to lush carpet. He dumps me onto something soft.
I hit a plush white rug in a tangled heap.
The smell hits next. Not bad. Intriguing. It smells like him. Clean. Expensive. Masculine.
I’m in his home. In his closet. Neat rows of black and charcoal suits loom over me. Ominous. Identical hangers. Serial-killer energy, but make it luxury.
I look up at him. In the low glow of the under-cabinet lights, shadows carve his face into something sharp and inhuman.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say.
He doesn’t respond. Just stares.
Then he removes his hat. Slides off his scarf. Twists out of his overcoat slowly, deliberately, revealing a perfectly tailored black suit underneath. He grabs a wooden hanger—one of a hundred identical ones—and hangs the coat.
Clack.
The sound echoes.
I’m freezing. Soaked. Dirty.
His chin jerks up.
“Take off your clothes.”
My stomach flip-flops.
“I-I can’t,” I babble. “Please, my parents have money—” I glance around the closet, which is bigger than most Manhattan apartments. “Okay, clearly you don’t need money, but we can work something out—”
“Clothes. Now.”
Tears burn my eyes. I’m shaking, nauseous from the car ride and the pepper spray.
I’ve joked with my best friend about needing to get kidnapped before I’d ever have the guts to lose my V-card—but this is not what I meant.
He takes a step toward me.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying not to fold completely.
“Please,” I whisper. “Just—please don’t.”
“Stop arguing with me,” he snaps. “I’m on a deadline.”
I sob. “I-I really can’t have sex with you.”
He recoils like I slapped him.
“You think I want to—” He jabs a finger at me. “I didn’t bring you here for that.”
“Then why…”
“Take off your fucking clothes,” he growls. “You’re soaked in street water, and I’m not having you ruin my carpet.”
Oh.
I sniff and peel off my wet jacket.
“Well, you brought me to your bedroom,” I mutter. “What was I supposed to think?”
“I’m not attracted to you.” He yanks the jacket from my hands.
“I would never have sex with you. Have you even looked at yourself? You’re…
You’re…” His jaw works. “No man would want that. Even if you were offering.” He balls up my jacket, the veins standing out on his hands.
“I can’t believe you’re the girl I ended up with. ”
“You can just take me home.” I hiccup. “I won’t—”
“I said take off your clothes!” he thunders.
Sniffling, I whisper, “Are you… Are you going to watch?”
He makes a sound of pure disgust and turns his back—slowly. “Of course not.”
Right.
Because even when I get kidnapped, the guy still thinks I’m ugly.
The tears threaten to fall as I hurry to peel off my wet clothes.
I sniffle.
“You better not be crying,” the deep voice snarls. It sounds like he’s getting ready to hit something.
It’s fawn, fight, flight, or freeze, right? My mind whirls as I contemplate getting undressed. What’s the response for sniveling and crying and wishing you hadn’t tried to be good and skip the office snacks?
There’s a big island with drawers in the middle of the closet-room, and I duck behind it as I pull my blouse over my head.
“You want everything?” I croak.
“All of your clothes.”
My mouth is dry. This is the first time I have ever in the history of ever gotten undressed in a man’s house.
The air is cold, and I cross my arms over my chest, feeling my hard nipples against my cold skin.
“Okay,” I squeak, shoving my clothes on top of the island then ducking back down.
He turns around, his eyes half-closed. Sees me then steps toward the island. I scuttle back, gulp when I realize that might not be a good idea, and instead crouch down even farther.
He sees the underwear on the table. They’re my Friday-I-need-to-do-laundry underwear, and they have a giant hole in them.
Curse my mom. I should have let her take me underwear shopping.
“Should have done a better job of hiding those,” I squeak.
His tongue darts out as he licks his lips. Is he changing his mind about the… gulp… you know?
Then his hand darts out to grab them.
He turns, taking my clothes and my last connection to the outside world with him.
The door slams behind him.
A key scrapes in the lock…