#2
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?”
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 and work something out with 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.