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Well…Hell’s Bells.
This was going to be even easier than she thought.
CHAPTER 2
The thing no one ever tells you about rock bottom? There’s a basement.
Knox Wilder was currently standing in that basement. And with the way his day was going, there was a pit in that basement somewhere that went directly to hell.
But he didn’t have time for metaphors. Apparently, he didn’t have time for logical or rational thought, either. Because he’d just kidnapped a woman…about two hours after being released from a five-year stint in prison.
Yeah. No one had ever accused him of being the sharpest crayon in the box.
He was out of options, though. If he didn’t show up in his hometown with proof that he was settling down and becoming a contributing member of society, the inheritance his father had kept in trust for him until his thirty-fifth birthday, which was—he glanced at his watch—one week from now, his asshole of a stepbrother was going to get every penny.
Then, Knox would be a thirty-five-year-old ex-con with a spotty (and questionable) work history, no skills, and no chance of building a decent future for himself.
His lawyer’s advice had been less than helpful. Get married, he’d said. What better way to prove your life is on the straight and narrow than to show up with a new bride, ready to put down roots and start a family?
Yeah, sure. The only woman he’d even seen in the last five years was Agatha in the infirmary, and he doubted the eighty-two-year-old retired Army nurse wanted anything to do with his sorry ass. Finding a wife on short notice seemed highly unlikely.
So, when the little redhead with the expensive-looking clothes and bag bumped into him, he’d seen it as an opportunity. A sign from fate—or whoever—that she was the path to what was rightfully his. Why else would the universe have seen fit to throw a woman his way (literally) moments after his lawyer told him he needed one?
Now he was seriously starting to doubt fate—or whoever. And not only because he’d committed a huge, glaring felony hours after being released.
There was something…off about this woman.
First of all, short of one shocked gasp, she hadn’t made a sound. Not when he shoved her into the car, and not when he told her that if she cooperated, he wouldn’t hurt her.
She just sat there. Breathing normally, casually watching the city disappear behind them. Was she in shock or something?
Shit, he hoped she wasn’t going to panic and pass out when the reality of what had happened hit her. Dragging her into his car was criminal enough. He sure as hell didn’t want to carry her unconscious body anywhere.
He side-eyed her as she lifted her hands to the passenger side visor, flipped the little mirror down, and checked her teeth for lipstick and smoothed her hair. When she was seemingly satisfied with her appearance, she glanced over at him and said, “So, where are we headed, Cheekbones?”
OK, now she was giving him the creeps. What kind of person was concerned about their hair and lipstick when they’d just been kidnapped off the street? “Look, I might’ve made a mistake,” he admitted, still eyeing her like she might stab him with a pair of cuticle scissors from her purse or something, because honestly, it seemed like a good possibility.
She snorted. “You think?”
If he didn’t have a white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel, he would’ve pinched the bridge of his nose in consternation. He frowned at her. “I’ve been under some stress lately and I reacted…badly, OK?”
Her lips twitched as if he’d just told the most hilarious joke ever and she was doing her best to hold in a belly laugh. She reached over and patted his forearm. “Hey, I get it. We’ve all been there, right?”
He frowned. We’ve all been there? Was she comforting him? And more importantly, why the hell was it working?
“There’s a truck stop a few miles down the road,” he said. “I’ll let you out there.”
“No.”
Wait…what? “Maybe I accidentally phrased that as a question.” He let his voice drop to its lowest, most menacing tone when he added, “You’re getting out of this car at the truck stop.”
She raised a brow at him. Just one. Which was annoying, but still kind of impressive. “Or else what?”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘or else what’?”
“It’s not a trick question,” she said reasonably. “What are you going to do to me if I refuse to get out of the car at the truck stop?”
He actually had no idea because he’d never hurt a woman in his life. He’d beaten the shit out of plenty of men and had never lost any sleep over it. But women? No fucking way. Men who hit women were worthless scumbags.
