Not Stina.
Her coworker had been so nervous those first few weeks. Her smiles were always nervous and she tried too hard. She even had a habit of watching the front windows to see when a new customer approached the door. But she and Jolie had become fast friends, bonding over slinging pizza and beer and plates of spaghetti and meatballs.
This man must be after Stina.
Or both of them.
“I’ve been tracking you,” he said in a rough tone. “You should’ve stayed in Chicago instead of taking your little adventures.”
The words made her skin crawl. He knew too much about her for this not to be personal.
He knew she’d left Chicago and knew where to find her. He’d tracked her down to a motel mere hours after Archer had walked away.
Her heart raced so hard that pain surged to her fingertips, reminding her she needed to keep him talking.
“Let me tell you, I couldn’t wait to have an adventure after I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without little fingers under the door or a toy car zinging past my feet.”
His brows snapped together.
“Siblings.” She gave a shrug, awkward with her hands tied behind her back.
“You ever try to pee while someone is crying outside the door because their sock feels wrong? Or because a plastic dinosaur got trapped under the couch? Adventure starts sounding amazing.”
“I should have gagged you.”
She gave him a look even as her heart battered her ribs. “Rookie move. First kidnapping?”
His expression darkened.
“Mine too!”
For one beat, silence stretched between them. Then he said, “You’ve been rescued before, though.”
Every last ounce of warmth drained from her body. She forced a confused smile onto her face. “Oh yeah. A nice ranger rescued me when I got lost hiking.”
His eyes sharpened. “Do rangers use hoods?”
She was wrong—there was enough warmth left in her veins for her to miss it when her blood ran cold all over again.
She made herself blink. “Who said anything about a hood?”
“You did. When I stuck you with the syringe.”
The memory came back in a sick flash—the vehicle, the needle and her own drugged sarcasm. She’d said she liked the hood better.
“Oh.” She let embarrassment color her voice and prayed it sounded real. “I meant I’d prefer a hood to getting stuck with a needle. I clearly watch too many cop shows.”
He stared at her, unconvinced but no longer certain either.
He looked more frustrated, and she could see the temper working in red streaks up his throat. His breathing had changed and sweat dampened the neckline of his black shirt.
Whatever he wanted from her—thought he’d learn—he wasn’t getting it fast enough, and her mouth kept knocking him off-balance.
She could work with that because frustrated men made sloppy choices.
When he shoved the granola bar at her mouth again, Jolie took another bite, barely tasting the sweetness while her mind homed in on one goal.
Keep him talking.
