“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s practical.”
“Men love calling ominous things practical.”
Dex’s hand settled at my elbow. “Step up to the running board and face out.”
I considered kicking him again. I considered throwing myself sideways, making him catch me, buying three messy seconds in which maybe the phone in my boot stayed hidden and maybe I could run on a flat tire and bad judgment.
Then I looked at the road.
His pickup blocked the mouth of the clearing. My sedan sagged over its blown tire. The locked gate gleamed behind me. The trees offered shade, scratches, and maybe ten yards before he had me in the dirt.
I could fight now and lose ugly.
Or I could get into his truck, learn the locks, learn his habits, learn how close he kept his keys, and wait for the better opening.
I lifted one boot onto the running board.
“Careful,” Dex said.
“I thought you were comfortable with risk.”
“With mine.”
Too much sat beneath that. He was a man who dealt in risk for a living. He understood exactly which risks he owned and which ones he wouldn’t let touch someone in his custody if he could help it.
At the open passenger door, he stopped me before I climbed all the way in.
“I’m moving the cuffs to the front,” he said. “Don’t make me regret that.”
“I try not to make promises during abductions.”
“Recovery,” he said.
“Still needs better public relations.”
He took a small key from his belt and held my left wrist steady. The first cuff opened with a soft metallic snap. He kept one hand around that wrist while he brought it forward, then repeated the process with the right. He didn’t give me enough slack to swing, grab, or twist away. By the time both of my wrists were in front of me, the cuffs were closed again and his thumb rested against the chain for one checking second.
He was competent, controlled, and deeply annoying.
“Better?” he asked.
“Wildly. I’m thinking of leaving five stars.”
“You do that.”
“Maybe four. You’re losing points for the kidnapping.”
“You weren’t kidnapped.”
“I was taken against my will by a large man in a truck.”
“Recovered,” he said again.
I climbed into the passenger seat before I answered with something that got me recuffed behind my back.
The cab smelled like dust, old leather, clean sweat, and the faint metallic bite of gear stored under the back seat. A half-empty water bottle sat in the cup holder. The dash was scratched. A folded paper map had been shoved between the console and the seat. The cracked headlight warning blinked amber on the display.
