Page 6 of Twisted Tate

She pushes past me and heads toward the side exit.

I follow, thrown off by her again tonight. She walks to my car like she’s the one who decided to be here, like this whole thing was her idea. I unlock the doors and open the passenger side.

She pauses, looking at the interior.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She slides in. “It’s just that a custom McLaren seems so typical.”

She thinks she’s fucking cute. I grind my teeth as I close her door and go around to the driver’s side. When I get in, she’s already buckled with her hands folded in her lap, looking calm and composed.

But her eyes keep darting to the rearview mirror.

I start the engine and pull out of the lot. She twists in her seat to look through the back window, watching the black car until we turn the corner and it disappears from view.

Only then does she face forward again, and her shoulders drop with relief. But there’s something underneath it. Something that looks a lot like dread.

Whoever was in that car, she didn’t want them to see which direction we went.

“You want to tell me who that was?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure I don’t owe you a goddamn thing.” She turns to look at me, jaw tight, eyes blazing. “You want to ask about my father? Fine. But my personal life isn’t part of this deal. And if you think kidnapping me gives you some kind of leverage, then you’re dumber than you look.”

“Kidnapping?” I almost laugh. “Sweetheart, you got in the car willingly.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Princess?”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t call me that either.”

God I really like this woman. Even if every part of my body didn’t want to fuck her, I’d still want her around.

“Then what should I call you?”

“Nothing.” She faces forward again. “You shouldn’t call me anything. Ask your questions, get your answers, and let me out of this car.”

I let the silence stretch. She’s good at this—the sharp tongue, the refusal to show weakness. But I caught the way her eyes roamed over me back at the club. The way her breath changed when I leaned in close.

She’s not as unaffected as she wants me to think.

We drive in silence. She doesn’t ask where we’re going, doesn’t try to grab the wheel or jump out at a stoplight. She just watches the road, occasionally checking the mirrors.

She came with me to escape someone. Whoever was in that car. And I don’t know why yet.

But I’m going to find out.

I glance at her profile in the glow of the streetlights—the sharp line of her jaw, the curve of her throat, the dark blonde hair falling across her shoulders. I think about the way she looked in that hallway.

My cock twitches again, and I shift in my seat.

She catches the movement. Her lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smile.

“See something you like, Sinclair?”