Page 24 of His Little Stowaway

Take her over the damned hood if I have to.

But no. I could never run the risk of anyone else seeing what’s mine.

Like the greatest secret in the world, Brynn’s treasures are gonna be all mine and for our eyes only.

“It’s maybe like you said,” she shivers again. “About getting used to a few things.”

I growl another smile, satisfied only when she takes my hand and lets it fall between her legs.

The warmth from her sex kindles my own fresh arousal as we drive through the city.

“You mentioned getting out of the city, away for a few days?” she eventually asks, sounding a little uncertain.

“It’s for the best,” I tell her, hoping she’s not gonna have a problem with going away for a while.

From the feel of her, I think a few days of country air might be just what she needs.

What we both need.

“Why do you have to go?” she asks, shifting her hands in mine to let me know she’s changing the subject from her sweet mound to other things.

“Just giving the old boy room to do what he does best,” I sigh cryptically.

“Meaning, while the cat’s away the mice will play?” she asks with a grin, making me feel better instantly.

“Exactly,” I tell her. “With boring old me out of the way, whoever’s up to no good in that place will be more likely to make their next move.”

She looks away thoughtfully but makes sure she has a firm grip on my fingers as I drive us onward with one hand.

“Have you called the police?” she finally asks, and I can see when she turns her head she’s been gnawing her lip, deep in thought.

I laugh out loud, but not at her.

“Uh, the police are the last people we call in when this kind of thing happens,” I inform her, trying not to cackle when she mentions it, but it really is just too funny to even think about.

The regular police aren’t what these kinds of people are afraid of.

I try to tell Brynn that, but she still looks like something’s eating her.

Something that isn’t me eating her either, which bothers me slightly.

Changing the topic to happier things, I figure I should at least ask her. Officially.

“You do want to come away for a few days, don’t you?” I ask her in a deep tone. My authoritative voice, the one I use to get what I want.

“Sure I do,” she says quickly, but her eyes are telling a different story.

“But?” I ask, ready for her to tell me she doesn’t really want to. Maybe there are still some things she hasn’t told me yet.

A couple of hours with someone is hardly enough time to catch all the details, I get that.

Brynn goes quiet again, so I try prompting her a little.

“Do you need to pick anything up? Grab a few things from your old place?” I ask, only meaning to be helpful, but my words have the opposite effect.

I feel her hand in mine grow cold instantly, and she pulls away, pressing her hands to her chest and neck as if she can’t breathe.

“Brynn? Brynn, what’s the matter?” I ask her, noticing the change in her.

“I’m okay,” she says eventually. Forcing a smile and taking my hand again, patting it and asking me to tell her all about where we’re going.

What we’ll do.

But I’m more concerned about what she’s so scared of.

I know it’s not me now. There’s something else haunting her.

What is she running from, and is it likely to follow her?

Chapter Thirteen

Brynn

Hearing Pearce on the phone, knowing he has to get away for a few days should make me feel on top of the world, right?

But hearing him say it out loud, and then hearing him ask if I need to go home to pick anything up.

Has the man put two and two together yet?

That a girl sleeping in his car wasn’t there because she took her chances on being discovered by Prince Charming.

Then again, I haven’t exactly told Pearce my full story anyway, not really.

He knows some of what made me run. But my life story? That’s not something I could even begin to touch on in just a few hours of knowing anyone.

Even Pearce Masters.

I manage to change the subject, instead of asking Pearce to tell me what we’ll do. Where we’ll go.

He cheers us up, suggesting we discuss it over waffles at his favorite diner.

“It’s not the Ritz but that’s why I come here,” he says as we pull up.

Out front, it’s like any other dime a dozen city street diners, but once inside there’s a quirky 1960’s feel, with aging staff and the smell of fresh pie and coffee that most places just don’t have nowadays.

“Mornin’ Mr. M.” Our aged and out of date looking waitress chimes affectionately, sitting us both at what I know must be his regular booth.

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