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I bow my head in an attempt to stop the wind stinging my eyes, instead focusing on the sidewalk under my feet. Soon, it tapers off into a rough, narrow lane, and the orange haze from the streetlamps cuts off.
Then the rain starts.
It’s not the romantic mist I was hoping for, but cold, glassy needles, arrowing down from the heavens without mercy. The type that penetrate your skin and chill your bones, making you shiver at the memory of being caught in it even weeks later.
As another icicle fights its way down my collar, I bite out a curse and slow to a stop.
The road ahead has somehow morphed into a black hole since the last time I looked up from my Doc Martens. There’s not a streetlamp, house, or car in sight, and carrying on feels like something only the dumb bitch who dies at the beginning of every horror movie would do.
I turn my back on the wind and retreat. Maybe the four stark walls of my apartment aren’t so bad, after all.
I’m less than three steps into my descent when a white glow washes over my back and stretches my shadow. It illuminates the puddles underneath my boots, and when the roar of the wind clashes with the angry growl of an engine, I know I’m in trouble.
An enormous dark sedan passes around my shoulder. It comes to a sudden stop ahead of me, swinging round at the last minute to block both sides of the road.
Well, that’s not good. I reluctantly stop and swallow the panic clotting my throat. In Self Defense for Dummies, there’s a whole chapter on opportunist kidnappings. One of the stats that really stuck out for me is that if a kidnapper manages to get you off the street and into their car, your chances of survival drop to less than three-percent.
Three-fucking-percent.
My luck hasn’t been sharp enough recently to be happy with those odds.
Heart slamming against my ribs, I scramble in my purse for something, anything, to defend myself. Somehow, I still have the semblance to curse myself for being so stupid. In Atlantic City, I always had a knife on me. Nothing fancy, just a small switchblade I could wave around if danger came too close. But it lies abandoned in my bedside dresser in my old apartment, and all I have in my bag are my keys and a book.
The driver’s side door flies open and a dark figure steps out of it. I sigh, knowing I don’t have the hand-eye coordination to guarantee I’d jab my key anywhere near a vital organ. I pull out HTML for Dummies and hope it’s heavy enough to knock out my attacker if I crack them over the head with it.
A black silhouette parts the rain and storms toward me. As it crosses the path of the car’s wide-set headlights, I realize it’s Raphael.
A cold sweat drifts through me. Is it really him? Looks like him, but bigger, scarier. Not just because the backlight of the beams highlights his stature and darkens his thunderous expression, but because he’s only wearing black slacks and a white shirt, with his sleeves folded up to his elbows.
My eyes fall to the space between his sleeves and wristwatch. Shapes and script shift on his forearms as he clenches his fists at his side. The sight alone makes a heady thrill sweep through my core.
There won’t be any gentlemanly pretense tonight.
He stops a few feet away. Stabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Get in the car.”
The venom in his tone spins me sideways. “Your car? Not a chance. I’ll end up in a ditch somewhere.”
“You’re walking around at midnight, Penelope. Seems like you want to be in a ditch somewhere.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
He takes a step forward; I take one back.
“Get in the car.”
“Say please.”
I’m shivering from the inside out and my toes are swimming inside my boots, yet, I’m standing here, the dictionary definition of a girl cutting off her nose to spite her face.
Raphael’s head dips between his shoulders, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. Then his hand shoots out and grabs my throat so fast it steals my next breath.
“Penelope. You’re five-foot-nothing and probably can’t throw a punch to save your life. Get in my car before I toss you over my shoulder and spank your ass for the inconvenience of getting me wet.” A tight, mocking smile flashes through the rain. “Please.”
He lets go with an angry shove, then steps aside to let me pass.
Well, then.
Blood drumming in my ears and slightly stunned, I move toward the car. My ass is barely touching leather when the door slams shut behind me. As Raphael moves in a blurry shadow across the windshield, the weight of a bad decision pushes down on my shoulders.
