I yank again, to punctuate mywords.
The bastard yanks rightback.
I gasp at hisaudacity.
He glares at my pig-headedness.
The bag swings comically betweenus.
“What the hell is your problem?” Isnap.
“Myproblem?”
“Yes!” I gnash my teeth. “You clearly have a problem, because normal people don’t insult strangers they’ve never met in airports for no reason atall!”
“I’d say I have a pretty validreason.”
“I’d say you’re anasshole!”
His lips twist. “Aren’t you a little young for that kind of language? Careful or mommy’s going to come wash out your mouth withsoap.”
“You unbelievably arrogantasshole,” I say again, with addedemphasis.
His brows arch sardonically. That look says more than a thousand jeeringwords.
Little girl, little girl, littlegirl.
My tone is seething. “Just leave mealone!”
He snorts. “Leaveyoualone? You’re not the one beingmugged!”
My arm is starting to ache from the effort of keeping the bag aloft between us, but I ignore it. I can hardly believe this is happening — that I’m engaged in a battle of wills over my belongings. I don’t know why he’s chosen me as the target of his theft. All I do know is… he willnotwin. This was my dad’s bag. One of the only things I have left of him. Damned if some asshole is taking it fromme.
Our strange stalemate has begun to attract a crowd. In my peripheral, I spot a middle-aged woman eyeing us with concern, clearly considering an intervention. I keep my focus on the pissed-off stranger, hoping he can’t see the way my pulse is pounding in my jugular from four feet away. It takes all my resolve to keep from shrinking back when he takes a purposeful stride into my personalspace.
Shit.
For a moment, I think he’s going to rip the bag right out of my grip — which, let’s face it, he definitely could, judging by the impressive bicep muscles I can see peeking from his sleeves. My heart pounds madly as he lifts his free hand. His eyes burn into mine, green clashing with green, stealing all the oxygen from my lungs. I’m paralyzed as his hand extends closer. The quivering voice of self-preservation inside my head is screaming,Run, you idiot, it’s just abag!
I ignore it, witheffort.
In a calculated show of intimidation, the stranger’s strong fingers clasp the luggage tag affixed to the zipper and flip it over with one deft movement. His lips twist in a self-congratulatory smirk that makes my stomach thud to my feet like a bowling ball. My reluctant eyes drop to scan the tag and I feel all the blood drain from my face. Because there, etched in neat, masculine lettering, is a name. And… it’s notmine.
B.UNDERWOOD
For a crazy instant, I allow myself to contemplate what that first initial standsfor.
Blaine?
Blake?
Ben?
No. None of those sound right to me. I wish, in spite of his curt attitude and clear contempt for me, that I wasn’t too chickenshit to ask hisname.
“I…” I gulp. “That’s…”
“My bag,” the gruff stranger finishes, his tone suggesting I’m a few screws short of a set. “As I’ve been trying to tellyou.”