And wait.
Finally, I hear raised voices outside. Not the suits — I can’t imagine them letting their steely composure slip even for an instant — but someone else, yelling incoherently as he’s led toward the vehicle, the slurred outrage in his voice growing louder as they approach.
Another captive?
A moment later, my suspicions are confirmed when the opposite door jerks open. I lurch forward, thinking I might squirm my way out, but there’s nowhere to go. My exit point is blocked by a wall of brawn in tailored black wool. The useless scream for help dies in my throat. All I can do is watch, stunned, as a boy is shoved into the backseat along with me.
Correction: not a boy.
A man.
A highly inebriated man, judging by the scent of bourbon emanating from his pores. I think my BAC increases just by breathing around him. Or maybe that intoxicated feeling is simply a byproduct of staring at his face because, dear god, even in the dim light of the car I can see how insanely attractive this guy is. I don’t know what he’s doing here with me, but he looks like he just walked off the set of a movie.
Fifty Shades of Great-Now-My-Panties-Are-Wet.
In his mid to late twenties, he’s solid muscle in crisp white button down and charcoal dress pants, with the most chiseled features I’ve ever seen outside an airbrushed magazine spread or filtered Instagram feed. His eyes are glazed with liquor and lust, ringed by a thick set of lashes any girl would kill for. His cheekbones are so sharp they’d probably cut your heart clean in two if you were ever stupid enough to get too close. Hell, he might as well be holding up a neon sign that says ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE. It would be a fairer warning for those poor souls attempting to guard their hearts — and ovaries — around him.
Get it together, Emilia.
Tearing my focus from the striking stranger, I try to catch the eyes of one of our suit-wearing kidnappers. I’m beyond pissed at myself for getting so distracted I didn’t scream for help when I had the chance.
“Wait!” I yell, locking eyes with one of the gun-toting guards. “Please—”
Before I can finish my plea, the suit gives a sharp shove that sends the drunk, dark-haired stranger toppling forward into the SUV — and practically onto my lap. I hear the door slam shut behind him and the locks click, but I don’t glance that direction. I’m a bit preoccupied with the messy head of black hair currently face-planted in my crotch.
Seriously, could this night get any worse?
Chapter Three
“Get off me!”I squawk, blinking stupidly at the back of his head.
“I usually buy a woman a drink before she lets me put my head between her thighs,” he mutters, his deep voice muffled by the fabric of my mini-skirt. “But if you’re game, love…”
Snarling, I roughly shove him off me and smirk with no small amount of satisfaction as his forehead bonks painfully against the partition.
“Fuck!” he curses. “What was that for?”
“You really have to ask?”
I watch warily as he maneuvers his body onto the seat beside mine with a low grunt. His eyes are pressed closed, so I can’t see their color, but I find myself studying the angles of his face in the dark. The set of high cheekbones protruding beneath his tanned skin. The broad column of his throat, each corded muscle on display with his head craned back against the leather. The thick hair—
“Can I help you with something?”
I flinch. “Excuse me?”
“You’re staring.”
How did he know?!
I whip my head forward to face the partition, cheeks flaming. “I was not.”
A low chuckle assaults my ears. “Whatever you say, Orchid.”
“Orchid?” I ask, glancing back at him despite my best intentions.
One eye cracks open — crystalline blue, a whole Caribbean sea in a single iris — to peer over at me. “The purple hair.”
Oh. Right.