“You missed the turn.”
The muscle in his jaw leapt again. “No, I didn’t.”
“But that’s the fastest way to my house—”
“We aren’t going to your house.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
“Did you get hit over the head?”
“No.”
“You experiencing hearing damage or something?”
“I heard you,” I snapped, instantly annoyed at him — which, oddly, made my world feel more normal than it had in hours. “If you aren’t taking me home, where are you taking me?”
“My place.”
“Your— But— You— I—”
“You having a seizure? Should I pull over?”
“I don’t want to go to your place!” I finally managed to get out, the words choked with rising panic.
“Tough.”
“Graham!”
“Snap at me all you want. Won’t change our destination.”
“Graham.” I strove for a calm tone. “Please. I’ve had a long day. I want to go home. I want a glass of wine the size of my head. Actually, wine isn’t going to cut it — make that a glass of whiskey the size of my head. I want to take a long, hot shower. I want to climb into my bed and forget all this ever happened. Cant you understand that?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“So, you’ll take me home?” I asked, brightening.
“Nope.”
Hellfire!
“Why?”
“Nothing you just listed that you can’t do at my place.”
“But—”
“I have a bottle of Macallan. I have a damn nice shower. And I have a big fucking comfy bed.”
I so didnotwant to think about Graham’s big fucking comfy bed. In fact, such thoughts were in direct violation of myavoid-any-information-about-Graham-at-all-costspolicy. Such thoughts were a gateway drug to even more dangerous contemplations. Like, for instance… what Graham would look like totally naked, on top of me, in said big fucking comfy bed. What Graham would look like in…me.
The sudden ring of an incoming call filled the cab, jolting me out of my illicit thoughts. I flinched violently in my seat —jumpy, party of one —as Graham’s phone connected automatically to the Bronco’s bluetooth speakers. The center console display declared “DESMOND BOURNE CALLING” in persistent letters. Glad for the distraction, I watched as he punched a button on the steering wheel, silencing the shrill ring.
“Des,” Graham said by way of greeting.
“It’s Florence!” Flo sounded half hysterical, her voice slurred with tears. “Please tell me you found her!”
He shot me a brief glance. “She’s here. She can tell you herself.”