Page 12

With narrowed eyes, I watch him leisurely saunter over to the car, open the door and slip inside. He lowers his sunglasses and playful blue eyes the color of sapphires meet mine, followed by a bright, white smile. This guy thinks his shit doesn’t stink.
“Thank you for picking me up, Hunter.” His voice is deep and sure. A little cocky, maybe?
My gaze travels down over his rumpled tuxedo. A few undone buttons give me a glimpse of his smooth, tanned throat and, even though it’s wrinkled, his tux fits him like a glove.
“You’re welcome,” I respond curtly, and my brow pulls together in a frown. I know his type only too well. The ultimate playboy who snaps his fingers and women come running. Bile crawls up the back of my throat.
I hate cocky men.
“Consider yourself lucky. I don’t normally leave the jet to play Uber.”
He chuckles as he adjusts the seat back further, his long legs barely fitting in the footwell. His scent fills the car, and whatever cologne he’s wearing has me gripping the steering wheel harder, the delicious combination of amber and velvety musk teasing my nose. It fits him—all smooth and slightly sensual.
And it pisses me off.
“I am lucky,” he tells me.
I clear my throat and meet his deep blue gaze. “Not that lucky. You didn’t make it to the airport and said you got into a jam. Was that before or after you stole someone else’s property?”
Okay, I don’t mean to sound quite so condescending, but the man is a self-proclaimed thief and part of Addie’s crew. I might not be the most upright person in the world, but I draw a line at stealing from others.
“I think you need a pastry.” He gives me a sexy smirk that probably sends most women into a panty-melting tizzy and lifts the lid on the pink box, cleverly avoiding my question.
“Thecocadas de arequipeare heavenly, but pretty sticky. How about apolvorosa? Ever had one?” He tilts the box, offering me one. “They’re sugar and butter cookies. And absolutely delicious. No empanadas, though, sorry. Maria was still making them.”
Is he serious?
“Are you serious?” I blurt out, experiencing a clear descent into filter failure. “I left my friend’s wedding reception early so I could fly down here and rescue you. I rushed through the city, and you come strolling out with baked goods acting as though you’re on vacation? I thought bad guys were chasing after you and you’d gotten locked down in some life-or-death situation. I can’t believe this.”
Suddenly, it feels like he’s fucking with my time, and that pisses me off more than anything.
“Is this a joke?” I ask.
“No, of course not,” he says smoothly.
He sounds sincere, yet he’s so calm and nonchalant for a guy who desperately needed a pickup.
“I appreciate you coming—” His voice abruptly cuts off, and I see his attention flicker to the passenger side mirror. “Speaking of bad guys. Not to rush you or anything, but you might want to get us out of here.”
I glance up into the rear view mirror and see a car turn into the alley, slowly driving up behind us. “Bad guys?”
His body tenses slightly. “Yep.”
That’s all I need to know. I slam my foot against the gas and the car lurches forward. Knox grips onto the dashboard with one hand and reaches beneath his suit jacket with his other, pulling out a pistol.
I’m a pretty good driver and plan on ditching these clowns, but I like that he has a weapon. Just in case. Although I do keep one in the cockpit while flying, I don’t normally carry a gun on me. Of course, this is Colombia, and I came to evac a thief. I’m not naive, so I brought my Glock which is currently holstered beneath my leather jacket.
The last thing I want is a shootout, though. Traffic has picked up and tourists are appearing. Trying to be careful yet still determined to get us the hell out of here, I jerk the wheel, squealing around a corner, doing my best to lose them.
“Nice move,” Knox says. He points to an alley coming up fast. “Turn there. Then circle back around.”
“Already planning on it,” I tell him, whipping the steering wheel. We skid sideways, but I maintain control and accelerate. Racing past dumpsters, I keep my boot pressed down firmly on the gas. He turns around in his seat, keeping a close watch on our pursuers.
“They’re getting too close,” he informs me. “We need to shake them.”
“No shit,” I grit out, glaring at the men still riding our asses. “Thank you for that keen observation, but this borrowed piece of junk can only go so fast.”
He glances at the speedometer and can see I’m flooring it. With a nod, he sets the bakery box on the dashboard, lowers the window and pushes up. “Keep it steady, Andretti,” he says cheekily, lifting his gun and leaning out the window.