Page 6 of A Shot in the Dark (Fated Mates Collection | Triple Threat #1)

I follow every bit of Newbuck’s advice, loading up on cash, and being cautious otherwise, too.

I don’t check my social media at all—even though Tyla’s nanny’s daughter’s baby is due any day.

I think about that: Tyla’s original nanny’s daughter’s baby.

Have I ever met Tyla’s original nanny? Or any of her nannies?

Do I know her name or the name of her daughter?

Then why does any of it matter so much to me?

Is it just the dopamine rush of feeling like I’ve connected?

What if that’s all it is? The tiny rush anyone gets from feeling seen, heard or recognized?

“Hey,” I say to the driver, “I never got your name.”

“I didn’t give it.”

What a dick. None of my building’s staff would ever give me attitude like this guy. They all love me. “I need to know what to call you.”

He sighs like I’m the biggest thorn in his side. “Boots.”

“Boots?”

“Boots,” he repeats in precisely the same fuck-you-for-pressing-the-point attitude.

I stifle my annoyance and choose to take the high road. “Nice to meet you, Boots, I’m?—”

He holds up a gloved hand, cutting me off as he demands my silence. “No offense, ma’am,” he grinds out between gritted teeth, “but I’d rather not know.”

“Nice.”

“It’s safer for everyone involved,” he states, every word crisp with military efficiency.

“Oh.” I can’t help the aloof tone lacing my words as I reluctantly concede, “I guess that makes sense.” It’s probably better that way anyhow—what name would I even give him?

The one the police and everyone in the city knows me by: Marlyn Jenkins?

Or my given name? The name connecting me to the small town of Greenbriar, the place that holds my best shot at survival, and the name I tried to distance myself from years ago?

Sylva Waters.

I don’t even know who I should be right now…

“But—”

That gloved hand comes up again. “I’m not here to make friends. My job is to deliver you on or before my deadline, nothing else.”

The car takes a sudden turn and my phone nearly launches out of my hand. “What the hell?! What are you doing up there?” I snap, clamping my fingers fiercely down on my phone, my heart hammering as the car’s wheels shimmy into another sudden turn.

“Do not question my judgment,” the driver barks. “Just hang on for the ride.”

“I will absolutely question your judgment and everything else I want to! Your job is to keep me safe and right now—” I grab the seat in front of me as we turn again, my bracelets clanking “—it seems like you’re the one trying to kill me!”

“Standard operating procedure for avoidance.”

The word whispers out of me before I can stop it, “ What ?”

He says it like I’m stupid: “Evasive maneuvers: a key to our survival. If anyone’s following us, this makes their presence obvious. They turn when we turn, even if the turn is one people generally don’t take.”

I spin around in my seat, the seatbelt tugging against me. “Did anyone turn?”

“Two cars. So now we”—he taps the brakes then launches us to the left — “turn again.”

My breathing hitches and I brace just in time. “And?” I spot the top edge of his sunglasses in the rearview mirror as he scans the traffic behind us.

“All clear.”

I begin breathing again.

“At least for now.”

Not reassuring. “Okay.”

“Tighten your seatbelt,” he instructs. I do, Newbuck’s earlier suggestion of “Do whatever he tells you to—he won’t steer you wrong,” echoing in my ears.

“Officer Newbuck mentioned ‘rules of the road?’”

He groans. “No food, drink, smoking, or sex in the car. No interrupting my calls. No questioning my judgment.”

“Sounds like it’s going to be a really fun trip.”

“Nothing about this is going to be fun,” Boots responds in a monotone.

Boots turns up his music. The rhythms of some strange band punctuate the bizarreness of my situation.

A singer wails in a language I don’t know and I realize I’ve forgotten my earbuds in my haste to leave.

I lower my window, letting the air snarl my hair and drag it towards the buildings we vault past as Boots takes twists and turns that seem unnecessary and could definitely throw someone off our trail.

Before we’re ready to exit the city, I ask him how far he’s willing to drive me.

I may not like the man, but— damn it —he can drive.

“How far are you willing to pay me to drive you?”

“What are you offering per mile?”

From the backseat, I watch Boots’ strong hands, covered in their sleek and glossy black leather driving gloves, resting with complete self-confidence on the steering wheel.

The little bit of Boots’ skin that I can see is tan—including the back of his hands, yet each of his knuckles stands out in stark relief to the midnight black leather, and other than a glimpse of his right ear and the slight notch in it, the dark, close-cropped hair around it, the stoic side of his high cheekboned face and well-chiseled jaw, there is nothing to Boots but his perfectly pressed black uniform, matching cap and ink-colored sunglasses.

I stretch my legs out and lean back, wondering who the man driving me really is as we go back and forth about cost, wear and tear on vehicles and tires, and the value of a person’s peace of mind.

He cares least about the latter, and makes the fact perfectly clear: I am merely a client, a job to complete—a package to deliver. He has deadlines and he’s never missed one yet. And he’ll be damned if I’m the reason he fucks one up.

“Nice mouth,” I snap. “You know, using that word demonstrates a serious lack of imagination or vocabulary.”

“I do not lack imagination,” he guarantees with an assurance so fierce it verges on savagery. “Any diversion from the original plan requires money.”

“I have that.”

He wants a piece of it, so we arrive at an agreement.

And a motel of questionable merit.

I step out of the car, wobbling a moment on my heels like I’ve forgotten how to walk. I’ve been sitting in a car so long, maybe I have. I put my hand on the car to steady myself, my bracelets clinking against the paint.

“Watch it,” Boots warns. “You’ll chip the paint and I’ll add it to your fee.”

What a dick. Taking in the flaking paint and trash that moves through the parking lot like tumbleweeds, I have one word for Boots: “ Really ?”

Boots rolls up to his full, lean height, saying in a tone laced with venom, “Do not question my judgment.”

I open my mouth to retort and he steps forward, nearly pressing himself to me, nostrils flared as he invades my space. There is something exceedingly fuckable about the man. We both stand there, glaring at each other—eye-to-sunglasses.

He inhales, his chest filling; a flicker crosses that stoic facade of his, and he steps back like he’s been burned. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Who are you?” he demands.

“My name is?—”

He thrusts that black-gloved hand up between us again. I have the sudden urge to lick it—just. to. piss. him. off.

No, I realize. Not to piss him off…

“No,” he snaps. “No. fucking. names. Affiliation. Who are you with ?”

My eyes go wide, glued to that suddenly stunning glove.

Those powerful fingers… “I’m not with anyone.

I dumped my boyfriend, got fired from work, and am evidently being hunted by a stalker.

And I haven’t paid my sorority dues in over two years, sooo…

I have no affiliation .” I hook my fingers in the air to surround the last word.

My volume drops as I peer past Boots’ scowling face—the twist of his lips so cruelly sensual—at my decidedly dingy surroundings and admit with an honesty I didn’t anticipate, “I could die right here and no one would give a shit.” I sigh.

“Actually, by the looks of this place? I will die right here. This place is in serious need of a top-down makeover.”

He grunts and looks me up and down.

For a moment I think I see a hint of raised eyebrows as he appraises me.

I’m appraising him, too; the parts of him I can see are striking. Rugged. Powerful. But packaged in a tailored suit. The parts of him I can’t see?

Spark my curiosity.

I know exceedingly little about this man; among the little I know is the fact that Boots is NOT my “one” or “only.” But he could be one who’s fun… And I could use a little fun. A little something fierce. Something that, in the end, means absolutely nothing.

It’s as Boots brings my luggage into my room that I sit on the edge of the bed closest to the door, and ask, “Have you ever fucked a client?”

“That doesn’t sound like professional behavior,” he says, but from behind the dark tint of his sunglasses I feel his gaze stroke along the length of my body.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You think you deserve an answer.”

“I do. And I always get what I want.” After Jonathan’s lengthy pursuit of me ending in nothing worth staying connected to, a man this arrogant is a breath of fresh air.

“The lady always gets what she wants.” He lifts his chin.

There is something about him that is intoxicating. Standing absolutely statuesque in the open doorway of my motel room and backlit by the glare of the parking lot lights, Boots is the very definition of a one-night stand.

“Yes, and I want an answer.”

He grunts. “I know what you want more than any fucking answer,” he challenges, dropping my bags to the floor and kicking the door shut behind him.

“Do you?” I ask coyly, uncrossing my legs and leaning back on the bed to arch my back and showcase my breasts. From the warmth I feel building on them, he’s taken notice, regardless of if I can see his eyes.

“Yeah, I fucking do, princess. You don’t want an answer.

And you don’t want to ask yourself any soul-searching questions or even have a boyfriend .

” The last word comes out of him like it’s the dirtiest one in his clearly limited vocabulary.

“You aren’t ready for anything real, anything serious—all you want is a really good fuck. ”

In my mind’s eye a red flag flutters. A reasonable woman would get this man out of her room. I am feeling decidedly unreasonable. Daring.

Besides, he’s trusted by the police, what real danger is there?

I lick my lips and lower my eyelashes so I can look up at him from beneath them. “Maybe I do.”

“Great,” he growls. “Because tonight I’m going to fuck you right out of those fancy shoes of yours.”

Red flag.

My heart pounds and the breath dies in my throat.

This is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

What do I even know about this guy? Not his name or his age—nothing about his past…

Only that he’s ex-military, cuts an amazing silhouette in a driver’s uniform, has perfectly spotless boots, and knows how to handle a car on tight curves.

And that he’s not my stalker—he can’t be.

And right now—that’s more than enough. I’ve known just as little before slipping between the sheets with other men.

“Then do it.” I sound utterly unimpressed even as my pulse pounds in my ears. Boots prowls two smooth steps forward, panther-like in his grace.

I look past his shoulder at the door, wondering aloud, “Aren’t you going to lock it?”

“Let someone walk in. They’ll learn a thing or two.”

The way he says it, I have no doubt Boots takes pride in delivering his lessons.

I run my fingers along the hem of my skirt, lifting it the slightest bit. I keep my eyes fixed on Boots.

The parts of his face I can see are all lean muscle, cheekbones sharp enough to cut, and hunger.

“Ground rules,” he states softly, the words coming out of him part purr, part growl. “The uniform stays on,” he says. “And the glasses. I don’t know you; you don’t know me. That’s the only way this works. Your safe word is Mercedes.”

Red flag.

“And your safe word?”

“I don’t need a safe word.”