Page 164 of Carnal Urges

Declan.

I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he discovers hiscaptive isn’t as defenseless as she looks. Even without Stavros’s handy little pistol, I know half a dozen ways to incapacitate a man.

I’m distracted by the pleasing image of my fist crushing Declan’s balls when I realize I’m handcuffed. I stare down in astonishment at the cold metal rings encircling my wrists and huff out a disbelieving laugh.

They handcuffed me! The nerve!

“She’s awake.”

The gruff voice comes from my left.

On the seat next to me in the back of the SUV sits a man large enough to need his own zip code. He’s dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and black tie, the standard gangster uniform. Tense and scowling, he glares at me with narrowed eyes and thinned lips, thunderclouds roiling over his head.

I smile at him. “Hi there. I’d ask your name, but considering you’ll be dead in a few minutes, it doesn’t really matter.”

He blinks. He wasn’t expecting that.

“Unless you’d like to use what little smarts I suspect lurk in that weirdly giant skull of yours and let me out of the car right now. In that case, youmightsurvive. I’ll put in a good word. I can’t guarantee anything, mind you, but your odds would be better than they are right now. Because when Kage catches up with you…”

Still smiling pleasantly, I make a slicing motion across my throat.

Big Brute looks vaguely unnerved. I guess it’s less the threat itself and more about how I’m acting. Most kidnapping victims probably aren’t quite so composed.

Most kidnapping victims haven’t spent as much time as I have around gangsters, either.

Besides, I already know they’re not going to kill me. Declan flat-out told me so himself. That was right after he snatched me out of Kage’s Bentley, dropped me onto the asphalt of the parking garage, and threw me into this car…

Wait. I’m missing something.

I don’t remember the time between when we left the parking garage in a thundering roar of squealing tires, revving engines, and gunfire, and right now, speeding down the street toward who knows where with Kage’s men on our tail.

And how did I get these handcuffs on?

Did I black out?

The missing time and painfully throbbing spot on the back of my head would indicate a yes.

A cold sense of unease creeps over me. A head injury jarring enough to cause unconsciousness isn’t good. At best, it’s a concussion. At worst…

Well, at worst, I’ve got bigger problems than being kidnapped by a bunch of Irish gangsters.

As we careen around a corner at top speed, tires squealing, I demand of no one in particular, “You need to take me to a hospital.”

I have to shout to be heard over the sound of the engine. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because my captors ignore me.

The driver, another Irishman in a black suit, says through gritted teeth, “These bloody Russians are right up my arse!”

He takes another corner too fast, throwing me against the door and making Big Brute brace his feet against the floormats so he doesn’t fly across the seat and crush me.

Then, from the front passenger seat, Declan says, “Run the red light.”

He sounds utterly calm, as if we’re out for a pleasure cruise and not involved in a high-speed chase through busy city streets. At night. In the rain.

While people shoot at us.

The driver doesn’t look thrilled by the idea that we play chicken with cross-traffic but doesn’t question it. He simply grits his teeth and stomps on the gas pedal.

In the fraction of a second before the SUV lurches forward and the force of it slams me back against the seat, I see Declan’s reflection in the passenger side mirror of the car.