Page 165 of Carnal Urges

He’s smiling.

Looking out into the rain, his lips curved into a small, secret smile, he looks as if he’s thoroughly enjoying himself.

As we enter the intersection and the headlights of an oncoming car harshly illuminate the hard angles of his face, he smiles wider.

Horn blaring, the oncoming car narrowly misses hitting us, blasting by inches from the rear bumper.

Breathless, I twist around in my seat to look.

More cars slam on their brakes, fishtailing, and the entire intersection becomes blocked within seconds.

When I turn around again and glimpse Declan’s face in the mirror, he’s yawning.

Yawning.

The man’s got balls of steel. I get the feeling it takes something much more dramatic than a high-speed chase to ruffle his feathers.

I don’t have time to dwell on what it might be, because I’m probably dying of a brain hemorrhage.

“Excuse me, guys? I hate to break up the party, but unless you want a corpse on your hands, you need to take me to a hospital.”

Crickets. Everyone’s too focused on being intense and murdery to pay any attention to me. Except for Declan, who’s yawning again.

This guy needs a nap.

I say louder, “I’m no use to anybody if I’m dead.”

In his lilting Irish brogue that I’m sure he thinks is charming but isn’t, Declan says casually, “Oh, I don’t know about that. There are plenty of uses for a dead woman. Isn’t that right, Kieran?”

Big Brute leers at me and says gruffly, “Aye.”

Disgusted, I make a face. “Okay, first of all? Gross. You need professional therapy. Second of all, I’m not joking. Head injuries areextremely serious and can be life-threatening. The risk of a subdural hematoma or traumatic brain injury caused by a fall is real.”

The driver glances at Declan and mutters, “What the bloody hell is she on about?”

Declan says, “Brain injury. Sounds like she’s got one.”

Big Brute pipes up, “Didn’t Muhammad Ali die of a traumatic brain injury?”

“Parkinson’s,” corrects Declan.

“Ach. Tragedy, that. What an athlete. He was my idol when I was a wee chiseler.”

Speeding around another corner, the driver says, “I bet David Beckham’s got a brain injury. You ever heard that welter talk? I don’t think he’s the full shilling.”

I have no idea what language these people are speaking, but it’s not English.

“Hello?” I say, exasperated. “Anybody?”

“We heard you, lass,” says Declan, sounding bored. “I’ll have the doc take a gander when we land in Boston. Now quit running your mouth. You’re about to givemea traumatic brain injury.”

His two goon buddies chortle while I look back and forth between them in disbelief.

What I wouldn’t give for that damn gun.

I’m distracted from thoughts of playing target practice with Declan’s face by a sharp stabbing pain in my temple. Wincing, I close my eyes and rub the spot.Damn, that hurts.

When I open my eyes again, Declan’s looking at me in the side mirror. He’s not smiling anymore.