Page 20 of Delta

Shit.

I lean forward and point at the cell phone in the holder suctioned to the windshield and then flash him one of the 100-euro bills. "Phone. Buy a phone."

"Alles ist geschlossen."

That sounds like "Everything is closed" to me.

"Um. Food? Eat?" I mime eating.

"Ah. Okay. Ja. Ja. I know." He starts the meter and pulls away. Exhausted, I feel myself drowsing.

A few hours later, I've eaten a filling meal at a twenty-four-hour diner, which, conveniently, is located across the street from a place that sells mobile phones. I ate slowly, sipped coffee, and dozed off—the waitress seemed to recognize that I was in some sort of distress, because she let me sleep for quite a while, only rousing me when things started to pick up. I leave her a generous tip and head out into the cold—it's a crisp, clear, bitterly cold winter day in Berlin.

I cross the street at the intersection, making for the cell phone store. I'm halfway there when the hackles on the back of my neck raise. I try to be surreptitious about scanning my surroundings—there, behind me. Four men walking in a line abreast, taking up the whole sidewalk. They're dressed in brightly-colored ADIDAS track suits. Their jackets bulge with obvious shoulder-holstered handguns.

Fuck.

Their eyes are cold and hard, even from here, and fixed on me.

Fuck, fuck.

Panic ignites. I'm unarmed. I can't fight off four men, even if I did have a knife.

I try to stay calm, walking faster. Past the cell phone store. A pharmacy. A liquor store.

"Stop running, American girl."

How did they find me? How do they know I'm American?

Questions with no answers, and this certainly isn't the moment to waste time wondering.

Fuck it. I start running. A shout rings out.

"STOP!"

My brain is a runaway train, even in shit like this. For example, as I'm running, I'm wondering why anyone ever bothers yelling "STOP!" Like, what, they expect me to just…stop? Oh, sure, Mr. Murder Man, let me just stop and let you kidnap, rape, and murder me. Okay, buddy. Even cops do it. Why? It’s so stupid. Yet, that’s what my monkey brain does—always running on a million tracks at once, because ADHD is a harsh mistress.

I do not stop. I run faster.

Reach another intersection and turn left. My soles skid on an icy patch, and I land hard, cracking my elbow on the cement and skinning my knees. Ignore the pain and scramble to my feet, take off running…and smack face-first into a hard, warm, male chest.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" The voice is deep and rough, with a thick London accent. Young. Bold. Brash. Strong hands lift me to my feet. " What's all the fuss about, then, Gorgeous?”

The hands steady me on my feet, and I catch my first look at male perfection.

I'm six feet tall, so very few men can be said to tower over me—Uncle Duke and Uncle Thresh are about it. But this man…"tower" may be a stretch, but he's got to be six-four. Tall enough I have to look up at him.

But this guy.

This fuckin' guy. Where do I start?

Inhumanly perfect looking is a decent starting place.

His eyes. Not quite green, not quite gray, not quite brown–a changeable mixture of all of them. He smiles at me, and those eyes flash green. But…they're not good eyes. They're not kind. They're dangerous. They twinkle, but…it's a shiver-inducing twinkle.

His jawline is sculpted from marble. Hard, rugged, and craggy. Dusted with dark stubble. His hair is shaved on the sides, the top a messy tangle. A scar bisects his right eyebrow, disappearing into his hairline and denting the bridge of his nose.

He's wearing expensive, well-worn black jeans, well-cared-for combat boots—the kind professional operators wear. A tight maroon crew neck shirt wraps around a lean, hard torso, and a battered, scratched, beaten-to-hell leather jacket strains around massive arms. A variety of silver rings grace his knuckles.