Page 57 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

He patted his left hip, and I glanced down, noticing the slight lump on his outer thigh. “I’m going to reach into your pocket and grab it.” I straddled his legs, then dropped to the ground on his left side, before I slid my hand into his pocket, angling my hand at the junction of his leg.

“If you wanted to grab my dick, you just had to say so,” he murmured, his eyes still half-closed.

“You told me you weren’t interested in sleeping with me,” I said, trying to sound flippant while I dug my fingers deeper into his pocket. “Lift up your hips so I can reach.”

He obeyed and turned his head toward me. “You’re not searching in the right direction. My dick’s the other way.”

I couldn’t stop the chuckle bubbling up in my throat. Sure, we were about to die, but James was giving me dick directions. My fingertip bumped into the lighter, and I leaned in and pushed deeper. Once I had my fingers wrapped around the warm metal, I tugged it out, then pushed his leg down.

I straddled him again, planning to move to the other side to start the fire, but his large hands spanned my waist. His thumbs pressed against my hip bones, pinning me in place with surprising strength.

He tried to stare into my eyes, but his focus was off. “I wasn’t lyin’.”

I drew in a sharp breath, my entire body freezing at his touch. A jolt of electric awareness shot straight through my core, making me acutely conscious of every point where our bodies connected. “Lying about what?” I asked, irritated when it came out low and breathy.

“When I said I didn’t want to sleep with you,” he said, his mouth twitching into a half-smile.

“Okay,” I said in annoyance. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.” I tried to move off his legs, but his hands dug in, holding me in place. For someone whose brain was scrambled, he was amazingly strong.

He made a face. “I meant at first ,” he said and paused. “I didn’t want to sleep with you at first. But somewhere along the way, that changed.”

My breath caught in my throat, but now wasn’t the time for this discussion. Not while we were possibly minutes from being gunned down. I tried to pull free from his grasp, but it was like trying to escape a vise. “James. You have to let me go so I can get us out of this.”

“Not yet,” he said, licking his bottom lip, and damned if my heart didn’t skip a beat watching him do it, my brain promptly conjuring up all the places that tongue could go.

Not the time, Harper!

I twisted again, but his fingers dug in tighter.

“If we’re gonna die,” he said, his voice softening. “I don’t want you thinkin’ I didn’t want you. Because I did.” He grimaced. “I do .”

I sucked in a breath, my thoughts splintering. Because I wanted him too, more than I’d ever wanted any man. The acknowledgment equally thrilled me and scared the shit out of me. This wasn’t just lust. It was something deeper.

Something dangerous.

Then his hand grabbed the back of my head and pulled my mouth to his. The suddenness of it caught me off guard. His hand fisted in my hair, holding my head in place as he coaxed my lips open, his tongue sweeping deep with expert intent.

Heat surged through me. I cupped both sides of his face as I kissed him back, hard and hungry, like I’d been waiting forever for this—for him.

He was desperate, like he was drinking me in.

Like this was our last kiss, not our first.

The thought cut through the haze, and I broke away, breathless. His grip on my hair eased, but he didn’t let go.

But now wasn’t the time to unpack what had just happened. For all I knew, fifty men with guns were advancing down the hill, and we’d be shot dead with me sitting on Malcolm’s lap while he devoured me.

But of all the ways to go, I supposed it wasn’t the worst.

Still, I wasn’t dying today. Not when I’d finally found someone worth fighting for.

I brushed my thumb across his bottom lip, my voice low. “In case you haven’t figured it out, I want you too.” I leaned in close, my forehead nearly touching his. “But I’d actually like this mutual wanting to last more than five minutes, so you have to let me go so I can get us out of here.”

He slightly shook his head, resignation in his eyes. “There’s no gettin’ us out of this. You can’t do this on your own.”

I sat back. “Fuck you,” I said, a half snarl/half laugh. Then kissed him again—hard and fierce—to show him I wasn’t giving up. That we weren’t done. When I pulled back, I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. Now you need to let me go so I can prove you wrong.”

I pushed up, and this time, he let me. The loss of his touch left me cold, but it cleared my head and sharpened my focus.

“I take it you have a plan?” he asked, one brow lifting, amusement edging into his voice.

“Of course I have a plan,” I said in a huff, with more confidence than I felt. “It might be crazy, but it’s better than sitting here waiting to die.”

I rifled through the bag, pulling out a cotton button-down shirt, two pairs of cotton underwear then picked up James’s T-shirt next to the bag. I grabbed the lighter, then dropped to my belly and crawled under the car.

“What the hell are you doin’ under there?” he asked, then added, “I guess it’s not a bad place to hide if they ambush us.”

“We’re not hiding under here. We’re putting on a show.”

My plan was simple. Tires made thick black smoke. Once the smoke was dense enough to cover us, I’d light the jeans in the trunk on fire and pray the heat set off the gas tank. If we were lucky, the explosion would provide enough chaos for us to make a run for it. Or a wobble, in James’s case.

I soaked the underwear with alcohol, rubbed it on the front driver’s side tire, then wedged Malcolm’s T-shirt under it. I lit the rubber first, relieved when the flames caught. The acrid scent made my nostrils sting.

I lit the underwear next and dropped them on the shirt, relieved when it caught fast.

I scooted to the back tire next and repeated the process, this time using the button-down shirt. It went up quicker.

By the time I backed out from under the car, thick black smoke was billowing up, choking the air. My eyes watered and my lungs burned. I sat up, coughing, then quickly laid out the rest of the plan to Malcolm.

“It’ll never work,” he said, his voice flat. “We’re at least twenty yards from the tree line, and I’m not sure I can walk straight. We’ll be shot the second we break cover.”

“What have we got to lose?” I said, heading for the trunk. “Staying here is a guaranteed death sentence. At least this gives us a chance.”

I rose up and peered over the trunk just in time to see dark silhouettes moving against the skyline—at least three of them, probably searching for the source of the smoke.

I picked up the rifle and raised it over the top of the trunk, scanning for movement. I found a figure in the scope, my nerves buzzing. My mind raced with everything that could go wrong, but if I could thin out the herd, we’d have a better chance of surviving the night.

I inhaled slowly, let it out steady, then squeezed the trigger.

The rifle kicked against my shoulder, lighter than I’d expected. I didn’t wait to see if he dropped: instead, I shifted targets and fired again. A second figure crumbled. Then the third. I swept the scope across the hill, but the smoke was thicker now, swallowing everything in its path.

A rain of bullets showered down on us. I ducked down, pressing my back to the car, waiting for the attack to stop.

Malcolm turned to me, his gaze steadier. “How many’d you take out?”

“Three, but that obviously wasn’t all of them.”

His jaw tightened. “You can count on it.”

The attack began to slow, maybe because the smoke was getting thicker. The chemical fumes were definitely getting stronger.

It was time to go.

I set the rifle on the ground and scrambled back into the car. I dumped the rest of the whiskey onto the jeans, then struck the lighter. The cloth flared with a whoosh, heat licking up my arm. I backed out, heart pounding, and shut the door behind me.

“Okay,” I said, breathing hard. “Let’s get you into a squat so we can be ready to move. Then, if the hill looks clear, we’ll make a break for the trees.”

He gave a sharp nod, then grimaced as he pushed forward, bracing himself with his palms on the ground. His balance wavered, but he held it.

“Do you think you can walk by yourself if I cover you?”

He let out a grunt—annoyed, not at me, but at the situation. He was used to calling the shots, not being the one bleeding on the ground.

“I’ll get there,” he muttered.

I picked up the handgun and ejected the magazine, counting the bullets. Six rounds left. Not enough for a real firefight, but that was what the rifle was for.

“There are six shots left,” I said, handing over the weapon. “I know you can’t aim it, but if someone gets the jump on you, squeeze the trigger.”

Still in a squat, he took it and swayed, his hand darting out to brace against the car. Definitely not a good omen for a twenty-yard sprint under fire. Fighting for balance, he managed to shove the weapon into the back waistband of his jeans.

I grabbed the extra magazines for the rifle and shoved them into my pockets, then tried to scan the hill again. The smoke was so thick I couldn’t see past the hood, but I could feel the heat radiating from the trunk. The fire was spreading exactly as I’d hoped.

“Time to go,” I said, hefting the rifle. “Don’t stop running, no matter what happens.”

I took one last look at Malcolm—concussed, unsteady, but determined—and prayed we’d both make it to the trees alive.