Dizzie raised her hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to help.”
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “What would help is if you hadn’t delivered the bomb in the first place.”
She flinched. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.” Stomach churning, she turned and raced out of the room.
Chapter18
Decoratedin tasteful neutrals that complemented the burnished wood trim, the guest bedroom had every comfort Dizzie could imagine. A huge, comfortable bed dominated one wall and faced the windows, which provided another dazzling view of the city. If you didn’t want to lounge in bed, there was also a sofa tucked in front of a fireplace, and a small stylish desk with a matching chair in another corner. There were two doors, one of which led to a humongous closet and the other opened into the bathroom she’d used earlier.
After fleeing Killian’s office, she’d found her way back here. Once the door was locked, she’d thrown herself on the bed and cried her eyes out, then fallen into a fitful sleep.
That had been hours ago. Too embarrassed to face him, she’d gratefully accepted Elsa’s offer of dinner in her room.
Now the isolation and solitude closed in on her and she felt trapped by the four walls.
Her pacing circuit took her past the window once more and she stopped to peer out. Night had fallen while she hid in the room. White headlights and red taillights created elaborate patterns on the streets. Her fingers traced the designs on the glass.
She longed to be out there.
Needed to be out there.
She craved the freedom of the open road.
Just freedom, really.
For all its beautiful views and comfortable furniture, the room was still a prison. One stocked with amenities that would make it easy to stay forever. The cloud-soft bed. Clothes appearing magically.
Killian.
She couldn’t stay.
“Standing around won’t clear your name.” Saying it out loud gave her the push she needed to get going.
Her first priority: Get out of here.
Dizzie had delivered to a lot of buildings over the years. It was second nature to memorize routes from door to delivery and back again. Getting from the guest room to the garage would be easy. If Killian had any security measures like retinal scans or other biometric identifiers, they weren’t obvious. Or else he’d used his body to block her view.
Oh, his body.
Every time they sparred, her pulse fluttered and her knees weakened.
Stupid hormones.
She’d hoped it was proximity. Or the adrenaline rush of running for her life. In the calm of his house, Dizzie worried that it was something more intangible.
Something irrational.
Argh. Definitely time to leave. Staying here was bad decision central.
She’d need a ride and she had the perfect candidate in mind. The Turbosmith Excel was made to be ridden, not tucked away in a garage.
If Dizzie owned that Excel, the exceptional machine would be on the road every day, not hidden away in a lonely garage.
Owning an Excel may have been out of her reach, but “borrowing” it wasn’t.
Okay, next. Killian’s point about tracking down the person behind the delivery made sense. Ideally, she’d hire the Jack to help with that. Her entire savings would be wiped out and her ability to buy out her contract would be set back years. It would suck, but not as much as being dead or locked away. Given the last few days, buying her way out might not be an option anymore.
Dizzie dropped onto the bed and considered her plan: get out of house, steal motorcycle, and pay the Jack to help her. Easy-peasy, right?
