Vivid images of him using that huge, hot body on mine crowded my thoughts. Not all that long ago, he’d kidnapped me, and I’d been in the back of his van having random musings on never having hot sex. Then, somehow, I’d come to terms with Kane and joined him on a woman-hunt, teaming up to share information.
That wasn’t all I wanted to share.
My body felt loose and ready. Warm from sleep and primed for going home with a man who alarmed and excited me.
So lost was I to my dirty imagination, I didn’t spot the group of men enter from a side door to the street until one of them cackled, hyena-like.
Kane drifted closer to me, his knuckles grazing the back of my hand.
The gang was between us and the lift. Four men, each with the brand of swagger that came from spending the night up to no good, convincing themselves they owned the city.
Alone, I would’ve turned and sprinted in the other direction. Probably locked myself in my car until they’d gone. But I didn’t have the keys, and despite Kane’s sign of awareness, he didn’t appear troubled.
The first to notice us strutted on expensive-looking trainers, purposefully getting in our way. His buzzcut had stripes in the bristles, and a faded tattoo of a crown sprawled across his neck. His grin at me exposed a row of uneven teeth stained a smoker’s yellow.
“Lovely little package you’ve got there. Shame about the escort.”
Kane’s breath left him in a slow, unimpressed sigh. “Don’t bother.”
They bothered anyway, spreading out around us in a fan.
A second man stepped closer, his wide shoulders stuffed into a grey hoodie, eyes red-rimmed, pupils blown from something stronger than alcohol. A weapon of some kind glinted at his waist, his fingers stroking it.
He jerked his chin toward Kane’s bag. “What’s in there, big man? You’re going to want to give it up.”
His gaze dropped to my chest without apology. “Or she will.”
A knot of tension tightened between my ribs. They were mugging us. I should call the police. Except they’d take my phone if I reached for it. Kane’s touch brushed the back of myhand again, a silent warning that he’d already switched to war mode.
The third man leaned against a concrete pillar, long-limbed and reptilian, with a narrow face and a scar running through one eyebrow. He had the shiftiness of someone always two seconds from throwing a punch or running from one. “She doesn’t look local,” he drawled, gaze travelling over my jumper and skirt. “Your girl’s dressed for church. Got her confessin’ all sorts, eh?”
His buddy snorted until he wheezed.
Kane’s voice lowered, quiet enough to force them to lean in to catch it. “Walk away.”
The leader let out another cackle. “Don’t think we will.”
The fourth man approached from the flank, the smallest of the group but wiry, jittery, and with his jaw clenched. He assessed me with the oily calculation of someone mentally rearranging the world into things he could take and things he couldn’t. “He keeps you on a short leash, yeah? Bet you don’t make a sound when he’s on you.”
Heat crept over my throat. Embarrassment, anger, something darker. Before I could bite back a retort, Kane inched forward.
The atmosphere in the car park altered.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t square up. He merely shifted his weight, but the movement radiated a controlled danger that turned my skin electric.
Then everything broke open.
The buzzcut guy was closest, still grinning. He tossed a head tilt my way. “Grab her.”
Fear claimed me. Just as fast, Kane’s fist sank into his solar plexus.
The grin slipped from Buzzcut’s face. He bent double, collapsing to the pillar with his eyes bulging.
The weapons guy swung for Kane’s head. Kane blocked the hit, seized the man’s wrist, and twisted so sharply a crack rang out across the car park. The man dropped to his knees, moaning, a knife clattering across the concrete.
I squeaked and clasped my hands to my mouth, my focus never leaving Kane. He was someone from an action movie. Reacher or Bourne. Cool and controlled.
Scar Face launched himself from the pillar, trying for Kane’s ribs. Kane stepped aside with minimal effort, caught the back of the man’s hood, and slammed his forehead on the nearest car bonnet. Once. A second time. The surface dented inwards, groaning under the impact, and the man slumped over it, sliding to the floor with glassy eyes.
