I knew the answer to that last one. Vincent had hit the nail on the proverbial head when he’d mentioned the cops leaking their report about the attack to the press. It was a risk I just couldn’t take.
Even if it meant I was destined to spend more time with the man next to me than I would have liked.
And not just because he intimidated the hell out of me.
No, I had much bigger problems than that.
Like how it had felt to have his weight pressing down on my body, pushing me against the cold, hard granite tiles of my kitchen floor. Or the way his calloused fingers had dug into my skin as he’d held my hands down. Or that gravelly voice that had washed over me as he’d warned me not to touch him for the second time in nearly as many minutes.
I shrugged off the thoughts that threatened to take over. I needed to focus on the here and now, not the odd sensations the man had stirred in me as he’d manhandled me into submission.
“What were you doing at my house?” I managed to ask. My body felt hot and cold at the same time, and I had to wonder if it was from the blood loss. In theory, I hadn’t lost very much blood, but between my hand, my aching jaw, and the reminder that I’d had a knife poised just inches above my jugular less than an hour ago, that was enough to leave me feeling excessively queasy.
“Watching it.”
“Watching it?” I asked. “Seriously?”
Vincent didn’t respond, and I bit back the curse word that threatened to spill forth. “You weren’t there by coincidence,” I said. “Are you a cop or something? Did Preston talk to you?”
“You mean that weasely little campaign manager of yours?”
While the description might fit Preston in the sense that he was short, thin, and had beady eyes and a receding hairline, he was anything but.
“Preston Bell is one of the most respected men in the business. He’s run more successful campaigns-”
I stopped short when I saw Vincent shake his head. “What?”
“That supposed to impress me?” he asked. “That the guy’s goodat helping you people spout your bullshit to unsuspecting Americans?”
It was the second time he’d taken a dig at my profession. But as much as I wanted to tell him to fuck off, I was currently at his mercy since we were speeding away from Charleston into the dead of night like a bat out of hell.
In a muscle car that had my jaw vibrating with the powerful engine’s hum.
“Who are you?” I repeated. “And where are we going?”
“My place,” he responded, though from his tone, I suspected he thought he was doing me a favor by even answering the question at all.
What an asshole.
“Stop the car,” I muttered.
He ignored me.
“Stop the goddamn car!”
Still nothing.
It wasn’t until I reached for the door handle that I got a reaction.
A dangerous one.
I’d been bluffing, but Vincent clearly wasn’t because in one swift move, he yanked the steering wheel to the right, sending the car skidding along the shoulder of the highway until it came to a jarring stop, all while his arm came up to slam against my neck, causing my head to jerk backwards.
“Now either you sit there and shut the fuck up, or I will do it for you, do you understand me?”
In my gut, I knew what my answer should have been. But when that part of me that had always kowtowed to others reared its ugly head, I grabbed his arm with both my hands, not caring that I was probably getting blood on him, and said, “Fuck you.”
I didn’t yell it.
