Page 5 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

What the hell?

I stare at him before shaking my head. “I’m good. Thanks.”

His gaze drifts briefly toward my car and back to me. “Car trouble?”

“I’ll call someone.”

“At two in the morning?” he asks mildly, glancing down the empty alley before returning his attention to me. “While you’re parked behind a bar in downtown Los Angeles.”

I stare at him.

He gestures toward the front of the vehicle. “You can sit up front with the driver.”

I glance toward the man behind the wheel. He looks younger than the man in the back, maybe mid-twenties, with short dark hair and a much less intimidating presence. When he notices me looking, he gives a nod.

“I promise,” the man in the back says, “we’re very normal.”

“That’s exactly what a serial killer would say,” I mutter.

He chuckles quietly.

I glance down the alley again, then back at my car, which refuses to start no matter how much I glare at it. Waiting here means sitting alone in the dark for however long it takes a tow truck or a friend to get here, assuming either of them answers the phone.

I sigh and rub my forehead.

“Well,” I mumble to myself, “if I die tonight, at least it’ll be in a really nice vehicle.”

“What?” the man in the back asks.

“Nothing.”

I climb out of my car and walk over to the SUV. I open the front door.

Katie, you are so stupid.

The interior is as expensive as the exterior. I slide into the front passenger seat and shut the door.

The driver glances over at me. “Seatbelt, ma’am.”

I buckle it. Behind me, I feel the other man watching.

I stare straight ahead through the windshield and take a slow breath before saying, “So we’re clear, if this turns into a kidnapping situation, I’m going to be extremely annoyed.”

The man from the bar laughs softly, which is completely unsettling. The driver taps the navigation screen once the car pulls away from the curb. The map lights up the dashboard. He glances over at me politely.

“Where are we taking you?” he asks. “I’ll put the address in.”

I hesitate. The question hangs in the air. He wants my address. My exact address. The place where I sleep at night.

Am I seriously about to tell these men where I live?

I glance at the driver again. He looks normal enough. He’s young and clean-cut. He strikes me as the type who probably says please and thank you to servers. From the back, there’s a faint shift of movement as the man from the bar leans forward slightly.

“Doll,” he says in that same calm voice I heard all night, “we just want to make sure you get home safe.”

I turn around in my seat and look at him, rolling my eyes before facing forward again.

“Fine,” I mutter, and give the driver my address. Then, under my breath, I mutter, “I have a name.”