Page 19 of My Favorite Kidnapper

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At six-thirty, I informed Kenneth I was heading home.

“You lock up this time,” I said. “I always do it.”

“I don’t remember the passcode for the security system,” he whined.

Feeling oddly brave, I shrugged. “Call your mother and ask.”

I left via the back door, peeking around the corner.

The street was vacant except for a red SUV parked by the curb. No sign of any Lamborghinis or other fancy cars, which I was certain Mr. Dante Frost drove. I would be home before he arrived and be curled up on my favorite—and only—chair, eating ramen.

I had a feeling that would be my evenings for the foreseeable future.

I turned and began walking, hoping to catch the earlier bus. I arrived at the deserted stop, pulling my coat around my neck. It was cooler today, the wind strong. The weatherman forecast rain over the next two days, and it matched the mood I felt descending on me.

I refused to admit it was because I was heading home alone instead of eating with Dante.

I shut my eyes as I realized that even the thought of his name caused a shiver to run down my back.

His voice startled me. “Do you not understand English, Little Bee? Or do you like to try to test my patience?”

Again, that odd swell of relief flooded my chest. He was here.

I opened my eyes and met his gaze. He was behind the wheel of the red SUV, his head tilted, a deep frown on his face.

“I said I’d pick you up.”

“I never agreed,” I responded and turned my back. I knew I was acting like my cat. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me either. But maybe he’d go away.

I heard the sound of a door opening and measured footsteps. Then he was behind me.

“I didn’t ask,” he said, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me as if I weighed nothing.

I gasped in outrage as he swung around and took the few steps needed to place me in the vehicle. He carried me in much the same fashion as I used to carry my dolls. Legs hanging, pressed tight to my chest, not giving them the chance to fall. I couldn’t move until he deposited me in the seat.

“You-you high-handed, cupcake-stealing…motherplucker!”

“Motherplucker? Oh, you wound me,” he said with a laugh, leaning over me and snapping my seat belt closed. Our faces were so close, he could have kissed me. His gaze dropped to my lips, and then he met my eyes again. The intensity of his stare was overwhelming. He ran a finger down my cheek then tapped the end of my nose.

“Extraordinary,” he whispered.

He stepped back, shutting the door and, with a smirk, engaging the locks. I glared as he unlocked his door and slid in.

“Comfy, Little Bee?”

I shivered, not responding.

He hit a button, and suddenly the heat surrounded me, wafting from the vents, the smooth leather I was sitting on warming me.

“Oh,” I mumbled, instantly feeling better.

“Warmer?”

“Much.”

“Good. Relax. We’ll be at the restaurant in a few moments.”