Page 9 of Vicious Temptation

“Can you fix it?” he asks, as if reading my thoughts.

“Not tonight.”

That leaves me with one very expensive paperweight sitting on the side of the highway. He steps closer and adjusts the flashlight.

“You have any idea what you’re looking at, or are you just trying to impress me?”

“Not nearly as much as you do,” he admits. “I’m Thiago, by the way.”

I pause at the name. It’s not one I hear every day, and I wonder where it’s from before reminding myself that curiosity isn’t the same thing as trust.

Trusting a man built like a freight train who appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the night would be a questionable decision under any circumstances.

Unfortunately, neither of us has a phone, my GT-R isn’t going anywhere, and his truck is the only way I’m getting off this shoulder before sunrise.

“Well, Thiago, I might take you up on that whole not leaving me stranded thing.”

He smiles. “Good. I was starting to think you were going to shoot me and steal my truck.”

“Don’t tempt me.” I glance toward the dark silhouette parked a few yards behind him. “There’s still plenty of time for you to fuck this up.”

He doesn’t seem fazed. Either he thinks I’m joking, or he’s the worst judge of character I’ve ever met.

I step back and let the hood slam shut.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”

He reaches for my toolkit, and we make a run for his truck as the rain comes down even harder, our boots splashing through puddles. By the time we climb inside, we’re both drenched.

The storm becomes a muffled roar when I close the passenger door. I’m not surprised. It’s exactly the kind of feature a serial killer would appreciate.

Thiago starts the engine and cranks the heat.

“That should help warm you up,” he says before reaching behind my seat.

My hand goes straight to my Glock, but instead of trying to strangle me, he holds out a folded white towel.

I stare at it, then look at him.

“I promise it’s clean. I always keep extras for when I work out.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, taking it and feeling a little dramatic for nearly pulling a gun on him again.

“Where to?”

I’m already pushing my luck by sitting in a stranger’s truck. There’s no fucking way I’m giving him my address, too.

Mamá would kill me if she knew.

“There’s a gas station at the next exit. They should have a phone I can use.”

He pauses for a second and nods.

“Sure,” he says, pulling back onto the road.

Several minutes pass before I catch him glancing my way.

“Can I ask your name?”