Dirty Love (Dirty Girl Duet #2)(16)

But f*ck that rational stuff—I’m in some kind of bag in the back of a van or an SUV. I run my hands along the inside of the zipper, my nails picking at the teeth, trying to tear it open. No luck. The car slows and speeds up. Turns left and right. I’m completely lost.

Shit. Even if I can get out of this bag and kick out the taillights like that Dateline episode suggested, how am I going to ever find my way back?

Repositioning my body, I use my feet to push at the zipper, hoping to rip it open. I have to get out. Nothing budges. My scream of frustration is muted almost to nothing by the gag. No sound comes from the driver of the vehicle.

Or maybe he’s the passenger? Whoever he is, he’s going to die a slow and painful death when my brother gets his hands on him.

The vehicle finally slows to a halt. Other noises come from outside, and I hope like hell it’s people who can help me. I’m in Gold Haven, Kentucky, for God’s sake, not Rio or Tijuana. This can’t happen here!

Fear grips my muscles with paralyzing claws as the rear door opens and a whoosh of colder air fills the back of the vehicle. No words are spoken when my bag is tugged closer to the door and hefted once again.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I scream against my gag, clawing and kicking at the inside of the bag. The sound of airplanes sends bolts of terror spiraling through me.

Holy. Fuck.

No one is ever going to see or hear from me again. I’m going to be sold to some fat sheik like in the movie Taken. My brother is amazing, but he’s no Liam Neeson. Maybe he knows Liam? Hysteria is jumbling my thoughts, and my fear edges into full-on breakdown territory.

I’m going to die. I’m never going to see my family again. I’m never going to see Banner. I’m never going to know my baby niece. I’m never going to see Cav again and demand an explanation.

And that’s when I hear the voice. His voice. I freeze.

“We ready for takeoff?”

“In just a few minutes. You need help with the bag, Mr. Westman?”

“No, I’ve got it.”

Cav.

Relief sweeps through me, followed immediately by rage.

I’m going to kill him.

Kill. Him. Dead.

All the adrenaline that’s been tearing through my veins over the last who-knows-how-many minutes morphs into the most vicious anger I’ve ever felt.

I’m. Going. To. Kill. Him.

With my bare hands.

My tirade is muted by the gag, but my struggles become violent.

He lands a slap on the bottom of the bag, this time on my ass. “Stop.”

I still, but only because I’m saving my energy to go nuclear on him as soon as he unzips this thing.

How could he do this? I’ve never felt such gut-wrenching fear. Why is it that every encounter with Cav Westman, or Casso, or whoever the hell he is, drags more emotion out of me than any other encounter over the course of my life? It’s insane.

He’s insane.

And I’m insane for falling for him so blindly.

The word falling grabs me by the throat. I’m not falling. I’m getting over him.

Or I’m going to just kill him.





I lower the duffel bag to the plane’s carpeted floor and reach for the zipper. This is a little like taking the lid off a snake charmer basket.

Greer is going to come out looking for blood. It’s the Karas in her. And I can’t say I’m not looking forward to the battle that’s about to come.

She doesn’t fear me. She’s strong and beautiful and as frustrating as hell, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about her. But that doesn’t mean I won’t use any means at my disposal to win back her trust. And I’m not letting her go until I have it.

It may seem counterintuitive to kidnap someone to get them to trust you again, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And when it comes to Greer, I’m willing to do whatever it takes. She’s the ultimate prize, and I’m not above fighting dirty to get what I want.

I kneel and reach for the zipper. Who am I kidding? I’m already fighting dirtier than my girl has ever seen. For a moment, the only sound in the cabin of the jet is the hiss of the zipper. I peel open the sides of the bag and the first thing I see is Greer’s big, dark eyes blinking against the sudden brightness. Apparently my blindfold-tying skills need some work.

Once she stops blinking, her face screws into a determined expression as I lean down.

Wrong move. She jerks forward, attempting to head butt me. I dodge her move and wrap my palm around the back of her head, gripping her long dark hair in my fist.

“Whoa, baby girl. You’ve got some serious anger issues that we need to work out.”

We’ve all heard the saying if looks could kill . . . I’m sure of one thing where Greer is concerned—she wants to do me some kind of bodily harm right now. A flash of guilt stabs into me for scaring her so badly, but I push it away. If she hadn’t walked out of the house in Belize with her brother, none of this would be necessary.

I reach for the buckle on the gag. “Are you going to be a good girl so I can take this off?”

Her body relaxes several degrees, and her gaze loses its murderous intent.

“I’m taking that as a yes.” After I unbuckle the gag, I pull it away from her mouth. The murderous glare is back.

“You motherf*ck—”