The Woman in the Trunk

Which meant that the girl or her father, or both, were in the master.

When I got in, though, all I found was a woman on the bed in a pair of short shorts and a tank, her leg cocked up, her long, dark hair fanned out over her back and shoulders.

Alone.

I moved into a corner, getting into the shadows, waiting to make sure Leon hadn't just walked around the corner to pick something up from the store or something.

I felt very much like a creep as I stood there, gaze moving over the sleeping girl's body, taking in the soft jut of hip, the round ass just begging for a slap, those fit but thick thighs, giving me ideas about getting leg-locked with my face buried between—all causing an inappropriate and distracting hard-on build.

Half an hour passed of nothing but the restless dreams of the girl in the bed, likely brought on by the fact that the room was hot as fucking hell, and the ceiling fan and the fan propped in the window weren't doing a damn thing but blowing around stagnant, hot air.

Finally, one of the dreams, or maybe some sixth sense finally realizing I was creeping in the corner, woke her up.

What happened next was a bit of a blur.

I expected to be on her and have her bound, gagged, and duct-taped in a matter of seconds.

But she had more spirit in her than I expected, more strength in her small body than seemed possible.

And I'd somehow missed the fucking whiskey bottle until it was whacking into my jaw and ear.

I was right on her heels when she raced through the house. It wasn't hard to keep up with someone who was about a full foot shorter than you. Each two of her strides was one of my own.

I saw the rug slide underneath her foot, felt the dread tighten my stomach muscles as my body seemed to brace for her inevitable collision with the doorframe.

"Shit," I hissed when she collapsed down to the floor, out cold.

On the one hand, it would make the binding and dragging part a lot easier.

On the other, if shit went down and the law came after me, I would get blamed for the damage.

But what was done was done.

On a sigh, I moved forward, grabbing her shoulder, rolling her onto her back as I flicked on the small entryway light so I could see what I was doing.

"Fuck," I hissed when my gaze fell on her face, really seeing it for the first time. "God fucking damn it," I growled, raking a hand through my hair.

My father had conveniently left out the fact that she was a fucking kid. Close to adulthood, sure, there was no mistaking that. But her face was young, plump in the cheeks. I bet she had dimples when she smiled.

Kidnapping someone was never good business. Kidnapping a child?

I just reserved my first-class ticket right to the centermost ring of hell.

Pissed, but resigned, I kneeled down, probing the cut on her head for a second to make sure no real damage was done. I'd knocked my head around enough to know something superficial from something serious. She would wake up with a throbbing headache, maybe a little nausea, but she would be fine.

I put the gag in her mouth, and a layer of duct tape over that for added security, then cuffed her arms in the front. Behind the back was always preferable, but I was feeling fucking guilty about the whole thing, and I figured it would hurt like a bitch to roll around on your arms and shoulders in the back of a trunk for hours.

That handled, I hefted her up into my arms, walked through the house, tucked her into the trunk, closed it, got into the front, and drove off.

Really, I should have known the little hellcat wouldn't be a model kidnapping victim.

I wasn't more than a half an hour into the ride when the back of the car started knocking around. I shrugged it off. Any rational person would start rolling around and trying to break free when they woke up in a trunk.

I would learn, eventually, not to underestimate this kid.

But at the moment, I was just driving along the fucking parkway, doing the speed limit, using my blinkers, making sure no one would peg my car as suspicious. I drove in the slow lane, for fuck's sake.

Then the back seat slammed forward, and a girl was worming her way out of the trunk.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I snapped, surprised, jerking the wheel, swerving toward the car in front of me, then over-correcting to avoid clipping his tail. I straightened the car, then pulled over to the shoulder.

"Mother fucker," I growled when the tire caught some sort of debris there, blowing out, making me brake hard before I did any damage to the rims.