Drop Dead Gorgeous

I spin suddenly, planting one foot and bringing up the other knee toward my pursuer. I’m hoping to hit gut, or maybe a good ball shot that would drop him to his knees. What I find is a wall of iron-hardened muscle that hurts my knee more than the other way around.

I am rewarded with a deep, guttural grunt, though. “Fuck. Be still so I don’t have to hurt you.”

I must be really losing it because I snort, a derisive laugh coming out of my nose instead of my mouth.

He doesn’t want to hurt me after kidnapping me and bouncing my unconscious body around in the trunk?

“Fuck you, fucker!” Not an original or creative statement, but at least I’m loud, though I’m not sure there’s anyone to hear me. But hopefully, my voice will carry over the fields far enough away that someone will hear. I take a big inhale to scream again, but it’s forced out of me when I’m tackled to the ground. “Oof.”

A heavy mass sits firmly on my back, and I squirm and wiggle, kicking and clawing to get away. “Damn it! Quit moving, bro!”

Bro? I’m obviously not a bro.

My arms are wrenched behind my back, my wrists clasped tight in one large, strong hand, and I’m yanked unceremoniously to my feet. “Come on.”

I’m jerkily marched back toward the car, losing any ground I made with my attempt at running. When we get back, I see who I threw the bag at, because the car headlights are beaming right on her like spotlights. “Yvette.”

She seems put off by my lack of surprise, or maybe I’m just too shocked to sound that way. “Well, who’d you expect? The Queen of England?”

Definitely not. Yvette Horne is no queen.

Since this morning, she’s changed clothes and apparently lost her ever-loving mind. Her hair is no longer subdued into an updo but rather down and frizzy. Her demure dress has been replaced with sweats and a tank top, and her earlier fury has given way to utter madness.

I shrug against my captor. “I wasn’t expecting you because I wasn’t expecting to get kidnapped.”

“Good one,” I hear from behind me, and I jerk my head, trying to look over my shoulder at the man holding me hostage.

“Sebastian?”

He looks at me and then Yvette, then back to me, his brows getting lower and lower in confusion. “Hey! How’s Chunky doing with the exercises?”

“Uhm . . .” How in the hell am I supposed to answer that when he’s got both my wrists gripped in one of his big, paw-sized hands?

Luckily, or maybe unluckily—I’m not sure which yet—Yvette answers for me with a shout. “Enough!”

Sebastian’s hands tighten uncomfortably, and I wince, hissing in pain. “Oh, sorry.”

His apology is unexpected and even more confusing than his questions about Chunky. And I’m not in the mood to be confused anymore. It’s wearing on my last nerve, especially after the day I’ve had.

“Look, I’ve had a really shitty day. So how about you tell me what the plan is here and let’s see if we can work something out that’ll get me home, in a bubble bath, with an extra-large glass of wine? Deal?” I offer with an exasperated sigh.

Yvette’s eyes bulge wide, nearly bugging out of their sockets. “You’ve had a bad day? You’ve. Had. A. Bad. Day?” she repeats herself, getting up in my face. “I lost everything! And it’s all your fault!” she screeches.

Her hands are gesturing so wildly, I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s going to slap me, either accidentally or intentionally.

It seems I’ve hit a nerve.

Sebastian pushes me toward the car, and I stumble away from him, catching myself on sore wrists to keep from face-planting on the hood. He gathers Yvette in his arms instead, rubbing his palm over her hair as she buries her face in his wide chest. “It’s okay, Vettie. Calm down.”

Never in the history of time has a woman calmed down by being told to calm down. In fact, those words usually have the opposite effect. But Sebastian must have some magic, either in his words or in the gentle touch of his hand, because Yvette does settle. I’m guessing it’s his voice because I’ve felt his hand on my wrists and there was nothing gentle about it.

But I’m not done poking and prodding at Yvette’s wound, not when it seems to put her off-balance and that’s the only hope I can see at getting away. “My fault? I had nothing to do with your poisoning your husband, psycho.”

Yvette lunges at me, her clawed nails scraping down my arm, leaving lines of red in their wake. “Psycho? I’ll show you psycho!”

Sebastian catches Yvette around her waist, pulling her back to put some space between us. “Ladies, ladies . . .” Standing between us, he holds a hand out toward each of us as though he’s stopping a barroom catfight. This man must be either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. I’m leaning toward the latter. Smiling congenially, he acts like this is no big deal. “Let’s all take a deep breath and calm down.”