Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
For her, it’s still a medical emergency.
For me, it’s trouble.
More trouble finds me as Rick takes us to the cold parking lot and the dark-blue Genesis G80 waiting to ferry us from the airport.
It’s not the way the girl shivers and curls up closer, tucking herself against me for warmth, that bothers me.
The real irritant is that I’ve got no clue where this girl lives.
That will be a problem.
While Rick deposits her bag on the pavement and holds the car door open, I settle her in the back seat, sitting upright. A quick, nonintrusive search inside her bag reveals nothing. The bulge of a wallet makes a faint outline against the back pocket of her close-fitting jeans.
Fuck.
She’s going to make me touch her, isn’t she?
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I draw a deep breath.
Annoying.
“Forgive the intrusion,” I mutter, despite knowing she’s unconscious.
Then I slip an arm around her delicate waist to lift her up, just enough to slide my fingers into her back pocket.
I try to make as little contact as possible, yet it’s impossible to avoid the soft, warm flesh through denim, curving against my fingertips.
I damn sure don’t linger.
Half a second of annoyingly enticing warmth dipping under my touch, and I snag the barest edge of the wallet and yank it out quickly before settling her back down in the seat.
When I flick the wallet open, her license tells me nothing except that I was correct about her age: twenty-three.
The address on the license is in New York City.
Not helpful.
With a disgusted sigh, I drop the wallet into her bag.
“Problem, sir?” Rick offers a sympathetic smile.
“I have an unconscious stranger in the back of my car and no idea where to drop her off, so yes, I have one,” I retort.
Rick only smiles and shrugs.
I suppose he’s used to my barbs by now.
“We could simply leave her with airport security,” he points out.
We could.
Hell, maybe we should, especially since we have no idea if she’s meeting someone here who might be looking for her and panicking by now when she isn’t responding to texts.
I thin my lips.
Simply abandoning her to the whims of overworked TSA agents or an expensive ambulance ride she doesn’t need ticks at my morals.
She shouldn’t be my problem, but she is now—and I don’t leave problems unsolved.
“Check with airport security,” I say. “Her name is Eleanor Lark. Ask them to page anyone waiting for her. If there’s no one here, then we’ll get her wherever she belongs.”
“Understood.” His nod might as well be a crisp salute.
Rick turns and speed-walks back into the terminal. I sink down into a crouch outside the open car door, watching the unconscious girl with her head tilted against the back of the seat.
“You,” I mutter, “have been a pain in my ass ever since you stepped on that plane. What am I going to do with you?”
She actually responds and startles me—though I don’t think she’s aware.
“Gran? Grandma?” she mumbles in her sleep. “No, no, I told you . . . stay. Stay home.”
I arch a brow.
Her grandmother must be pretty formidable, if I somehow remind Miss Lark of her.
“I’m not your grandmother,” I point out firmly. “If you could provide her address, that will help us resolve this dilemma faster. You don’t need a doctor, right? The ER?”
“No. No hospital.” She mouths the words more than she says them. “Home. Grandma.”
Shit.
“Where is home, Miss Lark?” I try.
She doesn’t answer.
She only lets out a soft, pained sigh past her pink lips.
I notice she has a small mouth, a little bud of a thing with a plump upper lip tapering sharply down to peaked corners.
I wait for those lips to move again.
They don’t, not even as I hear the echo of her name over the PA system from inside the terminal.
“Problem,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You are a problem.”
“Bite me,” she mumbles back, and I blink.
Is she actually awake now?
“Miss Lark.” No response. I suppose this is revenge for ignoring her on the plane. “Miss Lark.”
Nope.
She’s truly out—either asleep or unconscious or in some haze of pain in between.
It makes me wonder what her life must be like if that’s her reflexive response.
I feel a touch of déjà vu as I reach in to shake her shoulder lightly, though no hand rises to stop me. “Miss Lark, wake up. Just enough to tell me your destination so we can be free of each other. Take my hand.”
I grab her fingers and fold them around mine. She grips them weakly.
“Nnh?”
I sigh.
She’s like a helpless little bird.
This is so not my wheelhouse.
I have zero talent for managing small, fragile things. I’d prefer to put this delicate young woman in the hands of someone more gentle before I accidentally rupture something. Either in her fragile body, or in my exasperated brain.
“Home. Where? Talk to me.” Maybe if I keep it simple, the question will penetrate her fog. I just need to leave her wherever she’s meant to be.