Ingrid Weaver - Seven Days To Forever

Yes, Flynn had done that, she thought, her gaze snapping to the broad back that moved in front of her. He’d done it to defend her, but still, what kind of man was capable of fighting that viciously? He was an electrician, for God’s sake.

And why had the power come back on when he hadn’t done any repairs?

And why on earth did he want that green backpack?

The caution she should have felt ten minutes ago when he’d first talked his way into her apartment finally asserted itself. She braced her feet and hung on to the broken door frame with her free hand before he could drag her through. “Let go of my wrist,” she said.

He turned toward her. This was the first time she had seen his face clearly. She saw details now that she hadn’t seen before: laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the hint of a cleft in the center of his chin, the shadow of a dark beard along the sharp edge of his jaw.

He was as startlingly handsome as before, but something was different. There was no flashlight beam to light his features from below, so there was no way to mistake what she saw. There was more going on behind those sparkling blue eyes than she’d assumed. His expression was more than hard. It was predatory.

“Abigail, please.” He released her wrist and placed his hands on her shoulders. “We’ve got to get away from this apartment.”

“No, you go ahead. I’ll—”

“I can’t risk your safety by leaving you here.” He looked toward the stairwell. “There could be more men on their way.”

“How do you know that?” She inhaled sharply, realizing what he’d just said. “And how do you know my name?”

Flynn met her gaze squarely. His eyes probed hers for a few tense seconds. “All right. I’ve got no choice. Keep running the security check, and we’ll sort it out later.”

He was still looking directly at her, but she had the feeling he was talking to someone else.

“Are you going to come with me, Miss Locke?” he asked.

Her mind was reeling. There was simply too much to take in, to figure out, to try to make sense of. She shook her head.

“I should have known you wouldn’t do this the easy way,” he muttered. In a move too swift to follow, he leaned forward, wrapped one arm around the back of her knees and straightened up, flinging her over his shoulder.

She tried to scream, but the force of his shoulder hitting her stomach had knocked her breathless. Her head bounced against his back as he jogged to the elevator. She hit him with the purse she was somehow still clutching, but the blows had no effect—beneath his loose shirt, he was built like a brick wall. She clawed at the backpack he carried over his other shoulder in an attempt to lift herself up. “Put me down!” She gasped. “What do you think—”

“I’ll explain everything later, Abigail,” Flynn said, carrying her into the elevator. “We’re using the central car, Gonzales. I’ll need a control override so it won’t stop on the way down.”

“What? Who’s Gonzales?”

The doors slid shut, and the car started downward. It plummeted past the other floors without showing any signs of slowing. Just as Flynn had said, it didn’t stop.

Abbie wriggled, trying to kick free from his grasp.

Flynn tightened his grip on her legs. “Please, don’t do that, Abigail. You’re only making this more difficult. I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her fingers latched on to the backpack’s buckle. She braced her arm against its side and lifted her head just as the buckle snapped. The pack had been crammed so full the top flap sprang open the moment the pressure from the buckle was released.

Abbie went still. She’d wondered briefly about what was in this pack, but she hadn’t bothered to look. She’d known children liked to carry an incredible amount of paraphernalia with them, so she hadn’t found the weight that unusual. Nor had she been surprised that the owner hadn’t claimed it—her classroom was full of items that had been left behind.

But judging by what she could see poking out of the top of the green canvas, she was certain this pack didn’t belong to one of her students.

Money. The pack wasn’t full of Pokémon cards, it was stuffed with money. Thick, bundled wads of it. So much that she could actually smell it.

It couldn’t be real. No, this must be some kind of joke, and the wad of bills next to her nose had to be from a board game with very, very realistic props….

Game? Joke? Those looters who had broken into her apartment had been dead serious. As was the blood on their faces and the vicious way Flynn had fought them.

The looters? Had they been after this money? How had they known she had it, when she hadn’t known she had it? And why had Flynn grabbed this pack…unless he, too, had known what it contained?

Something clicked in her brain. This is what he’d been after all along. He was no electrician. He’d lied. He’d used that story to get into her apartment.

And she’d believed every word. She’d looked at that charming smile and those oh-so-sweet dimples and she’d been so sure she’d had his number, but she hadn’t, had she? She’d thought she’d learned her lesson about believing handsome men, but she’d been played for a fool. Again.

Dammit, she should have followed her instincts and slammed that door while she’d had the chance.

What was she mixed up in?

The elevator bypassed the ground floor. It didn’t stop until it reached the first level of the basement parking garage.

Where was Flynn taking her?

And why in God’s name was she letting him?

He shifted his grip, sliding her down the front of his body until she was standing on her feet. The instant the doors opened, he fastened one arm around her waist, drew her against his side and started forward.

Abbie didn’t wait for answers to any of her questions. She didn’t pause for regrets or self-recriminations. She reached for the screwdriver on Flynn’s tool belt, yanked it out of its slot and drove it as hard as she could into Flynn’s arm.

He muttered a sharp oath and loosened his grip for a vital second.

Abbie dropped the screwdriver, twisted out of his grasp and ran.

“Miss Locke, stop!”

At the shout from behind her, Abbie moved faster. She darted toward the nearest row of cars, the sound of her footsteps echoing through the cavernous garage. Her parking spot was on the next level down. Should she try to make it to her car, or head for the exit ramp? She glanced over her shoulder.

Flynn was following her. He was pressing his hand against his forearm, and she could see blood on his fingers. Her stomach churned. How badly had she hurt him?

“Abigail!”

She veered to the right, choosing to try to reach the exit instead of her car. The sooner she got outside where she could get help, the better her chances of escaping this…this…whatever she was mixed up in.

“Block the exits,” he said. “She’s heading for the ramp.”

His voice was low and hard. Who was he talking to? Was he crazy? She looped the strap of her purse around her neck and broke into a sprint, her arms pumping as she gulped in air. Her foot hit a patch of oil as she followed the ramp around a pillar. She slid sideways and crashed into the wall.

“Abigail, please stop!” he called. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

We? We? She slapped her hands against the cement wall and pushed off. She didn’t see the van that was coming down the ramp until it was directly in front of her.

Tires screeched as the vehicle skidded to a halt. A trim blond woman in a yellow cardigan set stared through the windshield at her, then opened the driver’s door and hopped out. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I didn’t hit you, did I?”