His hands cupped her cheeks, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that seemed to mesmerize her.
“I’m scared.” Her voice trembled, shocking her with the weak, horrified sound of it. “Someone really wants me dead, Graham.”
“Come on, baby, we have to get you out of this car. Angel has to go.” Reaching down, he lifted her gently from her seat as her hands gripped his shoulders, her head falling against his shoulder.
She’d known it the moment she’d realized the van was going to plow into her Jeep—the attempt on her life in London hadn’t been a mistake at all. It had been deliberate.
“Get the hell out of here before the ambulance arrives.” Graham snapped out the order as he lowered her into the passenger side of the Viper.
She was aware of the woman getting into the sedan, the driver of the Vette jumping back into it. Just that fast, the two were pulling quickly away and racing from the scene of the wreck.
As the other vehicles sped into the night, Graham hurriedly closed her door before running to the driver’s side and jumping in.
“Call Dawg,” he ordered crisply.
The order didn’t make sense until Dawg’s voice crackled through the car’s stereo system.
“I have her,” Graham snapped, the Viper continuing to accelerate as he raced away from the wreck. “You know where we’ll be.”
“Status?” Dawg seemed to be snarling.
“Quick exam shows no broken bones or internal injuries,” he reported. “I’ll know more once we reach the safe house.”
“Contact immediately if that changes,” Dawg ordered him. “I’m with Alex, coming on the scene now. We’ll contact you once we’re finished.”
The call disengaged as the Viper flew around the curves of the road leading away from her mother’s inn, where she’d been heading.
They were heading toward the lake, she realized.
The top was still down, though the lights of the dash were dark and she realized the car’s headlights weren’t on, either. She couldn’t see the road well enough to know if they were driving along the mountainous road or racing into hell.
Looking over at Graham, Lyrica realized he was wearing glasses. Sunglasses? They were dark, wrapping around his face with the faintest hint of color at the very edges.
She had to have died, she thought.
None of this could be real.
None of it made sense.
Just as she was certain they were going to go tearing off the road and flying into oblivion, the car’s lights were suddenly back on and Graham was tearing the glasses off, dropping them onto the console next to him. The headlights revealed a mile marker placed about a half mile before the turn leading to his home.
The Viper slowed enough to take the turn comfortably, without the scream or whine of the tires’ protest.
“We’re almost there, baby.” Broad, powerful fingers covered hers where they rested on her lap and gave them a gentle squeeze.
She stared down at his hand. His fingers laced between hers, dark and broad, safe. Once again, he’d saved her. Once again, it was Graham who’d reached her first, who’d raced to her rescue as though he had no other purpose in life.
There was no escaping him, no escaping the heat and the hunger that shadowed her every waking and sleeping moment, she realized.
She belonged to him, and not just because he had saved her life. She had belonged to him since the moment she had met him.
Whatever he wanted.
However he wanted her.
For as long as she had, she was his.
—