was easy enough to answer. In a vague, I’m not-giving-out-my-address-to-strange-in-more-than-one-sense-of-the-word-men kind of way.
“I’ve been here,” she said.
Maybe if she could keep him talking long enough, a real security guard would come along. Not that she trusted a single person on the entire planet at this point. Except maybe Bob Troutman, who, she knew, would be a slimy little git no matter the circumstances. Which currently made Bob Troutman the only human being on the planet Marnie would trust at this point. And of all the things that were going to keep her awake tonight, that one had to be the most troubling.
“Where’s here?” Faux Randy asked.
“Cleveland,” Marnie said. “Ohio. I was born and raised here. Save five years in Columbus to go to college, I’ve always lived here.”
“Right,” he replied in a way that indicated he believed not a word of what she said. “So I guess we are going to have to do this the hard way.” And with that, he did pull his weapon, and he pointed it right at Marnie’s heart.
Okay, cycling back to fear again.
“Look, this is nuts,” she said. She tried to hold up her hands, but thanks to the manuscript, could raise one only to shoulder height. Still, she turned both hands palm out. “I don’t understand any of what’s happened tonight, and all I want is to be left alone. If it’s the manuscript you want, take it. But please, just leave me out of it.”
“Oh, it’s definitely the manuscript I want,” he told her.
“And I definitely will take it. But you know full well there’s something else I want. And I’m going to take it, too.”
“What more could you possibly want?” Marnie asked.
“You, Lila,” the man said without hesitation. “I want you.”
CHAPTER THREE
AT HEARING THE ROUGHLY uttered declaration, every one of those emotions went zinging right through Marnie again. Even lust, briefly, which said a lot about her so-called standards. But instead of going back to square one this time—fear—she put on the brakes at calmness. In spite of the gravity of her situation, she sensed something about this man that prevented her from feeling true fear.
She had no idea why, but her instincts told her he wasn’t going to hurt her unless she badly provoked him, and she’d always been a strong believer in instincts. The way she saw it, human instinct had survived from caveman times, even when the overhanging forehead and unibrow had evolved into much nicer lines. Well, for people other than Bob Troutman, she meant. There had to be a reason for that. Other than that Bob Troutman was a Neanderthal, she meant. So she’d learned long ago to trust her instincts, and her instincts had never let her down.
The man released the safety on his weapon with a deft flick of his thumb and sharpened his aim.
Of course, there was a first time for everything.
“Please,” she said, spreading her fingers in entreaty. “There’s got to be some way to get this all straightened out without anyone getting hurt. Please,” she said again, even more solicitously this time.
“Give me the manuscript,” the man said. “Hold it out with one hand, very slowly. And don’t try anything funny, Lila. Because I will shoot you if I have to.”
Marnie did as he asked, keeping one hand airborne as she gripped the envelope with the other and very carefully extended it toward him. Cautiously, he accepted it from her, his gaze never leaving hers, as if it was more important for him to watch her eyes than it was to watch her hands.
“Which car is the one you’ve been driving?” he asked as he tucked the envelope under one arm, still holding the gun steady. Still not removing his eyes from hers.
She found the phrasing of the question peculiar. He hadn’t asked which car was hers, but which one she’d been driving. As if he assumed she didn’t own the car but was only using it. Still, if he was saying anything at all about her car, it was only because he intended to use it. And that couldn’t be a good thing. Unless he used it by himself. Which was probably asking too much.
Marnie closed her eyes, surrendering to the inevitable. “The one behind me is mine,” she said. “The yellow Volkswagen Beetle.”
“Turn around, and walk slowly toward it,” the man told her, “keeping your hands where I can see them at all times.”
“Oh, please,” Marnie said, unable to help herself. “You can’t possibly think I’m any threat to you.”
He laughed out loud at that. “Oh, sure. You’re harmless, Lila. Everyone knows that. Like that guy in Zagreb. The one you put in a coma a few years ago? The one who’s still in a coma? He’d definitely agree that you’re as gentle as a lamb.”
Yeah, Marnie thought, this Lila for sure needed to hang out with some different people. Not to mention find some new hobbies.
“Turn around,” he said again, his voice steely now.
“And walk to your car. And don’t try anything funny.”
Oh, gosh, no. She wouldn’t try anything funny. That would be so inappropriate in a situation like this.
She did as he asked, making her way carefully to her car with both arms awkwardly extended, constantly aware of his eyes—and his gun—on her back. When she arrived at the driver’s-side door, however, she remembered she’d dropped her keys when the second man grabbed her. She started to say something about that when she heard the merry chirp-chirp of the key fob unlocking the doors. Braving a look over her shoulder, she saw faux Randy standing a few feet away, her keys in his hand. Evidently he’d seen them on the ground and scooped them up, but she sure couldn’t have said when. He had to have moved awfully silently and awfully quickly to do that.
Gee, color her suspicious, but if he kept this up, she was going to start thinking he wasn’t a mall security guard at all.
“Get in,” he said. “Put your hands on the steering wheel and keep them there.”
She did as he instructed, then watched as he rounded the front of her car, his eyes never leaving hers. He honestly seemed to be afraid that she might overpower him. Either this Lila really was a very dangerous woman, or faux Randy was the lamest excuse for a man in the world. As much as Marnie wanted to cling to that second theory, she figured the first one was more accurate. Which meant three men tonight had mistaken her for a very dangerous woman. Her. Marnie Lundy. Who shrieked at the sight of an unexpected dust bunny.
The tiny car shrank to microscopic when faux Randy folded his big frame into the passenger seat, accomplishing the feat with a swiftness and economy of movement that belied his size, his gun never straying from Marnie’s midsection. Once inside, he slammed the door shut and thumbed the locks into place, then dangled her keys from his fingers. When she reached for them, he snatched them back. Her gaze flew to his in silent question.
“I’m going to tell you where to drive,” he said. “And you’re going to follow my directions. You will not exceed the speed limit. You will not swerve off the road. You will not try to attract the attention of another driver. If you do, you’ll be sorry.”
“Where
