Taken With Trouble (CAUGHT IN CHAOS #2)

9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Liam

I close my eyes. Then swiftly open them again. Just because we are flying through the air doesn’t mean I can let go of the wheel. The car lands with an earthquake-sized thud, jerking my head and neck. But I haven’t heard another shot in the last five seconds.

“Did we lose the—”

Bullets rain down on the roof of the car, and I swerve, nearly running over a man on a bike. The car groans.

“Did you drive us off a bridge?” Cruz screams, her voice nearing hysterical.

“It was a very small one.”

“We’re going to die!”

“That’s only one outcome and hardly worth mentioning right now.” I glance in the rearview to see the motorcycle landing behind us. I don’t know why I thought that would get rid of him.

The car makes a weird sound, and I curse. I can forge my own Mona Lisa, or hack into any security database, but give me a car, and all I can find is the engine and the dipstick. Is this car dying or are radical thumping sounds normal?

“Liam…” Serena’s worried voice carries through my subconscious, and I jerk back to the present. The car chase. The one that’s going to kill us soon. Unless …

I spot my opportunity up ahead. “When I turn, we’re going to jump out of your door.”

“Are you crazy?” She fires off two shots. “That will never work.”

“Trust me.” I wrap the handle of my bag around my hand.

Her wild eyes meet mine. “I can’t stress how much I do not trust you .”

“Sorry, love.” I decelerate to take the turn, then reach across and open her door, shoving her out. I lock the brakes before jumping myself. As I fall, I hear a crash. And another crash.

I slice through the water, catching sight of a dark blob beside me. I snatch her arm and pull her with me. We both break through the water, spluttering, but in Serena’s case, it’s coming out in very colorful and creative four-letter words.

Water clings to her eyelashes, tangling the long strands together. But she’s no less beautiful than she’s always been.

“You idiot!” She screams, then shoves me under the water by sheer strength. I let her, of course. “Great plan,” she says when I reemerge. “We’re sitting ducks.”

“Technically, we are swimming ducks.”

She splashes a wave of water at me, clearly unamused. I’m a very charming guy; it must be her.

“I heard the crash. He’s gone. Now, would you listen to my plan?”

“You mean you’re going to explain it this time?” She snaps before swimming toward the shore.

I follow behind. “I tried to explain it last time, but you didn’t want to hear it.”

“Because I thought it would be reasonable!”

“Why on earth would you think that? Look, we’ll go to my other place. It’s not too far from here. Well, no, I’m lying. We’ll have to get on the train and—”

“No. We are going to the Winthrops. We are going to give them the box, then I’m gone.”

“We can’t go to the Winthrops now. Every hitman and their killer dog will be staking out the place. We need to lie low for a couple days.”

“I have the perfect place for that.” She splashes water in my face. “Prison. ”

“Only if you’re my cellmate, beautiful.” I pull myself onto the bank next to an Italian restaurant then extend a hand to her.

She ignores the offer and pulls herself up—quite impressively, I might add. This woman has muscles. I usually find the unsuspecting, delicate ladies beautiful. Easier to manipulate. But Serena Cruz is her own woman. She doesn’t need me; she doesn’t want me. In fact, she detests me and would like to kill me. And yet, I’ve never been more attracted to a woman. Is childhood trauma to blame for that?

Serena splashes up the cement and squeezes out her pantsuit. I try not to laugh at her drowned rat appearance and frightening scowl to match. The blazer comes off, and I get a second peek at what she’s wearing underneath that white shirt. To be fair, everyone in a fifty-foot radius is getting more than just a peek. I’d offer her my shirt, but it’s just as wet and white.

“You should put that back on,” I say, gruffly. Gruff wasn’t something I even knew I could achieve. Am I… jealous? No, simply protective.

“I’m done listening to you.” Serena snatches the bag out of my hand and heads down the street. But one block and several appalled looks later, she puts her jacket on and crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn’t stop walking, and I don’t stop her. She needs a minute to process her near-death experience in relative peace. I would have appreciated that the first time I found the unfortunate end of a gun. But sometimes one doesn’t get that luxury.

Her shoes squeak with each step she takes; as she turns down one alley, the squeaks speed up.

I speed up, too.

We hit another alley, and it happens again. Is she trying to get rid of me?

I’m not letting this woman out of my sight. She has my box with the forty-million-dollar ring inside.

We turn another corner and this time she takes off at a sprint. I groan and race after her. Why does she have to be so fast?

She dives into a corner alley and then …

Where did she go?

Serena

I hold my breath from my hiding spot as Liam’s footsteps race by me. Once he’s cleared the alley, I duck back in the direction we came. I retrace our steps, stopping short at the building that caught my attention a few minutes ago. It’s a deserted boutique. Every other business down this street is open right now, except this one. There’s a sign on the door in French, something about a family emergency, but I don’t stop long enough to translate it.

The door is locked, so I go around the side alley and climb the steps behind the shop. There’s a window. I press my hands flat against it and push. Yes . The window releases, and the whole panel tips in.

I slip inside, gently dropping the seven feet, and close the window behind me.

I’m free.

Well, except for the fact that I’m stranded in France without my phone or money. Freaking Liam Hawthorne.

I wander through the boutique, searching for signs of life. No phone. No fridge with food. There’s a staircase to what I assume is an apartment, and I creep up the wooden steps. I listen at the door for two full minutes before cracking it open.

No screams or living things greet me. There’s a couch, a fridge, and a bathroom. I sigh with relief. For now, that’s all I need. After searching the house to ensure there are no bodies, alive or not, I use the restroom. Car chases and small bladders do not go hand in hand. Then I strip my wet clothes and scrub the mud caked on my ankles. I rinse off my suit then leave it on the curtain rod to dry. It’s not a dry cleaner, but it’s all I’ve got. I shake out my hair and wrap a towel around my body, listening at the closed bathroom door for sounds of life.

Once I’m content, I slip into the hallway and cross the hall to the bedroom .

Something is off. I sense it immediately. The air feels different—more alive than it did when I first got into the apartment.

My heart stops beating. Someone is here.

I backtrack, raising my gun as I move. My back hits the doorjamb, alerting whoever else is here with me. A figure steps out of the closet, and I aim my gun at…

“Liam?”

“You know, a gun is not the best way to greet people. Has anyone taught you the French way?” he asks, but his words fall on deaf ears.

He’s shirtless, his wet slacks hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding a pair of clothes in one hand.

I’ve always been good at observing my surroundings, and apparently right now, that’s all my eyes want to do as they drop to his torso. His arms and shoulders are lean but wired with muscles and veins like an artist sculpted him and only him, so uniquely. His abdominals protrude from his skin like a washboard. Goodness, they should have their own threat level. But what’s most surprising are the tattoos running down his right side. Like that’s where he keeps all his secrets.

“Is it my turn to shower?” he asks. “Or do you need me to stand here for a few more minutes while you get your fill?”

“What are you doing here?” I spit, not dropping my gun from where I’ve got it aimed at his naked chest.

“I suppose the same thing you’re doing. When you ran away from me, I remembered this closed shop we passed and figured I’d get a change of clothes. Though, I was hoping for something a little more reliable than a towel.” His eyes dart down my body.

I’m in a towel. Only a towel. The back of my neck burns, but I pretend it doesn’t bother me.

“I was getting there.”

“Here.” He tosses a pile of material at me. “I took the liberty of finding you something. ”

I hold up a top that looks more like an undergarment. Then it hits me. “How did you know it was me in here and not the owner?”

His eyes slide down my body again, and I’m incredibly aware of exactly how naked I am under this towel. His eyes pop back up to mine, but they appear darker than they were mere moments ago. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

I pick up a figurine off the dresser and aim it at him.

“Relax.” He sighs. “The stairs were wet, and it wreaked of pond scum the second I opened the door.”

“You better be telling the truth.”

He steps closer to me, close enough to grab the figurine from my hand. “Do I look like I’d ever lie to you?”

“Yes.”

“I happen to think secrets make life more fun.” He slips the figurine from my fingers, replacing it with his hand. I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip. “And I’m very interested in your secrets, Serena.”

Heat crawls up my skin, and I shiver.

I swallow. “I already told you; I don’t have secrets.”

“The eyes tell no lies, darling.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his finger skim down my neck and over my collarbone. “And your eyes say much more than you want them to.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. He can never know my secrets.

He brushes past me and into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. He doesn’t want to lose me again.

I feel very much the opposite.

I slam the bedroom door, lock it, then rush into the closet. It takes too long to find a pair of clothes that fit without showing too much midriff or cleavage. Liam wasn’t being a pig. That’s the only option available. The woman who lives here must be a five-foot-two twenty-something-year-old. I finally settle on exposing my stomach instead of cleavage. I’ve got great abs, and I’m not afraid to show them. I would just rather not .

I pull on a pair of bike shorts that stretch enough to cover my backside. I check my bag to ensure everything is safe before I can slip out of the window without Liam, but… that’s weird.

I yank the jewelry box out. This is wrong. I must have been too distracted last night to notice, but this isn’t Scarlett’s box. Everything looks the same, except for the crystals in the middle of the lid. They are supposed to be clear, but in the afternoon light, they are more of a musty yellow.

Liam.

“You are the worst!” I throw open the door and stomp into the bathroom. He’s pulling on a shirt but doesn’t hurry to finish. He slowly drags it over one inch of tanned skin at a time.

“What did I do this time?” He sighs before shaking out his hair.

“Where did you find those clothes?” I scowl at his perfectly fitting Bermuda shorts and white polo.

His eyes trail down my body. “I could ask you the same thing. A fourteen-year-old girl?”

“The closet,” I grumble.

“The boutique,” he grumbles right back.

Of course. Looks like I’ll be making a pit stop down there.

“What’s this?” I hold up the box.

He lifts a single brow and crosses his arms over his chest. “Did you get a concussion in that fall? Let me look at your eyes.”

“Don’t you dare look at my eyes!” I jump out of his reach.

“Should I look at your belly button instead? It’s quite cute.”

I drop the box on the counter and punch his shoulder. “This isn’t the real box.”

A slow smile grows on his lips. Lips that aren’t all that terrible to look at. Lips that make me shiver with memories I’m better off forgetting. A dark night at a bar, his hands on my… Stop.

“I am a thief,” he says.

“Were you really going to give the Winthrops the fake? Where’s the real one? ”

He pats his chest like he’s looking for it in the crevices of his muscles. “Not here.”

I pull my gun from behind my back and aim it at his chest. “We’re going to get it. Now.”

“You know I find you extremely attractive in this position, but maybe you should stop being so trigger-happy. I’m beginning to think you only do it to turn me on.”

My nostrils flare. “Could you stop being an obnoxious flirt for two seconds?”

“I could. It might kill me, though.”

“One can only hope. Let’s go.”

I manage to find a pair of ripped jeans from the boutique downstairs that are only three inches too short, and a shirt only long enough in an extra-large size; clothes for six-foot women are extremely inconsistent.

Liam opens the same window I came through. The only problem? It’s much higher from this side.

I push a stool beneath the window then pull myself up. The cement scrapes against my stomach as I force my upper body through the window… but only my upper body. I’m stuck. My jeans are caught on the rusted windowsill. I push harder, but my muscles only shake. The pack of cheese and crackers I took from the apartment upstairs isn’t cutting it, but I wasn’t about to rob this poor woman blind. Apparently, neither was the thief. Before we left the apartment, I glanced back to see Liam stacking no less than ten hundred-dollar bills on the counter. The fact that they were dry was equally suspicious. Did he stop at an ATM or does a money cloud just follow him and only him?

I wiggle and push, but I’m really stuck. “A little help please,” I call down.

“What did you say? I’m busy enjoying a spectacular view.”

I grit my teeth and say the words I never thought would escape my lips. “I said I need help.”

“The mighty Agent Cruz needs help from me?” he asks, still not assisting.

“If I had any other options, I clearly wouldn’t choose you,” I growl. A sound echoes in the stairwell and I freeze. “Hurry, I think someone’s coming. ”

“So…” he drawls. Purposefully. Annoyingly. “Let me get this straight—you want me to touch your bottom?”

I grimace. “Help me before I put a bullet in you.”

His deep laugh rumbles as he climbs the stool behind me. It’s not a wide stool, and I’m cursing every measly inch of it that makes our bodies smash together. He grabs the side of my thighs, then slowly—so freaking slowly—slides his hands up to my hips.

I clench my stomach, refusing to feel anything when it comes to this man right here.

“I think it’s your belt loop,” he murmurs… or at least, that’s what it sounds like. He’s trying to capitalize on my predicament and charm me, but the joke’s on him. I will not be seduced by Liam Hawthorne, no matter how warm and strong his hands feel on my waist. I’ve fallen for jerks before; it won’t happen again.

He unhooks my belt loop. Then he gives me a nice and completely unromantic shove out the window.

I crumple into the staircase head first, butt in the air. “I’m going to destroy you!” I yell.

He pops out of the window at the same time I pull myself upright. “Not if I destroy you first, darling.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.