On the Way Home Read Online Free Page B

white. Yeah, I was agitated. I’d done a lot of crazy shit for Dmitri, but this one definitely took the mafia cake. What would happen if I just started driving toward Dmitri’s safe house right now? Obviously the guy would notice a detour into the seedy part of town. I needed Clint immobilized, unconscious, and that was impossible with him alert and powerful and studying me from across the truck.
    He seemed to lean away from me, almost trying to make himself small. Which was ridiculous. That would never work, as big as he was. He filled the whole cab, right up to my face, where I breathed in his musky scent. My skin tingled whenever he looked at me—all the time. Whenever I was in sight of him, I felt his gaze on me, hot and surprisingly sweet.
    “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about driving me.” He shrugged. “You don’t know me, but I’d never hurt you.”
    I blinked, incredulous. He thought I was scared of him. God. God. I couldn’t do this. My throat closed up. “I know,” I managed to say. And the strangest part was that I did know he wouldn’t hurt me. How many men could I say that about? Only him.
    “But if you wanted to pull over somewhere, I could call a cab. No problem. I don’t mind.”
    I just shook my head. Stupidly, tears were forming. Why couldn’t he stop being nice to me? I wanted him to hit me, to fight me. I wanted him to tear me down or submit to me. This good-guy angle was too much for me, like a dream I didn’t know I’d had.
    Your sister needs you.
    With pure will I forced myself to calm. Why was he affecting me like this? That was a problem I hadn’t expected when I’d reluctantly agreed to do this. But I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out shakily.
    I glanced at the screen of my phone. It had gone dark. “I was just looking up a map. But you can tell me where to go.”
    He directed me off the freeway and through a network of streets without any other kind words, to my relief. We finally pulled up to an aging apartment complex. Despite the obvious wear on the buildings, tall trees provided shade over the cobblestone walkway. A cat sat licking his paw on one of the flower beds. It was a quaint place, both rustic and comfortable—kind of like the man himself.
    He handed me a couple of bills. I split them with a slide of my fingers. Two twenties. “This is too much,” I protested.
    “Nah. It should be more, considering the gas and the food. And your time. That’s all I have on me.”
    “Clint, I can’t take all your money.”
    Something flickered in his eyes. Was that pain? “How did you know my name?”
    Shit. I’d given myself away. But instead of feeling broken up about it, I was glad. Glad he’d caught me. Glad he’d stay safe. “The flight roster,” I whispered.
    “You always memorize it?” he asked jokingly.
    “Because of the incident,” I forced out. “I had to make an incident report for the woman on the plane. So I looked up your name.”
    He seemed to accept that explanation. He reached for his neck and pulled out a set of silver tags. “Army Sergeant Clint Adams, at your service.”
    My gaze lingered on those two flat pieces of metal. As if I’d voiced the request, he pulled the chain over his head and handed it over. It was heavier than I’d expected, and warm from his body. I ran my thumb over the lettering. Adams, Clint F.
    “F?” I asked.
    “Fitzgerald.” His cheeks turned a faint pink. “An old family name.”
    He volunteered so much. Not just his name, rank and serial number. He gave me his history, his kindness. He gave and gave and gave until I felt sick with how much more I would take from him. I ran the chain over my hand, tangling my fingers through the beaded metal as if it was his hair. Then drawing up tight, capturing us both.
    He started to speak, then stopped. Then started again, seeming hesitant. “You were amazing, you know. Smooth under pressure. Not everyone could have reacted that quickly.”
    I had a lot of