She had just enough time to think, I’m probably going to electrocute myself when the car started. Did I do that? Did I dream that? But exhaust was fogging up the chilly air and a radio was blasting, and when she tapped on the windshield wipers they pushed aside a layer of heavy snow.
And Zoe knew exactly what she had to do.
Him
If there had been a little more time Sawyer might have made a list of the hardest things he’d ever done.
There was the drinking contest with the Turkish arms dealer who was a lot tougher than she looked. The week he’d spent in a livestock car on a train through Argentina. The mission Alex simply called Operation Mustache. But nothing in his whole life had ever been as hard as walking away from Zoe. Still, if he bought her enough time to get out . . . then, well, it was worth it.
So Sawyer cocked his guns and took a breath and . . . spun. Ready to shoot because something was coming down the alley toward him—fast. He took aim but didn’t fire because he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.
It looked like a tank covered with snow. No. An SUV. No. Their SUV. And it was flying in reverse. He actually had to dive out of the way before it slammed to a stop and the passenger door flew open; and there was Zoe, leaning over the seat. Eyes bright. Skin glowing. The single-most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen as she yelled, “I know how to hot-wire cars!”
For a moment he just stood, heart pounding, skin sweating, not sure whether he should laugh or cry or kiss that sly smile right off her face. So he just dove in and shouted, “Drive.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Her
Sawyer didn’t actually let her drive. The jerkface. But Zoe couldn’t be too mad because the SUV was warm and the seat was big and she could lean back, feet on the dash, gazing out at the mountains and valleys that were frosted with snow and filtered through twilight.
They’d made it out of town, and he kept the speedometer at exactly three kilometers over the speed limit because, according to Sawyer, anything slower looks suspicious and anything faster gets you stopped.
Most of the snow had blown off the hood, but some of the windows were still covered in frost, giving the light an icy blue haze that made it look like something from a dream. And maybe it was? She had a head injury, after all.
But Zoe wanted to at least pretend the man behind the wheel was real—the way one big, rough hand gripped the steering wheel and his eyes scanned the road, looking for anything that could possibly hurt her.
“What?” he asked after a while.
“What what?”
“I can feel you staring,” he said, but he never even glanced her way.
“I was just thinking . . . you know . . . I could be a car thief.”
He didn’t laugh, but she saw his lips tip up. She’d started to learn that, from Sawyer, that was the same thing. “You aren’t a car thief.”
She took her feet from the dash and turned to him. “The Fast and Furious franchise had to have been inspired by someone—”
“You are neither fast nor furious.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m probably more of a regular thief. You know, the kind that steals diamond necklaces while wearing ball gowns.”
The lips moved again, and she hated how warm that gesture made her. “I’d hardly call that a regular thief.”
“I probably strap them to my thigh with a garter belt . . .”
The big hand gripped and regripped the steering wheel and he swallowed like he had something in his throat. “Yeah.” Sawyer coughed. “That could be . . . uh . . . it.”
Zoe didn’t even try not to smile.
When they passed a road sign she tried to see how many kilometers it was until Zurich, but it wasn’t listed. In fact, she hadn’t seen it on any of the signs, which made her ask, “How far are we from Zurich?”
She thought he was probably doing the calculations in his head because it took him a long time to say, “We can’t exactly take a direct route.”
“I know, but we’ve been driving for hours . . .” She sounded like a grouchy child who really needed a juice box and some cheesy crackers. Which, come to think of it, Zoe really wanted some juice and cheesy crackers.
“Then take a nap.”
“I will. As soon as you tell me when we’ll get to Zurich.” But there was something in the set of his jaw, the look in his eyes.
“We’re not going to Zurich—”
“You promised!”
“—yet, okay. We’re not going to Zurich yet.”