Passing His Guard (Against the Cage #2) (8 page)

Another round of dizziness rolled through him. This time his knees buckled and his vision went from fuzzy to black. Ryann cursed and stumbled under his weight as she half-walked, half-dragged him across the lobby.

“Damn, Aiden, you weigh a ton,” she complained.

He did his best to help her, but his body was simply refusing to obey commands at this point. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never been this sauced before. Not even when he and Cole rented out the penthouse of the Mirage and threw the largest after-fight party in CFA history after he’d won his first televised fight. Aiden was busy making a mental note never to drink tequila again when a serious bout of light-headedness rolled through him, and this time when the darkness came, it didn’t let him go.

CHAPTER

 9 

S
hit! Shit . . . shit . . . shit!” Ryann sat in the driver’s seat, arms outstretched, hands gripping the steering wheel. “I’m going to hell. No, first I’m going to prison. Then, I’m going to hell.”

She shot a quick glance at Aiden, slumped against the passenger door. He was fully unconscious now. Thank God he hadn’t gone down sooner or there was no way she would have gotten him into her rental. This guy was a beast. She continued to watch him, waiting for the reassuring rise and fall of his shoulders. When she saw no movement, she slapped two fingers against his neck. Feeling the slow bounding pulse, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and tipped his head back. As she unkinked his airway, Ryann startled at the sudden gasp of breath resonating in the cab.

“Aiden.” She shook his shoulder and his head slumped forward again. “Frick!” Ryann repositioned his head and grabbed her sweatshirt from the back seat, stuffing it along the window between his shoulder and his jaw to help hold his head up. Satisfied he wouldn’t asphyxiate, she fastened her seat belt and fired up the Escape.

Anxious to get on the road, she typed her address into Google Maps on her cell. Great, eighteen hours to Brooklyn. Glancing at the unconscious man beside her, Ryann wondered how many of those hours would pass before Aiden woke up and raised holy hell.

“Take a right onto Thirty-Fourth Avenue South,” the computerized voice politely instructed.

Ryann shot one last quick look at Aiden, just to make sure he was all right, before following the directions coming from her phone. She was responsible for this man, especially now, and although his mother hadn’t specifically said as much, she was pretty sure the woman expected her to deliver her son back to her alive.

Of all the many questions surrounding this man, one thing was for certain—this was going to be one hell of a long road trip.

Holy. Hell. His head hurt. Every beat of Aiden’s heart drove the invisible spike deeper into his brain. A cloud of disorientation fogged his mind. This wasn’t a hangover. It was so much worse. Nausea rolled his stomach, threatening to revolt as the cacophony of his heartbeat thundered in his ears. His shoulders ached, arms bent at an awkward angle. Why were his arms behind his back?

Aiden shifted his weight and tried to pull them out from behind him. He only got an inch or two before he heard a metal
chink
and something sharp bit into his wrists. What the fuck? Was he . . . restrained? Where was he? Straining to hear over his crashing heartbeat, the hum of road noise told him nowhere good. Thinking back, he tried to recall the last thing he could remember before passing out, but processing thoughts was like trying to run through quicksand. That shit just wasn’t happening.

Cracking open an eye, his blurry vision met the green glow of dash lights. A car. Okay, he was in a car. And it was still dark out, so less than eight hours had passed. He tried once again to remember where he’d been before he passed out, but the effort intensified the pain. Exhaling a
groan, he forced open his other eye and rolled his head to the left.
The sight of the fiery-haired beauty sitting beside him flipped the switch of his memories and they all came crashing back with the speed of a tsunami—a tsunami named Ryann. The
woman who’d tracked him halfway across the United States. The
woman who’d chased off his lay by telling her he had an STD,
the woman who’d given him tequila and beer—beer that carried
a bitter after bite . . .
That fucking bitch!

She shot him a nervous glance from the driver’s seat, guilt written all over her beautiful face. “You’re awake.”

No shit.

Directing her eyes back to the road, she mumbled to herself, “Well, that was fast.”

Despite the truth staring him in the face, he still didn’t want to believe it—didn’t want to believe this sweet, innocent-looking woman would be capable of doing something so underhanded, so manipulative, so . . . fucking illegal. This he would have expected from Madeline, but Ryann? Until this moment, he’d still held out hope. Oh, how wrong he’d been. Hell, she was no better than his mother after all, just in a prettier package. How could he have been so stupid to think she was different? What a joke!

Shoving his shoulder against the door, he used the momentum to force himself upright, biting back a pained groan. The adrenaline flooding his veins quickly muted the pounding in his head. In a burst of Herculean rage, he yanked against the bonds shackling his wrists. The chain rattled, and the edge of his cuffs bit deeper into his flesh. He welcomed the pain that helped ground him, clearing the foggy haze that blanketed his mind.

“What the fuck did you give me, Ryann?” His raw throat felt like he’d been drinking broken glass instead of tequila, and the sound of his raspy voice mirrored the sentiment.

She shot him a nervous glance, trapping that full, lush bottom lip between her teeth. He would not notice how beautiful she looked with that blush of shame and guilt staining her cheeks, nor would he think about the sweet flavor of those lips or how perfect they once felt against his. No, this woman was a wolf in sheep’s clothing—a viper coiled and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. He’d underestimated Ryann, and for that he was furious with himself. He should have known better. His mother wouldn’t send some flighty waif to do a job two grown men had failed to do.

“Answer me,” he growled.

“Rohypnol . . .” Her whispered response was spoken so softly, he barely heard her.

“Are you serious? You fucking roofied me?”

“Well, when you say it like that, you make it sound so bad.”

Unbelievable.
“That’s because it is! Do you have any idea how many laws you’ve broken?” He yanked on his cuffs, rattling the chain to prove his point. “Kidnapping is a class A-1 felony, Ryann, violating federal criminal code 18 U.S.C. 1201, punishable by up to twenty years in prison.”

Eyes wide, she looked at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. “How do you know that?” Suspicion threaded into her voice.

“Because I’m a fucking lawyer!”

“Oh, Jesus, help me . . .” she mumbled the plea, reaching up and pressing her palm against her forehead.

“Doubt
that’s
gonna happen. Didn’t think that one through too well, did ya?”

“But you’re an MMA fighter . . .”

“Yeah, and I’m also one of the best damn attorneys in Manhattan. Hope you like prison food, baby.”

She gasped, having the nerve to look at
him
aghast! “You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I fucking would!”

“Bullshit.” She shook her head in denial.

He wondered who she was trying to convince, herself or him.

“You’re bluffing. There’s no way in hell anyone’s going to believe a six-foot-two, hundred-and-eighty-five-pound MMA fighter got abducted by a five-foot-six, hundred-and-twenty-pound woman. Good luck proving that, jackass. You’ll be the laughing stock of MMA.”

“Goddammit!” He slammed his shoulder into the seat, rage boiling through him and turning his veins to ash. She jumped, startling at his outburst. “You’re such a manipulative bitch!”

She hit him with a surprised scowl that just as quickly morphed into a crestfallen frown. And fuck him if that hurt look on her beautiful face didn’t make him feel like a total asshole—which was absolutely absurd considering
he
was the one in the handcuffs. The sudden urge to apologize rose up swift and unbidden, which pissed him off even more. How dare she make him into the bad guy here!

“That wasn’t very nice, Aiden.”

“This from the woman that roofied me, put me in handcuffs, and is hauling me, against my will, to . . . where in the hell are we, anyway?”

“Wisconsin.”

“Great.” He glanced at the dash—2:30. “I’m going to miss my flight. I’ve had enough of your and my mother’s tricks, Ryann. Pull over and take these cuffs off me—now.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

“Sweetheart, I think you’re under the impression that I’m giving you a choice. You’ve already pointed out the glaring differences between our sizes and strength. I don’t need my hands free to get away from you. You’ve been driving all night, and I’d be willing to bet you were up all day. There is no way in hell you’re going to get this vehicle from Minneapolis to Manhattan without stopping. And just to make things interesting, I gotta piss.”

This was crazy. Had she honestly thought this insane plan was going to work? The man was impossible to argue with. From what she’d seen so far, she suspected he’d prove equally impossible to reason with. And what would she say anyway?
I’m sorry your mother hired me to abduct you and haul your stubborn ass back to Manhattan, but if I don’t do this job, I’m as good as dead.
Yeah, not likely . . .

She’d given up any hope of gaining Aiden’s cooperation about the time she slipped a Mickey into his beer. He probably didn’t even have to pee—tricky bastard.

“So what’s it going to be, baby girl?”

She knew the instant those walls of his came up and he donned that arrogant Disco persona, hiding behind an image of the sexy, don’t-give-a-shit fighter. She liked the real Aiden so much better than this cocky playboy. A part of her wondered what he’d been like before—in his other life when he’d been a suit-wearing, slick-haired lawyer.

If she hadn’t seen Madeline’s picture, combined with the confession from his own mouth, she would never, in a million years, have believed this tattooed, pierced, messy-haired MMA fighter was the same man spewing legal jargon at her like it was his native language. One thing Ryann knew for certain: Aiden Kruze was a highly complex, intelligent man, and not to be fucked with.

Well, that ship has definitely sailed . . .
Hell, that freightliner was so far across the Pacific, it was nearing Maui.

“Well . . . ?” Aiden raised a taunting brow. “Now that I think on it, I’m kinda diggin’ these cuffs, sweetheart. You think when you’re down there, before you unlock me, you could suck my—”

“All right! That’s enough!” Ryann jerked the wheel hard to the right, taking the off ramp at the last possible second.