Page 6 of Saint

“What’s it look like, Mia? I’m kidnapping you.”

Then he slammed the door shut in her face and the locks clicked ominously.

Oh, shit.

Chapter Two

Saint pinched the bridge of his nose, clenched his jaw and reached into his leather jacket for his pack of cigarettes. Mia Carlisle was driving him up the fucking wall. She hadn’t stopped babbling since the moment he tossed her into the SUV. Currently, his patience was razor-thin and he desperately needed the soothing nicotine before he did or said something he’d later regret.

Like toss her ass out the window.

He plucked a cigarette out, stuck it in his mouth and used his trusty lighter to ignite the end. Inhaling deeply, he rationalized smoking in the car to preserve his sanity now was worth the ass-chewing he’d get from Braxton later.

“Are you smoking?” she demanded from the back seat, sounding completely appalled. She began waving her hands back and forth through the air. “Eww. That’s the most disgusting habit.”

Gritting his teeth, Saint took another pull, turned his head toward his annoying companion, and blew the smoke out the corner of his mouth toward the backseat. Mia coughed dramatically and he smirked as he caught her grimace in the rear view mirror.

“Are you always this uptight?” he asked right back. In the twenty minutes they’d spent together in the car, he’d quickly pegged Mia Carlisle as a daddy’s girl. Of course ChadwickCarlisle, a major player in The Agency—the group of evil people who Saint and his team had vowed to destroy—would have a spoiled brat for a daughter.

“Just because I don’t like smelling like a nasty ashtray doesn’t make me uptight.”

Saint merely grunted in response.Yep, fucking little spoiled-rotten princess.Whatever. She was the daughter of his enemy and he had a feeling she was going to be very useful in the near future. Hence, the kidnapping. Carlisle would probably do whatever it took to get his little girl back unharmed, and Saint liked holding that ace.

Right now, though, he needed to find a place to lay low because he certainly couldn’t take Goldilocks back to the warehouse where his team was living. Brax would blow his carefully-controlled cork at Saint’s unorthodox methods. No, he needed to spirit her away somewhere private where he could interrogate her without interruption or interference. A place where he could intimidate her and wear her down. There was no telling what she knew, or how she might be useful to his team and their quest to destroy The Agency.

“Can you at least crack a window?” she asked.

“Hold your breath.”

Grabbing his phone, he pulled up an old acquaintance who owed him a favor. Even though it was late, Saint knew the man would answer. And, after one ring, he did.

“Slater,” a deep, velvety voice said. Despite it being after midnight, the man sounded wide awake.

Saint purposely kept Dash Slater off speaker to avoid comments from the peanut gallery. “It’s Nik,” he said, exhaling another trail of smoke. “I need a favor.”

Dash Slater, former Delta Force, had led a tier-one counterterrorism unit for fifteen years. Now he ran Slater Security, a private firm with a highly competent crew who specialized in protection, defense and surveillance. He’d also fallen in love, gotten married and welcomed a son with his wife Lake not long ago.

“I figured this call would come sooner or later after you helped me in Russia,” Dash said. “What do you need?”

“A safehouse. I’m in San Francisco.”

“Who’re you talking to?” Mia asked, moving up between the seats, but Saint ignored her.

“There’s a loft in Chinatown you can use,” Dash said and rattled off the address.

Mia leaned in closer, raising her voice. “Does your friend know you kidnapped someone?”

“Who’d you kidnap?” Dash asked without missing a beat, amusement lacing his voice. “She sounds more annoyed than upset.”

Saint turned and blew smoke directly in her face. He figured it was the quickest way to shut her up and get her to move back, but he was wrong. Instead, she reached over, boldly grabbed the cigarette and plucked it out of his mouth.

“Hey,” he growled.

“You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you,” she admonished him as she put the burning butt out on the bottom of her shoe.

Saint was impressed and, quite honestly, a little turned-on. First off, no one ever dared to tell him what to do or had the nerve to physically remove the offending object from his mouth. And second, no one had ever shown concern for his health.

Not that she actually cared. She didn’t even know him.