I was practically screaming now. "For God's sake, will you please stop the car!"
The roads were slick with snow, and I was in the middle of the back seat. In the front seat were two strangers in ski masks – one male and one female.
The male was behind the wheel, and the female was in the passenger's seat, craning her neck to stare behind us.
And the vehicle? Technically, it belonged to my boss – one Mason Blastoviak, who wasn't known for being a nice guy.
Whether these idiots realized it or not, they'd picked the wrong vehicle to car-jack.
I took a deep, calming breath and tried again. "Seriously, just stop the car, alright?"
With a sarcastic snort, the female said, "It's not a car. It's an SUV, remember?"
Of course I remembered. It was, after all, the vehicle I drove as part of my job. But that wasn't the point.
I told her, "You called it a car first." And she had, like ten minutes ago when she and her companion had caught me by surprise.
"Yeah, well you called it one last."
"It doesn't matter what we call it," I said. "You still need to stop."
From the driver's seat, the guy said, "Shut up! You've got no say in this."
The female turned to face him. "You'd better be talking to her."
"I'm talking to both of you," he said. "Now, zip it! I'm trying to drive."
Oh, for God's sake. Did I really need to say it? "You wouldn't need to drive if you'd just pull over."
He glanced in his rear-view mirror and cursed under his breath. "I can't. He's gaining on us."
Of course he was. Mason's car was a sleek turbo-charged sedan with eight cylinders and a lot of horses under the hood.
But this vehicle? It was a big orange SUV with a whole lot of safety features, but not a lot of power. On the upside, it did have four-wheel drive, which gave us a huge advantage on the slick roads.
Mason would've surely caught up with us already, if only his own vehicle weren't more suited for hot dry pavement – and not a snow-covered country road in the middle of a raging blizzard.
Still, it was only a matter of time.
I told the driver, "You can't outrun him, you know."
He yelled back, "Didn't I tell you to shut up?"
"Don't you get it?" I said. "He thinks Willow's in the car."
"Willow who?"
"Willow Blastoviak. His little sister."
Willow was only eight years old and as cute as a button. Man, I loved that kid.
I said a silent prayer of thanks that she wasn't in the vehicle.
And she would've been, if only my best friend – who happened to be the fiancée of Mason's brother – hadn't taken Willow for an impromptu bake-a-thon earlier this afternoon.
And me? I was Willow's nanny – not because it was my final career choice, but because teaching jobs had been thin on the ground, especially for recent college grads with more heart than experience.
As far as the nanny job, it wasn't all bad. Willow was terrific. But her brother, the billionaire who signed my checks? He was something else entirely.
And that wasn't a compliment.
Still, I knew one thing for certain. Mason would've braved a hundred slick roads – and whole lot more – to save his little sister.
But me? I was expendable. I knew this, just like I knew that Mason was the most impossible person I'd ever met. Rude, abrasive, and cold as ice – except when it came to his own family.
I wasn't family. Ask Mason. He'll tell you.
Repeatedly.
In the SUV, the female looked to me and said, "Can't you just call him? Tell him Willow's not here?"
"Suuuuure," I said. "Just turn back and retrieve my purse." I gave her a sarcastic smile. "You know, the one you tossed out the window?"
From the driver's seat, the guy said, "We're not goin' back for nothin'."
I made a sound of frustration. "Well, you can't drive forever. Eventually, you'll run out of gas." Assuming we didn't slide into a ditch long before that.
He gave the rear-view mirror another glance. "Yeah, well maybe he'll run out first."
"Or maybe," I said, "he'll catch up with us and beat you senseless for kidnapping his little sister."
This wasn't as far-fetched as you'd think. Mason was six-foot-two and packed with hard muscle. He looked amazing in a suit – and in jeans, too.
He was no pampered pussy cat. He hadn't always been rich. His tool company, Blast Tools, had been founded with grit and determination, along with a firsthand