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fingers were capable of besides killing and picking locks. His hand rose and she stopped breathing, felt him run his thumb gently over the bruises on her neck.
    “What happened?” he whispered, his eyes lifting to hers.
    She shrugged. “One . . . one of the clients liked it a bit rough.” She swallowed. “I thought he was going to kill me,” she whispered. “Wished he had when he was done.” She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see into his and a tremor ran through her.
    When she opened her eyes, she saw he still studied the bruises. His eyes narrowed and that already chiseled jaw hardened as a muscle ticked in his jaw.
    There was something about this man, not that she cared, but she’d learned men gave off their own vibes. Some were screaming loud. Some raged like the worst storms at home. This man, though, his vibe was different, like the faint hum of evenings, that charge right before a storm, or the sounds one never notices unless the electricity goes out.
    His fingers were warm, but even so, she wished she were away from him. Men were, in her recently learned opinion, bastards.
    “I won’t hurt you,” he said softly.
    She cut her eyes to meet his.
    This close she could smell his cologne, sandalwood and the smoke from the cigars.
    “You shared a cigar with him,” she said, not thinking.
    Something flitted through his eyes and his hands paused. “Yes.”
    “I hate that smell,” she whispered.
    Those black eyes studied hers, softening at the edges before returning to her neck and the collar. “I bet you do.”
    She heard the faint sound of the tool in the lock and the gentle click before he lifted the collar away. He reached out to touch a spot on her neck again, but Dusk jerked her head away.
    He smiled and moved to the other seat.
    Sirens pierced the air and twice they passed police vehicles moving in the opposite direction. Her hands fisted in her lap. Would the authorities turn around? What if someone had known? They would know—Mikhail would know . . .
    This was never going to work.
    The gun bit into the back of her head. Please don’t kill me, please, she thought, looking at the body in the grave. Oh, God!
     . . . “You’ll never get away.”
     . . . never get away . . . never get away . . .
    Dusk turned in her seat and looked out the back window.
    “Where is the safe house?” she asked.
    “A few more minutes. It’s a townhouse in a quieter part of town.”
    Dusk shook her head. “They’ll know,” she whispered, the last of her words breaking.
    John studied her. “Not for a while, no. If Jezek checks, there will be a John Reyer fitting my description along with an appropriate woman checking into my suite at the hotel where I was staying.” He leaned back. “We have several hours in any case.”
    “Unless someone sees something about Peter they recognize, then it only takes one phone call to Mikhail,” she said, rubbing her arms, the trembles starting now that the reality began to set in. “He’ll know. He knows everything.”
    She glanced again over her shoulder into the inky black night lit only by the streetlights.
    John shifted in his seat. “You’re out, that’s all that matters.”
    “Others thought they had gotten out too.”
    “Who?” he asked.
    Ebony had believed. She must have. Dusk didn’t answer him. An image of dark, rage-filled eyes flashed into Dusk’s mind.
    She shook off the memory and looked where they were going. Trying to pay attention to the landmarks. She noticed a hotel, one she’d seen before. These were streets she’d toured months and months ago with a man she thought she’d been in love with.
    What if this was all a ruse? What if it was a trap? Please, no.
    “How do I know you are who you claim to be?” she asked. “You could be a drug dealer that is pissed at Mikhail and I’m only payment for some wrong.”
    Once she said the words, the thought, like a poison, spread. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before. Drugs, money owed,