Deleted Scene #1. Sloane

Never one to spend time agonizing over decisions, I quickly conclude three things as the SUV rockets down the rain-slicked street at top speed with an army of enraged Russian gangsters in hot pursuit.

First: this will be my one and only trip to New York City. I’m pretty much up for any kind of adventure, but kidnapping is a little over-the-top, even for me.

Second: I’m always going to carry the gun I stole from Stavros. I can’t believe I packed almost every item of clothing I own to visit Nat for a week but left the .357 behind in Lake Tahoe. I’m so disappointed in myself.

Third: as soon as I get out of this car, someone is getting his ass kicked.

And by “someone,” I mean the blue-eyed bastard who grabbed me and tossed me in here like a sack of rocks.

My kidnapper.

Declan.

I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he discovers his captive isn’t as defenseless as she looks. Even without Stavros’s handy little pistol, I know half a dozen ways to incapacitate a man.

I’m distracted by the pleasing image of my fist crushing Declan’s balls when I realize I’m handcuffed. I stare down in astonishment at the cold metal rings encircling my wrists and huff out a disbelieving laugh.

They handcuffed me! The nerve!

“She’s awake.”

The gruff voice comes from my left.

On the seat next to me in the back of the SUV sits a man large enough to need his own zip code. He’s dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and black tie, the standard gangster uniform. Tense and scowling, he glares at me with narrowed eyes and thinned lips, thunderclouds roiling over his head.

I smile at him. “Hi there. I’d ask your name, but considering you’ll be dead in a few minutes, it doesn’t really matter.”

He blinks. He wasn’t expecting that.

“Unless you’d like to use what little smarts I suspect lurk in that weirdly giant skull of yours and let me out of the car right now. In that case, you might survive. I’ll put in a good word. I can’t guarantee anything, mind you, but your odds would be better than they are right now. Because when Kage catches up with you…”

Still smiling pleasantly, I make a slicing motion across my throat.

Big Brute looks vaguely unnerved. I guess it’s less the threat itself and more about how I’m acting. Most kidnapping victims probably aren’t quite so composed.

Most kidnapping victims haven’t spent as much time as I have around gangsters, either.

Besides, I already know they’re not going to kill me. Declan flat-out told me so himself. That was right after he snatched me out of Kage’s Bentley, dropped me onto the asphalt of the parking garage, and threw me into this car …

Wait. I’m missing something.

I don’t remember the time between when we left the parking garage in a thundering roar of squealing tires, revving engines, and gunfire, and right now, speeding down the street toward who knows where with Kage’s men on our tail.

And how did I get these handcuffs on?

Did I black out?

The missing time and painfully throbbing spot on the back of my head would indicate a yes.

A cold sense of unease creeps over me. A head injury jarring enough to cause unconsciousness isn’t good. At best, it’s a concussion. At worst…

Well, at worst, I’ve got bigger problems than being kidnapped by a bunch of Irish gangsters.

As we careen around a corner at top speed, tires squealing, I demand of no one in particular, “You need to take me to a hospital.”

I have to shout to be heard over the sound of the engine. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because my captors ignore me.

The driver, another Irishman in a black suit, says through gritted teeth, “These bloody Russians are right up my arse!”

He takes another corner too fast, throwing me against the door and making Big Brute brace his feet against the floormats so he doesn’t fly across the seat and crush me.

Then, from the front passenger seat, Declan says, “Run the red light.”

He sounds utterly calm, as if we’re out for a pleasure cruise and not involved in a high-speed chase through busy city streets. At night. In the rain.

While people shoot at us.

The driver doesn’t look thrilled by the idea that we play chicken with cross-traffic but doesn’t question it. He simply grits his teeth and stomps on the gas pedal .

In the fraction of a second before the SUV lurches forward and the force of it slams me back against the seat, I see Declan’s reflection in the passenger side mirror of the car.

He’s smiling.

Looking out into the rain, his lips curved into a small, secret smile, he looks as if he’s thoroughly enjoying himself.

As we enter the intersection and the headlights of an oncoming car harshly illuminate the hard angles of his face, he smiles wider.

Horn blaring, the oncoming car narrowly misses hitting us, blasting by inches from the rear bumper.

Breathless, I twist around in my seat to look.

More cars slam on their brakes, fishtailing, and the entire intersection becomes blocked within seconds.

When I turn around again and glimpse Declan’s face in the mirror, he’s yawning.

Yawning .

The man’s got balls of steel. I get the feeling it takes something much more dramatic than a high-speed chase to ruffle his feathers.

I don’t have time to dwell on what it might be, because I’m probably dying of a brain hemorrhage.

“Excuse me, guys? I hate to break up the party, but unless you want a corpse on your hands, you need to take me to a hospital.”

Crickets. Everyone’s too focused on being intense and murdery to pay any attention to me. Except for Declan, who’s yawning again.

This guy needs a nap.

I say louder, “I’m no use to anybody if I’m dead.”

In his lilting Irish brogue that I’m sure he thinks is charming but isn’t, Declan says casually, “Oh, I don’t know about that. There are plenty of uses for a dead woman. Isn’t that right, Kieran?”

Big Brute leers at me and says gruffly, “Aye.”

Disgusted, I make a face. “Okay, first of all? Gross. You need professional therapy. Second of all, I’m not joking. Head injuries are extremely serious and can be life-threatening. The risk of a subdural hematoma or traumatic brain injury caused by a fall is real.”

The driver glances at Declan and mutters, “What the bloody hell is she on about?”

Declan says, “Brain injury. Sounds like she’s got one.”

Big Brute pipes up, “Didn’t Muhammad Ali die of a traumatic brain injury?”

“Parkinson’s,” corrects Declan.

“Ach. Tragedy, that. What an athlete. He was my idol when I was a wee chiseler.”

Speeding around another corner, the driver says, “I bet David Beckham’s got a brain injury. You ever heard that welter talk? I don’t think he’s the full shilling.”

I have no idea what language these people are speaking, but it’s not English.

“Hello?” I say, exasperated. “Anybody?”

“We heard you, lass,” says Declan, sounding bored. “I’ll have the doc take a gander when we land in Boston. Now quit running your mouth. You’re about to give me a traumatic brain injury.”

His two goon buddies chortle while I look back and forth between them in disbelief.

What I wouldn’t give for that damn gun.

I’m distracted from thoughts of playing target practice with Declan’s face by a sharp stabbing pain in my temple. Wincing, I close my eyes and rub the spot. Damn, that hurts.

When I open my eyes again, Declan’s looking at me in the side mirror. He’s not smiling anymore.

That gives me an idea.

The next corner we speed around, I slump against the door and squeeze my eyes shut, groaning faintly and trying to look as pathetic as possible.

Declan says drily, “You’ll never win an Academy Award for Best Actress lass, that’s for sure. ”

I really dislike this guy.

Stavros would’ve had the decency to fall for my damsel in distress act. He would’ve made his driver pull over, leapt from the car, and taken me into his arms, clucking and cooing with worry.

This Declan bastard’s heart is as icy cold as his blue eyes.

I decide Russian gangsters have better manners than Irish ones. Men who can’t be manipulated with feminine wiles are uncivilized.

“Ten minutes to the airport,” says the driver.

“Make it five,” answers Declan. “We need to be gone before they can get their shit together and try to stop us before we’re in the air.”

Situation recap: I’ve been kidnapped.

Handcuffed.

Possibly mentally compromised.

I’m being driven to an airport by a trio of lunatics, one of whom might have a kink for doing bad things to dead women, another who drives like a kindergartener on crack cocaine, and a third so desensitized to violence he doesn’t break a sweat under heavy gunfire, high-speed car chases, or narrowly avoiding being crushed to death by an oncoming vehicle.

I’m going to be put on a plane headed for Boston where I’m to meet the head of the Irish mafia to answer some questions about how I may or may not have started a war between his family and the Russians… and everyone else.

And my only hope of salvation lies miles behind me in an intersection in a tangled mess of crumpled steel.

I’m in it knee deep, and no knight in shining armor is coming to save me.

Conclusion: this princess is gonna have to save herself.

What the hell. Won’t be the first time. Won’t be the last.

I wait until we slow slightly for a corner, then take a deep breath, throw open the car door, and jump out.