And then Isaac picked up her things. One by one, he gathered what had been in her purse, wiping off the mud on his own sweatshirt, lining everything up on the hood of her car.

Falling back against the driver’s-side door, she was captivated by how very careful he was, his bloody hands gentle.

Daniel appeared right beside him, seemingly struck by how he treated what was hers. Let him take you home, Grier. You’re in no condition to drive.

“He hasn’t asked me,” she mumbled.

“Asked you what?” Isaac said, glancing over.

When she waved the words away, he went and got her bag, putting everything into it before holding the thing out to her. “I’d like to drive you home. If you’ll let me.”

Bingo, her brother said.

She opened her mouth to shut up Daniel, but just didn’t have the energy to follow through with it.

“Ms. Childe?” With her client’s Southern accent, that came out as one word, MzChiiiiilde.

God, what to do. And of course, Hell, no, was the healthiest response—in spite of Daniel’s opinion.

Trust me, Daniel said.

Isaac’s voice dropped. “Just let me get you home safe. Please.”

For some unknowable reason, her instincts were telling her to trust this stranger with a bad past and a criminal present who was on the run. Or was it just a case of her savior complex overriding better judgment?

Or . . . was it the look on a ghost’s face? Like Daniel was seeing something she couldn’t in this collision between her and a dangerous stranger with a soft Southern drawl.

“I don’t need a driver. That I can do myself.” She took her bag from him. “But I do need you to stick around and face your charges.”

Isaac scanned the area. “How about we talk at your house.”

“I carry Mace, you know.”

“I’m glad.”

“And a stun gun.” For all the good it had done her just now.

Good Lord, she couldn’t believe she was even thinking about going home with Isaac. The meth head had been a twitchy amateur . . . and her client sure as hell seemed like a professional.

His pale gray eyes bored into hers. “I’m not going to hurt you. I swear it.”

With a curse, she wrenched open the car door. “I’m driving.”

The question was, Where the hell was she going? And with whom?

Jim watched the Audi drive off, its milky exhaust rising up behind both cold tailpipes. He was utterly unconcerned about where the pair went—he’d slipped transmitters into both Isaac’s sweatshirt and the bag with the money.

“You could have just let me do a locator spell,” Eddie muttered.

“I’m used to working with the GPS shit from my old job.” And who could have guessed he’d ever suffer from technology nostalgia?