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Pinching the bridge of my nose, I draw a deep breath.
Annoying.
“Forgive the intrusion,” I mutter, despite knowing she’s unconscious.
Then I slip an arm around her delicate waist to lift her up, just enough to slide my fingers into her back pocket.
I try to make as little contact as possible, yet it’s impossible to avoid the soft, warm flesh through denim, curving against my fingertips.
I damn sure don’t linger.
Half a second of annoyingly enticing warmth dipping under my touch, and I snag the barest edge of the wallet and yank it out quickly before settling her back down in the seat.
When I flick the wallet open, her license tells me nothing except that I was correct about her age: twenty-three.
The address on the license is in New York City.
Not helpful.
With a disgusted sigh, I drop the wallet into her bag.
“Problem, sir?” Rick offers a sympathetic smile.
“I have an unconscious stranger in the back of my car and no idea where to drop her off, so yes, I have one,” I retort.
Rick only smiles and shrugs.
I suppose he’s used to my barbs by now.
“We could simply leave her with airport security,” he points out.
We could.
Hell, maybe we should, especially since we have no idea if she’s meeting someone here who might be looking for her and panicking by now when she isn’t responding to texts.
I thin my lips.
Simply abandoning her to the whims of overworked TSA agents or an expensive ambulance ride she doesn’t need ticks at my morals.
She shouldn’t be my problem, but she is now—and I don’t leave problems unsolved.
“Check with airport security,” I say. “Her name is Eleanor Lark. Ask them to page anyone waiting for her. If there’s no one here, then we’ll get her wherever she belongs.”
“Understood.” His nod might as well be a crisp salute.
Rick turns and speed-walks back into the terminal. I sink down into a crouch outside the open car door, watching the unconscious girl with her head tilted against the back of the seat.
“You,” I mutter, “have been a pain in my ass ever since you stepped on that plane. What am I going to do with you?”
She actually responds and startles me—though I don’t think she’s aware.
“Gran? Grandma?” she mumbles in her sleep. “No, no, I told you ... stay. Stay home.”
I arch a brow.
Her grandmother must be pretty formidable, if I somehow remind Miss Lark of her.
“I’m not your grandmother,” I point out firmly. “If you could provide her address, that will help us resolve this dilemma faster. You don’t need a doctor, right? The ER?”
