As though his touch seared through her skin (how many times had he held her wrists in other positions?) Jo snatched her wrist out of his grasp. Up and leave? It wasn't as though she left South America willingly. Mars' husband was dead! Her sister was a twenty-one year old widow with one kid around her ankles and another in her stomach. Jo had little choice but to go home. Up and leave. She scoffed at him. Fucking arsehole.

"What, Holsten?" Jo demanded. "What else is there to say? You're a bloody liar and I'm a runner." Nothing he said was going to convince her differently. Trustworthy men didn't allow her to rattle endlessly about a city they had a fucking flat in. "Your friends are waiting."