A Wicked Seduction (3 page)

She grasped his left hand from the car and brought
it behind his back. Before he could ask what she meant to do, he felt cool metal encircle his wrist and snap tight. She repeated the process with his other hand, restricting both of his arms with those handcuffs he'd seen earlier.

Then she turned him around to face her, and he wriggled his wrists to see if they'd pop free from the toy handcuffs, only to discover that the metal shackles were the real thing. He came to the immediate conclusion that he didn't like being restrained, even if it was part of this stripper's routine.

“You know, there really is no need for the cuffs,” he said with a flirtatious grin. “I surrender willingly.”

She gave him an assessing, head-to-toe glance. “You seem like a really nice guy, and you've been more cooperative than most, but I don't take chances with anyone. This is standard procedure.”

Her words didn't make sense. With her warm fingers firmly grasping his elbow, she ushered him out of the garage and down the driveway toward the black Suburban that waited at the curb. A pleasant afternoon breeze riffled through his hair, contrasting with the unease trickling through him.

Had he misjudged this entire situation?

He was beginning to suspect he had, yet he couldn't figure out her angle. If she was a stripper, she should have been down to a G-string and a come-hither smile by now.

“Mind me asking where we're going?” he asked, displaying a casualness he didn't completely feel.

She didn't slow her long-legged stride, her silky
ponytail bouncing against her shoulders with each determined step. “You know exactly where we're going.”

“No, I don't.”

She didn't seem inclined to believe him or answer his original question. Reaching the passenger side of the vehicle, she opened the door. With a hand on top of his head and her body crowding his in a very stalwart manner, she assisted him into the seat. He slipped inside and sat there for a few seconds, too dumbfounded and confused to do otherwise.

What the hell was going on?

She grabbed the seat belt and leaned over him, dragging the nylon strap across his lap to click it into place by his hip, her movements quick and economical. Too late, he realized how defenseless he was with his hands manacled behind his back, how completely at this woman's mercy he was. Normally, that wouldn't be a cause for concern, but he was rapidly coming to understand that this scenario wasn't the fun and games he'd originally thought Brett had sent his way.

His gut churned with apprehension as he stared into her brilliant blue eyes. Up close, he could see the rich gold that rimmed her irises. “You're not a stripper, are you?”

She braced a hand on the doorframe, a delicately arched brow winging upward. “Did you
hire
a stripper?”

Irritation shot through him. “No.” He winced at the unintentional bite to his voice, but couldn't deny
he was suddenly on edge. “My birthday is next week, on Friday, and I thought a friend of mine might have sent you.”

She laughed lightly, his wrong assumption obviously a source of entertainment for her. “I'm sorry to disappoint you and spoil your birthday plans, but all my clothes are staying in place.”

What a shame.
“Then what do you want with me?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at him for a long moment, scrutinizing him with a penetrating stare. “I'm a bail recovery agent, Mr. Colter,” she finally said. “And I'm taking you back to San Francisco to stand trial for grand theft auto.”

His mouth fell open, then snapped shut again, jarring his teeth with the impact. “Grand theft auto?” he repeated, unable to keep the high-pitched incredulity from his voice. His mind grappled with the concept of this sensual, slender woman being a bounty hunter, and him the fugitive, but the notion was too ridiculous to comprehend.

It would have been a nice sexual fantasy, if the reality of his predicament wasn't so damned unnerving.

He took a deep calming breath and tried to keep his perspective on the situation. “I swear I have no idea what you're talking about.”

She gave him a placating look as she withdrew the shotgun from its sheath on her belt. “Sure you don't.”

This time, Dean found her weapon much more in
timidating than the toy gun he'd originally assumed she carried for the act that wasn't an act. That “toy” could've blown a hole straight through him.

Christ, she was carting him off to jail! The realization made his stomach cramp. Most likely, he'd be spending a night in a cold cell until his lawyers could sort out this mess. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, despite the cool May afternoon. Disbelief warred with more urgent emotions—like making her understand that this was one big, huge mistake.

“Lady, you've got the wrong guy,” he tried to reason.

Reaching behind his seat, she set the weapon on the floorboard, then straightened and released a sigh laced with impatience. “By your own admittance you're Dean Colter, this is the residence I've got on file for you, and you fit the profile I have with me.” She shrugged. “That's all the evidence I need to take you back to San Francisco.”

Before he could argue further, she slammed the door on his heated retort and strutted back toward his house, leaving him to wonder how in the hell he'd gotten himself into such a mess.

More importantly, how was he going to get out of it?

S
HE'D CAUGHT
D
EAN
C
OLTER
just in time. Judging by the camping paraphernalia Jo discovered in his car, she surmised that he'd been on the verge of fleeing again. Another ten minutes, and he would have left nothing but a cold trail in his wake.

Yes, success was sweet, indeed.

After executing a quick search of his vehicle, she grabbed his duffle from the back seat, set the bag on the trunk of the car, and unzipped it. She rifled through the contents for weapons, drugs, or anything else illegal she had no desire to transport across two state lines and found nothing but clothes and personal items. The most lethal thing he had on him was a razor for shaving. The front pocket held his wallet, and she flipped it open, inventorying credit cards, cash, and a Washington State driver's license confirming everything she already knew about Dean Colter.

The guy was completely clean—and one of the most accommodating skips she'd ever encountered. The beanbag shotgun she'd armed herself with had been a formality, not a necessity. There had been no foot chase or struggle, no use of force or violence,
just a ridiculously easy capture that made this job, and the cash she'd make once she turned in Dean Colter to the authorities, the easiest money she'd ever deposited into her savings account.

Of course it had helped tremendously that he believed she'd been a stripper sent as a birthday gift, she thought with an amused grin. His guileless assumption explained his flirtatious behavior when she'd first arrived, his carefree acquiescence in obeying her orders, and his easy compliance as she'd frisked him.

But that in no way explained her own startling reaction to Dean Colter, she thought with a frown as she stuffed his wallet back into the front pocket of his duffle. She'd been professional and sensible during her body search—until he'd made that playful comment about her finding his only concealed weapon and she'd countered with her own cheeky retort.

It had been an automatic reply, one she'd regretted as soon as the words had left her mouth. And much to her own chagrin, she hadn't been able to stem the awareness that had flooded her in the aftermath of that careless, shameless rejoinder. Suddenly, patting him down had become more than a professional duty.

The man had a nice body—not overtly muscular, but athletically built with wide shoulders, toned arms and a lean waist and belly. His thighs had been rock hard, his buttocks nicely rounded and defined. And when her hands had brushed over the fly of his jeans and felt his reaction to her search, she hadn't been
able to stop the tide of heat that had suffused her veins and settled in places it had no business settling. Even now, the recollection had the ability to make her pulse pick up its beat.

Get a grip, Sommers.
Dean Colter might be good-looking, charming, and likeable despite his recent rap sheet, but she'd
never
lusted over a guy she'd taken into custody. Hell, she couldn't remember the last man who'd even prompted such instantaneous lust, which made her reckless response to Dean all the more perplexing. He might not be a murderer, but he was a felon nonetheless.

She could only blame her actions and reactions on exhaustion, she reasoned as she checked the entrance to the house to make sure the door was locked. She'd pushed herself to get here before sundown, taking minimal breaks along the drive. Although she'd met her goal, she'd only gotten five hours of sleep the night before when she was someone who needed a good, solid eight—or more. After ten hours on the road today with two more to go, she was not only fatigued, but obviously a little loopy, too.

Or just too damned sexually deprived.

She snorted at that, but suspected there was a kernel of truth in the sentiment. But no matter what her excuse, she'd do well to remember that she had a job to accomplish—one that had no room for the kind of distraction Dean Colter posed. She needed her guard up and her psyche alert.

Duffle bag in hand, she hit the switch that controlled the garage door, then ran out. The rolling
metal panel doors clanged shut behind her seconds after her retreat, and she headed down the driveway to her vehicle, anxious to be on her way again.

Her captive didn't seem as flirtatious and carefree now that he realized what an error in judgment he'd made with her. In fact, the scowl creasing his features as he stared out the passenger window watching her approach clearly reflected his displeasure.

She circled around the back of the Suburban, tossed his bag into the back seat, then slid behind the wheel. A loud “click” echoed in the vehicle as she took her usual precaution and activated all the door locks from the control panel on the armrest.

“So, where were you off to before I showed up?” she asked, wanting to gauge his mood and what kind of personality she'd be dealing with before she hit the road.

Her prisoners usually fell into one of three categories of behavior during the transport back to jail: belligerent and verbally abusive; brooding and opting for the silent treatment; or attempting to reason with her and trying to validate their innocence.

Dean wasn't happy about the situation, but one look into his clear, striking green eyes and she knew she could rule out the first scenario. There was no malice in his gaze, just a wealth of frustration. His inexperience and first-time felon charge obviously hadn't jaded him. Yet.

“I was on my way to a much-needed week-long vacation at a secluded cabin in the mountains.”

The gear she'd found in his car certainly verified
his claim. She appreciated his honesty, though she thought the “much needed” part stretched credibility. “That would have been a good place to hide out,” she agreed, snapping on her seat belt. “I'm sorry to put a crimp in your plans.”

He shifted in his seat, managing to turn those wide shoulders her way so he was looking at her straight-on. His presence was potently male and more than she'd bargained for, filling the interior of the large cab with an enticing masculine heat and scent she hadn't anticipated having to deal with. The combination aroused her senses and stirred something vital deep in her belly.

Hunger, she told herself, startled by the unexpected fluttering sensation she'd experienced. A craving for
food,
not something totally forbidden to her. She'd skipped lunch and had only munched on a chocolate-covered granola bar she'd brought along for the ride, and her stomach was making its needs known.

That's all it was, she assured herself.

Dean's gaze was direct as it connected with hers, his expression businesslike. “Look, Ms. Sommers, I think there's been some kind of mistake.”

Here we go,
she thought. Reality was finally settling in, and he was grasping at any excuse to gain back his freedom. Unfortunately, the argument he'd chosen was particularly overused, and a feeble one at that.

Unclipping the set of keys from the waistband of her jeans, she inserted one into the ignition. She actually felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He seemed
so green about this entire process—or maybe he was dreading the return trip to San Francisco to testify against the leader of an auto theft ring. That would definitely explain the inkling of desperation she detected beneath his more confident facade.

“Mr. Colter, this isn't a mistake.” Surprised to hear the regret in her own voice, she quickly replaced it with indifference. “Your arrest is as real as it gets. I have the paperwork to prove it.”

At the sound of the engine turning over, a touch of panic flared to life in his eyes. “Don't I have any rights?” he demanded. The handcuffs behind him clanked together as his arms and shoulders flexed from their unnatural position. The corded muscles in his biceps bulged, drawing her gaze as they strained against the short sleeves of his knit shirt.

Impressive muscles she'd be a fool to underestimate—no matter how much they, or the man, fascinated her.

“I have to have
some
kind of rights,” he reiterated when she didn't immediately answer him. “A phone call to my attorney, at the very least, to sort out this misunderstanding?”

She shook her head, which helped to gain her bearings and remove her traitorous gaze from his physique. “You forfeited all your rights when you jumped bail. You can call your attorney, or anyone else you want, when you're back in jail.”

Exasperation clenched his jaw and radiated off him in waves. “I want to see that information you
claim
to have on me,” he said abruptly, just as she reached
for the gear shift to put the vehicle in Drive. “Is
that
within my rights?”

He sounded so indignant, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. She recognized his appeal for the stall tactic it was, but decided to grant him this one small concession which would only take a few minutes out of her time. Besides, in her experience, she'd always found that being faced with irrefutable facts had a way of making a person much more accommodating, and much less argumentative.

And there was no refuting the incriminating evidence she had on Dean Colter.

“I'd be happy to show you the information.” Smiling sweetly, she withdrew the pocket folder she'd tucked between her seat and the console, then pulled out the file nestled within containing all the pertinent reports, releases and documents she had on him.

“You could have killed me with that shotgun you were carrying, you know,” he said, his tone rough with censure.

“What?” His abrupt change of topic threw her off-kilter, and she looked up from sorting through the papers to find his expression disapproving, and his full lips thinned into a flattened line. Then it dawned on her what he was referring to. “Oh, that wasn't a shotgun. Not a real one, anyway.”

He gaped at her. “You go around confronting people with a
toy
gun?”

Her stomach clenched, and her hands grew cold and clammy as unexpected memories swamped her…of a pistol trembling in her hands, her frantic
shouts to the perp she'd cornered to drop his gun, and ultimately her inability to follow through with the threat he'd posed, to her and her partner. Then two simultaneous gunshots—one the perp's, the other Brian's.

She winced at the awful recollection, which still remained so sharp and fresh in her mind—as if the life-altering incident had happened yesterday instead of two years ago. The revolver holstered at her side felt like a two-ton weight, reminding her of failures, disappointments and the heart-wrenching burden she'd have to live with forever.

Yes, she carried a
real
gun with her, but she wouldn't draw it unless she absolutely had to. Because now she knew if she drew her weapon, she'd put herself in the position of having to fire the gun. And she doubted her ability to do so, more than she feared protecting herself with less deadly forces.

She swallowed to ease the tightness closing up her throat. “It's a beanbag shotgun,” she replied, her voice still tight from those grim memories of the past. At his questioning stare, she explained. “It would have brought you to an immediate halt, possibly knocked you on your ass, and no doubt have given you a nasty bruise, but you would have lived.”

“I'm so relieved,” he drawled sarcastically.

She shrugged. “You're certainly no good to me dead,” she said, adopting a flippant attitude.

A huff of disbelieving laughter escaped him at her sassy reply. Feeling a smile tug the corner of her mouth, she ducked her head and trained her thoughts
back to the file. Spreading the folder open on his lap, she allowed him a quiet moment to read the bail bond and authorization form, as well as look over the photographs the bondsman had provided.

His gaze narrowed and a frown formed as he glanced from the unflattering mug shot to the picture on the copy of his driver's license. He examined each one, back and forth, his intense scrutiny causing her own gaze to drift to the photographs to do her own idle comparison.

Without a doubt, the men in each picture resembled two different personas. But their coloring and features were so similar it was difficult to refute that they were one and the same. In both photos, Dean was cited as having green eyes, and the man in front of her definitely had those…gorgeous, sexy green eyes she'd seen darken with desire earlier, and flash with annoyance moments ago. Both images possessed pitch-black hair, and it was clear to her that the man sitting beside her owned a head of thick hair as dark as a raven's wing.

Somewhere between his booking photo and today, he'd gotten a haircut, changing back to his short, neat style—an executive cut with the longer strands on top falling into soft, precision layers that invited a woman to touch and feel.

And she had.

She'd gained intimate knowledge of just how silky and warm those strands were—could still remember the velvet texture and warm feel as those locks had sifted through her fingers when she'd touched his
head to guide him into the car. Could still recall the shimmering awareness that had taken up residence within her with that brief contact.

The only thing she couldn't find any resemblance to was the cocky, arrogant smirk on the face of the man in the booking photo. Her instincts stirred. She'd yet to see that side of the Dean Colter she'd cuffed—the flirtatious, charming guy who'd only revealed a few bouts of ire and frustration, and not the aggression she would have expected judging by the conceited expression in the mug shot. If contrasting personality traits gave her a second's pause, then it was the glaring evidence Dean himself had provided that brought everything back into perspective.

He'd openly declared to being Dean Colter.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, looking both stunned and confused when he glanced back up at her.

“I take it you've seen enough?”

He didn't answer. Instead, he drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled it. The file balanced on his thighs started to slip, and she made a grab for the folder, then returned the information to its spot next to her seat.