A Wicked Seduction (7 page)

Once he was free, he slowly stood and rubbed his wrists while she fastened the cuffs along the top strap of her shoulder holster to use when he was done with his shower. Remaining seated on the bed, she motioned him in the middle of the room in front of her. “Go ahead and turn around, face the wall, and get undressed.” It was the only bit of privacy she'd allow.

He did as she ordered. Watching him was merely a safety tactic, she told herself as he pulled his T-shirt from the waistband of his jeans and revealed an en
ticing strip of smooth flesh around his torso. A precautionary measure to ensure there was nothing lethal hidden on his person before he walked into the bathroom, she lectured herself as he worked the cotton material up and over his head and she stared in pure female fascination at the intriguing way the muscles bisecting his back pulled and stretched with the movement.

Except safety and precaution had little to do with the pulsing knot of desire that once again formed in her stomach—a sensation that was much too pleasurable and not at all professional. Then again, taking into consideration the slow, purposeful way he was stripping, she had to wonder if he was deliberately attempting to tease her senses.

If so, he was doing a damned good job.

He dropped the shirt to the floor and toed off his shoes, then pulled off his socks, and again she was treated to another round of muscles rippling, in his arms and across his shoulders.

The sound of metal scraping against metal sounded much too erotic in the quiet room as he unzipped his pants. He tucked his thumbs into the waistband, and she held her breath as he inched the denim downward, and exhaled gratefully when he remained clad in a pair of white briefs that hugged his tight posterior.

Then, without warning, he turned around, and she found herself staring at the juncture of his muscular thighs. Her cheeks flamed when she realized that he was semi-aroused, too. Her gaze shot up to his, and he grinned unapologetically.

“Do I pass inspection?” The double entendre in his voice and coating his words was unmistakable.

Just so long as the only concealed weapon on you isn't loaded.
The saucy reply zipped through her mind but, thankfully, didn't escape her mouth.

Clearing her throat, she smoothed damp strands of hair behind her ear. “You pass just fine. Five minutes in the shower,” she reminded him, then glanced at her wristwatch, surprised to discover it was already a quarter after eight. “I'll let you know when your time is up.”

“Then I'd better get started and not waste any of my time.” With a playful wink, he turned and entered the bathroom, leaving the door cracked open a good twelve inches as she'd requested. Seconds later the rush of water echoed into the outer room, and the click of the shower door indicated he'd stepped inside the stall.

She leaned to the left a few inches just to verify that he was, indeed, inside the shower and caught a glimpse of bare skin, and so much more than she'd intended. Even though the glass enclosure was frosted, she could still define his silhouette and identify features—like his broad chest that tapered into a lean torso and gave way to athletic thighs.

A warm, sexual glow spread through her. The man was so completely, overwhelmingly masculine, in every way possible. And despite what she'd said earlier about doubting he had something she hadn't already seen before, she was forced now to admit that
she'd been wrong. Very, very wrong. He was amply, generously endowed. Impressively so.

A groan escaped her throat. Good Lord, if she didn't turn her mind to something else, like business, she'd end up ogling Dean throughout his entire shower. Not an unpleasant thought at all, if the circumstances between them were different. But, according to her file, he was a man wanted by the law for a crime he'd yet to face trial for.

Or was he?

With that perplexing question weighing heavily on her mind, she slipped off the bed and retrieved the file on Dean that she'd brought in from the truck, determined to find more clear-cut answers. She skimmed through the paperwork once again, searching for a shred of proof that might corroborate the story he'd told her earlier. Unfortunately, all she discovered in the formal documents and police reports was glaring evidence against him.

She chewed absently on her bottom lip while broadening her way of thinking. If someone
had
assumed his identity, then of course all those physical statistics and the personal identification of the man who'd stolen his ID would match with Dean's, as they did in the paperwork filed by the police. And if he had been robbed of his wallet, then there would be undeniable facts to validate that particular claim.

With that in mind, she went back to Dean's duffle bag and rechecked the driver's license in a leather billfold that hadn't yet been broken in. Sure enough, the issue date beneath his photo was only a few weeks
ago. She rummaged further and found credit cards that appeared to be brand new, then withdrew a stash of about a dozen business cards that were tucked into one of the compartments of the wallet and read the navy blue imprint: Colter Traffic Control, Dean Colter, President.

“I'll be damned,” she muttered, her head spinning with the knowledge that Dean's story, for the most part, seemed credible. Everything she'd just discovered lent credence to his claim of innocence, yet without fingerprints to establish his true identity, she couldn't set him free and risk the very slim possibility that her gut intuition might be wrong.

“Did I beat the clock, warden?”

Startled by Dean's deep voice so near, she let his wallet slip through her fingers and drop to the floor, and she spun back around as a surge of adrenaline rushed through her blood. Her hand automatically reached for the beanbag shotgun that wasn't attached to her waistband, but lay on the bed between them where she'd left it after her shower.

Shit.
With no other option available, she gripped the handle of her revolver. Her stomach pitched, and she knew if he stepped any closer and posed any threat to her at all this was where her black belt in martial arts would come in handy, because she knew she wouldn't be able to remove her weapon from her holster with the intent of using it on him.

Frustration and anger swept through her at her weakness, and the fact that she'd let down her guard
when she knew better. What the hell had she been thinking?

She shored up her mental and physical defenses. “Don't move,” she warned.

He stood absolutely still, his hair damp and tousled around his head, and wearing nothing but his gray cotton sweatpants. Slowly, he held up both hands with fingers spread wide in a gesture of acquiescence. “Whoa, Jo, I'm sorry,” he said, instantly contrite, his gaze on the revolver she'd yet to withdraw. “I swear I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you heard me get out of the shower.”

Her jaw clenched, and she was loath to admit that she'd been so caught up in her search for his innocence he'd taken her completely by surprise. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

When she issued no response, he nodded toward the shower. “Do you want me to get my personal things out of the bathroom for you?”

She shook her head, and unable to detect any signs of danger from him, she finally let her hand fall away from her weapon, but remained physically alert. “No,
I'll
do it.” A thread of irritation underscored her tone—not directed at him, but at her own foolishness for putting herself in such a vulnerable position when she knew the consequences that could result from being too relaxed, too trusting. And claiming extreme exhaustion and being caught up in doubts about this man's criminal charges were no excuse for being careless and leaving herself so exposed.

“Then I guess this is the end of my freedom for
now, huh?” He held his wrists in front of him, offering himself back into her custody.

“'Fraid so,” she said evenly, despite how shaken she still was by the incident and what could have happened with someone more vindictive. Keeping her gaze on him, she quickly stooped down to retrieve the wallet she'd dropped and stuffed it back into his bag, then approached him cautiously, regaining control of herself and the situation.

She snapped one of the silver loops around his right wrist, and made sure that the far side of his bed was away from anything he could use to his advantage, or against her. “I'm going to have to cuff at least one of your hands to the headboard during the night,” she told him.

“I figured as much.” He grinned indulgently and sat down on the edge of the mattress, making it incredibly easy for her to fasten the other cuff to the post without so much as a protest from him. “Besides, it all ties into that captive and bondage fantasy I'm trying to indulge in.”

“Whatever turns you on,” she said without thinking, then realized the double entendre when their eyes met and the wicked gleam in the depths of his told her that
she
turned him on.

A now familiar frisson of awareness took up residence, and she did the smart thing and moved away. He settled onto the bed, making himself as comfortable as possible considering how limited he was with one arm shackled to the headboard. With his free hand tucked beneath the pillow behind his head, and
his gorgeous, long, lean body sprawled the length of the mattress, he appeared content and relaxed as he watched the television in front of him.

She inhaled a calming breath. Damn him, anyway—for being so cooperative and accommodating, and for making her harbor doubts and uncertainties that had no business taking up residence within her.

Turning away, she dragged her fingers through her damp hair. She needed sleep. At least eight solid hours of it if she expected to make the long drive back to Oakland tomorrow in one straight shot and with a clear head. She cleaned up the bathroom, leaving the light on and the door cracked to provide a shaft of illumination into the room throughout the night, then stuffed the clothes he'd stripped out of into his duffle and set her travel alarm clock for six o'clock. After taking off her shoulder holster, she stowed her gun beneath the pillow on the far side of her bed for safekeeping and double-checked to make sure her keys were still attached to her waistband—all the while ignoring the heat of Dean's stare as he watched her.

“Mind handing me the remote?” he asked pleasantly, just as she pulled down the covers to climb into her bed.

“Keep the volume down and turn off the TV when you get tired.” She tossed him the gadget, and in typical male fashion he immediately channel-surfed in search of a program that interested him. She turned off the lamp on the nightstand separating their beds, throwing the room into shifting shadows from the
glow of the TV, then slipped between her cool, clean sheets.

“Good night, Jo,” he said, his low, intimate voice reaching to her side of the room. “Sweet dreams.”

Sweet, erotic dreams of him, he'd no doubt meant. “Yeah, you, too,” she muttered.

He chuckled warmly. “Now
that
sounded sincere.”

She
refused
to smile. Refused to enjoy his attempt at humor when she was so conflicted about him, about her reaction to his mere presence, and about the need to believe he was as innocent as he claimed.

Punching her pillow to fluff it, she curled up on her side facing the opposite direction of him, but couldn't succumb to the weariness pulling at her subconscious. After the day she'd had and the events of the last hour, it took her body longer than she'd expected to wind down. She didn't completely relax until Dean shut off the TV a good hour later and she finally heard his breathing grow deep and even in slumber.

Then, and only then, did she let herself drift off to sleep.

D
EAN WOKE UP
in the middle of the night to the disturbing sound of frightened whimpers, and Jo thrashing frantically in the bed next to his. He'd wished her sweet dreams, but it seemed nightmares were plaguing her instead.

The bathroom light Jo had left on supplied enough illumination for him to see her tossing and turning restlessly beneath the sheets twisted around her legs. “No, please don't leave me,” she moaned, and her breath caught on a soul-deep sob as she kicked even harder to free herself from the restricting covers. “You
can't
die. You can't. I won't let you!”

She sounded so terrified, and his heart gave a funny twist in his chest at the too-real despair and anguish in her voice. Wanting to soothe her and chase away whatever demons overpowered her mind, he at tempted to move across the expanse of bed separating them, and cursed vividly when he was brought up short by the arm cuffed to the headboard.

“It's all my fault,” she groaned raggedly, openly crying now, the stream of tears slipping down the sides of her face glittering like quicksilver from the
light. “I'm sorry…so sorry,” she chanted as she wept, her pain a tangible thing.

Annoyed at his inability to reach her and wake her from the throes of her bad dream, Dean used the only resource available to him. His voice.
“Jo,”
he called, loud and firm enough to snap her out of her sleep-induced nightmare.

She sat up abruptly in bed, her chest heaving and fingers clutching the blankets in her lap. Her unfocused gaze darted around the room, taking in her surroundings, trying to latch onto something familiar. She shook her head, looking completely lost and disoriented.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured gently, not wanting to frighten her any more than she already was. “Are you okay?”

A frown creased her brows, and she slowly glanced toward him as her hands absently shoved her disheveled hair from her face. She tipped her head in his direction. “Brian?” she asked softly, confusion and hope mingling in her quivering voice.

He had no idea who this Brian person was. He didn't think it was a husband or boyfriend since she'd denied having either, but judging by her glazed eyes and perplexed expression, he guessed she was still asleep, her subconscious still submerged in a hypnoticlike trance. He decided to play along, just to keep her calm and subdue her angst and distress. No doubt she'd fall right back to sleep and wouldn't remember any of this in the morning, which was just as well,
considering how bizarre the whole entire incident seemed.

“Yeah, it's me,” he said, keeping his response vague and letting her come to her own conclusions in her mind about who he was. “And you're fine, Jo.”

A shudder of relief shook her shoulders. “You're not really dead.”

Her gratitude wrapped around him like a physical and emotional cloak, making him a part of whatever torment lived deep within her soul. Her heartache was authentic and sincere and obviously intertwined with the desperate need to believe that this Brian person was still alive. That
he
was still alive.

Swallowing the tight knot in his throat, he granted her wish. “No, I'm not dead.”

Instead of lying down and falling back to sleep as he'd expected her to do, she tugged at the blankets around her legs and finally managed to untangle the covers from her long limbs. Slipping from her bed, she approached his, and Dean held his breath and remained completely still, uncertain what she intended.

Without hesitation, and with too much trust, she crawled across the mattress and snuggled up to his side, oblivious to his other hand cuffed to the post. Oblivious, too, to the fact that she was as defenseless and susceptible as a person could get—and embracing a man she believed, in her conscious state, was a felon.

Oh, hell.
He'd kicked off his own covers long ago, and her head came to rest on his shoulder. She pressed her slender hand to his bare chest, right over his rap
idly beating heart, and at her gentle, evocative touch, it picked up its pace.

So did his libido.

He bit back a deep groan as she stroked her hand down his stomach and nuzzled her face against his neck. “I thought…” The entire length of her shuddered before she continued, “Oh, God, I thought he killed you,” she whispered in a raw tone of voice. “And I couldn't bring myself to shoot back and I couldn't move and you were lying there, dying, and I felt so helpless….”

She was babbling, her mind caught up in a scenario too gruesome for him to comprehend, and the last thing he wanted was for her to turn hysterical on him. Experiencing a surge of possessiveness that took him momentarily off guard, he turned his head and brushed his warm lips against her temple. He inhaled the delicate melon scent that clung to her skin, which instigated a fresh rush of tenderness to well up in him.

“Shhh,” he coaxed, and with a little maneuvering he managed to slide his free arm around her shoulders to pull her close, into the safety of his embrace. “It's okay, Jo. We're both fine,” he assured her.

“Yes, you're fine,” she murmured drowsily. Wrapping her arm around his middle, she nestled her body tight against his. One of her knees slipped between his legs, and he tried not to think about the intimacy of their position. Or how mortified she was going to be when she discovered what she'd done in the middle of the night.

“It was all a bad, horrible dream,” she mumbled, her words slow and lethargic.

“Yeah, a bad dream,” he agreed, though from her vivid reaction, he suspected that reality had played some part in creating the terrifying images that had afflicted her mind. And who, he wondered, was Brian? And was the other man alive or dead?

He pondered the possibilities as he threaded her silky soft hair through his fingers and gently massaged her scalp to lull her back to sleep and, he hoped, to sweeter dreams. His ploy worked. She sighed contentedly, her mint-scented breath fanning evenly across his throat, leaving his skin moist and hot and excruciatingly sensitive. After a few minutes of pampering, her body relaxed completely and leaned heavily against him as she dozed off again. The ultrasoft, feminine curves of her waist, hips and thighs branded him, and her even softer, lush breasts crushed too provocatively against his chest.

That quickly he grew hard and thick and fiercely aroused, and there wasn't anything he could do to curb his deprived body's instinctively male response to her cuddling and warm female scent. He'd be damn lucky to get any more rest tonight when all he could think about was how much he wanted this seemingly tough, in-control female bounty hunter who was sexier and sassier than any woman he'd had the enjoyment of tangling with in a long, long time. A woman who possessed a vulnerable side that drew him and made him want to discover all her deep, dark secrets.

Despite the evidence against Dean Colter she car
ried in her file, there was a mutual attraction they'd be hard-pressed to deny if confronted head-on with the shared fascination. He'd seen the desire in her eyes when he'd stripped off his clothes earlier, could feel the sensuality shimmering between them.

She was fighting temptation, struggling valiantly against the promise of pleasure that beckoned and teased them both. And she would continue to do so until he proved his innocence, he thought with a frustrated sigh.

She inhaled a deep, peaceful breath, exhaled slowly, and the set of keys fastened to the waistband of her shorts slipped lower and scraped along his belly. They taunted him, daring him to take advantage of his one chance to validate Jo's doubts about his criminal status and demonstrate how trustworthy he truly was.

A slow, sly smile formed. It was time for the captor to become the captured. And in the process, they'd finally put to the test the attraction they'd both been skirting since she'd cornered him in his garage and frisked him.

 

W
ITH A LOW GROAN
, Jo stretched her aching muscles and tried to roll to her side, certain her alarm clock would chime at any second to wake her up. Her right arm refused to follow the movement of the rest of her body, and instead ended up twisted at an awkward angle above her head. Frowning at the odd sensation biting around her wrist, and perplexed at the unexplainable and uncomfortable position she seemed to
be in, she blinked her lashes open and found herself looking directly at her prisoner reclining casually on
her
bed, his head propped up by his hand, unrestrained and completely in control.

He stared at her in return, the dark stubble lining his lean jaw intensifying the green hue of his eyes. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he drawled in greeting.

She barely heard his words…not when her mind filled immediately with alarm that he'd managed to escape somehow. Then pure, undiluted panic registered when she yanked on her hand again and realized
she
was the one secured to the headboard of the bed, putting her at his mercy. Adding to her internal chaos was the knowledge that her keys and revolver were on the nightstand between them…far, far out of reaching distance.

Her heart beat so hard she feared it would explode from her chest. She had no idea how she'd gotten in this predicament, couldn't remember anything at all to give her a clue as to why she was the one shackled to Dean's bedpost, or how the authority had shifted in Dean's favor.

No matter the hows or whys, she refused to be a victim. She scrambled to a sitting position, preferring to be defensive instead of defenseless. Narrowing her gaze on him, she jutted her chin out. “How did you manage this clever trick?” she asked, opting for a sharp, snide tone to drown out the fear churning in her belly.

He had the audacity to wink at her. “I've always heard a magician never reveals his tricks.”

“You're a felon, not a magician,” she snapped irritably, hating that this man had somehow, some way, duped her.

He feigned a wince at her well-placed barb, which did nothing to hide the humor dancing in the depth of his eyes. “Come on, Jo,” he said, cajoling her with his rich voice and sexy smile. “If I was really a felon on the run, fearful of standing trial back in San Francisco, I would have been long gone by now, leaving you to your own devices and letting the motel maid find you shackled to the bed. And if I was some kind of malicious criminal, I would have taken advantage of you hours ago.”

Her heart rate slowed as she mulled over his comment, knowing instinctively that what he said was true—no real convict would have wasted such a prime opportunity to flee. Knowing, too, that his behavior since she'd captured him and the evidence she'd discovered in his wallet all lent undeniable credibility to his innocence. Now she was forced to trust him, his story, and her own intuition.

Believing him came much easier this morning than it had last night, not that she was going to admit that out loud and give him any more leverage than he'd already managed to gain.

Calmer now, she wanted,
needed,
an explanation. “Could you tell me how I ended up cuffed to your bed?” she asked, then followed that up with a polite, “please?”

He grinned at her courteous request. “You had a bad dream last night that had you pretty upset. I called
your name to wake you up and you sat up in bed, but you were actually still asleep. You thought I was Brian, and you crawled right across my bed and curled up next to me.”

Disbelief rushed over her, flushing her cheeks with a stinging heat. Her mouth opened to deny his story, then snapped shut again when she realized there was no possible way Dean could have known about Brian…unless she had mentioned his name at some point. And how much had she revealed about her partner and how responsible she'd been for his death?

Appalled that she'd been so bold and brazen as to cuddle up to Dean, especially in her sleep when a person was at their most vulnerable, she flopped back down on the bed and slung her free arm over her eyes and let a low, embarrassed groan escape her.

Bits and pieces of the same old recurring dream filtered through her mind, the same one that terrified and haunted her when she least expected her personal demon to rear its ugly head. Sometimes she recalled the dream the following morning. Other times she woke up in a cold sweat or physically shaking from the vivid images. Often she remembered nothing.

She never knew she talked in her sleep, or worse, walked in her sleep…but she had, right into another man's arms. A man she'd picked up on a criminal charge. A scary, staggering thought, considering all the scenarios that could have happened with someone less sincere and honorable than the true Dean Colter was turning out to be.

She moved her arm up to her forehead to look at
him. “Go on,” she urged. “How did you manage the Houdini trick with the cuffs?”

“Your keys were on the waistband of your shorts, within reaching distance of my free hand,” he explained with a nonchalant shrug. “And considering the prime opportunity that presented itself, I couldn't resist switching our roles.”

She lifted a brow. “Turnabout is fair play for you, huh?” she asked with a reluctant smile at his audacity, even as she recognized that this scenario could have ended up with a much different conclusion in the hands of a true criminal. But there was nothing malicious in Dean's plan, just a playful role reversal he seemed to be enjoying.

And, surprisingly, now that any immediate threat had been eliminated, she found she was enjoying it too.

He blinked lazily. “In our case, turnabout is most definitely fair play, especially when it comes to indulging in fantasies.”

An unexpected thrill coursed through her, eliciting a sensual heat that spread to feminine nerve endings. “And what fantasy is that?” she dared to ask.

He splayed his long fingers on the mattress in front of him and grinned roguishly. “
Me
captor,
you
prisoner, with a little bondage thrown in for good measure.”