Jo’s arm was fastened to the bedpost…with her own handcuffs!

She blinked her lashes open and found her prisoner reclining casually on her bed, his head propped up by his hand, unrestrained and completely in control.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Dean said lazily. “I figured turnabout is fair play…especially when it comes to indulging in fantasies.”

An unexpected thrill coursed through Jo, chasing away her alarm and eliciting a sensual heat that spread to her 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.”

“There’s just one thing you’re missing, Master.”

Amusement flickered across his expression. “And what’s that?”

“A submissive female,” she replied impudently.

Dean chuckled, a deep, rich sound that made Jo’s body warm with awareness. “Oh, I’m not worried about your surrender,” he said, a little too confidently. “After all, I’m a great believer in the power of persuasion….”

Dear Reader,

I’ve had a blast writing supersensual stories for Blaze, and with A Wicked Seduction, I had the opportunity to try something different…to write about a female bounty hunter who ends up wickedly seduced by her captive! Jo Sommers thinks she’s come across every kind of felon—until she takes gorgeous Dean Colter into custody and discovers he has a thing for bondage…. Get ready for a generous dose of red-hot sexual tension and overwhelming erotic pleasures.

I hope you enjoy Jo and Dean’s sexy, sizzling story. And I hope you keep a lookout for my future Blaze releases—check my Web site at www.janelledenison.com for updates. As well, I love to hear from my readers. You can write to me at: P.O. Box 1102, Rialto, CA 92377-1102 (send a SASE for goodies!) or at janelle@janelledenison.com.

Enjoy the heat!

Janelle Denison

A Wicked Seduction
Janelle Denison

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Laurie Pyke and

Cheryl Shoemaker, two of the most devoted,

enthusiastic fans a writer could ever hope for.

And to Don, for giving me the best fifteen years of my life.

Happy anniversary.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

1

FOR JOELLE SOMMERS, success was sweet and heady, and almost as exhilarating as great sex. Not that she’d had any of the latter lately, she thought wryly as she settled into her cushy office chair and propped her booted feet on the corner of her cluttered desk. But today’s triumph more than made up for not having a man in her life. Sex provided a fleeting buzz com pared to the elation of finally solving a difficult abduction or missing persons case and reuniting the individuals involved.

A smile tugged the corner of her mouth. When she’d made that idle comparison to a girlfriend during an evening of dinner and drinks, her friend blithely responded that she obviously wasn’t getting laid by the right man, because the blissful aftereffects of sexual gratification could last for days on end.

Imagine that, Jo mused with wonder, unable to ignore the tingling warmth infusing her veins. She reached for a file folder next to her blotter and she sighed. That’s about all she did these days…imagine, because she’d discovered that fantasies were so much better than her reality. Finding and wanting any man, let alone the right man, had become a tiresome quest that no longer appealed to her.

Unfortunately, Jo could always count on the men she dated to balk at her working in a male-dominated field filled with dangerous scenarios. Ultimately, they didn’t understand her drive and passion for locating missing people, especially abducted children. And when they discovered she was an ex-cop and moonlighted as a bounty hunter on occasion, most felt compelled and obligated to lecture her on the perils of a woman capturing wanted fugitives. And how could she do such a thing without male protection?

Oh, puh-leeze! She’d had enough of that overbearing attitude from her two older brothers. While Cole and Noah had learned over the years to tamp down the guardian tendencies they’d honed at a very early age, both still managed to interfere with cases they believed were too much for her to handle. It was a battle she constantly struggled to win.

She couldn’t seem to escape the male stereotypes that dictated she belonged in a safer line of business, or married, barefoot and pregnant, so she sacrificed sex—good, bad, or indifferent—for the thrill of the chase her cases provided. A piteous substitute for carnal pleasures, she knew, but she didn’t need the frustration and hassles that came with involvement with the opposite sex.

Nor had any man inspired enough lust or passion to make it worth the effort, Jo mused as she stamped CASE CLOSED in red ink across the front label of the file she’d finally solved. Now that was the kind of satisfaction that drove and excited her.

A brisk knock sounded on her open office door, followed by the entrance of Melodie Turner, Sommers Investigative Specialists’ front-end secretary. “A delivery just came for you,” she announced, flashing a grin that lit up a pretty face untouched by cosmetics. “And it has the makings of a celebration.”

Jo swept her feet back to the floor and sat up in her chair, eyeing the cellophane-wrapped gift basket Melodie placed in the center of her desk. Withdrawing the enclosed card, Jo smiled as she read the note from the Faron family thanking her for spending the past six months searching for, and for finding, their runaway daughter, Rachel.

It hadn’t been an easy case. The thirteen-year-old girl had left a cold, difficult trail to follow by changing her name and appearance, but Jo had eventually tracked her down to a cult just outside of Sacramento, where Rachel had been selling beaded necklaces on the street. Convincing the teenager to return home had been much simpler than tracking her. The young girl, regretting her rash actions and no longer feeling defiant and rebellious, admitted to being homesick and missing her family. A perfect ending with a joyful reunion.

Unfortunately, not all of her missing person cases ended that way, and each one that did was a cause for celebration.

Jo peeled away the cellophane to reveal the treats hidden within the basket. “Umm, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. Care to join me in a toast?”

Melodie looked just as eager to sample the enticing delicacies. “You don’t have to ask me twice. It’s ten after five, I’m technically off the clock, and I certainly don’t have a better offer waiting for me.”

Jo slanted her an amused look. “What, no hot Friday night date?”

Melodie rolled her eyes as she lifted the bottle of champagne from the basket, along with two plastic glasses. “I haven’t had a date, hot or otherwise, in months.”

Yeah, you and me both, sister. “Maybe that’s because you spend way too much time here at the office.” Standing, Jo shrugged out of her jean jacket and hung it on the coat tree behind her desk. “This is the first time in weeks that you’ve stopped working at five. And from what Noah has said, you’ve been staying as late as Cole in the evenings.”

Retrieving the bowl of big, plump chocolate-covered strawberries, Melodie shrugged and looked away, but Jo didn’t miss the light shade of pink that swept across her cheeks. “It’s not like I have anything more exciting to occupy my nights, or a line of men beating down my door.”

“Well, you certainly aren’t going to attract any male attention spending all your waking hours here.” Jo’s voice trailed off as she put two and two together. It seemed Melodie had a thing for Cole, and her boss had no clue she existed other than in her capacity as his dependable, reliable, devoted secretary.

Oh, man. Melodie had been working for Cole long enough, two years to be exact, to know that his interest in women ran toward the occasional undemanding fling—no promises involved—usually with sophisticated, leggy blondes who played by the same rules he did. Unfortunately, Melodie was the epitome of a respectable, decorous female in her plain, conservative outfits, and possessed the kind of good-girl tendencies and traditional values Cole avoided. If those qualities weren’t enough to inspire Cole to keep his distance, Melodie was also the daughter of the man who’d become Cole’s mentor after their own father had been shot and killed in the line of police duty. Cole had hired her as a favor to Richard Turner and had come to rely on Melodie as all bosses relied on their secretaries, but the odds of him noticing her as a woman were stacked heavily against her.

And Jo didn’t have the heart to dash her friend’s hopes.

While Melodie popped the plastic cork from the champagne bottle and poured the bubbly liquid into each of their glasses, Jo unbuckled her shoulder holster. Her brother insisted she wear a gun if she worked for him, but Jo knew it would take the direst of circumstances for her to actually use the weapon. She’d learned during her police academy training that you didn’t retrieve your gun unless you were prepared to fire. When actually faced with that reality, she hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. She still felt a painful twist in her heart thinking of the devastating results—the death of her partner. She’d screwed up, and her failure had cost Brian Sheridan his life.

Since that fateful day over two years ago, Jo hadn’t deluded herself with the belief that a gun would be her best source of defense. While she carried a weapon, she chose to protect herself with more controlled devices—a beanbag shotgun, a collapsible baton, and a black belt in martial arts. The combination served her well, and gave her a semblance of control over her actions.

Setting aside her holster, Jo picked up her drink and held it toward Melodie’s. “Here’s to another happy ending.” Their plastic glasses clicked dully, and they each took a sip of the champagne. Then they indulged in the juicy, sweet strawberries dipped in a rich layer of chocolate, murmuring their appreciation for the delicious confection.

“Melodie?” a deep, rich voice abruptly called from the outer office.

At Cole’s summons, Melodie popped up from her chair, abandoning her moment of relaxation. Jo nibbled on a piece of fruit and watched in amazement as the other woman circled her chair and was halfway to the door when Cole appeared, a file in hand. Melodie came to an abrupt stop before they collided and looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Did you need me?” Her voice was undeniably breathless.

Cole didn’t notice, his demeanor strictly business. “Have you seen or heard from Noah?”

“He’s been out of the office for the past two days on surveillance for the Blythe divorce case,” Melodie answered in her ever-efficient manner. “He checked in this afternoon for messages, but said he probably wouldn’t be back in the office until Monday.”

“Damn,” Cole muttered beneath his breath, clearly annoyed at their brother’s lack of availability. Though Noah worked for the company, he was definitely his own man and did things his own way. He was a drifter of sorts, an ex-Marine who worked when he needed the money, and played when his finances made it possible.

Cole dragged a hand along the back of his neck, as if the brusque movement could release the tension radiating from his body. “By the way, did you get the final report and billing on the Cameron case typed up?”

“I put it on your desk about fifteen minutes ago. All it needs is your signature.”

He nodded succinctly, just as the office phone rang. Jo didn’t bother reaching for the receiver on her desk, too interested in seeing how this scenario played out.

Another loud jingle.

Cole lifted a dark brow expectantly at Melodie as if to say, “Aren’t you going to get that?” Too much a creature of habit, and too eager to please, Melodie automatically slipped around him and headed down the hall to answer the front-end phone.

Jo licked the sticky sweetness of candied strawberry from her fingers as her brother approached her desk. “Jeez, Cole, would it kill you to answer the phone?” When he gave her a blank look, she added drolly, “Melodie is off the clock, or are you paying her overtime?”

With a frown he glanced at his watch, obviously surprised to see it past quitting time. “I just assumed since she was still here that she was working.”

That was part of the problem. Cole took Melodie’s enthusiasm to do his bidding for granted. But, Jo decided, that wasn’t her dilemma to resolve. It was up to Melodie to change her abiding, predictable ways and set Cole straight—both on a business level and a personal one.

Cole’s blue-eyed gaze took in the fare she was enjoying and skimmed over the card that had been attached to the basket. He read the note, then smiled warmly at her from across the desk, looking like a younger version of their deceased father with his tousled sable hair, lean features, and head-turning good looks. “By the way, good job on the Faron case.”

“Thanks.” She accepted his compliment with pleasure and satisfaction.

When she’d quit the police force and decided she wanted to work for Cole, her brother had been reluctant to hire her, not that she could blame him. Her past actions gave him too much reason to discount her ability to defend herself, or others. But her suggestion to specialize in finding abducted and missing children was a relatively safe field that Cole eventually approved. It also added a different dimension to the agency, drew a whole new clientele, and helped her absolve the guilt she carried over a past case gone bad.

She drew a deep breath, pushed aside her thoughts, and waved a hand at the champagne and strawberries. “Care to join us for a drink to celebrate?”

He shook his head, his gaze dark and distracted. “Thanks, but I don’t have time. Since Noah has made himself conveniently unavailable, I need to call Vince back and…” Cole’s sentence ebbed into silence as he belatedly realized his error.

Jo perked up at the mention of the bail bond agent who traded professional favors with Cole. On occasion, Vince found himself shorthanded and needed a bail enforcement agent to retrieve someone who’d jumped bail. Cole was a certified recovery agent, as were she and Noah.

“What does Vince need?” she asked.

A scowl creased Cole’s expression, which did nothing to dissuade Jo’s interest. It never did. Her brother had a habit of being overprotective when it came to her. It had been that way ever since their mother had divorced their father when she was five, and she’d ended up shuffled between two households. As the oldest, Cole had taken on more duties and responsibilities than any teenager should have had to endure.

“Spill it, Cole,” she said, pushing his hesitation.

His jaw unclenched, but his hold on the file folder in his hand tightened. “A guy skipped out on his bond, and I owe Vince a favor,” he said with un-characteristic nonchalance. “I traced the guy back to his Washington State residence, and I was going to ask Noah if he could recover the skip since I’m on the verge of cracking the Petrick case. But since Noah isn’t around, I’ll just call Vince and have him find someone else to do the job.”

Adrenaline shot through her veins. “I’ll do it.” Standing, she rounded the desk toward Cole.

“No.”

She stopped in front of him, bristling, though she and Cole conducted this same argument every time. Her brother preferred when she kept a low profile and stayed out of trouble. For the most part, she’d been a commendable employee and sister. But she resented that he wouldn’t let her do a job she was fully qualified to perform. She’d never been afraid of the chase and capture—not when she’d been a cop and not now—and she actually enjoyed an occasional run. It appeased the restlessness in her, which she’d been experiencing too much of lately. The bounty she made also helped to fund her low-income abduction cases, which was her main priority. And the well was quickly running dry to support those gratis projects she took on from time to time.

She folded her arms over her chest, refusing to back down, a stubborn trait she’d learned from the very guy standing in front of her. “You know, for someone who showed me the tricks of the trade, you certainly have a way of making me sound inept, despite my training.”

His gaze narrowed at her attempt to heap guilt onto his conscience. “I’m not trying to make you feel inept,” he countered. “Dammit, Joelle, you shouldn’t be out gallivanting after criminals. That’s why you quit the police force.”

That wasn’t why she’d resigned, and they both knew it. But it was a moot point she didn’t wish to argue. “I need the extra money to help supplement my lower-income cases.”

“I’ll help fund those cases. I’ve told you that.”

“No, thank you.” She appreciated her brother’s support, but as always she refused to accept his offer. While the agency made damn good money from locating missing persons and other investigative services, which in turn fattened her own paycheck, she didn’t feel right about draining his finances, or the company’s, to support her own personal cause.

Ignoring any further protests, she plucked the folder from his grasp and didn’t even flinch when he growled in response. Having been raised by Cole since the age of sixteen, she knew he was more bark and growl than bite.

He dropped into the chair Melodie had recently vacated, and Jo skimmed the contents of the file without his interference. She found all the pertinent information enclosed—a bail bond agreement, a certified copy of the bail, a booking slip, a picture of the fugitive and a copy of his Washington State driver’s license. Though the guy had committed his crimes in San Francisco, he apparently hadn’t bothered with a California renewal.

She took in his statistics. Dean Colter, age 32. Six feet tall and one hundred and ninety-five pounds. Judging by the date of birth on the document, he’d be celebrating his thirty-third birthday behind bars, since that date was next week Friday.

Her gaze traveled between the booking photo and the one on the license, comparing the two. The man had pitch-black hair, and though the license stated his eyes were green, she couldn’t confirm that with either photograph. While the driver’s license showed Dean Colter with a short, executive haircut and an easy grin, the booking picture captured a grown-out shaggy hairstyle and a cocky smirk. Obviously, the former photo had been taken before Dean’s penchant for a life of crime.

Her finger skimmed down the attached report, absorbing more details and what he’d been charged with. Grand theft auto. “This is hardly a threatening skip.” She met her brother’s gaze. “Come on, Cole, cut me some slack. It’s not as though I’ll be dealing with a murderer here.” She’d certainly come up against much worse.

“How do you know?” he challenged.

She perched her jean-clad bottom on the edge of her desk. “Because it states that he’s a first-time offender with no priors. How dangerous can he be?”

Cole elevated a dark brow in response. “Did you happen to notice that his bail was set at a hundred thousand dollars?”

She glanced back to confirm Cole’s claim, and her jaw nearly dropped in shock. She’d definitely missed that tidbit. “Why? He was only charged with GTA. That’s a felony, yes, but a minor crime in general.”

“He was arrested with half a dozen high-end vehicles that were headed for a chop shop and theft ring that the local police have been trying to bust for the past three months. The guy knows the contact’s name, and he was willing to testify against him. The bail was set at such a high amount to keep him honest, but being a first-timer, he was very predictable and hightailed it back to his home address in Washington.”

“He’s easy money then,” she said, very aware that her cut would be a cool ten grand, which would go a long way in filling her professional reservoir.

Cole sighed, the sound rife with resignation. “It’s a good fifteen-hour drive to Seattle from Oakland.”

As if that minor inconvenience would deflate her determination! She figured out the time line in her mind. “If I leave within the hour and spend the night at a motel on the way, I’ll be there by tomorrow afternoon.” She flashed Cole a quick grin that reflected the tide of exhilaration blossoming within her and warded off any further argument from him. “I’ll be back before the weekend is over.”

She’d return with her guy in tow, and an easy ten grand in her pocket.

2

“WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING at home?” Brett Rivers, the CEO of Colter Traffic Control asked his boss, the disapproval in his tone clearly drifting through the phone line. “You should have been long gone by now.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean tucked the cordless phone more comfortably against his ear as he walked out of his master bath with everything he needed for his spontaneous getaway. Brett was his right-hand man, a good friend, and someone Dean trusted implicitly to hold down the fort in his absence. “I keep telling myself the same thing,” he said, shoving his shaving kit into his duffle bag on top of the casual clothing he’d packed. “And I promise I’m almost out the door.”

After three years of working day in and day out to the point of mental exhaustion and burnout, Dean was anxious to taste a bit of freedom and indulge in a week of pure relaxation and solitude—with a cold beer in one hand and a fishing pole in the other. While basking in the sun and waiting for the trout to bite, he had some serious thinking to do about his future and the direction of his father’s company. To make the important decisions awaiting him, he needed a mind free and clear of any distractions or influences.

Dean gave his bedroom one last quick glance, found nothing he couldn’t live without, and addressed Brett’s question while zipping up his piece of luggage. “I know I told you I’d be leaving early this morning, but I had a few things to wrap up at the office and it took longer than I expected.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he groaned, realizing that he sounded just like his father, who’d passed away three years ago from a stroke. How many times had Dean been on the receiving end of that same excuse while growing up? And how many times had he resented that flippant explanation and sworn he’d never be like his father, who’d been obsessed with work to the point of excluding everything else in his life?

Too many times to count, yet here Dean was, careening down that same path to emotional and physical destruction. Sure, he had some work-related success to show for his efforts. He also had a broken engagement.

On a personal level his life was sorely lacking, and that knowledge was beginning to bother him. Especially since he’d lived such a carefree, easygoing life before taking on the family business. Hard to believe how much of a rebel he’d been back then. Now, when he came home in the evening after a twelve-hour day, or a week-long business trip, he was too aware that there was nothing or no one waiting for him. Hell, he didn’t even have the time to care for a pet, let alone give attention and affection to a woman. And the truth of the matter was, what woman would endure his rigorous schedule for the long run?

Certainly not Lora, the woman he’d been engaged to before taking over the reins of Colter Traffic Control for his father—before the demands of his job had taken over his life. Since then, he’d discovered that developing something deeper than an amicable acquaintance was difficult. He didn’t have the time to get to know a woman well enough to establish something more than a brief fling. Nurturing a meaningful relationship took time and energy, and after handling each day’s busy, exhausting workload he depleted both.

And now, a life-altering opportunity loomed in front of him, beckoning him, tempting him to seriously consider the offer that could change the course of his future and give him his old life back. Yet years of obligations and responsibilities told him to stay firmly grounded. The decision had him torn in two.

Grabbing his duffle bag, Dean headed downstairs to the kitchen, shoving those thoughts out of his mind. He’d have plenty of free, quiet time at the lakeside cabin he’d rented to mull over those issues and make decisions.

“So, what’s with the phone call?” Brett prompted. “It’s Saturday, my day off, and I’ve got a gorgeous redhead in a short, tight dress awaiting my attention.”

Dean grinned. At least his friend had his priorities straight. “I wanted to check in with you one last time before I hit the road, and wanted to let you know I put a few contracts on your desk for you to handle while I’m gone.”

“Consider it done.”

Dean dropped his canvas bag on the kitchen table, then loaded a small cooler with a few sodas and snacks for the drive. “Also, Clairmont Construction increased their order of arrowboards, traffic beacons and portable light towers for that repair work they’ve got going on the freeway. The unexpected rain has put them behind, and they’re working double shifts to bring the project in on time.”

“Dean, I’ve got it handled,” Brett drawled good-naturedly. “Get the hell out of Dodge, already. By the way, are you taking any company with you?”

“Nope.” He snapped the lid to the cooler shut and set the insulated container next to his bag. “It’ll be just me and Mother Nature.”

“Man, you have no sense of fun at all, do you?” Brett said, sounding disappointed at Dean’s lack of creativity in the opposite sex department. “Give me the address of the cabin and I’ll send someone to keep you occupied during the day, warm at night, and help celebrate your birthday. Trust me, you’ll come back to Seattle a new man.”

He’d been so caught up in work and his last business trip to San Francisco that he’d forgotten all about his birthday. Not that he normally did much more than join his friends for a drink, or have dinner with his mother. And the sad thing was, three years ago he would have jumped at the opportunity to celebrate his birthday exactly as Brett was suggesting, but now his mind was consumed with business matters.

He didn’t doubt the sincerity of Brett’s generous offer and was quick to set his friend straight. “Thanks, but I’d just as soon find my own woman.”

After a few more minutes of ribbing from his friend to get a real life, Dean hung up the phone, shaking his head. He spent the next half hour loading his car with the cooler, camping gear, and fishing supplies he’d recently purchased through the Internet. After one final walk through the house to make sure everything was secured, he grabbed his duffle and keys from the table and headed out to the garage where his cherry-red, vintage ’65 Mustang convertible awaited him.

Along with a woman holding a shotgun.

Startled to find he had company, he came to an abrupt halt. On the heels of realizing he wasn’t alone came a twinge of apprehension as he warily eyed that lethal-looking weapon she cradled in one arm. Thankfully, it was pointed at the ground and not at him. She stood just where the rolling garage door opened, feet planted apart in a military type stance, and an air of boldness and presumptuousness radiating off her.

Despite the gun, she didn’t look like a rough and tumble G.I. Jane. She wore her rich brown hair in a sleek ponytail, which served to emphasize a pretty face that seemed only to need the most basic of cosmetics to enhance her beguiling features. She was average in height, slender in stature, and undeniably feminine, but there was no mistaking she was physically fit.

He shifted on his feet and returned his gaze to her face. Her lashes blinked lazily over eyes a velvet shade of blue, and a slow, confident smile lifted one corner of her mouth.

Despite the circumstances, a warm frisson of awareness trickled through him. Damn if he didn’t find all that brazen confidence sexy. And exciting. The gleam in her eye was predatory with a definite challenge, and his body responded in an instinctive way that reminded him just how long it had been since he’d had a woman in his bed. More months than he cared to recall.

Cautiously, he stepped closer to the passenger side of the car and tossed his bag in the back seat. “Can I help you?”

She moved forward slowly, her stroll deceptively casual, that intimidating shotgun gripped loosely in her hand. Her hips, encased in button-fly jeans, swayed gently with each step. The blouse overlaying a white cotton tank top fluttered open, and he experienced a jolt of surprise to catch a glimpse of silver handcuffs clipped to the waistband of her jeans.

She stopped near the trunk of the Mustang, keeping distance between them, and tipped her head inquiringly. “Are you Dean Colter?” she asked, her voice low, throaty and assuming.

She knew his name. The knowledge registered, momentarily diverting his thoughts from those handcuffs and what she intended to do with them. “Yeah, I’m Dean Colter,” he verified, suddenly feeling at a disadvantage. “And you are?”

“Jo Sommers,” she supplied easily. “Your personal escort.”

He frowned at her. His personal escort? Then his confusion ebbed as his earlier conversation with Brett tumbled through his mind. Obviously, his friend had meant what he’d said about sending him a woman for his birthday, but how had Brett arranged for her arrival so quickly?

The answer didn’t really matter, not when Dean was coming to understand, and appreciate, that this woman’s attire and realistic props were all part of some kind of law enforcement costume. One she’d most likely remove, piece by piece, until that luscious body was completely exposed for his eyes only. She’d said herself that she was his personal escort—a new, politically correct title for a stripper, he was guessing—sent for his pleasure and entertainment.

And he planned to cooperate.

He had no place more important to be at the moment, and his vacation could wait a few more minutes in view of the fun this gorgeous woman promised. He’d made a vow to lighten up and take life less seriously, to recapture some of the fun and spontaneity he’d enjoyed before his father’s death. What could be more frivolous than playing along with her skit and enjoying the show?

She peered through the rear window to the back seat, taking in the items he’d packed for his trip, then slanted him a challenging look. “Going somewhere?”

He’d go wherever she led him. Giving her his most charming, persuasive smile, he tossed out a dare of his own. “Well, now, that all depends on what you have in mind, sweetheart.”

A slow, reciprocating smile curved her mouth. “I think you know exactly what I have in mind. Don’t make any sudden moves, do exactly as I say, and we’ll get along just fine.”

Her voice was smooth, but her words were firm and commanding. Too curious to see what she intended, he held up his hands in supplication. “You’ve got my full cooperation.”

“That’s good to hear, because your cooperation will make what I’ve got to do much easier for the both of us.” The barrel of her toy shotgun gestured him toward the back of the vehicle, closer to where she stood. “Put your hands on the trunk of the car, keep them there, and spread your legs.”

His brows shot upward in surprise, but he did as she ordered. He’d expected a striptease, nothing more, but who was he to put a crimp into her presentation? Pocketing his keys, he assumed the position.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, enjoying the kind of lighthearted, playful moment so reminiscent of the wild past he’d left behind. “I take it this is where I get frisked?” he asked, attempting to inject a bit of teasing between them.

She moved behind him, bringing with her a subtle scent of something soft and feminine. “Ahh, been through this before, have you?” Her voice held a slight cynical edge that added to the realism of her act.

“Actually, no,” he replied with a grin. “But I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Pressing a hand against the center of his back, she holstered her shotgun in a leather loop on her belt. “It’s a standard search, Mr. Colter, just to be sure you aren’t carrying any concealed weapons.”

That all depends on what kind of concealed weapon you’re searching for. “It’s your show,” he drawled, “And I’m all yours, to do with as you please.”

She uttered a soft snort of laughter that stirred the hair at the back of his neck and sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine. With a booted foot tucked against his sneakered one, she widened his stance even more, then skimmed her slender hands along his shoulders and under his arms. She leaned closer to sweep her palms over his chest and abdomen, causing the lush fullness of her breasts to brush his back and her hips to graze his. Heat pooled in his groin and ignited like wildfire wherever she touched.

And she touched him everywhere. Impersonal, yet intimate at the same time. Her fingers dipped into the waistband of his jeans and followed the circumference around to his back where her splayed hands dragged over his back pockets. The curve of his buttocks received equal treatment, and then her thumbs followed the crease between his thighs.

He sucked in a quick breath as the tips of her fingers grazed very masculine territory. But the tantalizing caress didn’t last long—just fleeting enough to tempt and tease and arouse. She continued on, those capable hands traveling down the outside length of his legs, then she squatted to pat around his ankles and smooth her palms back up the inseam of his pants, all the way to the crotch of his jeans.

And still, she wasn’t done with her shameless exploration. Her hands slid around to the front of his thighs, checking the contents of his pockets through denim by grasping the material. She came into contact with his keys and loose change, and moved toward the fly of his jeans.

Every molecule in his body tensed, including that inherently male part of him she was about to frisk. He felt compelled to issue a warning. “If you’re not careful, sweetheart, you’re gonna end up finding the only concealed weapon I’ve got on me.”

“Luckily for you I’m trained in handling fire-arms.” Her sultry voice, laced with wry humor, drifted into his ear from behind him. “And I haven’t had one accidentally discharge on me yet.” She proved her claim by handling him gently and efficiently, finishing her search with quick precision.

An amused chuckle rumbled up from Dean’s chest. Not only was Jo Sommers gorgeous and sexy, but she was witty and sassy, too. Obviously, Brett had known she was exactly what he needed to alleviate the stress and seriousness that had consumed his life for too long.

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 intimidating 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?

3

SHE’D CAUGHT DEAN COLTER 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 pImages** 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.

“You’ve got the wrong guy, Jo.”

His voice was quiet, eerily so, causing a distinct shiver to ripple down her spine. No pleading. No begging. Just a statement of fact that discounted everything he’d just read. His eyes had turned a shade of green so startling clear and sincere they made her want to believe him.

But she knew better than to be conned, no matter how convincing his act. She wouldn’t underestimate the power of his charms and attempts to persuade her. “Oh, now that’s original. If I had a dollar for every time I heard that line as a cop I’d be a very rich girl.”

He stared at her for a moment in amazement. “You’re a cop?”

“I was,” she said, seeing no reason why she shouldn’t answer his question. Between tonight’s two-hour jaunt and tomorrow’s long drive, they’d be confined to this vehicle for fifteen hours, and she didn’t mind making polite talk as opposed to putting up with brooding silence. “I quit the force two years ago.”

“To pursue a career in bounty hunting?”

More astonishment, and the way he was looking at her…taking in her ponytail, her features, then taking quick inventory of the rest of her body before returning to her face. She suppressed the warm glow that followed in the wake of his thorough assessment.

“I work for my brother as a P.I.” Putting the Suburban in gear, she pulled away from the curb and eased onto the road. “I specialize in missing persons and abductions, but I do the occasional bail recovery on the side to make extra money.”

He looked back at his house as they drove away and left his sanctuary behind. “Bail recovery?” He snorted derisively. “This is kidnapping, you know.”

“Kidnapping?” She rolled her eyes and flipped on the air-conditioning to low, welcoming the cool rush of air that billowed across her skin. “Not according to the information you just read.”

“I’m not that guy!” he said through gritted teeth.

Would he never give up? “I looked through your wallet in your duffle,” she told him. “Not only do you say you’re Dean Colter, so does your license.”

He blew out a frustrated stream of breath. “I am Dean Colter, but I’m not the guy in that mug shot.”

“Oh, I believe you,” she said drolly as she headed out of the residential area and back to the interstate. “But it’s the judge you’re gonna have to convince, not me.”

His lip curled sullenly and, unable to do otherwise, he settled back into his seat. “Great,” he muttered as he stared out the window moodily. “Just great.”

She made a right-hand turn up the I-5 on-ramp and moved over to the fast lane, leaving Seattle behind. “Why don’t you just relax and enjoy the trip?”

“It’s kinda hard to relax when these damned handcuffs are stabbing into my back and my arms are falling asleep,” he grumbled.

Poor baby. “If you flatten your palms against the seat it’ll relieve some of the pressure.”

“And if you took off the handcuffs it would relieve some of the pain.”

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “But I can’t risk my safety for your comfort.”

He heaved a gut-deep sigh. “So I’ve got to be trussed up like this all the way to San Francisco?”

“Pretty much.” She reached for the trip ticket she’d tucked into the visor, which mapped her drive back to San Francisco and the places she planned to stop along the way. Giving it a cursory glance while watching the road, she pegged her next destination as Kelso, Washington. “I’ve been on the road since six this morning. We’ll be stopping in a few hours to get a hotel for the night, and I’ll let you stretch your arms then. We’ll get something to eat, too.”

“A free meal. At least I get something out of this trip.” The slightest bit of humor had returned to his voice, as if he’d resigned himself to the inevitable. “And just be warned, I skipped lunch today and I’m starved.”

The way he said the word starved, with a low, rumbling growl in the back of his throat, brought a whole new meaning to the word.

Apparently, his appetite matched her own.

BEING HAULED to San Francisco by a female bounty hunter wasn’t exactly the vacation Dean had envisioned, but as the chasm between Seattle and him widened, he decided he had no choice but to improvise and be adventurous.

Spontaneity. Relaxation. Being impetuous. All nuances of his old life he missed. That had been part of the reason he’d decided to take a vacation in the first place, based on the startling realization that he was fast on his way to becoming a workaholic like his father had been. Putting the company before himself was something he’d sworn he’d never do, yet he’d spent the past three years doing exactly that, to the extent that he was teetering on the verge of burnout. Not only did he need the time away from work to think about the fate of Colter Traffic Control and his future, but it had been too long since he’d put himself, and his desires, first.

And there was no doubt he desired Jo Sommers. Despite having no idea how he’d gotten himself into this mess, this sexy, spirited woman intrigued him. Aroused him. Fascinated him. And it had been a long time since any woman had captured his interest so thoroughly.

Whether he liked it or not, he was on this wild ride for the duration, until they reached San Francisco, his attorney was contacted, and the authorities realized they had the wrong guy and cleared his name. He couldn’t deny that the driver’s license and information that Jo had shown him was his, but the guy in the mug shot was not him, though there was enough of a resemblance to draw the conclusion that they were one and the same.

This had to be a huge misunderstanding of some sort, one he obviously couldn’t explain or find a logical reason for, but it was still a mistake. One he wanted to remedy. And he had two days to figure out a way to convince Jo that he was an innocent man. The challenge was more than he could resist.

He might have lost his vacation, but he’d just gained something far more exciting and fun. The way he figured things, he had two options during this trip—resist or surrender—and being a willing and accommodating captive for Jo would be a far more pleasurable experience. To his advantage, no one would miss him or worry about his absence, since everyone believed he was off to the mountains for a week of quiet and solitude.

He was a guy who’d always made the best of a bad situation. This mishap would be no exception.

But first, he needed to make amends for his earlier grumpy behavior. Resting his head on the back of the seat, he let it roll to the side until he was looking at Jo’s profile. The sun was just beginning to set on the horizon and the pastel hues made her smooth complexion shimmer with radiant warmth.

“I want to apologize for my attitude,” he said, breaking the silence that had descended over the cab the past half hour. “I’m sure after I’m cleared of all charges and they find the guy who impersonated me I’ll find this abduction all very humorous.”

She slanted him a dubious look. “You think so?”

“It’s what I keep telling myself.” He blinked lazily. “You really do have my full cooperation. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I can’t prove my innocence until we reach the authorities, so I plan to enjoy the ride.” And you.

The corners of her mouth curled upward, drawing his gaze to her full, luscious lips. “I like your new attitude.”

“I like your smile,” he countered honestly.

Said smile faltered self-consciously. “Thank you.”

He suppressed a grin of his own. “You’re welcome.”

He couldn’t help notice the flush on her skin. His unexpected compliment had caught her off guard, and he admitted he liked having that slight advantage. “Are you married?”

She paused, absently ran her tongue across her bottom lip, then admitted, “No.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” When she gave him a quick, care-to-explain look, he shrugged his rapidly stiffening shoulders and said, “It’s hard to imagine a husband allowing his wife to work as a bounty hunter.”

She released a pfft sound of derision and rolled her eyes at what she obviously thought was an antiquated viewpoint.

“How about a boyfriend?”

She shot him a pointed look and visibly bristled. “No, and I’d appreciate it if you kept your added commentary about that to yourself,” she warned.

His mouth twitched, then spilled over with the amusement he could no longer contain. Obviously, there was something about mixing a significant other with her occupation that was a source of contention for her, and he was curious to know why. He wanted to know everything he could discover about Jo Sommers—her job, why she did what she did, and the sensuality he detected simmering just beneath her tough facade.

Yeah, especially that.

Physically, he might be restrained. Mentally and verbally he was not.

The wicked possibilities were alluring and endless. He’d wanted his old life back, and here was his chance to embrace a little bit of fun.

4

A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR later, Jo pulled off the interstate and into the drive-through of a fast-food restaurant in Kelso, Washington, located next to the roadside motor lodge she planned to stay at for the night. The town was small and quiet, which suited her just fine since she wasn’t looking for excitement or entertainment. All she wanted was food in her stomach, a long, hot shower to ease the tense muscles across her shoulders, a good night’s rest, and total cooperation from her fugitive.

Since leaving Seattle and promising to be on his best behavior, Dean had held true to his word and been an exemplary prisoner. Then again, there wasn’t much trouble he could get into being handcuffed and strapped securely into his seat.

There were no more protests of not being the man she sought, no more complaints about being restrained, and no more frustration underscoring his tone. Just light, comfortable conversation—mostly about her and questions about her time as a cop, the stories of which he’d found fascinating and amusing—mixed in with an occasional flirtatious comment that filled her with too much awareness. Much to her surprise, she’d actually enjoyed their easy exchange, and the time and miles had passed quickly.

She brought the vehicle to a stop in front of the large, lighted outdoor menu, keeping her window rolled up while they perused the available entrees. Deciding on what she wanted to eat, she turned and glanced at Dean, who was still looking over the selection. “What would you like?”

His deep green eyes found hers, and an irresistible grin creased the corners of his mouth. “Well, since the meals are on you, I’ll have two of the double western bacon cheeseburgers, a supersize order of fries, and a supersize Coke.”

Her brows rose in disbelief at the amount of food he was ordering. “Is that all?” she drawled, wondering where in the heck he planned to put the small feast. His lean belly didn’t look big enough to hold two burgers at one time, let alone everything else he planned to consume.

His broad shoulders rolled in an attempt at a shrug, and his biceps flexed with the awkward movement. He winced, a clear indication that his muscles had grown stiff and sore during the drive. Still, not one derogatory word or a plea to release his cuffs slipped past his lips. “Hey, I warned you that I was starved.”

So he had, and she’d obviously underestimated the voracious appetite he’d claimed to have. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want some dessert to go with your supersize dinner?” she asked, a light, teasing note threading her voice.

He glanced at the menu again. “Now that you mention it, I’ll take a slice of that chocolate mousse cake they’re advertising.”

She’d been joking. He was completely serious, and all she could think was that he must burn a whole lot of energy if he ate like that on a regular basis. As her gaze drifted over that toned, virile body she’d patted down earlier, various ways of burning calories came to mind. The unbidden pImages** that formed had little to do with conventional exercise, and more to do with the workout provided by hot, hard, sweaty sex…two slick bodies straining, hips pumping, thighs clenching, pulses racing uncontrollably…

Oh, yeah, her pulse had most definitely picked up its tempo. Her own body throbbed in cadence with the erotic visions that had flitted through her head, and the interior of the vehicle grew warm, despite the air-conditioning blowing cool air across her skin. She was shocked at her provocative thoughts and the path they’d traveled…and who she’d allowed to be the male lead in her sexual fantasy.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she inhaled a slow breath. Get a grip, Joelle. The man is a felon, no matter how gorgeous, sexy, and charming he might be, no matter how convincing and genuine he seems. No matter that she’d been way too long without a man to ease the kind of sensual cravings that had recently taken up residence within her.

He wasn’t a man to trust, or even lust after—not when he was on his way to jail and a future destined to be spent behind bars. Chanting that reminder silently in her head, she rolled her window down, placed his enormous, supersize order and opted for a chicken Caesar salad and an iced tea for herself.

Less than ten minutes later, without any mishaps at the restaurant’s pickup window and her mind firmly back on business, she pulled the Suburban into the motor lodge parking area. After circling the lot once, she chose an isolated spot far enough away from the registration office and anyone exiting the two-story, U-shaped structure.

Turning off the engine, she withdrew the keys, unlatched her seat belt, and grabbed her wallet from the console. She cast a quick glance Dean’s way, making sure he was still trussed up and immobile. “I’ll be right back,” she told him, satisfied that he was still firmly restrained. “I’m going to get us a room for the night and we’ll eat once we’re settled inside.”

He flashed another one of his easygoing grins. “I’ll be right here, waiting.”

She opened her door and slid out of her seat, biting back a smile at his obliging attitude, as if it were his choice to sit tight while she was gone, and that he’d enjoy every minute of the wait. Amused with his pleasant disposition despite his predicament, she locked him into the truck and engaged the alarm.

She walked briskly across the half-full parking lot and into the small, glass-enclosed office that enabled her to keep an eye on the Suburban and Dean while she registered and paid for their one-night stay. Per her request to the night clerk, she was able to secure a room with two double beds on the first level, located around the backside of the lodge where they’d be afforded a semblance of privacy.

The transaction went smoothly, and without any trouble from Dean in the car. She drove the vehicle around the building, parked in the designated slot in front of their motel room door, and within minutes she had everything unloaded—including Dean, their duffle bags, and their food. After securing all the locks on the metal door and switching on the cool air to clear out the stuffiness, she turned her full attention to her silent, patient prisoner standing in the middle of the room.

Alone in such a confined space and surrounded by an intimate setting that included two beds, the size of him registered in a purely feminine way. When she’d first cornered him in his garage, she’d been running on pure adrenaline, ready for action and focused on apprehending him. Now, she was keenly aware of how potently male he was with those big, wide shoulders and toned arms that would have no problem wrapping around a woman her size. Then there were his lean hips encased in soft denim to consider, and strong thighs that framed impressive male anatomy. His stance was completely relaxed, his gaze warm and sensual. He gave no indication that he was wired and ready to spring to action at the first opportune moment, an attitude she’d come to expect from most of her captives.

He was tall, too—a good six inches bigger than her own five-foot-five stature that qualified her as petite, a word she’d hated from the moment she’d learned what it meant to the male gender—small, delicate, and a featherweight, a nickname Noah always loved to torment her with. The continual comparison of how small she was had been partly responsible for her determination as a teenager to break free from her brothers’ overprotectiveness. That same fierce perseverance had followed her into her adult years as she’d struggled to prove herself as a capable law enforcement officer to her family and colleagues.

Unfortunately, while she’d proven her physical strength, agility, and endurance, she’d failed miserably at the emotional and mental fortitude she’d needed to do her job—a personal failure that had ended up costing her Brian’s life.

Those thick, black lashes framing slumberous eyes blinked lazily at her. “Food’s getting cold, sweetheart,” Dean said, his tone a low, rich murmur in the quiet room. “And I’m getting hungrier by the second. Are you going to take off the cuffs, or do I get to enjoy the pleasure of you hand-feeding me?”

He sounded like he wouldn’t have minded the latter. Refusing to allow her misbehaving thoughts to travel in that direction, she glanced around the room once more and considered her options—and performing the intimate task of feeding Dean Colter by hand was not one of them. Finding the small, rectangular table between the second bed and the corner of the wall, she made her decision based on Dean’s consistent, non-violent behavior since she’d picked him up.

“One of the cuffs stays on at all times,” she said, unwilling to compromise on that issue. “I’ll secure the other handcuff around the metal pole beneath the table which will free up your other hand so you can feed yourself. It’s more slack than I normally offer my prisoners, so don’t make me regret my generosity.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled.

She followed that up with a steely warning. “One false move and not only will you be flat on your ass from my beanbag shotgun, but you’ll remain shackled and permanently disabled for the duration of the trip—hands and feet. Do you understand?”

He nodded amicably, agreeing to her terms. “Sure do.”

With that assurance, she splayed a hand against his back and guided him forward, then eased him into the chair on the far side of the table. Quickly and efficiently she unfastened the metal bracelet on his right hand, then reached beneath the Formica surface and secured his left wrist to the thick metal pole. As an added precaution, she wedged him into the corner with the table by pushing it up against both sides of the walls.

Stepping back, she shrugged out of the blouse she wore over her tank top, exposing the revolver holstered to her left side that he hadn’t known she carried—if the sudden raising of his brows were any indication. Tossing the gauzy garment onto the nearby bed, she unsnapped the leather strap to free the weapon as an added intimidation tactic, though her stomach rolled at the thought of having to withdraw or use the gun. Especially on Dean, whom she truly liked, despite his criminal status.

His gaze traveled from the gun to her face, his initial surprise replaced by something far more playful. “And here I thought I was the only one with a concealed weapon,” he teased, a slow smile easing across his lips. “Is that thing loaded?”

His sexy innuendo was reminiscent of the provocative banter that had passed between them when she’d patted him down in his garage—before he’d realized that her cop act was for real. “I do believe that’s my line,” she shot right back.

“Touché,” he acknowledged, then groaned in relief as he rolled his stiff shoulders and shook out his cramped arms. “My hands were starting to tingle and fall asleep. Thank you for releasing me,” he said gratefully, then flashed her a sinful smile. “Though I have to admit that I was really looking forward to being hand-fed. You’re taking all the fun out of this captive fantasy for me, Jo.”

She rolled her eyes at his outrageous, flirtatious comment, then retrieved their bags of food and drinks from the dresser and slipped into her own seat across from him. “What can I say? Fulfilling fantasies isn’t in my job description, and fun isn’t a top priority for me when I’m on assignment.”

“Too bad, on both accounts.” Feigned disappointment touched his voice as he reached into a bag with his free hand for one of his double western bacon cheeseburgers and supersize fries. “So, you’re an all work and no play kind of girl?”

She poured the container of Caesar dressing over her salad. “Yeah, something like that. Too much work and not enough time for play.”

Which was her own fault, she knew. For the past few years she’d deliberately made work her sanctuary, a convenient way to dull the pain of the past that seemed to be her constant companion. Her cases kept her mind focused and her emotions sane…yet those same assignments were also responsible for keeping her secluded in an office during the day and crawling into a cold, lonely bed at night. Single and very much alone, if she didn’t count the awful nightmares that sometimes woke her in the darkest recesses of the night and haunted her until the break of dawn.

He considered her remark for a moment as he took a big bite out of his burger and chewed. “Seems you and I have something in common.”

She stabbed a forkful of lettuce and cast him a dubious glance. A cop turned P.I. and a felon couldn’t be more opposite in her opinion, no matter how attractive, sexy, and tempting said felon was. “Now that’s hard to imagine.”

“No, really, we do,” he insisted. Tearing open a small pouch of ketchup with the edge of his straight white teeth, he squirted the sauce onto the wax paper liner so he could dip his fries. “Too much work and not enough time for play is exactly the reason why I was taking off for a week in the mountains. And I have to tell you, Brett is going to get one hell of a good laugh when I tell him how I spent my vacation and how I mistook you as my birthday surprise.”

She squeezed lemon into her iced tea and stirred the amber liquid with her straw. “Again, I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”

“I’m not disappointed, Jo,” he said softly, then shook his head. “Let me rephrase that. Yeah, I’m disappointed that I didn’t get the show I was expecting, but my birthday isn’t for another six days, and I’m still hopeful.” He winked at her.

Heat suffused her skin at the thought of being this man’s private stripper and slowly, gradually peeling away layers of clothing while he watched with those intense green eyes of his. “Only in your dreams, Colter.”

The metal cuff around his left wrist clanged beneath the table as he leaned forward in his seat. “I’d be happy to share the details of tonight’s dreams with you tomorrow morning if you’d like.”

Judging by the wicked gleam in his gaze, there was no mistaking what visions would be dancing in his mind once his head hit the pillow—the very same provocative pImages** she’d just visualized herself. “You can spare me the details, thank you very much.” Plucking a piece of grilled chicken from her salad, she bit into the tender meat and rerouted the direction of their conversation. “So, who is Brett?”

“He’s one of my best friends, and he also works for me.” Swiping three french fries into the pool of ketchup, he popped the trio into his mouth, then took a hefty drink of his soda.

She stared at him for a long moment as she mentally analyzed his statement and came to the most logical conclusion. “So, the two of you are partners in crime and steal cars together?”

He chuckled, though she couldn’t imagine what he found so humorous. “No, Brett’s the CEO of my company, Colter Traffic Control.”

“Really?” she drawled, wondering what kind of story he was trying to concoct. “Interesting name for a company, unless it’s a front for the cars you’ve stolen.”

A heavy sigh unraveled out of him. “No matter what you might believe about me, no matter what those police reports say or how similar I look to that guy in that mug shot you showed me, I’m not a thief.” A sudden impish look passed across his features. “Well, not when it comes to cars, anyway. When I was seven I stole a pack of Juicy Fruit gum from the grocery store. When I got home and my mother found out what I’d done, she immediately took me back to face the store manager and return what I’d taken. After the lecture I got about shoplifting and being prosecuted to the full extent of the law, which terrified me at the time, I swore I’d never steal anything ever again. And I haven’t. Gum or otherwise.”

She smiled, and pushed her salad around on her plastic dish in search of more chicken. “Cute story, but you have to admit that ‘Colter Traffic Control’ sounds like a clever way of saying that your solution to controlling traffic is by taking high-dollar cars off the road so they can be taken to a chop shop or sold to a foreign market.”

“Interesting theory, Ms. P.I.,” he agreed, unwrapping his second burger to devour, “but totally off the mark, I’m afraid. ‘Traffic Control’ is the name of the company I inherited from my father when he died a few years ago.”

He seemed so serious, his story almost too well-thought-out for a first-time felon. She wondered how far he planned to take this charade, and was curious enough to play along to see what he revealed. “Since you claim the business is legit, what, exactly, does your company do?”

He held up a finger to ask for a minute as he chewed the big bite he’d just taken, and she figured he needed the extra time to invent something believable. Done with most of her salad, she pushed the plate aside and rested her arms on the table, waiting for his explanation.

“Sorry ’bout that,” he apologized when he could speak again, then swiped his napkin across that full, sensual mouth of his. “We rent, lease, and sell traffic control devices to general contractors for highway and freeway projects.”

She had to give him extra points for originality. “Devices such as?” she prompted, certain she’d eventually back him into a corner that would leave him stammering for answers.

“Highway medians and barriers, traffic lights, signals and divider cones, parking meters, and even those big lighted signs they use during freeway construction to reroute traffic,” he replied easily. Finished with his dinner, he sucked a smudge of sauce from his thumb, then opened the lid on his chocolate mousse cake. “Those are just a few of the more popular items we supply.”

Propping her elbows on the table, she rested her chin on her laced fingers. “And supplying these traffic control items is such a stressful job that you needed a week-long vacation at a secluded cabin in the mountains?”

Dean pushed his plastic fork through his dessert, slipped a slice of the rich, chocolate concoction into his mouth, and met Jo’s gaze, which brimmed with undisguised skepticism. Considering she was used to dealing with hardened criminals on the lam, he couldn’t blame her for being suspicious and cautious—even if that lack of trust was at his expense. The damning evidence and reports she carried with her about “Dean Colter,” coupled with what she’d witnessed back at his house led her to believe he’d been on the verge of eluding authorities.

No matter how personal and private his reasons were for needing the time off, he opted to stick with the truth. Hopefully, when his real identity was revealed in a few days, she’d remember how honest he’d been with her from the moment she’d taken him into custody. Besides, he had no reason to lie.

“I haven’t had a real vacation in years and I needed time away from work and life in general to think about an important decision I need to make. So, yes, I suppose on some level stress does come into play.” He turned his attention back to his mousse cake for another bite, then continued. “When my father passed away from a heart attack three years ago, the responsibility of Colter Traffic Control became mine, whether I wanted it or not. And every bit of my time and energy since then has been spent making sure the business remained profitable and successful, to the point that I’ve sacrificed a personal life, among other things.”

“You don’t sound like you were too thrilled about taking on the reins of the family business,” she commented lightly.

Did she believe his story? He searched her carefully composed expression for some kind of sign, found none, and guessed that she was just catering to what she no doubt assumed was a big, elaborate tale. “I’m not sure how I felt at the time, honestly. After graduating college I went to work at CTC because that’s what my father wanted and it seemed like the right thing to do. But I can’t say that it would have been the choice I would have made if I hadn’t felt pressured into it.”

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