“Strip and put these on.”

Matt cocked his head and grinned. “With you watching, Ms. Ballanger?”

“I’m a trained medical professional,” Sam said coolly. A bit too coolly. Her indifference to visions of Matt Granger’s naked body was pure bravado. She tightened her grip on her weapon as she tossed the pajamas to him.

He gave her another of those infuriating grins, then pulled his shirt over his head…very slowly. She could see every muscle flexing. Tossing the shirt to the floor, he started to remove his jeans.

“I imagine a trained medical professional’s seen it all, hasn’t she?”

“Pretty much.” She managed to leash her libido. But only by reminding herself about the cool $10K plus expenses she’d collect at the end of the road. Right now that road was looking really long, hard and rocky. Don’t think long. Don’t think hard. Don’t think rocks!

Dear Reader,

I pictured Sam Ballanger’s character as clearly as if I’d met her—because I had! She resembles a good friend and former agent of mine, a petite but shapely brunette with a razor-sharp wit, a passion for money and an aversion to pushy men. What better nemesis than a tenacious reporter after a Pulitzer? Matt Granger is a young Tom Selleck, six-six to her five-four. Sam’s adventures embody several of my favorite fantasies—to excel at a dangerous job, to keep a powerful, sexy male under my complete control, even to have a quick comeback for every one of his wisecracks. She gets to drug and kidnap him, even cuff him to a motel bed! But then Matt turns the tables on her. What can I say? I love alpha women but I love alpha men even more!

Have fun,

Shirl Henke

Finders Keepers
Shirl Henke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Jim,

who was my “salsa suicide” driver and, as always, helped with the punch lines

SHIRL HENKE

received her B.A. and M.A. in history from the University of Missouri and then worked at many different jobs, including running the circulation desk on a small daily, writing and editing “house organ” newspapers, administering a federal information program for the elderly and finally as a university instructor.

Ever since she was a child she read avidly, everything from Robert Heinlein’s sci-fi adventures to the big historical sagas of the 1970s and 1980s. She sold her first novel to Warner Books in 1986. Within two years, she was able to quit her day job. Now she can’t imagine doing anything but writing for a living.

She and her husband, Jim, share their cedar house in the woods with an utterly spoiled and very geriatric tomcat. As with writing, life without cats would be unimaginable. For therapy when she’s not at the computer, she cooks large dinners for their extended family, works in her garden and greenhouse, and still reads avidly. When deadlines permit, she loves to travel. Visit Shirl on the Web at www.shirlhenke.com.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

This is my first venture into comedy/adventure. I think Bombshell and I were meant for each other! Lots of people helped make Sam and Matt’s story possible, beginning with all the friendly residents of Miami. You are as sunny and warm as your climate!

My husband, Jim, drove on my research trip to Miami. Besides navigating the metro area, he helped gather information. A former navy man, Jim wore a cap bearing the logo of his ship that opened many doors for a writer. Former marine turned tour guide and boat captain, Juan F. Campos regaled us with entertaining stories about the Intracoastal islands and suggested yachts and speedboats for the chase sequences.

At the U.S. Coast Guard Station on Terminal Island, Joel Aberbach, SO-PS DIV VI, of the Coast Guard Auxiliary explained which causeways were closed for boat traffic, the height of each causeway, the ebb and flow of tides affecting when larger craft might slip under them and the procedure for raising drawbridges.

Detective Juan Delcastillo of the Miami-Dade Police Department, Media Relations Section, furnished us with essential background information on the Russian mob in Miami, gave us neighborhoods where nefarious activities might take place and filled us in on all procedural matters regarding one of America’s largest and finest police organizations.

Growing up on the Mississippi, Jim and I knew nothing about oceangoing crafts. Mr. D. Larry Deitch, owner of a Tiara, was so kind as to give us a tour of his yacht, explaining how various mechanisms worked. The folks at Florida Yacht Charters and Sales were most helpful furnishing us with ideas about yachts and chase boats—and they didn’t even get to make a sale.

The experts furnished me with accurate information. Any errors are mine. If I fudged with a bit of literary license, I hope they forgive me.

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 1

“What a great set of buns,” Samantha Ballanger said under her breath with a low whistle. It wasn’t professional, but then this wasn’t an ordinary job.

From the cover of her van door, she watched Matthew Granger bend over to pick up a beer can some litterbug had tossed on the sidewalk. He pitched it into a nearby trash can like a good citizen, then turned and continued walking down the opposite side of the street. He’d spot her in half a minute.

The photos didn’t lie. He was tall as a church steeple, six-six if he was an inch, and looked like a young Tom Selleck. Very appealing, but his size might present some logistical complications. Brushing that worry aside, she pulled the other door to her Econoline van wide open and slid an oversize box halfway out. Then she pretended to struggle loading it.

At five-four, the curly-headed brunette was, as her Irish-Catholic mother euphemistically put it, “well endowed.” That’s why she choose to wear a sprayed-on pair of hip-hugger shorts and a halter top that displayed her assets like an Excel spreadsheet. If this getup didn’t grab his attention, he had an eyesight problem her research hadn’t revealed.

As soon as he looked across the street, she could tell there was nothing wrong with his vision. Sam increased her exertion, even emitting a few ladylike swearwords to indicate she was in big trouble. A guy who cleaned up litter surely wouldn’t refuse to help a damsel in distress. She watched him vacillate, obviously wanting to help her as he glanced down at his wristwatch.

Chivalry won out just as she hoped it would. Granger crossed the deserted street. She knew this wasn’t the best neighborhood in San Diego for a woman alone, especially an attractive one whose least provocative article of apparel was the fanny pack strapped to her waist. The big brick complex of buildings where Granger lived was called Samaritan Haven, a place where people hid from their pasts, or ran from their futures. Not all of them were exactly hospitable to strangers.

“Need some help?” he asked, nodding to the box, half in, half out of the van.

“Yeah, I could use some. Thanks,” Sam replied with a bright grin, stepping back so he could take the box in both hands. Predictable as snow in Boston.

“What’ve you got in here, rocks?” he asked, bending his knees to put some muscle behind shoving the box across the carpeting of the van.

Sam moved in close behind him, giving him a whiff of her perfume, a faint musky rose scent. Just for added measure, she let her breasts brush against his shoulder to distract him further. When he shoved the box all the way inside, she shoved the barrel of her gun sharply into his right kidney.

He grunted in surprise as she said conversationally, “It’s exactly what it feels like, so don’t get cute.”

“You’re the one who’s cute, honey, or I wouldn’t have walked my stupid butt across the street to be mugged,” he replied.

“No mugging, honey, but this will be a prelude to a funeral if you don’t spread your legs and lean forward into the van. Put all your weight on your palms.”

“If you’re a kidnapper, I have to warn you there’s not enough in—”

“Just do it,” she snapped curtly, pressing the gun muzzle harder into his kidney to emphasize her point. He was too big to take any chances with.

“Ouch,” he muttered with an oath, leaning forward and spreading his long legs.

Sam tossed a small plastic nasal inhaler next to where his left hand pressed into the plush carpeting. “Squeeze a spray into each nostril, then snuff it up—good and hard,” she instructed.

When he hesitated, she cocked the snub nose. He picked up the bottle and squeezed. She could see that he was trying not to get much of the spray up his nose, but with this new drug, that shouldn’t matter. “Now inhale.” She used the gun to emphasize her point. He complied with a noisy snuffle.

“What is that stuff? My nose’s tingling,” he said, trying to turn around.

“Stand still,” she commanded him, jamming the snub nose harder in his kidney until she was satisfied that he wouldn’t try anything stupid. Then she grabbed the back of his shirt with her free hand and balled it up tightly between his shoulder blades.

“Hey, you’re choking me,” he protested.

She ignored him. No time to fool around now, she thought, eyeing the deserted street again. “Drop the bottle and put your hand back on the van floor.”

“Okay, you’re calling the shots.” He coughed as his shirt collar bit into the sides of his throat. “For a little broad, you have a grip like a sumo wrestler. Now what?”

“We wait,” she said. This was her first use of the new inhalator. Just her luck to experiment on a guy tall as a skyscraper. He coughed again. She imagined his brain starting to spin like the Seattle Space Needle.

His right arm buckled. He straightened it and shook his head. “Shit, that stuff wasn’t Vicks, was it?” he muttered thickly.

Sam heard the slight slurring in his voice and swore silently. Jules had told her the nasal delivery system worked fast, but with a guy this big she’d never imagined it could work quite this fast. Damn! He was starting to puddle up real quick. She found it distracting enough that the man was drop-dead gorgeous. But did he have to be twice her size to boot? If he oozed beneath the van she’d be screwed. There was no way she could heft over two hundred pounds of male muscle from the pavement into her vehicle.

When his legs suddenly started to give way, she hissed, “Lock your knees. Stiffen your legs, for God’s sake.” A little panic was not all that unprofessional.

“Stiffen…stiff… My ass.” The sibilant sound hissed between slack lips. “I cudn’ get stiff for Julia Roberts.”

Sam could see his legs were liquefying. She uncocked the .38 and slipped it into her fanny pack to have both hands free to work. She reached up between his legs to grab the front waistband of his Levi’s.

“Doan get fresh!” It came out “fesh.”

He grunted in acute discomfort as she levered her forearm up against his testicles. It was an old jujitsu move guaranteed to turn any man into a toe dancer. Any man not already higher than a satellite. His knees continued to wobble like Jell-O as she tried to shove him inside the van.

He muttered, “Hey, hey, tha’s m…m’ fam’ly jew’ls.”

“Either you help me get your ass in that van or I’m going to liquidate a couple of the family assets right now. Got it?” Braced behind him, Sam cupped her left hand under his knee, trying to get him to lift it onto the floor of the van. She revised her estimate of his weight. He was the size of her uncle Declan’s semi carrying a full load of sheet steel.

She tugged at his knee again, cursing as she became truly desperate. “Come on, throw your friggin’ leg up there!” A quick glance up and down the street revealed no spectators, her only break so far. Finally, using her body weight against his rump, she bumped him hard several times until she was able to lever his knee high enough to slide it onto the van floor and roll him inside.

“Guy’s ’posed ta do the h-humpin’,” he said, collapsing, giggling in baritone as he flopped onto his back.

Now she only had one of his long legs and an arm dangling out the doors. “I can do this,” she muttered to herself, leaning over him so she could pull the offending limbs inside.

“Ya got great k-knockers…ash, too,” he murmured as his hand groped clumsily around her hip.

Quickly she bent the leg and shoved it inside, then threw the offending arm across his chest and slammed the door before it flopped out again. Sam could hear the crack of his elbow hitting the door panel but he was clearly feeling no pain. The giggling continued, a side effect of the drug she hadn’t been warned about.

“Crap, ‘happy hour’ at ten in the morning,” she muttered to herself. Relief made her almost giddy enough to giggle in return while she once again scanned the street. Not so much as a window shade moved in any of the buildings. Southern California. It figured. “I could’ve gone after him with a net and trident and nobody would’ve noticed a thing.”

Sam climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, then placed the .38 in the glove compartment before pulling out and driving away slowly. In the back of the Econoline she could hear soft male snoring as her new “retrieval” settled into a deep, drugged slumber.

“Well, handsome, we sure as hell gave added dimension to the term tailgating,” she said, turning the corner of the street and heading for a deserted strip mall next to the freeway.

Pulling into the back of the parking lot beneath a cluster of blue gum trees, she shifted to Park, keeping the engine running while she climbed over the seat and quickly changed into a loose set of pink hospital scrubs. After exchanging her slides for a pair of crepe-soled lace-up shoes, she climbed out of the side door of the Econoline and opened the back.

Changing Granger’s appearance took a bit more work but she’d had lots of practice. Still, her usual “snatches” weren’t built anything like this specimen. It took her twice the average time to get his big body trussed up in a lightweight straitjacket concealed by a large institutional-looking terry robe. The faintest hint of a raspy black beard gave him a piratical look. More eyelashes than Liz Taylor. She shook her head in aggravation and slipped a sleeping mask over those wonderful eyes, then taped his mouth shut.

By the time she’d swathed his head with gauze bandages, Sam felt her confidence return. She replaced his shoes with bedroom slippers, then used the custom seat-belt straps attached to the floor to secure him safely for the ride. The belt would also minimize any thrashing when he woke.

So far, so good, she thought as she climbed out of the van carrying two oblong magnetic plates. After locking the rear door, she attached the signs to the sides of the vehicle. They read Fairview Hospital and gave a bogus address about five hundred miles northeast of San Diego on Interstate 15. When they neared there, she had other sets for the cross-country trip to Boston.

“Sweet dreams, gorgeous.” Humming softly to herself, she pulled out of the deserted parking lot and hopped on the freeway. With any luck they’d make Utah by nightfall.

Funny, but he’d never gone blind with a hangover before. Matt blinked and tried to focus through the blackness, past the pounding inside his head. He’d been fading in and out of consciousness for an indeterminate length of time while someone was driving him someplace. He hadn’t the foggiest who or where. His head throbbed so wickedly he didn’t much give a damn. But then the vehicle came to an abrupt stop and he was forced into full and painful wakefulness.

Sam could see he was conscious if not exactly alert. She gave him an experimental shove. “Rise and shine, sweet cheeks.”

Matt wished to hell he could choke the life out of whoever it was and just fade back into blissful oblivion. Must’ve been one hell of a party. He couldn’t remember tying one on this badly since he was a freshman at Yale. The woman prodded him again. Shit, he was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey! What the hell was going on? No party, for sure. It started to come back to him when he heard that Boston accent again and smelled her rose perfume.

“Just sit up. You can do it,” Sam wheedled, tugging on the robe covering the straitjacket that held his arms immobilized.

If only his head would stop the trip-hammer pounding so he could think. Did she work for Renkov? He asked but only mumbles came out. When he tried to talk he sounded like Bruce Springsteen singing. Then he recognized the tight burning feeling over his mouth. The loony bitch had taped it shut! And blindfolded him. His senses were starting to coordinate now, feeding his aching brain enough information to let him know that he was in trouble.

Big trouble.

For all he knew she intended to dump him in San Diego Bay. Yeah, she had to be working for that mobster Renkov. But how the hell had the bastard found out he was here? Had he compromised his sources and placed Tess and her son in danger, too? Matt swore to himself, frustrated, unable to think of anything he could do to break free.

Sam could sense the wheels turning in her captive’s cunning mind. She knew he was going to make this difficult for her as she yanked his legs over the side of the van and pulled him into an upright position. He tried falling backwards into the van, but she applied pressure to a reflex point under his jawbone just in front of his ear that sent a nasty wave of pain shooting into his skull, which she was certain already pounded with agony from the nasal Mickey she’d given him. She’d studied martial arts since her early days with the Miami-Dade PD.

Matt wondered how long he had been out. Judging from the stiffness in his joints, he guessed hours. His bladder suddenly joined the circuit overload and informed him that he needed to take a serious whiz.

Sam knew he was achy and bruised, not to mention past due for using the bathroom. “You’d better cooperate and climb out of the van like a good boy or I’ll have to apply more persuasion. I know the drug’s worn off. If you want to be comfortable and get rid of the restraints, you have to cooperate. Then I’ll explain everything. Oh, and you can use the convenience, too,” she added as an afterthought.

Bitch. What choice did he have?

As if reading his mind, she continued, “Walk for me or I’ll leave you wrapped up in the van while I get a good night’s rest in the motel room.”

His bladder made the decision for him. He sat forward and gingerly slid from the van to the ground with her guiding him. Maybe she didn’t intend to kill him or turn him over to Renkov. Damn, but he’d never felt so helpless in his life, bound and gagged in pitch darkness. Not to mention the wretched drug hangover enhanced by her skillful application of torture to his jaw. He let her guide him across a sidewalk toward whatever fate she had in store for him.

Sam checked the parking lot of the Shady Acres Motel, a small sleazy place situated in a nothing burg in southern Utah. No one watched as she led her “patient” toward the door to the dingy room. The desk clerk had barely taken his eyes off a Wheel of Fortune rerun as he processed her credit card and handed her a room key. She was an R.N. transporting a burn patient to a special rehab facility in Salt Lake. Not half as interesting as Vanna White.

Desert heat seared them as they walked to the room. Sam could tell by his muffled curses that his feet burned through the thin soles of the slippers. He was uncomfortable but there was nothing she could do except hurry him inside. “Here, lean against the wall while I unlock the door,” she commanded.

A blessedly cool blast of air hit her, never mind that it was dank and reeked of old cigarettes. So much for a nonsmoking room. “Here, let me guide you to the bed,” she said to Granger, who shuffled along, forced to trust her.

He was the biggest man she’d ever dealt with and, frankly, he made her nervous for more than one reason. The skinny teenagers with shaven heads and body piercings she usually picked up were a piece of cake, mostly because they were usually too high on narcotics or theology to give her much trouble. Even if they tried, hey, there was a reason for those nose rings farmers put on bulls.

But Matt Granger was another story altogether. He was tall, lean and muscular. Not a thing had been folded, spindled or mutilated on this bod. She’d bet he went two-twenty and all of it was solid muscle. Her old partner Will “Pat” Patowski had asked her to put this guy on ice, but he never warned her she’d have to watch her libido while she worked. She’d deliver Granger safely to Boston or Pat would have her hide. Besides, the fee was too good to screw this up.

She removed the stun gun from her fanny pack and placed it on the bed opposite Matt’s. Then she began unwinding the wrapping from his head, followed by the blindfold. He blinked several times and she noticed that his eyes were a gorgeous shade of golden brown. Kinda went with the black curly hair and darkly tanned skin.

Get over it, Ballanger. This is business. “Okay, here’s the deal,” she said without further preamble. The tape on his mouth would come off after she’d finished her spiel. Then he could argue. The head cases always did. She was sure this guy would be considerably more convincing. “Your aunt Claudia Witherspoon hired me to retrieve you from the cult you joined in San Diego. Here’s my card.”

He blinked, trying to get his eyes accustomed to the light in the scrofulous motel room which contained two saggy beds. They were seated on them facing each other. He was still trussed up and couldn’t talk. Might as well read the damn card she was shoving in his face. It said Samantha Ballanger, Retrieval Specialist. How the hell had this dame hooked up with his aunt Claudia? She sounded south Boston while his aunt was a Brahmin from old and serious money. He didn’t like the way this whole mess smelled. Then she started talking again, so he paid attention.

“I’m taking you back to your aunt. She’s really concerned about your living in a Southern California commune and has the best psychiatric specialists waiting to treat you once you’re safely home. As you can see—” she gestured to the bundle of gauze lying on the bed beside him, then pointed to the robe and slippers she’d dressed him in “—you’re a burn patient and I’m your nurse. I’m transporting you to a rehab facility. At least, that’s what anyone I tell will believe.

“One way or the other, we’re driving straight through to Boston. I can get you there the easy way or the hard way. It’s all up to you. I’ll make you as comfortable as possible, but if you try any funny stuff, I’ll have to use this.” She picked up the stun gun from the bed and held it to his thigh. “Sorry about this, but I’ve found that one quick object lesson is worth a thousand warnings.”

With that she gave the tiniest flick of the trigger mechanism and an incredibly sharp burst of what seemed like living flame shot up and down his leg. He nearly tore the tape loose cursing as she calmly replaced the weapon on the bed beside her.

“Like I said, sorry. But understand, that little jolt was only a love tap. If you try to jump me, I’ll give you a shot that’ll make you think you French-kissed a wall socket.”

This broad’s the one who needs “the best psychiatric specialists” in Boston! He glared at her.

Sam met his eyes. Had he bought her story? He knew he wasn’t a head case living in a commune, but would he believe that she thought so? It would sure make it easier if he did. “Okay, now let me help you out of the jacket and make you comfortable. Then you can talk.”

When he looked down at the nylon wrapping holding his arms immobilized across his chest, she said, “Yeah, it’s a straitjacket. Custom made for me by an outfit in St. Louis called Leather and Lace. Scoot over to the end of the bed but stay sitting,” she instructed, slipping that vicious stun gun into her waistband.

He complied, desperate to get the damn tape off so he could ask if she ever planned to let him use the bathroom. Or, maybe the whole shtick was a ruse and she just intended to talk until his bladder exploded. But, she moved behind him and pulled the robe from his shoulders with one hand, then unfastened the straps of the straitjacket.

One of Matt’s first assignments at the Miami Herald had been to write an exposé on abuses in a Florida mental facility. As he shrugged off the restraint, he knew regular hospital jackets weighed a hell of a lot more than this lightweight job. Leather and Lace. An uneasy thought crossed his mind. He just knew she was into serious S & M when she dangled a pair of handcuffs over his shoulder. When she yanked the tape from his mouth, his lips burned like they’d been basted in jalapeño juice. “Son of a bitch!”

“Click the cuff on your right wrist,” Sam said, stepping back and moving around to face him again. He was big and angry and his eyes burned into her like lasers. She felt more uncomfortable than she had on her first snatch—hell, even on her first arrest as a rookie cop.

“You must be that S & M outfit’s best customer. Get a volume discount?” he asked, waiting to see what she’d do. Maybe this would be his chance. Then again, maybe not. He eyed the stun gun held unwaveringly in her hand.

“I imagine you need to use the facilities,” she said dryly, enticing his cooperation by nodding to the open door of a mold-encrusted bathroom.

His bladder did a couple of push-ups to remind him of how right-on that was. “Yes, I do,” he said grudgingly, clicking the cuff on his wrist.

“Get up slowly and walk inside, sit on the stool and attach the other cuff around the pipe beneath the bathroom sink.”

If he hadn’t had to go damn bad, he wouldn’t have been so cooperative. But he did so he was. She stood in the doorway, watching intently. When he had cuffed himself to the pipe, she continued to check out the small room until he felt on the verge of gargling. “You gonna stand there and watch?”

Sam finished her inspection of the facilities and regarded the irate man seated on the commode. He really thinks I’m some sort of sex pervert. The idea amused her. She couldn’t suppress a grin. “Water sports aren’t among my favorites, Mr. Granger.” She started to close the door.

“Turn on the television,” he said.

“Why should I?”

He hesitated. “I don’t want you listening.”

She stared curiously at him. What now? His face was the color of Spanish roof tile. “Listening for what?”

“Bathroom…noises,” he muttered.

She couldn’t stop the sudden burst of laugher. Bathroom noises. Jeez!

Matt became enraged. “You damned pervert! Straitjackets! Handcuffs! Now bathroom bondage.”

She held up her hands. The guy was serious. Sam didn’t mean to humiliate him any more than essential for security. “All right, all right, I’ll turn on the TV.” She shut the door with good intentions, but then was unable to believe she was saying, “I could play one of my CDs instead—the Chamber Pot Concerto in PP Minor.” She could hear him curse as she turned on the television, then flopped onto the bed and muffled her laughter with a pillow.

In the bathroom Matt thanked God for small favors. At least she wasn’t a nutcase looking for some cheap motel thrills. As he attended to the pressing business at hand—awkward as hell for a guy forced to do it sitting down—he considered his situation. Was she on the level with this “retrieval” stuff? Could he convince her that she had the wrong guy?

When she opened the bathroom door a quarter hour later, a pizza carton and two cans of Coke were sitting on the chipped particleboard table by the window. “Double cheese, pepperoni. Okay with you?” she asked, tossing the key to him so he could unlock the cuff from the drainpipe.

Matt sniffed the heavenly aroma of greasy spice and his stomach gave a growl of gratitude. “I’m happy starving your prisoners into submission isn’t your M.O.”

“You’re aren’t my prisoner, Mr. Granger. Now toss me back the key and take a seat.”

He eyed the stun gun and held up the dangling handcuff. “Coulda fooled me.” He sat on a rickety orange plastic chair and reached for a slice of gooey pizza.

“Eh, eh, eh,” she scolded. “First click the cuff to your chair leg.”

Scowling, he obeyed, then used his left hand to dig into the food. “Sure, I forgot. The handcuffs will keep me from falling off my chair and hurting myself. I’m a patient, not a prisoner. Say, can we talk about that?” he asked around a mouthful of pepperoni.

“You talk. I’m gonna eat,” she replied, devouring the first food she’d had in well over twelve hours.

“You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m a reporter for the Miami Herald. I came to San Diego to research a human interest story. About women hiding from abusive husbands, mothers hiding their kids from fathers trying to kidnap them. That sort of thing. I haven’t joined a commune.” He wasn’t about to mention Renkov and the Russian mob, the real story he was working on.

“That’s not the picture your aunt Claudia gave me.”

“Look, my aunt has a photographic memory—but no film. She’s the one who needs a shrink, not me.”

“I’ll let the two of you work that out with your doctors.”

“Call the Herald news desk and ask for—”

“Thought you said you were doing a human interest piece. The story you described is a feature, not news,” she said, wiping her mouth.

“You have a dual major in jujitsu and journalism?” he asked, sinking his teeth into a slab of pizza and imagining it was Aunt Claudia’s jugular.

She ignored his outburst. “Look, I’ve heard it all before. Everyone has a reason why I should let them go. Some of them are pretty good.”

He took a deep breath, then said in his most intimidating tone, “I could sue the socks off you once we get to Boston. Even press criminal charges for kidnapping.”

Sam remained undaunted. She tossed the paper napkin into the pizza carton, then walked over to her bag and removed a sheath of papers. “Believe me, I checked out your aunt’s story and background quite thoroughly before I took the job. I always do. Read these.” She handed him the papers.

Matt quickly skimmed down the pages, then crumpled them in outrage. “She swore out a bench warrant on me for stealing Uncle Harvey’s engraved Rolex!”

Sam just looked at the expensive gold watch on his wrist, saying nothing.

“For your information, my great-uncle gave me this watch personally while his sister Claudia stood there beaming. It was a college graduation present, for chrissakes!”

“Something else to settle with your aunt when we get back to Boston. She claims it’s a family heirloom and you had no right to take it.”

“This is false arrest. I’ll sue you! Hell, I’ll still sue her!”

“Lots of my retrievals threaten to sue me or have me arrested for kidnapping. Cult members—”

“Samaritan Haven is not a cult,” he said through gritted teeth. “It isn’t even a commune—at least, not the sort you yank brainwashed kids from. It’s really more of a hiding place where people drop out of sight.” Matt leaned forward on the table and combed his fingers through his hair in utter frustration. “I only moved into the place to check out a lead.”

He hesitated. How much should he reveal? He couldn’t endanger his source. That might get her and a number of other innocent people killed. Then again, if Samantha Ballanger had been hired by the Russian Mafia, she already knew that her targets were hiding in the complex. Finding them wouldn’t be difficult. He reconsidered. No, if that were true, he’d already be dead. He decided to take a risk.

“You ever heard of Mikhail Renkov?”

Sam nodded carefully. “The KGB guy who defected to the West in the last days of the Cold War? A big feather in the CIA’s hat, as I recall. Now he’s some sort of import-export millionaire, isn’t he?” Play dumb, Ballanger.

He nodded approvingly. “You read the newspapers. What they haven’t said, yet, is that he hasn’t exactly broken all his ties to Mother Russia. He’s up to his eyeballs in all sorts of illegal stuff—playing footsie with the Russian mob, even dealing with Colombian drug cartels—and I bet he has some pals inside the Company or even in State who’re turning a blind eye.”

“Hang on, Mel,” she interrupted, putting a hand up in dismissal. “Conspiracy Theory was a great movie—”

“And the nutcase Gibson played was right in the end, wasn’t he? Just let me finish. Remember reading about Renkov’s son buying the farm last month?”

“Alexi, the golf pro? Yeah, he was killed in a car bombing. Cops suspect the wife did it—to keep him from divorcing her and running off with his starlet bimbo of the month. Mrs. Renkov dropped out of sight and they’re looking for her.”

“Yeah, the car bomb was her final project to get her electrical engineering degree. Come on, a woman car-bomber? Tess Renkov didn’t kill her husband.”

Sam shrugged. In her checkered career she’d been a cop, paramedic and even moonlighted running down bail jumpers. What he said about the Renkov case could be true. All Pat had told her was that Granger was getting too close to a joint PD-FBI investigation of Mikhail Renkov and they wanted the reporter out of their hair.

“Look, if a bad actor like old Mikhail thought you’d killed his only son, would you stick around and chat?” he argued doggedly. “I think his golden boy was killed by daddy’s enemies. What we have here is a turf war with billions in Eastern Bloc cash at stake.”

“Don’t forget the drug cartels. They have lots of dough, too. But they’re not paying me. Aunt Claudia is. Maybe you can convince her about all this—after I collect my fee.” She shoved the key to the cuffs across the table so he could free his right arm from the chair.

“A one-track mind,” he said with a sigh of resignation. Convincing this dame was as likely as riding a zebra.

Sam watched him unlock the cuff, then took back the key and motioned him to sit on the bed. She knew he was getting tired of taking orders, but he was too sharp to try and jump her—at least just yet. He did as she asked resentfully, then watched as she smoothed out the legal papers he’d crumpled and replaced them in the bag she’d brought from the van.

Stubborn as a stump in hard clay but one fine-looking woman, he thought. Under different circumstances… Forget it, Granger. Remember how that stun gun smarts. Then again, if he could soften her up…so to speak. What the hell, worth a try. It wasn’t as if she was a dog or anything close. In fact, she was a looker. He’d only be doing what came naturally. And so would she, if her earlier reactions to him had meant anything. Usually he read women pretty well.

Sam approached him, holding a set of pajamas she’d taken from the bag. She could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind as she said, “Strip and put these on.”

He cocked his head and grinned, tsking. “With you watching, Ms. Ballanger? You adding voyeurism to bondage?”

“I’m a trained medical professional,” she said coolly. A little bit too coolly. Her indifference to the visions of Matt Granger’s naked body was pure bravado. Sam tightened her grip on the weapon as she tossed the pj’s at him. She was finding that pimply kids spaced out on cosmic visions were a lot easier to handle than one smart-mouthed newsman with a body to die for.

He caught the pajamas deftly, then extended the upper garment back to her. “I’ve always been a bottoms guy myself. Want the top?”

She could feel his eyes on her suddenly hardened nipples as surely as if he had X-ray vision. “No thanks. Never liked The Pajama Game. Just put on both pieces,” she said with satisfaction when readily visible evidence of his reaction started to grow in his jeans.

“Well, what the hell, Ms. Medical Professional, you like ‘The Bondage Game’ well enough. And apparently the Chippendales.”

He gave her another of those infuriating grins and kicked off the slippers, then pulled his shirt over his head…very slowly. She could see every muscle flexing. Tossing it carelessly to the floor between the beds, he started to remove his jeans. She was pleased when he paid careful attention to unzipping his fly. It must have been uncomfortable as hell, she thought smugly, but when he dropped the jeans to his ankles and kicked them away, her mouth was dry. Other places on her body weren’t.

According to her cover story, his attic floorboards were supposed to be warped, but all the timbers below were in great shape. Bloody Architectural Digest quality, dammit! The most interesting one at the moment was the structural beam jutting straight out as he met her eyes and dared her.

“Gonna zap me?” he whispered.

She pointed the stun gun at the strategic place and replied, “If I do, we’ll have a wiener roast, so don’t tempt me.” More like a kielbasa roast. “Just be a good boy and put on the pajamas,” she managed to say with a level voice. He turned around and reached casually for the pj’s, giving her a full view of that great set of buns. Fits with the sausage.

Looking over his shoulder as he slipped the bottoms on, he said, “Didn’t mean to moon you, but I imagine a trained medical professional’s seen it all, hasn’t she?”

“Pretty much.” She managed to leash her libido by reminding herself about the cool ten K plus expenses she’d collect from dear old Aunt Claudia. Right now that road was looking really long, hard and rocky. Don’t think long. Don’t think hard. Don’t think rocks, dammit!

“Good night, Mr. Moonie.” She motioned for him to lie down on the bed.

He stretched out and then folded his hands as if to pray with the open cuff still dangling from his right wrist. “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray—”

“You’ll have to do your nightly devotions hands unfolded. Reach down and click the cuff to the bed frame.” She pointed at the exposed steel bar beneath the box spring.

“I work much better with both hands free, darlin’,” he said, grinning again as he patted the mattress.

“You’ll only need one hand free to do what you need to do tonight.” Sam couldn’t help the snide tone any more than she could keep her eyes away from the tent pole under the sheet.

Muttering about feminine perversity, he clicked the cuff to the bed frame and closed his eyes. Sam flipped off the lights, undressed and slipped into her own bed. After a few moments, she heard him whisper.

“You know, a few times today, I thought I heard Cole Porter tunes.”

She rolled on her side and stared across the darkness separating them. “I was playing an Ella Fitzgerald CD of Cole Porter’s hits. I like his music.” The minute she replied, she could’ve kicked herself. Not smart to get involved, especially in a snatch as unorthodox as this one.

“Me, too. My favorite’s ‘Night and Day.’”

Too late now. She replied, “Hmm. I’d never have taken you for a romantic. Mine’s ‘Love for Sale.’” His soft chuckle caught her by surprise.

“Certainly it is.”

Damn the man. So she was mercenary. So what? A girl from South Boston didn’t have all that many options, unless she considered driving over the road with Uncle Declan. But Sam would be damned if she explained herself to a preppy-turned-reporter like Matt Granger. In a few minutes she could hear the sound of soft male snoring blending with the wheeze of the air conditioner.

She lay in her bed staring at the ceiling, wide-awake.

Chapter 2

“Rise and shine, Prince Charming. It’s time to hit the road for Boston.”

Matt opened one eye and blinked at Sam, then pulled the pillow over his head, muttering through the feathers, “Go away, Fairy Godmother.”

“My, aren’t we testy this morning. You had a good night’s sleep.” She tried to sound self-satisfied but knew it ended up coming out with too much edge.

He tossed the pillow to the foot of the bed and stared balefully at her. Sam Ballanger looked like she hadn’t gotten one wink last night. Maybe the advantage he needed? Matt decided to push the envelope. “Cranky as hell, huh? I offered to help, but nooo, Ms. Medical Professional, you had to stand on principle…or should I say lie on it?” He grinned at her and watched her seethe.

“Your snoring carried all the way to the Continental Divide. That’s what kept me awake,” she shot back. “Believe it or not, you’re not that irresistible. In my book, no man that badly in need of rhinoplasty is.”

“Liar. I snore soft like a baby.”

She tossed the key onto his bed and shrugged casually. “Just get up and head for the bathroom.”

He shoved the sheet down to his waist and rubbed his hand over his right deltoid muscle. “You should try sleeping with one arm cuffed to a bed frame sometime. I probably have a dislocated shoulder. Now, if you were really a trained medical professional, you’d know how to kiss it and make it well…”

“Very funny, Mr. Granger. Now please move it,” she said in what she hoped was a bored voice. “While you take care of necessities, I’ll get us some breakfast from the vending machines in the motel office.”

“Sounds yummy,” he groused, still lying flat on the lumpy mattress.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she replied cheerfully.

“I thought I was a ‘patient,’ not a beggar.”

“Quit stalling. We need to be on the road within half an hour if we’re going to make it anywhere near Denver by tonight.” She waved the stun gun just to emphasize her point. She could see him glance away from it to the table where she’d laid out the sleep mask, bandages and a roll of medical tape.

Matt could also see that the jim-dandy custom straitjacket was draped over the back of the chair. One more day’s ride locked in solitaire and his reflexes would be so shot that he’d never be able to take her. Still, there was the fitting on the gooseneck pipe under the bathroom sink…

Sam pointed to a small vinyl zipper bag lying on the top of the battered old television and said simply, “Toiletry items.”

“How the hell am I supposed to brush my teeth, not to mention shave or take a shower, with my right hand cuffed to the drainpipe?”

“No showers, Mr. Granger. We’ll both get a little ripe before we reach Boston. For the rest, you’re a big boy. Be resourceful and you’ll figure it out.”

I’ll be a hell of a lot more resourceful than you’d ever imagine, Sammie, babe. Matt let her lock him in the bathroom. He always thought clearer on an empty bladder.

While he was taking care of business in the other room, she peered through a broken slat in the blinds. No one in sight. Might as well go to the office and see what she could scare up for breakfast.

When Matt heard the outside door close, he fleetingly considered yelling his lungs out for help. But then he recalled that she’d told him they were the only customers in the fleabag. Probably true. Even if he could make himself heard over the blaring TV, it was doubtful a desk clerk in a dive like this would give a shit. Even if he did, “Nurse Ratchet” would make him believe her poor “patient” was having a seizure or a conversation with Bart Simpson.

Matt set to work on the gooseneck pipe. “Great. Everything in this dump is made of Lego blocks except the plumbing. Which is made of friggin’ Swedish steel!” He grunted, red faced with strain, wrapping both hands around the connection to give it one last desperate try. No go. He needed something for leverage. “Not even a Boy Scout would carry a pipe wrench in his jammies,” he muttered savagely as his eyes swept frantically around the small mold-encrusted room for anything he could reach that might help.

That’s when he saw it. A rusty old C-clamp holding together the broken curtain rod over the window. It was partially obscured by the hideous blue-and-orange plastic ruffle and a generous layer of cobwebs. Matt Granger was a tall man with long arms to match his lanky frame. But stretch as he might, his fingertips could only come within six inches of the damn clamp. He yanked on the ruffled “window treatment,” hoping to rip the rod loose from its mooring. No go, again.

With a sickening thwap the rotted brittle plastic flew off the rod, smacking him in the face with sticky cobwebs. Snarling an oath about spider spit, he threw the filthy monstrosity into the tub and pulled the shower curtain closed to cover it up. Then he wiped up the mess around the sink and in his hair, praying she wouldn’t notice the missing plastic ruffle on the window. No sense giving Sam any ideas about checking out the next accommodations more thoroughly than she had these. Then he heard the front door open.

“Ready or not, here I come,” she sang out.

Matt decided if he was ever going to get away from this single-minded broad, he’d better take his chance now. Just thinking of her little “object lesson” with the stun gun made him wince, but what the hell. She’d have to move in real close to use it—not that he doubted for one instant she’d hesitate. Still, he reasoned, he was a big man and she was a small woman. How hard could it be to overpower her before she got a shot at him? Trained medical professional. He snorted as the bathroom door opened.

“All I could get was a carafe of their coffee and a couple packages of cake doughnuts, artifacts that must’ve been in the vending machine since the dawn of automation.” Sam glanced at his bare chest and the droplets of water dripping from his hair and face onto those broad shoulders. No good, Ballanger. Ah, not good, but beautiful. She tossed him the key and spun around, stalking out of the doorway to wait while he unlocked the cuff.

Matt noted the way she’d looked at him. Maybe he could give good old lust one last college try before chancing the stun gun. “Coffee smells good,” he said. In fact, it smelled like a blend of road tar and battery acid, but he was used to the stuff in the Herald’s newsroom, which was even worse.

When he reached for his clothes, piled in a heap on the floor, Sam said, “No. Leave them. I’ll put them in the van later.”

He gave her a quizzical look, then grinned. This was working out even better than he’d hoped.

“Put on the pj’s again and slip on the robe and house shoes. It looks more convincing if a patient’s not dressed in street clothes,” she explained quickly, too quickly.

“So much for romance,” he mumbled as he reached for the discarded pajamas and coarse terry robe, taking his time, letting her stare at his naked chest. After he’d belted the robe casually around his middle, he walked over to the table, never breaking eye contact with her. “Pour me some java?”

“Pour it yourself,” she snapped, gesturing with the gun. As he did so, she watched the front of the robe gap open. He hadn’t buttoned the pj top, either. She could see his chest again. Had he done that deliberately? Of course he had. Ballanger, you have to be a moron to fall for this guy, she chided herself, watching him take an experimental sip of the coffee and reach for a doughnut as he sat down across from her.

Smiling, he swallowed down the large Styrofoam cupful as if it were medicinal. “Ah, nothing like a jolt of caffeine in the morning.”

“You must have a cast-iron mouth,” Sam said as he poured a second cup and chomped into a doughnut.

“Newsroom habit. Reporters learn to drink this sludge like water. Only thing that redeems it is it’s too hot to taste. I really do work for the Herald, you know.”

“Yeah, well your aunt said you ‘dabbled’ at writing stories. Didn’t say where. Look, I checked out Claudia Witherspoon before I took this job, believe me. She’s a female Warren Buffet. We’ve been over this before, remember?”

Matt snorted in disgust. “She never approved of my career choice. I was supposed to be a good little Yalie, stay in Boston and work for the family brokerage firm.” He shuddered.

Sam looked at him with renewed interest. “Yale, huh? Figured you’d have ivy of some kind growing out of your ears. Why not just chill out at the family manse, live off your trust fund?”

“Would you like to sit around and do nothing?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “Never had the option. It might be nice to jet-set around though, you know, sipping martinis.”

He couldn’t help the frustrated bark of laughter. Oh, would his great-aunt pay for this if he got dragged all the way to Boston right in the middle of the biggest story of his career! He’d wring her scrawny, manipulative old neck! “That’s what you imagine the life of a Boston Brahmin is like?”

“It isn’t?”

He knew she was humoring him. “It’s boring beyond measure and filled to the brim with social obligations.”

“No wonder you ran away and joined a cult then.”

Matt sighed. “I did not join a cult.” It came out through gritted teeth.

“Not what Aunt Claudia said. You were living in that complex just the way she described it. I believe her term was ‘a pack of California coconuts.’”

He raised one eyebrow as a thought occurred to him. “I wonder if the old girl’s finally gone around the bend.”

“You’re the one around the bend. She sounded plenty sharp.”

“Sharp she always has been.” His eyes narrowed in cunning intensity. “She’s paying you to bring me to Boston. How about I pay you not to?”

Sam shook her head, wiping crumbs from her mouth with a paper napkin. “Against my ethics. If I took bribes it would wipe out my business.” And Pat’d put me in the slammer with Renkov and his pals when they arrest them. “A girl’s gotta think of her reputation, after all.”

“Yes, I know, you are, after all, a ‘trained medical professional.’ I’ll pay you…three thou to let me go.” He measured her over the rim of his cup as he sipped.

Sam chuckled in genuine amusement. “You never give up, do you? Even if I were willing to stiff dear old Aunt Claudia—which I’m not—it wouldn’t work. She’s paying me ten K plus expenses. I get you back under her wing within the week, she even promised me a bonus. The old dame’s loaded.”

Matt swore beneath his breath. Last option closed. Three grand was all he had to his name unless he hocked his car and small sailboat, neither of which were exactly liquid assets. “She inherited a couple of mil from my grandfather and quadrupled it several times playing the stock market over the past forty years or so,” he said glumly.

While he appeared deep in thought, Sam observed him. He acted nothing like a patient, but then he wasn’t nuts, only a reporter messing around in a deal way over his handsome head. Her usual range of clients sulked, turned mute, whined or were so catatonic that she could’ve propped them up in a corner and slept through the night in perfect safety. Now and then one went ballistic. Once Granger found out the truth, he might, too. A good thing she carried the stun gun.

She’d never met a guy with half as much sex appeal as Matt Granger. Of course that was understandable, considering that her snatches were usually pimply teens or wealthy nutcases whose families spent a fortune to prevent scandal. Nothing like this dude. He’s out of your league, Sam. If you met him in Miami, he’d walk past you without a second glance.

Samantha seemed distracted. This might be his only chance. Matt lunged against the table, overturning it into her lap and sousing her with coffee. She let out an oath of outrage as the scalding liquid splashed across her chest and legs. His long arms extended, big fingers biting into her shoulders. Her hand, still holding the stun gun, was pinned beneath the edge of the table. Luckily, the table was small and round, lightweight enough for her to kick at the center base of it and roll it off her as he moved in.

He was a big sucker and his grip was punishing as he tried to get her into a bear hug, immobilizing her arms. That helped get her to her feet, but before he could lift her off the ground, she hooked one ankle behind his knee hard. He lost balance and started to topple, still holding her. But his grip on her arms loosened sufficiently for her to raise the gun and press it against his rib cage. She gave him a short jolt.

“Son of a bitch!” He grunted through gritted teeth, but didn’t let go, trying instead to knock the weapon out of her hand.

Then she let him have it, a full three-second burst. He folded up like an accordion at the end of a three-day Polish wedding. Granger slid bonelessly to the dirty carpet, now soaked with coffee and powder sugar. He was still conscious but his muscles were sending crazy jangled signals to every nerve in his body. Sam stepped quickly back as he twitched and flopped. A banked carp could’ve moved better.

His eyes, the only part of him still able to obey brain commands, glared at her in confusion while he tried to curse. At least, she was pretty sure he was cursing. His speech was too garbled to really tell.

“I warned you, Mr. Granger. Now look at the mess you’ve made. I’ll have to charge Aunt Claudia extra to pay for the damages. And we’re going to be late getting on the road.” She affected a sigh of patient resignation to cover her acute case of nerves. Boy, would he be pissed when he found out how he’d been set up. Too bad, but all the better to get thoughts of sex out of her head. This charming little encounter definitely cured her of that. It had been a close call.

Sam had only been forced to zap a few of her patients and none with a maximum charge before. Then again, none had been his size. As she waited for him to come around, hoping it would not take too long, she soaked some towels with warm water and tried to clean him up as much as possible. A burn patient covered with powder sugar and reeking of stale coffee might just raise a few questions if anyone got close enough to notice.

After she’d done the best she could with Granger, she quickly changed into another set of scrubs. Considering how furious he’d be, she decided it might be prudent to put him in the straitjacket while he was still malleable. Getting the jacket on him was not easy. He was dead weight and groaning at every movement. As she worked, Sam explained. “Maybe I should’ve told you I’m not just a med tech, Mr. Granger,” she said calmly. “I was a cop for seven years before I went into the retrieval business. I have a black belt in judo. Ni-dan.”

Great. Matt’s brain felt like an egg frying on a Miami sidewalk on the hottest day in July. It could comprehend what she was saying, but refused to have anything to do with his autonomously spastic muscles. I’ve been taken down by a woman—a woman half my size! Well, what next? He decided it didn’t matter. She probably had a nuclear device or two stashed in that fanny pack of hers.

By the time Sam had him propped up against the wall wearing his “custom jacket,” his tongue had begun to un-thicken. He tried it out. “Can you leave off the sleep mask? I feel disoriented enough without being blind, too.” He paused, then added grudgingly, “Please?”

“Sorry, but you’ve just amply demonstrated that I can’t trust you.”

He cocked his head at her as she reached for the mask. “Guess there’s no hope you won’t gag me, is there?”

“Not a hope in hell, Mr. Granger,” she replied, slipping it over his head, then starting to pull off a length of tape.

His tongue still did not work right. He spoke slowly, slurring his words. “You’re being a bitch, Samantha. I could’ve hurt you, but I didn’t. Now you’re torturing me.”

“Shut up,” she replied, clamping his jaws together with one hand while applying the tape with the other, feeling guilty as hell. Why couldn’t he just be another head case? Damn Sergeant Will Patowski and the whole Miami-Dade PD! Damn the FBI! She tried reminding herself that he had stuck his reporter’s nose in a police investigation and brought this on himself. Even his aunt had agreed enough to pay her a fortune to get him out of the firing line. But Sam still felt rotten.

As she wound the gauze around his head he mumbled curses through the tape. This time she was certain he was cursing and that she was the object of his fury. She could practically feel his eyes burning through the sleep mask. He would be one dangerous customer if he got loose again. This’ll teach me to think with my hormones.

“Okay. Time to hit the road, Mr. Granger.”

He didn’t move when she tugged at the collar of his robe. “I know the charge has worn off or else you wouldn’t be able to talk so glibly. We really do have to go, so…unless you want me to demonstrate how my little gizmo works on your thigh again—only a short burst, you understand—I suggest you let me help you up and walk to the van like a good boy.”

He climbed in the van like a good boy.

Chapter 3

By noon they were on Interstate 70 in eastern Utah. Sam could not stop thinking about his last words before she taped his mouth. He could have punched her but he didn’t. He’d only grabbed her, trying to keep her from using the stunner. His plans had obviously not included using his fists. Unlike a number of rough customers she’d dealt with over the years—not to mention collars she’d made while on the force—he had not wanted to hurt her. And with those muscles, he certainly could have. He had every reason to be furious at the way she had treated him.

Dammit, his speech had been so thick from the stun, he must be parched by now. She knew how a shock like that messed with a victim’s—no, dammit—a patient’s electrolytes. Guilt was a bitch, she thought with a sigh. Maybe there was some way to make it up to him. That’s when she saw the sign advertising Sam’s Slurpee Stand. A message from God?

According to the billboard, the guy using her name served “the biggest baddest ice drinks this side of Death Valley. Only one mile off the highway.” She watched for the exit and pulled off, following the arrows that pointed down a twisting black-top road. “Sam’s a damned liar,” she muttered as the direction continued sending her deeper into nowhere. “I don’t have time for this.” Already they were hours behind schedule to make Denver.

Just as she was about to give up and make a U-turn, she saw the joint at a fork in the road. “Pays to advertise,” she said, observing the long string of cars inching their way toward the drive-up window. Of course, it probably didn’t hurt Sam’s business that this was the only place within a hundred miles. She took her place at the end of the line and looked at her watch. Damn, the service had better be pretty fast or she was out of here.

Then Granger groaned again. Sam settled back against her seat with a sigh of resignation. After what seemed like half a day, although she knew it was only half an hour, she reached the window and bought two supersize strawberry Slurpees. Not wanting any company when she gave the treat to her “patient,” Sam started to pull away from the small white clapboard drink stand. Suddenly the shrill bleat of a horn coincided with a nasty spray of gravel and the crunch of a fender. Hers.

No good deed ever goes unpunished. Sam rested her head against the steering wheel.

Some Utah yutz had just blindsided her. The rusty yellow pickup had pulled out from behind the stand and crashed head-on into the passenger side of her van. Great. Wonderful. Only Sam used stronger words for the situation as she climbed out to survey the damage. Already she could hear Matt making muffled noises from the back. Before he got it into his head to start kicking at the door, she rushed over to the wizened old man sitting behind the wheel of the pickup.

“I’m a nurse transporting a burn patient. He’s really in pain. Could I just exchange insurance information with you and get back on the road?” she asked the codger. When he grinned sheepishly at her, she could see why he liked Slurpees. He had no teeth.

“Right sorry about this here leetle bump.” He took a long swill of what looked like grape Slurpee, then pulled his wallet from his jeans and handed her his driver’s license.

“No, I need your insurance card, not your driver’s…” Her words trailed away when she glanced at the expiration date on the license. Damn! It had expired nearly ten years ago. Fat chance he’d have insurance. She handed the yellowed square back to him. “I don’t suppose—”

“Nope. But Jasper Hopwell’s good fer any damages. Jest ask anybody here at Sam’s. They’ll vouch fer me. Say, that there feller inside is sure raisin’ a ruckus. He all right?”

Matt was banging his foot against the door like the Beast from Revelation trying to escape the gates of Hell. Sam nodded. “Like I said, he’s in terrible pain. I have to get him to a burn center just outside Denver as soon as I can. Now, I wouldn’t want to get you in any trouble for hitting me, so why don’t we just forget about this little fender bender?”

“I’ll be glad to pay once’t yew git yer wagon fixed,” Jasper offered sincerely.

Here she was letting him off the hook and he was too decent to take the offer. “No, really, it’s all right. I’m fully insured through Fairview Hospital and my patient comes from a very wealthy family.” Well, that was sure the truth. Aunt Claudia would have bodywork tacked onto her bill. “I won’t get in any trouble.” Unless you call the local constabulary.

Jasper appeared to consider her appeal as she smiled her most winsome smile at him. She held her breath until he nodded. “Reckon, if’n yew say it’s all right. Tell yew the truth,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Effie, my missus, she’ll skin me and tack my hide to the barn door if’n she finds out I been drivin’ whilst she wuz off visitin’ her sister in Ogden.”

“Good deal. You take it easy driving home, okay?”

“All righty. Say, yew take good care ’o thet feller. He don’t sound too happy. Right strong fer a sick ’un, though.”

Matt’s muffled oaths had grown louder as she and Mr. Hopwell talked. So had the kicks at the door. “I’ll sure do that, sir.” She returned to the van and took off, heading toward the highway. Just as she turned off the back road, one of the big Slurpees tipped over, spilling thick red goo all over the passenger seat.

“Dammit!” she yelled, pounding on the steering wheel. Granger, whose protests had subsided once she was under way again, renewed kicking the door.

All right, she’d gone through hell to get him that big fat Slurpee. He would damn well drink it! She crossed the over-pass and found a deserted rest area boasting the only shade tree in the state. Setting the emergency brake hard enough to nearly snap it off, she seized the oversize Styrofoam cup and stomped to the rear of the van. She yanked the doors open and glared at Granger, who glared back.

Oh, it didn’t matter that he had gauze covering the blindfold, she knew he was glaring, damn his hide. She thought of Effie and stretching a hide on a barn door. Granger’s would be big enough to stretch over the whole frickin’ barn. Sam took a deep, calming breath. The Econoline still ran. The bent fender was nothing that a body shop couldn’t take care of for a pittance, say a grand or two.

“Too bad, Aunt Claudia. You can afford it,” she muttered as she unstrapped Matt. “Okay, swing your legs around so I can help you sit up,” she told him.

He tried to talk through the tape, but she ignored the mumbling. “Look, I went to a lot of trouble to get you this. According to the ads, it’s the best Slurpee in the state. You gotta be dehydrated and I know your electrolytes are messed up, so cooperate.”

Finally, after considerable struggling, she got him propped against the fender well with his feet dangling over the edge of the fender. He was still pretty groggy in spite of his kicking fit back at the Slurpee stand—or maybe worn out because of it. She hesitated for a moment as she unwound the gauze and reached for the tape over his mouth, willing herself to chill out. Grudgingly, she added, “I owe you for not hurting me this morning. You were right. I was a bitch.” Then she pulled the tape off, taking care not to pull his parched lips any more than necessary.

“Can’t argue with that,” he mumbled. His tongue felt like number-seven sandpaper and his head pounded like Ricky Ricardo’s bongo drums. Then she took hold of his chin with one hand and thrust a straw between his lips with the other. He tried to suck but his mouth was so numb and the Slurpee so thick, nothing came through. He tried again. No go.

“I know you’re dying of thirst. You gotta be,” she said in exasperation, thinking of the red goo soaking into the passenger seat while she wasted time with him.

“Can’t…get it…through the straw.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said, pulling on the straw to get it out of the small hole punched in the lid. It wouldn’t budge. She tried opening the lid and it appeared welded to the cup. “Great! The other one opened like sesame. This one’s sealed tighter than Brad Pitt’s buns.” She pried with her fingernails and broke one before the edge of the lid finally popped up, spraying her with thick red ice.

Matt could hear her swearing and only guessed about what was going on since she’d kept his blindfold in place. He was half sitting against what he thought was the rear fender well inside the van, slipping as she scooted around. A small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Having troubles, Sammie?” he couldn’t resist asking in spite of how thirsty he was. Why did he provoke this woman? She could dump the whole bloody thing over his head and he’d dehydrate by nightfall.

Sam saw his smirk and nearly did just what he was thinking. “I’d love to give you a shower but it would be unprofessional—and worse yet, unprofitable.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’d make a great Ferenghi?”

“What’s that?” she asked. She figured it wasn’t flattering. “Just drink, will you?” she demanded, tipping his head back and starting to pour the icy contents of the cup down his throat when he opened his mouth to answer her question.

The mouthful of Slurpee was thick, filled with shaved ice. And some of it went down the wrong pipe. He coughed and swallowed, feeling his face turning strawberry-red. “I hate strawberry,” he mumbled ungraciously between coughs.

“Tough. I didn’t have time to consult you about the menu,” she snapped, pulling on his jaw so she could dump more of the wet stuff down.

He had to open his mouth to gulp in air as he coughed. That’s when she hit him unsuspecting with another strawberry salvo. He tried to swallow it mid-inhalation. This time all of it went down the wrong pipe. He tried to lean forward but his butt was slipping on the plush carpeting and all he succeeded in doing was sliding more.

“Hold still, dammit! You’re gonna choke,” Sam said, setting the cup down and reaching out to pull him up while he coughed and gagged. “Boy, when you said you hated strawberry, you weren’t kidding.” Ungrateful lout!

He weighed too much for her to be able to pull him upright, so she jumped out of the van and knelt to brace his feet on the smooth carpet and give him some traction. The open Slurpee cup tipped over when his knee brushed against it, splashing the contents over her shoulders and head. Sam let loose with a volley of curses, wiping the sticky liquid from her face. She stood up and combed ice chips from her hair while Matt continued to cough.

Damn, this was getting serious! She leaned inside and tugged on the straitjacket’s straps to pull him forward. That’s when he gave one great whooping cough and let loose with a stream of the trapped liquid. He looked like a big fire-breathing dragon as red Slurpee gushed from his nostrils and mouth. The spray of liquid “fire” caught them both.

Matt couldn’t catch his breath. Every time he tried to inhale, more of the confounded Slurpee shot from what he was sure was the bottom of his lungs to the top of his aching head. Damn, it was cold coming through his nose! And it burned! He could hear Sam cursing and yelling but at the moment, he was too occupied trying to breathe to pay any attention to her.

“Look at the mess you’ve made! I can’t friggin’ believe this! Jeez!” She pounded on his back until his coughing and spewing subsided and his face started to retreat from bright red to grayish tan. Then she left him propped against the wheel well and reached for a big roll of paper towels stored with her other gear. All she could do was soak up the worst of the goo from her new plush carpeting and dab at the mess on her scrubs. The scrubs were pink already, but that didn’t help much with the deep crimson of red dye number two soaking them. As to the mess on Matt Granger, she figured since he spewed it up, he could live with it until tonight.

Then she remembered the front seat of the van, which she’d intended to clean up as soon as she gave him a few sips. “Not bad enough I’m covered, you’re covered and the back of the van’s soaked—so’s my passenger seat!”

“If you hadn’t tried to drown me with the nasty stuff, none of this would’ve happened,” he rasped out.

“That’s real gratitude! I go miles out of my way to get you a cold drink instead of warm bottled water and all you can do is blame this mess on me. Even got smacked by a geezer driving without a license. I was worried about your reaction to the stun gun. Seeing you’re back to your usual charming self, you must be okay.”

Matt took a deep cleansing breath, relieved that his lungs worked. “Right now, that warm bottle of water sounds like nectar of the gods,” he said through clenched teeth. “And for your information, there isn’t a cell—an atom—in my body that doesn’t hurt like I’ve been worked over by a pair of goons with ball bats. Who’d believe one little dame could inflict that much pain.”

“I’m no ordinary dame, Mr. Granger.” Looking at the wreckage of her van, she, too, spoke through gritted teeth.

“No kidding. You’re Lucrezia Borgia with electrodes.”

“You’re funny. Oughta go on Letterman. Just remember you brought this whole thing on yourself.”

“Yes, I’m prone to inciting people to kidnap and choke me. A shitty habit.”

Sam ignored the last comment. Obviously her “patient” was recovered. Glumly, she surveyed what had been new carpeting in her van, then took the towels and did what she could to soak up the puddle in the front seat. At least it was vinyl. She disposed of the bonus-size roll of bloodred towels, tossing the whole mess in a trash Dumpster near the lone tree, then returned to the open doors at the back of the van.

“We’re so far behind schedule we’ll never make Denver tonight.” She tore off a fresh strip of tape and reached for his mouth.

Hearing the now familiar sound, he quickly said, “I could use some of that water. Please.” He practically choked on the plea, but damn, that strawberry ick was about to close off his bronchial tubes again.

Muttering under her breath, Sam retrieved the bottle and shoved the straw in his mouth. “Think you can suck this up?”

He took several long thirsty pulls, then couldn’t resist answering, “Sammie, since I met you I’ve sucked up a lot worse than warm water.”

She smacked the tape over his mouth and added a second piece, even longer, just for spite, then secured him with the seat belts before locking him in and taking off. As she drove, the sickly sweet odor of strawberry filled the van. She felt like gagging but stifled the urge. Aunt Claudia, get out your checkbook!

They’d lost a good two hours between his dumb stunt this morning and the great Slurpee deluge. Sam pushed hard through the afternoon, keeping an eye out for highway patrol cars as she sped into Colorado. It was nearing dusk and she still needed to make another hundred miles in order to keep on schedule. But she was beat. Slurpee stained her clothes and made her brown hair stand up in strawberry spikes. She shuddered every time she caught sight of herself in the side-view mirror. If a cop pulled her over, he’d haul her straight to jail.

“I gotta have a shower,” she muttered. What’s more, if she didn’t clean Matt, too, he’d dry stuck permanently to the carpet in the back of the van, her passenger forever. No Aunt Claudia. No money.

She considered what to do. According to her map, the next town was a wide place in the road around fifteen or so miles due east. “You better pray there’s a motel in this burg coming up, buster, or I’m gonna drag you through a car wash on the end of a rope,” she yelled into the back of the van.

She pulled off the highway and found just the kind of joint she wanted.

The Mountain Dew Inn boasted indoor plumbing and that was about it. Cheap and quiet, the small mangy hole-in-the-wall would be a place where no one asked questions when she requested a room at the far end of the building “so her patient wouldn’t be disturbed.”

The desk clerk gave her a funny look and a sniff test, marveling to himself over a customer who looked and smelled as if she’d rolled in stale strawberries. It took all kinds and he’d seen most of them. But Elroy Phleggi had no intention of asking about a paramedic’s weird habits. Maybe it was burn salve. Go figure. He’d let that snotty new maid Kimmie deal with any mess they left in the morning.

He tossed the keys across the counter at her and gave directions to the last room on the left side. Then he turned back to the TV and a rerun of an old Beatles movie.

Sam knew the paper towels hadn’t done much to remove eau de Slurpee from her vehicle. “Oh well, Aunt Claudia can absorb the cost of new carpet, so to speak,” she muttered as she backed the van up to the door and guided Matt into room thirteen. The moment she checked out the bathroom, she knew the number had been an omen.

“Not a damn place in the shower to hook that cuff to.”

Matt could hear her curses as she drew nearer. He would’ve smiled if not for the tape over his lips. Now she was muttering something about the shower stall as she began unraveling the bandages from his head. The sleep mask came next. Then she removed the tape, not at all gently.

“Anyone ever tell you your bedside manner stinks?” he asked, blinking to get his eyes to focus.

“Anyone ever tell you that you just plain stink?” she shot back.

“That’s your fault for dumping that gunk down the wrong pipe.”

“The right pipe would’ve been a lead one—to beat you unconscious for the rest of this trip.”

In spite of the red splotches and crisp hairdo, she looked kind of cute. He grinned. “You look like you have a wicked case of measles. Oh, and I like the ‘do.’ That Slurpee stand’s in the wrong business. Oughta start marketing that stuff as hair gel.”

“Amusing from a man who looks like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Mr. Granger.”

“Don’t you think you could call me Matt?” Why in the hell was he getting the hots for a woman who’d done him more bodily injury than a Jersey leg-breaker?

“Nope.” Her single-syllable reply did not convey the cool certainty she had intended. How can a man in this condition be wildly attractive to me?

He stared at her breasts again, even though that was what had gotten him in this mess in the first place. Think of something else, Granger. He raised his head and looked at her face. In spite of everything, she was still one hell of a good-looking dame. He shrugged inside the straitjacket and grinned stupidly at her. “You going to keep me trussed up all night?”

“Nah,” she replied grimly, removing the stun gun from her fanny pack. “But unless you want to do more break dancing, better pay attention.”

“As Ross Perot said, I’m all ears.”

That wasn’t exactly the part of his anatomy her thoughts had strayed to, but she would definitely not share that with him. “There’s no way to secure a cuff in the shower stall in this dump, so I’ll have to bathe you myself.”

He leered. “Now I’m all eyes.”

“You won’t be for long.” With that, she slipped the blindfold back on.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“I’m going to remove your clothes and the jacket, then cuff your hands behind your back and guide you into the stall. You behave while I scrub you off—I mean, oh, hell, you know what I mean.”

He grinned. “No fair. You get to watch and I don’t.”

“I’m the health-care professional, remember?” Just keep reminding yourself of that, Sam.

Chapter 4

Sam slipped the robe off of his body, unfastened the jacket straps and pulled the apparatus off of him. Every article of apparel on him was stiff with red ichor. Then she stood back and said, “Take off the pj’s and then put your hands behind your back.” Obediently, he unbuttoned the pajama top and shucked it.

But the bottoms were stuck to his legs. He said to her, “Okay if I bend down and peel these off or will you zap me again?”

“Do it—slowly.”

He yanked the cheap cotton off with a hiss of pain when sizable clumps of his leg hair went with it.

“Now you know what a bikini wax feels like,” she said.

He straightened up and glared at her through the blindfold. “Thank God I was born male.”

Her mouth went dry just looking at his body. She was definitely happy he was a male, too! Now naked for her to admire, Matt Granger was quite a sight to behold. Keep it professional, Sam. She cleared her throat, then said, “Now, put your hands behind your back.”

He did as he was told, holding his hands so she could click the cuffs on his wrists. Then he let her guide him toward the sounds of steamy water pouring from a shower nozzle. He could hear the soft rustle as she shed her clothes and visions of the two of them naked in the water flashed through his mind, sending signals to his body. Now he was sure there’d been no permanent damage from that stun gun. Thank God!

“Don’t you think you could call me Matt, now?”

“Definitely not now. Get into the shower.” Sam shoved him beneath the steamy downpour, but not before he backed up just enough for her breasts to brush against his arm. Damn, the man had some moves, even blindfolded and cuffed!

“No fair again. You have me buck-ass and you’re still wearing stuff,” he groused.

Since her bra and panties hadn’t suffered during the accident in the van, she had left them on, body armor of a sort. A Victoria’s Secret chastity belt. Ha! Somehow, Sam didn’t figure it would do much good. “Quit bitching and stand still,” she said sharply, lathering up a bar of soap between her hands. She stood stupidly, suds running down her arms while she stared at his water-slicked body, which filled the small shower stall.

She was afraid to touch him.

As if reading her mind, he taunted, “Come on, Samantha. Scrub me off.”

You can do this. You’re a trained professional. And he’s worth ten grand! Sam repeated the words like a mantra as she reached up and began lathering his chest. God, the pelt of black hair felt good. Too good. She moved up his neck and said, “Close your eyes.”

“Why the hell should I? I’m blindfolded.”

She thrust her soapy hands into his hair and started scrubbing.

“Yeow! That burns!”

“I told you to close your eyes. Soap’s dripping inside the mask.” He was handsome even when his face squinched up, dammit! After that she was forced to move to those broad shoulders and then let her hands glide down his biceps. Odd that she’d never before realized the similarities between bathing someone and foreplay. “Turn around so I can get your back.”

“But you haven’t finished with my front,” he said, chuckling as his erection nudged her right in the belly button. “Bull’s-eye,” he crowed.

“Nope. High, twelve o’clock,” she managed to say before all the breath left her body. Stepping back, she seized his shoulders and forcefully turned him around. “Raise your arms so I can wash your armpits.”

“What do I look like, a contortionist? Lady, you have my hands cuffed behind my back. Now, if you’d care to unlock them…”

In response, she took the bracelets by their connection and yanked them up. He yelped in surprise. Then when she reached two soapy hands to scrub his armpits, he tried to clamp his arms to his sides, hunching over, sliding away. “That…tickles,” he gasped, fighting not to laugh out loud, failing as she continued forcing her soapy fingers higher into the sensitive cavities.

His whole body convulsed with helpless laughter and he leaned back against the shower wall. Sam couldn’t help her broad grin, unable to resist playing the game in spite of its inherent dangers. “I don’t need a stun gun to control you—only my fingers,” she said, knowing the laughter in her voice was unmistakable.

“Anyone…ever tell…you…you’re vicious?” He finally managed to get the words out through rumbling chuckles that echoed in the small confines of the shower. Her fingers moved across his bent back, tickling the sensitive skin at his nape. To reach his neck, she had to press her body over his and lean into him on tiptoes. Matt could feel her breasts, still clad in a nylon bra, feel the nipples’ nubby distension through the thin fabric.

Damn, Granger! What the hell are you doing? Quit now. But his body overruled his mind. Her panties were a wisp of lace under his fingers and her body was as slick with soap as his. It didn’t take much to tug those panties down, even with his hands cuffed. He slid the briefs over the curve of her hips before she could stop him—if she wanted to, which he was beginning to doubt. At least, he sure hoped she didn’t want to stop.

When her panties dropped to her ankles, Sam let out a squeak of surprise and slithered off his back. “How the hell did you do that?” she gasped, struggling not to lose her balance with her feet practically tied together.

He turned to face her with a lopsided grin. “Lots of practice. Wanna see me unhook a bra blindfolded?”

“No. If I want slight-of-hand, I’ll watch David Copperfield.” She tried to sound cool, but leaning against the shower wall with her panties around her ankles made it difficult. There wasn’t enough room to bend over and pull them back up so she kicked them off, again stumbling against the wall. Matt glided in quickly, pinning her with his body.

“Careful you don’t fall and break that delectable keister,” he murmured in her strawberry hair. “I’m not the only one who needs a shower,” he purred. “I could give you a shampoo…”

“No way,” she said breathlessly, seizing the soap and giving her head a quick lather and rinse. “God, that feels better.”

“Yeah, it sure does,” he said, rubbing his pelvis against her belly.

Sam’s hips instinctively hitched forward. Lord above, even rigor mortis couldn’t make flesh that rock hard. But the guy certainly qualified as a big stiff! Suddenly she wanted to touch it, wanted to very much. “You were right—I haven’t finished washing your front,” she managed to get out.

“Please, be my guest,” he replied, his voice no steadier than hers. Stepping back, he allowed her to put about three inches between them.

She reached for the soap again and lathered her hands, then lowered them to the pole probing her navel. All she could think was, Lower, just a little bit lower…

The minute her hands took hold of his cock he let out a guttural oath of sheer desperation. “You know, we gotta do something about this.”

“Yeah. Wash your legs.” She let go, teasing his balls before sudsing down one long hairy leg, then moving back up the other leg, pausing to cup those small tight male buns. They’d looked great the first time she saw him. They felt even better. Damned if he wasn’t right. No stopping now. Some small voice of sanity tried to reason with her. This was dangerous as hell—not to mention a gross breach of ethics.

But her hormones won.

“Okay, Houdini, let’s see you unhook a bra with your hands cuffed,” she whispered, slithering her body against his as she turned her back to him.

“Don’t think I can, eh?” he dared her.

Matt turned and bent his elbows, running his fingers over the delicate indentations of her spine until he reached his destination. As he took the bra hook in his hands and freed it, he rubbed his head against the shower nozzle, catching the elastic band of the sleep mask on it and pulling back. The mask popped free and dropped to the shower floor.

By the time Sam had shrugged the bra off, and turned around, he was facing her wearing nothing but a wide lascivious grin and a serious hard-on. “Damn, you’re gorgeous,” she breathed, not really registering that his eyes were making a sweeping inventory of her wet naked body just as hers were making one of his.

“So are you, Sammie.” Before she could react, he bent forward and took one nipple in his mouth and sucked on it until she moaned.

The blindfold was gone and so was she, the instant his mouth made contact with her breast. Now Sam was the one unable to see. Her eyelids fluttered down and she concentrated on how good it felt.

If only his hands weren’t cuffed. But, hell, he could improvise. He backed her against the wall of the stall and used his mouth to very excellent advantage, working on one breast, then the other until she was hanging on to his shoulders and quivering like Jell-O.

Someone said, “The bed.” Maybe they both did. But it was Sam, with her hands free, who finally ripped back the shower curtain and stepped out of the stall. Matt was right behind her, prodding her with his erection as they slipped and slid on wet feet across the tile floor, leaving puddles of water…and the shower still running full blast.

The ancient air conditioner alternately groaned and hummed, filling the musty room with frigid dehumidified air that quickly dried them, although the heat burning beneath their skin probably helped. Matt bent down and took her mouth, opening his over it, plunging his tongue inside after rimming her parted lips. She held tightly to his shoulders, tiptoeing to return the savaging kiss as she melded her body into his, working her hips over his erection.

When they started to tumble onto the mattress, Sam broke off the kiss long enough to yank down the faded blue chenille bedspread and blanket under it, revealing a decently white set of sheets on the twin bed. Impatient to continue, Matt leaned over and ran his tongue along the ridge of her spine, thrusting between the cheeks of her delectable ass with his rod until he overbalanced and they both went sprawling headfirst onto the lumpy motel mattress with Sam squished beneath him.

“Mmmumph!” she wheezed as he rolled off of her. “Jeez, you weigh more than a Peterbuilt Engine.”

“An apt comparison, considering,” he murmured, his brain scrambling for a way to consummate their passion with his hands cuffed behind his back. Some subliminal instinct warned him not to ask her for the key. He sat up on the edge of the bed, his erection now becoming acutely demanding as she wriggled over to the opposite side and knelt. She patted the bed, indicating that he should stretch out beside her.

He obliged. His shoulders felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets and the cuffs bit into his wrists when he rolled onto his back. All that barely registered when Sam swung one slender tanned thigh over his hips and took him in her hands. “Let me in, baby,” he groaned.

She obliged. Her hips slowly lowered until the head of his shaft touched her. That was it. She lunged downward just as he thrust upward. Oh, sweet lord, was it good! Unable to stop herself, Sam rode like a rodeo champion, wanting it to go on for hours…glorious hours. But, desperate as they both were, it was over in minutes. As soon as the first spasms began deep in her belly, he thrust harder and faster, driving her to the most mind-blowing orgasm of her life.

Matt felt her muscles tighten around him like a velvet fist, squeezing him until he let go, pumping uncontrollably until he was blissfully drained. Sam’s hair tickled his chin as she collapsed on his chest. Those sensational breasts pressing into his pectorals felt nice. Real nice. He wanted to hum with the warm comfort of it and just lay there melded together with her like two pieces of licorice, softened in the noon heat.

The window unit’s compressor groaned back to life after a catnap, pummeling Sam with a sudden gust of frigid air. Goose bumps marched down her spine, drying her sweat-slicked skin and abruptly cooling the mad ardor of a moment ago. Bliss was gone and conscience had returned.

With a vengeance.

What the hell had she done? Talk about sleeping with the enemy! This was a hundred times worse. She had violated one of the most sacred trusts of her profession—she’d taken advantage of a helpless prisoner, cuffed and blindfolded…well, maybe he had lost the blindfold, she amended, peeking through her damp, tangled hair to glimpse his face. When had that happened? Back in the shower?

Damned if she knew. But she did know she’d done the unthinkable and now she’d have to face the consequences. Apologizing to an arrogant bastard like Matthew Granger was going to be pure hell. And they had another four days on the road together. How the hell was she going to get through it? Well, Sam, old girl, only one thing to do. She had to look him directly in the eye and get her P.C. guilt out in the open.

At least he wasn’t some poor mentally unbalanced cult member. Small consolation, but it salved her conscience just the slightest bit. Damn if she wouldn’t kill Patowski when this was over. After she collected the ten K from Aunt Claudia. A girl had to keep her priorities, after all, she reminded herself.

Stalling, Ballanger. Just do it.

Taking a deep breath, she sat up and stared down into his face. He looked beatifically content. Not exactly smug. Just…happy. She cleared her throat and he opened his eyes, grinning at her like a large spaniel who’s just been given a good scratch behind the ears—after woofing down a pound of hamburger.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said simply, then grunted when she moved slightly, shifting her weight so the cuffs bit into a place where his wrists weren’t already numb. Sharp pains radiated like pulsar beams from both shoulders when he instinctively tried to jerk his arms into a less agonizing position. He let out an involuntary oath.

“Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry,” she practically sobbed, now guilty beyond endurance. He must realize what a terrible thing she’d done to him.

“Well, I’m not—at least not about this,” he said, raising his head so his eyes could travel down to where she still sat astride his cock. “But could you please move so I can get up before my shoulders separate from my collarbones?”

Sam jumped off of him as if a bucket of ice water had just been dumped over her head. The air conditioner picked that instant to release another icy billow directly on the limp remains of his privates, which quickly shriveled to far less impressive dimensions.

“Aah, crap,” he muttered, rolling onto his side so he could sit up and turn his back to the infernal machine torturing the most sensitive part of his anatomy.

The compressor chose that moment to kick off, allowing the sound of pounding water to filter through from the bathroom. “Ohmigod! We left the shower running and the curtain open,” Sam croaked, dashing naked toward the bathroom. Before she got halfway to the door her toes began to squish over soaked carpet. The tile floor was covered with water, lapping gently over the doorsill.

Grumbling some of Uncle Declan’s better oaths, she sloshed to the shower and shut it off. The motel would charge quite a bit for damages. How the hell could she explain that one to Aunt Claudia on the expense account? Thoroughly chastened, she began throwing the excess of towels from the rack onto the floor to soak up the water.

“I hate to interrupt a woman in a housekeeping frenzy, but I could use a little help here,” Matt said with a grunt of pain in his voice.

He was still sitting on the bed, hands cuffed behind his back. And she was…buck-ass naked, bent over mooning him as she picked up towels! “I told Pat this was a lousy idea,” she muttered to herself as she made her way across the wet carpet to the open case where she kept her clothes. She stuffed her arms into her robe, then fished frantically in her fanny pack for the key to the cuffs.

My God, his shoulders must hurt like hell! His hands were as white as her Econoline. Ugly red indentations bit deep into his wrists. The circulation in his hands could be permanently impaired and it would all be her fault!

Without saying a word, she knelt behind him and unlocked the cuffs. “Move your arms in front of you—slowly,” she cautioned as he started to stretch them forward, only to curse sharply and let them drop to his sides. Still careful to stay behind him, she began rubbing one wrist, chafing it until the pinkness of circulation returned to his hand. After repeating the process on the other hand, she began massaging his shoulders until he let out a contented, “Mmm.”

As she worked, Sam rehearsed her apology. Better to make it while his back was turned. Chicken shit, Sam, she chided herself. But it would be easier. Just as she started to open her mouth, he broke into her guilt-wracked thoughts.

“Now can we head back to San Diego?” he asked.

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