A Wicked Seduction. Janelle Denison
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edge that added to the realism of her act.
“Actually, no,” he replied with a grin. “But I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
Pressing a hand against the center of his back, she holstered her shotgun in a leather loop on her belt. “It’s a standard search, Mr. Colter, just to be sure you aren’t carrying any concealed weapons.”
That all depends on what kind of concealed weapon you’re searching for. “It’s your show,” he drawled, “And I’m all yours, to do with as you please.”
She uttered a soft snort of laughter that stirred the hair at the back of his neck and sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine. With a booted foot tucked against his sneakered one, she widened his stance even more, then skimmed her slender hands along his shoulders and under his arms. She leaned closer to sweep her palms over his chest and abdomen, causing the lush fullness of her breasts to brush his back and her hips to graze his. Heat pooled in his groin and ignited like wildfire wherever she touched.
And she touched him everywhere. Impersonal, yet intimate at the same time. Her fingers dipped into the waistband of his jeans and followed the circumference around to his back where her splayed hands dragged over his back pockets. The curve of his buttocks received equal treatment, and then her thumbs followed the crease between his thighs.
He sucked in a quick breath as the tips of her fingers grazed very masculine territory. But the tantalizing caress didn’t last long—just fleeting enough to tempt and tease and arouse. She continued on, those capable hands traveling down the outside length of his legs, then she squatted to pat around his ankles and smooth her palms back up the inseam of his pants, all the way to the crotch of his jeans.
And still, she wasn’t done with her shameless exploration. Her hands slid around to the front of his thighs, checking the contents of his pockets through denim by grasping the material. She came into contact with his keys and loose change, and moved toward the fly of his jeans.
Every molecule in his body tensed, including that inherently male part of him she was about to frisk. He felt compelled to issue a warning. “If you’re not careful, sweetheart, you’re gonna end up finding the only concealed weapon I’ve got on me.”
“Luckily for you I’m trained in handling fire-arms.” Her sultry voice, laced with wry humor, drifted into his ear from behind him. “And I haven’t had one accidentally discharge on me yet.” She proved her claim by handling him gently and efficiently, finishing her search with quick precision.
An amused chuckle rumbled up from Dean’s chest. Not only was Jo Sommers gorgeous and sexy, but she was witty and sassy, too. Obviously, Brett had known she was exactly what he needed to alleviate the stress and seriousness that had consumed his life for too long.
She grasped his left hand from the car and brought it behind his back. Before he could ask what she meant to do, he felt cool metal encircle his wrist and snap tight. She repeated the process with his other hand, restricting both of his arms with those handcuffs he’d seen earlier.
Then she turned him around to face her, and he wriggled his wrists to see if they’d pop free from the toy handcuffs, only to discover that the metal shackles were the real thing. He came to the immediate conclusion that he didn’t like being restrained, even if it was part of this stripper’s routine.
“You know, there really is no need for the cuffs,” he said with a flirtatious grin. “I surrender willingly.”
She gave him an assessing, head-to-toe glance. “You seem like a really nice guy, and you’ve been more cooperative than most, but I don’t take chances with anyone. This is standard procedure.”
Her words didn’t make sense. With her warm fingers firmly grasping his elbow, she ushered him out of the garage and down the driveway toward the black Suburban that waited at the curb. A pleasant afternoon breeze riffled through his hair, contrasting with the unease trickling through him.
Had he misjudged this entire situation?
He was beginning to suspect he had, yet he couldn’t figure out her angle. If she was a stripper, she should have been down to a G-string and a come-hither smile by now.
“Mind me asking where we’re going?” he asked, displaying a casualness he didn’t completely feel.
She didn’t slow her long-legged stride, her silky ponytail bouncing against her shoulders with each determined step. “You know exactly where we’re going.”
“No, I don’t.”
She didn’t seem inclined to believe him or answer his original question. Reaching the passenger side of the vehicle, she opened the door. With a hand on top of his head and her body crowding his in a very stalwart manner, she assisted him into the seat. He slipped inside and sat there for a few seconds, too dumbfounded and confused to do otherwise.
What the hell was going on?
She grabbed the seat belt and leaned over him, dragging the nylon strap across his lap to click it into place by his hip, her movements quick and economical. Too late, he realized how defenseless he was with his hands manacled behind his back, how completely at this woman’s mercy he was. Normally, that wouldn’t be a cause for concern, but he was rapidly coming to understand that this scenario wasn’t the fun and games he’d originally thought Brett had sent his way.
His gut churned with apprehension as he stared into her brilliant blue eyes. Up close, he could see the rich gold that rimmed her irises. “You’re not a stripper, are you?”
She braced a hand on the doorframe, a delicately arched brow winging upward. “Did you hire a stripper?”
Irritation shot through him. “No.” He winced at the unintentional bite to his voice, but couldn’t deny he was suddenly on edge. “My birthday is next week, on Friday, and I thought a friend of mine might have sent you.”
She laughed lightly, his wrong assumption obviously a source of entertainment for her. “I’m sorry to disappoint you and spoil your birthday plans, but all my clothes are staying in place.”
What a shame. “Then what do you want with me?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at him for a long moment, scrutinizing him with a penetrating stare. “I’m a bail recovery agent, Mr. Colter,” she finally said. “And I’m taking you back to San Francisco to stand trial for grand theft auto.”
His mouth fell open, then snapped shut again, jarring his teeth with the impact. “Grand theft auto?” he repeated, unable to keep the high-pitched incredulity from his voice. His mind grappled with the concept of this sensual, slender woman being a bounty hunter, and him the fugitive, but the notion was too ridiculous to comprehend.
It would have been a nice sexual fantasy, if the reality of his predicament wasn’t so damned unnerving.
He took a deep calming breath and tried to keep his perspective on the situation. “I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She gave him a placating look as she withdrew the shotgun from its sheath on her belt. “Sure you don’t.”
This time, Dean found her weapon much more intimidating than the toy gun he’d originally assumed she carried for the act that wasn’t an act. That “toy” could’ve blown a hole straight through him.
Christ, she was carting him off to jail! The realization made his stomach cramp. Most likely, he’d be spending a night in a cold cell until his lawyers could sort out this mess. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, despite the cool May afternoon. Disbelief warred with more urgent emotions—like making her understand that this was one big, huge mistake.
“Lady, you’ve got the wrong guy,” he tried to reason.
Reaching behind his seat, she set the weapon on the floorboard, then straightened and released a sigh laced with impatience. “By your own admittance you’re Dean Colter, this is the residence I’ve got on file for you, and you fit the profile I have