camera.” He pulled out an expensive 35mm Nikon and gave a soft whistle of appreciation. “You could take pictures of moon craters with this baby.”
“I’m a photographer for a nature magazine. I need a powerful lens.”
“Then I’m sure all this film—” he ignored her gasp when he rewound the film, then popped open the camera case “—has pictures of yellow-rumped sapsuckers and furry little critters, right? There’s a one-hour in town. How ‘bout I take them in for you and develop them?”
“How ‘bout you eat dirt and die?” she said sweetly.
Despite the foul mood she’d put him in, he grinned at her, then turned his attention back to her bag. He pulled out a small, brown leather wallet and flipped it open. “Let’s see if you have a name other than Blondie. Ah, here it is. Sinclair.” He held up her driver’s license. “Cara Sinclair.” He glanced up sharply. “Philadelphia?”
She said nothing, just shot poison arrows at him while water dripped off her pert little nose. Jordan didn’t have any agents in Philadelphia that Ian knew of. And there would be no reason for his boss to pull an agent out of their own jurisdiction for a simple, surveillance. He stared at the woman, wondered for one brief, horrible second if he might have made a mistake.
No. She was lying, all right. He might be wrong about her being an agent, but he wasn’t wrong about the fact that she was lying through her perfectly straight, beautifully white teeth.
So why the hell had she been watching him, then?
Her driver’s license appeared authentic; he could spot a fake from ten meters. It certainly described her accurately. Five foot eight, blond. Green eyes, 125 pounds, though it was hard to tell under the heavy overalls she had on. She was twenty-six and lived in an apartment on Brooks Avenue in Philadelphia. Nothing ominous, nothing suspicious.
Ian ignored her continued protests while he flipped through the rest of her gear. Binoculars, bottled water, a package of dried apricots, three rolls of film. Nothing to link her to Jordan or any government agency, but nothing that confirmed her story about working for a nature magazine, either.
“If you’re through,” she said with enough ice in her voice to slice ten degrees off the heat in the room, “you can untie these ropes now.”
If the southern section of his anatomy weren’t still aching from contact with her knee, and his shin wasn’t throbbing from that kiss from her boot, Ian would have appreciated the woman’s nerve. Even tied up, soaking wet, she made demands with the air of an aristocrat.
Tossing the backpack onto the worn leather couch facing the fireplace, he hunkered down beside the woman, draping one arm casually over his knee while he studied his prey. Chin lifted, she stared right back, her eyes shooting green lightning bolts that matched the ferocity of the storm outside.
He leaned in close, brought his face within an inch of hers and caught the scent of raspberry drifting from her wet hair. “I’ll make you a deal, Miss Sinclair. You tell me the truth, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you go.”
“I’ll make you a deal, Shawnessy,” she purred back. “You let me go, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you live.”
He chuckled, actually enjoying himself for the first time since this pain-in-the-butt had shown up. His laughter was cut short by the sudden pounding on his front door. The woman’s eyes opened wide, then her mouth as she sucked in air to call out. He did the easiest and fastest thing he could do to shut her up.
He kissed her.
Nothing could have possibly defused Cara more than the slam of Ian’s mouth against hers. She’d drawn in a breath the same second his lips smothered hers, and her lungs held the air in stunned suspension. Her heart smashed against her ribs, once, twice, and still he didn’t stop, only deepened the pressure with his strong, hard lips while he scooped her up in his arms.
She should bite him—pride and instinct both told her to—but she didn’t. She couldn’t. All she could do was…nothing. She had the most frustrating and infuriating urge to draw him closer still, but with her hands tied that was hardly possible.
There was no passion in his kiss, no sense of need or desire, but there was heat. A consuming, toe-curling, bonemelting fire that spread through her blood even as her mind screamed that she was an idiot. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before, and she had no defenses prepared for it, no protection.
He carried her somewhere, but she didn’t even care where. His chest was solid and warm against her, his arms strong and muscular. They were both soaking wet, and it felt as if steam were rising from their skin and clothes. Clothes that suddenly felt tight and uncomfortable. His mouth stayed steady on hers, never letting up, and she felt as if she were drowning in the taste of him, something dark and heady and overwhelmingly masculine.
He made a sound deep in his throat, and she couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or pleasure. He swung her sideways through a doorway, and for the briefest moment, so fleeting she wasn’t certain if she imagined it, she felt his tongue sweep over her lips.
Her senses were still spinning when he dumped her unceremoniously into a bathtub. She heard a man’s voice call Ian’s name, and the sound snapped her out of her trance. She blinked twice and swung an elbow at his face, catching him in his bottom lip. His head snapped back and he swore, then grabbed a sock from a sports bag sitting beside the tub and shoved it into her mouth. A hand towel came next, and he secured it over her mouth with a knot at the base of her head.
Furious, she shook her head and screamed into the gag, praying the sock was clean while she plotted his demise. It was going to be slow and painful. Her only satisfaction at the moment was the blood oozing from his lip where she’d whacked him with her elbow. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, scowled when he saw the blood, then rose and pointed a warning finger at her.
“I’m going to get rid of whoever that is. So help me, if you make one sound, I promise you that you’ll be sorry.”
She was already sorry, but she recognized that tone in his voice. She’d heard it often enough in her brothers’, when they’d been pushed to the edge of their tolerance. And since—for the moment—he obviously had the upper hand, she could be patient.
She still had a trick or two up her sleeve for Mr. Killian Shawnessy.
“You deaf or something?” Nick Santos, wearing a torn, sleeveless white T-shirt and faded jeans, strolled past Ian when he threw open the door. “I’ve been knocking out here for five minutes. How come your door’s locked, anyway?”
“To keep bums like you out.” Ian held his breath while he kept one eye on the bathroom door, half expecting a female fireball to explode through at any moment.
Nick shook his wet, dark hair and headed for the refrigerator. “Damn, it’s hot. Got a cold one?”
Terrific, Ian thought on a curse. He could have easily gotten rid of anybody but Nick or Lucas. His day had swiftly moved from bad to worse, and the prospects of it improving were looking less than slim. Of course, he could always explain that he couldn’t entertain company at the moment because he had
