the seat. He slipped inside and sat there for a few seconds, too dumbfounded and confused to do otherwise.
What the hell was going on?
She grabbed the seat belt and leaned over him, dragging the nylon strap across his lap to click it into place by his hip, her movements quick and economical. Too late, he realized how defenseless he was with his hands manacled behind his back, how completely at this woman’s mercy he was. Normally, that wouldn’t be a cause for concern, but he was rapidly coming to understand that this scenario wasn’t the fun and games he’d originally thought Brett had sent his way.
His gut churned with apprehension as he stared into her brilliant blue eyes. Up close, he could see the rich gold that rimmed her irises. “You’re not a stripper, are you?”
She braced a hand on the doorframe, a delicately arched brow winging upward. “Did you hire a stripper?”
Irritation shot through him. “No.” He winced at the unintentional bite to his voice, but couldn’t deny he was suddenly on edge. “My birthday is next week, on Friday, and I thought a friend of mine might have sent you.”
She laughed lightly, his wrong assumption obviously a source of entertainment for her. “I’m sorry to disappoint you and spoil your birthday plans, but all my clothes are staying in place.”
What a shame. “Then what do you want with me?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at him for a long moment, scrutinizing him with a penetrating stare. “I’m a bail recovery agent, Mr. Colter,” she finally said. “And I’m taking you back to San Francisco to stand trial for grand theft auto.”
His mouth fell open, then snapped shut again, jarring his teeth with the impact. “Grand theft auto?” he repeated, unable to keep the high-pitched incredulity from his voice. His mind grappled with the concept of this sensual, slender woman being a bounty hunter, and him the fugitive, but the notion was too ridiculous to comprehend.
It would have been a nice sexual fantasy, if the reality of his predicament wasn’t so damned unnerving.
He took a deep calming breath and tried to keep his perspective on the situation. “I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She gave him a placating look as she withdrew the shotgun from its sheath on her belt. “Sure you don’t.”
This time, Dean found her weapon much more intimidating than the toy gun he’d originally assumed she carried for the act that wasn’t an act. That “toy” could’ve blown a hole straight through him.
Christ, she was carting him off to jail! The realization made his stomach cramp. Most likely, he’d be spending a night in a cold cell until his lawyers could sort out this mess. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, despite the cool May afternoon. Disbelief warred with more urgent emotions—like making her understand that this was one big, huge mistake.
“Lady, you’ve got the wrong guy,” he tried to reason.
Reaching behind his seat, she set the weapon on the floorboard, then straightened and released a sigh laced with impatience. “By your own admittance you’re Dean Colter, this is the residence I’ve got on file for you, and you fit the profile I have with me.” She shrugged. “That’s all the evidence I need to take you back to San Francisco.”
Before he could argue further, she slammed the door on his heated retort and strutted back toward his house, leaving him to wonder how in the hell he’d gotten himself into such a mess.
More importantly, how was he going to get out of it?
3
SHE’D CAUGHT DEAN COLTER just in time. Judging by the camping paraphernalia Jo discovered in his car, she surmised that he’d been on the verge of fleeing again. Another ten minutes, and he would have left nothing but a cold trail in his wake.
Yes, success was sweet, indeed.
After executing a quick search of his vehicle, she grabbed his duffle from the back seat, set the bag on the trunk of the car, and unzipped it. She rifled through the contents for weapons, drugs, or anything else illegal she had no desire to transport across two state lines and found nothing but clothes and personal items. The most lethal thing he had on him was a razor for shaving. The front pocket held his wallet, and she flipped it open, inventorying credit cards, cash, and a Washington State driver’s license confirming everything she already knew about Dean Colter.
The guy was completely clean—and one of the most accommodating skips she’d ever encountered. The beanbag shotgun she’d armed herself with had been a formality, not a necessity. There had been no foot chase or struggle, no use of force or violence, just a ridiculously easy capture that made this job, and the cash she’d make once she turned in Dean Colter to the authorities, the easiest money she’d ever deposited into her savings account.
Of course it had helped tremendously that he believed she’d been a stripper sent as a birthday gift, she thought with an amused grin. His guileless assumption explained his flirtatious behavior when she’d first arrived, his carefree acquiescence in obeying her orders, and his easy compliance as she’d frisked him.
But that in no way explained her own startling reaction to Dean Colter, she thought with a frown as she stuffed his wallet back into the front pocket of his duffle. She’d been professional and sensible during her body search—until he’d made that playful comment about her finding his only concealed weapon and she’d countered with her own cheeky retort.
It had been an automatic reply, one she’d regretted as soon as the words had left her mouth. And much to her own chagrin, she hadn’t been able to stem the awareness that had flooded her in the aftermath of that careless, shameless rejoinder. Suddenly, patting him down had become more than a professional duty.
The man had a nice body—not overtly muscular, but athletically built with wide shoulders, toned arms and a lean waist and belly. His thighs had been rock hard, his buttocks nicely rounded and defined. And when her hands had brushed over the fly of his jeans and felt his reaction to her search, she hadn’t been able to stop the tide of heat that had suffused her veins and settled in places it had no business settling. Even now, the recollection had the ability to make her pulse pick up its beat.
Get a grip, Sommers. Dean Colter might be good-looking, charming, and likeable despite his recent rap sheet, but she’d never lusted over a guy she’d taken into custody. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last man who’d even prompted such instantaneous lust, which made her reckless response to Dean all the more perplexing. He might not be a murderer, but he was a felon nonetheless.
She could only blame her actions and reactions on exhaustion, she reasoned as she checked the entrance to the house to make sure the door was locked. She’d pushed herself to get here before sundown, taking minimal breaks along the drive. Although she’d met her goal, she’d only gotten five hours of sleep the night before when she was someone who needed a good, solid eight—or more. After ten hours on the road today with two more to go, she was not only fatigued, but obviously a little loopy, too.
Or just too damned sexually deprived.
She snorted at that, but suspected there was a kernel of truth in the sentiment. But no matter what her excuse, she’d do well to remember that she had a job to accomplish—one that had no room for the kind of distraction Dean Colter posed. She needed her guard up and her psyche alert.
