Hell on Heels. Carla Cassidy

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      She knew from all the information she’d gathered on him that Baker considered himself a real ladies’ man. Maybe in a worm colony, she thought.

      “Where are you supposed to be?” Wesley asked, then raised a finger for the bartender.

      Chantal giggled. “I can’t remember the address. Maybe a little drink will help.” She grinned at the bartender, a bear of a man sporting more tattoos than hair. “How about a little top-shelf Scotch on the rocks?” She turned to look at Wesley, who had a cheap beer in front of him. “How about a Scotch on me?”

      “Now you’re talking.” He shoved the beer aside as the bartender poured the two Scotches.

      For the next few minutes Chantal small-talked with Wesley, who proved to be as charming as a Brazilian wax. Although anyone seeing the two of them interacting would assume her attention was focused solely on Baker, she was conscious of everything going on in the bar around them.

      She needed to get Baker outside. There were too many men in the bar who looked as though they walked on the wrong side of the law, and if she tried to take him down inside she had a feeling she’d wind up wearing her own handcuffs, or worse.

      She wasn’t just worried about the men she could see, but there were others hanging out in the hallway near the bathrooms and in the poolroom. Chantal didn’t mind taking risks, but she wasn’t suicidal.

      “I just remembered where I’m supposed to be,” she said, after taking only two tiny sips of her drink. “At the Radisson Hotel.”

      “Sweetcakes, you’re about two freeway exits off. You need to get back up on the interstate and take the Broadway exit.”

      “Is that left or right?”

      He stared at her blankly. “Where are you parked?”

      “Out front.”

      Wesley finished his drink. “What direction are you facing, north or south?”

      “North…no, south.” Chantal released what she hoped sounded like a half-drunk giggle. “Wow, I’m so turned around I’m not sure.”

      Wesley slid off his stool. “Come on, I’ll walk you out and we’ll see where you need to go.”

      The taste of sweet success filled her mouth. This was going to be a piece of cake. Once she got him outside and away from the crowd, she’d slap the handcuffs on him and take him to Big Joey’s. From there he’d be taken to the police station.

      The outside air smelled wonderful as they stepped outside of the smoky alcoholic haven. Chantal frowned as she saw a couple of men loitering by the row of motorcycles.

      She’d hoped that nobody would be out front. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to try to get involved in her collar.

      As they walked across the street, she opened her purse so she could gain access to her handcuffs. “Oh, wow, I can’t find my keys,” she said and pretended to rummage in the bottom of her purse.

      “Maybe you left them in the car.” As Wesley reached the driver door he bent down to peer into the window.

      Chantal yanked the cuffs from her purse and slapped one on Wesley’s wrist. It didn’t fasten. “Hey, what the hell?” He attempted to whirl around to face her, but she held his wrist and tried to get the damned handcuff to connect.

      “What’s going on over there?” a deep voice yelled.

      As Chantal and Wesley fell to the pavement, she was aware of the sound of running feet. It wasn’t exactly music to her ears, but she refused to release her death grip on Baker’s wrist.

      “Everybody back off. This is official business,” a deep, familiar voice rang out.

      A wave of dread swept through Chantal. Of all the men she wanted to see right now, Crazy Luke Coleman was the last. Just her luck that he would appear at the moment she suspected she was about to get her ass kicked.

      With irritating ease, he grabbed Baker, yanked him up and cuffed him, then reached out a hand to help her up off the sidewalk. “Darlin’, you’re in way over your head,” he murmured as he held out her cuffs.

      She snatched the cuffs from him and jammed them back in her purse, aware that the group of men who had begun to advance had gone back to the opposite side of the street.

      She eyed the tall man who now had control of her prisoner. “I could have managed on my own,” she exclaimed.

      Luke Coleman, or Crazy Coleman as he was known in the bounty business, looked as if he belonged at a biker bar. His dark hair hung to his shoulders and his jaw was covered with more than a day’s dark stubble.

      His sleeveless shirt exposed not only bulging biceps but also an intricate tattoo of an eagle. His jeans were worn and fit snugly on his long, muscular legs. He looked edgy, dangerous and more than capable of taking care of himself.

      The other bounty hunters who worked for Big Joey spoke of him as if he was a demigod. In the time Chantal had worked for Joey she’d found Luke Coleman to be arrogant, irritating and unsettling. He was also the most successful bounty hunter in a four-state area.

      “Wait! What are you doing?” she asked as he started to lead Wesley Baker away from her car.

      “I’m taking my prisoner to my truck,” he said, then turned and proceeded to walk away from her.

      “Stop!” She hurried after him and grabbed him by the arm. “What do you mean your prisoner? He’s my prisoner.”

      Coleman turned to look at her once again, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “My cuffs, my collar.”

      She watched in outrage as he continued toward his truck, her prisoner in tow. “Bastard,” she hissed. He had the audacity to turn and salute her.

      She remained on the sidewalk, cursing a blue streak as Crazy Luke Coleman drove away with Wesley Baker.

      Chapter 2

      “That bastard will never take another one of my collars,” Chantal exclaimed to her assistant as she gripped her handcuffs in her hand. “Come on, let’s try it again. Pretend you’re just walking along and I’ll grab your wrist and handcuff it.”

      It was late Monday morning and the two women were in Chantal’s living room where, for the past hour, Chantal had been practicing slapping cuffs on Harrah’s wrists.

      “You don’t pay me enough for this,” Harrah grumbled.

      “Nonsense, I pay you three times what you’re worth. Now, come on, just one more time.”

      “I go home with black-and-blue wrists and Lena will think I’m seeing somebody who’s into bondage,” Harrah exclaimed.

      “Lena knows you’re devoted to her, now stop bitching and walk like a criminal.”

      With a long-suffering sigh, Harrah walked in front of Chantal. Chantal grabbed one of her wrists and slapped the handcuff СКАЧАТЬ