Guilty Pleasures. Tori Carrington

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СКАЧАТЬ again, if she’d gotten home ten minutes earlier, she would have had both the car covered and the door locked, completely bypassing her current circumstances.

      She hauled a dusty stretch of canvas over the car, then went about the business of dragging the guy to the far corner of the warehouse, kicking a couple of empty energy-drink cans out of her way as she went. Although she was in excellent physical condition, deadweight was deadweight and he had at least fifty pounds, if not more, on her. And while the temperature in the warehouse wasn’t as hot as outside, it was still hot. She finally reached the door to her working office, unbolted it then dragged him inside, wiping her damp brow with the short sleeve of her black-and-white T-shirt before sitting him upright and taking a good look at him.

      Huh.

      He was the guy from the airport.

      What were the odds?

      She stood straight, twisted her lips and considered him for a long moment. She’d tagged him as ex-military when they’d crossed paths before. But what would he be doing here—alone—now?

      She didn’t have to think too hard—he’d obviously been sent to apprehend her.

      She leaned back, staring at where his 9 mm still lay in the middle of the open old warehouse—now her workshop—floor.

      He began to stir.

      Damn.

      Having nothing on her to use as a restraint, and guessing he did, she was left with only one option, short of knocking him unconscious again.

      She leaned forward and kissed him …

      SHARP PAIN SHOT THROUGH the back of Jon’s head. Where was he?

      And who in the hell was kissing him?

      He blinked open his eyes, aware of three things: he was sitting on a cold, cement floor. He wasn’t there voluntarily. And the woman straddling his hips wasn’t his girlfriend.

      Boy, if Julie was pissed before …

      Especially since he was starting to enjoy the kiss.

      He couldn’t be sure who she was, but she tasted of chocolate and mint and knew her way around a man’s mouth.

      Jon groaned, caught between wanting to go with the moment and needing to get a handle on the situation.

      Her hands felt around his stomach, dipping down into his waistband, then his rear end. Her tongue lapped at the corners of his lips then slid inside his mouth, teasing his, even as her thighs squeezed him, making him overly aware of how close her pelvis was against his.

      She smoothed her hands down over his shoulders, his arms …

      Then she was grabbing his wrist, twisting it until he was facedown on the cement, the plastic teeth of a restraint being drawn tight together. In seconds, he found his hands tied behind his back—and around a six-inch metal support pole.

      Sweet hell …

      The woman rose to her feet even as he sat back upright, staring up at her.

      There was no way on earth that she was …

      “You,” he said simply.

      Everything came together at once: the woman running into him at the airport; the stat sheet with the grainy photos; the whack of something solid hitting the back of his head.

      He winced. It wasn’t possible he’d been taken hostage by his own target. Was it?

      “Me,” she said.

      Jon tested the restraint behind his back, half-afraid it was his own. Which meant the police-grade plastic bracelet would be doubly hard to get out of.

      Mara Lynn Findlay wore the same jeans and black-and-white T-shirt she’d had on at the airport, but she’d tied her shiny—and, he highly suspected, dyed—red hair back from her face. She looked nothing like either of the photos on the sheet.

      Then again, there had also been nothing listed on that stat sheet that indicated she’d be anything other than an easy grab. Her occupation was listed as “an artist.” He hadn’t expected her to be as fit and capable as a ranger.

      She pointed a short, black-painted fingernail at him. “I’m guessing you know a whole hell of a lot more about me than I know about you,” she said. “So why don’t we remedy that, shall we?”

      “Oh? I’m beginning to think I might not know anywhere near as much as I needed to know about you.”

      He realized she had his wallet. She flipped it open and stared at his driver’s license, counted his money then put it back inside, then counted two credit cards, one issued through Lazarus for business, along with his most recent hunting license.

      “Bounty hunter?”

      “In a manner of speaking.”

      “Independent?”

      “Associated.”

      “Out of where?”

      “Colorado Springs.”

      She raised her brows at that and tossed his wallet onto a desktop.

      “I just got in a little while ago.” He offered up a sarcastic smile. “But of course you know that.”

      She was watching him closely. “Army … ranger, I’m guessing.”

      He raised a brow. “Target on.”

      “Must really piss you off that you’re sitting on the floor of my warehouse in your own restraints.”

      “You have no idea.”

      She moved toward the corner of what looked like an office, the windows giving a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of what had once been a factory floor. He peeled his gaze from her primo behind and looked through the open door. A few of the die machines were still in place, dusty and dry. He made out the now covered Camaro and just beyond that, his gun.

      He winced again.

      Oh, this was so not going anywhere on his trip report.

      He also saw that her art medium of choice seemed to be metal sculptures.

      Positioned around the open area closest to them were at least three of what he’d guess were works in progress, one of them towering nearly to the warehouse ceiling and resembling a robotlike Greek statue, the others considerably shorter, perhaps too new to show what they’d ultimately end up representing. Two thigh-high piles of scrap metal lay just on the other side of them. Welder’s gear of full mask, goggles and gloves were nearby, along with an industrial-size blowtorch as well as a smaller one.

      He glanced back at her, easily imagining her wearing the full mask and working with red-hot fire.

      “How about you?” he asked.

      “Me, what?” She rifled through drawers СКАЧАТЬ