Guilty Pleasures

“Someone important?”

“No.”

She leaned forward and fished the phone out. “Julie? With a heart? Looks important to me.”

He didn’t say anything. For reasons he preferred not to delve into just then, he just hoped she wouldn’t answer it.

She didn’t.

He let out the breath he was holding.

Her amused expression told him she’d caught his reaction. “I think you’re lying to me.” She waved the cell at him. “How do you suppose Miss Julie-with-a-Heart would feel about your kissing another girl?”

“I don’t have to suppose. It would piss her off.”

She smiled then tossed the phone to the desk to lie next to his wallet. “I figure I have another five minutes, tops, before you break that restraint,” she said. “Which means I’ve got two minutes to get something else. Be right back.”

He watched her leave the office and climb a set of dark, steel stairs to a catwalk he guessed must lead to her upstairs apartment.

Damn.

She was right. It would take him at least another few minutes to free himself.

She was back in one.

She planted one of the old boots she wore between his legs, nudged his knees farther apart and then moved what he guessed was a steel toe closer to his family jewels than he was comfortable with. She leaned over so she could secure the pair of police-issue steel handcuffs she’d brought down.

Aw, hell.

As irritated as he was growing, he couldn’t help but peer down the front of her shirt as she worked, her breasts swaying ever so slightly in a shiny, black bra, a thin, glistening sheen of sweat on her smooth skin from her recent efforts. She smelled of something sweet and sexy that made his mouth water in a way that would only further piss off “Julie-with-a-Heart.”

What was he talking about? It was pissing him off. The last thing he wanted was to feel attracted to a woman who had taken him hostage when he was supposed to be hauling her in instead.

She finished then stepped back, taking what appeared to be a toaster pastry from where she’d been holding it between her lips and chewing silently. She held it out toward him. “Bite?”

“What are you planning to do?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Now? In the immediate future?” She waved the pastry. “Eat this.”

He had to admit, she wasn’t boring.

Although he’d much prefer it if their roles were reversed.

“And after that?”

Her chewing slowed and she used a pinkie to swipe a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Sleep.”

Sleep …

The word wound around his mind even as he watched her toe a bedroll she’d brought down along with the restraints and what appeared to be documents of some sort folded and stashed in a small, blue plastic bag he sometimes saw newspapers delivered in. She popped the last of the pastry into her mouth and opened the sleeping bag, stuffing the documents inside before stretching out on top of it. It was only then he recognized the signs of fatigue: the dark smudges under her green eyes, the paleness of her skin, the lethargic lag of her movements.

Hell, if this was what she was like at half speed, he’d hate to see her at full.

She’d positioned the bedroll so it was far enough away that he couldn’t reach her, but between him and the door, close enough that if he awkwardly tried to escape, he’d have to step over her.

He eyed the open door.

She looked up abruptly then reached to slam the door. There was no mistaking the auto lock that clicked home.

Swell.

“How long you plan to be out?” he asked.

“As long as my body dictates. Try anything stupid and …”

He hadn’t realized she’d brought a gun down with her.

Oh, wait: she hadn’t. That was his gun.

Damn.

It was going to take him a while to live down this one. Not that he planned on telling anyone. No. But it was going to take a while for him to get over this.

The sound of her soft snores a moment later told him she was out like a light.

Jon drew in a deep breath and felt around his own restraints.

The way he saw it, all he had to do was wait until she decided what to do next before he figured out his next move.

He could only hope that hers didn’t include putting the muzzle of his own gun to his head and shooting, much the way she had assassinated the good prosecutor she was wanted for murdering….

3

“I’M HENRY THE EIGHTH.”

Mara fought against the irritating words determined to yank her from a solid sleep.

He sang the words louder, apparently convinced she hadn’t heard him the first time.

She put her hands over her ears and moaned.

No, no, no …

“Oh, hi,” her annoying hostage said. “Sorry … am I bothering you?”

She cracked open an eyelid and glared at him, noting how close the 9 mm was … and how easy it would be to do away with the annoyance.

“By the way?” he said, his long, denim-covered legs casually crossed at the ankles of his cowboy boots, looking as though he was there by choice and not by force … and appearing a little too cheerful for her liking. “You already know from reading my license, but we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Jonathon Reece, Jon to my friends. But I’ll let you call me that if you want …”