A Wicked Seduction

Certainly not Lora, the woman he’d been engaged to before taking over the reins of Colter Traffic Control for his father—before the demands of his job had taken over his life. Since then, he’d discovered that developing something deeper than an amicable acquaintance was difficult. He didn’t have the time to get to know a woman well enough to establish something more than a brief fling. Nurturing a meaningful relationship took time and energy, and after handling each day’s busy, exhausting workload he depleted both.

And now, a life-altering opportunity loomed in front of him, beckoning him, tempting him to seriously consider the offer that could change the course of his future and give him his old life back. Yet years of obligations and responsibilities told him to stay firmly grounded. The decision had him torn in two.

Grabbing his duffle bag, Dean headed downstairs to the kitchen, shoving those thoughts out of his mind. He’d have plenty of free, quiet time at the lakeside cabin he’d rented to mull over those issues and make decisions.

“So, what’s with the phone call?” Brett prompted. “It’s Saturday, my day off, and I’ve got a gorgeous redhead in a short, tight dress awaiting my attention.”

Dean grinned. At least his friend had his priorities straight. “I wanted to check in with you one last time before I hit the road, and wanted to let you know I put a few contracts on your desk for you to handle while I’m gone.”

“Consider it done.”

Dean dropped his canvas bag on the kitchen table, then loaded a small cooler with a few sodas and snacks for the drive. “Also, Clairmont Construction increased their order of arrowboards, traffic beacons and portable light towers for that repair work they’ve got going on the freeway. The unexpected rain has put them behind, and they’re working double shifts to bring the project in on time.”

“Dean, I’ve got it handled,” Brett drawled good-naturedly. “Get the hell out of Dodge, already. By the way, are you taking any company with you?”

“Nope.” He snapped the lid to the cooler shut and set the insulated container next to his bag. “It’ll be just me and Mother Nature.”

“Man, you have no sense of fun at all, do you?” Brett said, sounding disappointed at Dean’s lack of creativity in the opposite sex department. “Give me the address of the cabin and I’ll send someone to keep you occupied during the day, warm at night, and help celebrate your birthday. Trust me, you’ll come back to Seattle a new man.”

He’d been so caught up in work and his last business trip to San Francisco that he’d forgotten all about his birthday. Not that he normally did much more than join his friends for a drink, or have dinner with his mother. And the sad thing was, three years ago he would have jumped at the opportunity to celebrate his birthday exactly as Brett was suggesting, but now his mind was consumed with business matters.

He didn’t doubt the sincerity of Brett’s generous offer and was quick to set his friend straight. “Thanks, but I’d just as soon find my own woman.”

After a few more minutes of ribbing from his friend to get a real life, Dean hung up the phone, shaking his head. He spent the next half hour loading his car with the cooler, camping gear, and fishing supplies he’d recently purchased through the Internet. After one final walk through the house to make sure everything was secured, he grabbed his duffle and keys from the table and headed out to the garage where his cherry-red, vintage ’65 Mustang convertible awaited him.

Along with a woman holding a shotgun.

Startled to find he had company, he came to an abrupt halt. On the heels of realizing he wasn’t alone came a twinge of apprehension as he warily eyed that lethal-looking weapon she cradled in one arm. Thankfully, it was pointed at the ground and not at him. She stood just where the rolling garage door opened, feet planted apart in a military type stance, and an air of boldness and presumptuousness radiating off her.

Despite the gun, she didn’t look like a rough and tumble G.I. Jane. She wore her rich brown hair in a sleek ponytail, which served to emphasize a pretty face that seemed only to need the most basic of cosmetics to enhance her beguiling features. She was average in height, slender in stature, and undeniably feminine, but there was no mistaking she was physically fit.

He shifted on his feet and returned his gaze to her face. Her lashes blinked lazily over eyes a velvet shade of blue, and a slow, confident smile lifted one corner of her mouth.

Despite the circumstances, a warm frisson of awareness trickled through him. Damn if he didn’t find all that brazen confidence sexy. And exciting. The gleam in her eye was predatory with a definite challenge, and his body responded in an instinctive way that reminded him just how long it had been since he’d had a woman in his bed. More months than he cared to recall.

Cautiously, he stepped closer to the passenger side of the car and tossed his bag in the back seat. “Can I help you?”

She moved forward slowly, her stroll deceptively casual, that intimidating shotgun gripped loosely in her hand. Her hips, encased in button-fly jeans, swayed gently with each step. The blouse overlaying a white cotton tank top fluttered open, and he experienced a jolt of surprise to catch a glimpse of silver handcuffs clipped to the waistband of her jeans.

She stopped near the trunk of the Mustang, keeping distance between them, and tipped her head inquiringly. “Are you Dean Colter?” she asked, her voice low, throaty and assuming.

She knew his name. The knowledge registered, momentarily diverting his thoughts from those handcuffs and what she intended to do with them. “Yeah, I’m Dean Colter,” he verified, suddenly feeling at a disadvantage. “And you are?”

“Jo Sommers,” she supplied easily. “Your personal escort.”

He frowned at her. His personal escort? Then his confusion ebbed as his earlier conversation with Brett tumbled through his mind. Obviously, his friend had meant what he’d said about sending him a woman for his birthday, but how had Brett arranged for her arrival so quickly?

The answer didn’t really matter, not when Dean was coming to understand, and appreciate, that this woman’s attire and realistic props were all part of some kind of law enforcement costume. One she’d most likely remove, piece by piece, until that luscious body was completely exposed for his eyes only. She’d said herself that she was his personal escort—a new, politically correct title for a stripper, he was guessing—sent for his pleasure and entertainment.

And he planned to cooperate.

He had no place more important to be at the moment, and his vacation could wait a few more minutes in view of the fun this gorgeous woman promised. He’d made a vow to lighten up and take life less seriously, to recapture some of the fun and spontaneity he’d enjoyed before his father’s death. What could be more frivolous than playing along with her skit and enjoying the show?

She peered through the rear window to the back seat, taking in the items he’d packed for his trip, then slanted him a challenging look. “Going somewhere?”

He’d go wherever she led him. Giving her his most charming, persuasive smile, he tossed out a dare of his own. “Well, now, that all depends on what you have in mind, sweetheart.”

A slow, reciprocating smile curved her mouth. “I think you know exactly what I have in mind. Don’t make any sudden moves, do exactly as I say, and we’ll get along just fine.”

Her voice was smooth, but her words were firm and commanding. Too curious to see what she intended, he held up his hands in supplication. “You’ve got my full cooperation.”

“That’s good to hear, because your cooperation will make what I’ve got to do much easier for the both of us.” The barrel of her toy shotgun gestured him toward the back of the vehicle, closer to where she stood. “Put your hands on the trunk of the car, keep them there, and spread your legs.”

His brows shot upward in surprise, but he did as she ordered. He’d expected a striptease, nothing more, but who was he to put a crimp into her presentation? Pocketing his keys, he assumed the position.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, enjoying the kind of lighthearted, playful moment so reminiscent of the wild past he’d left behind. “I take it this is where I get frisked?” he asked, attempting to inject a bit of teasing between them.

She moved behind him, bringing with her a subtle scent of something soft and feminine. “Ahh, been through this before, have you?” Her voice held a slight cynical edge that added to the realism of her act.

“Actually, no,” he replied with a grin. “But I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Pressing a hand against the center of his back, she holstered her shotgun in a leather loop on her belt. “It’s a standard search, Mr. Colter, just to be sure you aren’t carrying any concealed weapons.”

That all depends on what kind of concealed weapon you’re searching for. “It’s your show,” he drawled, “And I’m all yours, to do with as you please.”

She uttered a soft snort of laughter that stirred the hair at the back of his neck and sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine. With a booted foot tucked against his sneakered one, she widened his stance even more, then skimmed her slender hands along his shoulders and under his arms. She leaned closer to sweep her palms over his chest and abdomen, causing the lush fullness of her breasts to brush his back and her hips to graze his. Heat pooled in his groin and ignited like wildfire wherever she touched.

And she touched him everywhere. Impersonal, yet intimate at the same time. Her fingers dipped into the waistband of his jeans and followed the circumference around to his back where her splayed hands dragged over his back pockets. The curve of his buttocks received equal treatment, and then her thumbs followed the crease between his thighs.

He sucked in a quick breath as the tips of her fingers grazed very masculine territory. But the tantalizing caress didn’t last long—just fleeting enough to tempt and tease and arouse. She continued on, those capable hands traveling down the outside length of his legs, then she squatted to pat around his ankles and smooth her palms back up the inseam of his pants, all the way to the crotch of his jeans.

And still, she wasn’t done with her shameless exploration. Her hands slid around to the front of his thighs, checking the contents of his pockets through denim by grasping the material. She came into contact with his keys and loose change, and moved toward the fly of his jeans.

Every molecule in his body tensed, including that inherently male part of him she was about to frisk. He felt compelled to issue a warning. “If you’re not careful, sweetheart, you’re gonna end up finding the only concealed weapon I’ve got on me.”

“Luckily for you I’m trained in handling fire-arms.” Her sultry voice, laced with wry humor, drifted into his ear from behind him. “And I haven’t had one accidentally discharge on me yet.” She proved her claim by handling him gently and efficiently, finishing her search with quick precision.

An amused chuckle rumbled up from Dean’s chest. Not only was Jo Sommers gorgeous and sexy, but she was witty and sassy, too. Obviously, Brett had known she was exactly what he needed to alleviate the stress and seriousness that had consumed his life for too long.

She grasped his left hand from the car and brought it behind his back. Before he could ask what she meant to do, he felt cool metal encircle his wrist and snap tight. She repeated the process with his other hand, restricting both of his arms with those handcuffs he’d seen earlier.

Then she turned him around to face her, and he wriggled his wrists to see if they’d pop free from the toy handcuffs, only to discover that the metal shackles were the real thing. He came to the immediate conclusion that he didn’t like being restrained, even if it was part of this stripper’s routine.

“You know, there really is no need for the cuffs,” he said with a flirtatious grin. “I surrender willingly.”

She gave him an assessing, head-to-toe glance. “You seem like a really nice guy, and you’ve been more cooperative than most, but I don’t take chances with anyone. This is standard procedure.”

Her words didn’t make sense. With her warm fingers firmly grasping his elbow, she ushered him out of the garage and down the driveway toward the black Suburban that waited at the curb. A pleasant afternoon breeze riffled through his hair, contrasting with the unease trickling through him.

Had he misjudged this entire situation?

He was beginning to suspect he had, yet he couldn’t figure out her angle. If she was a stripper, she should have been down to a G-string and a come-hither smile by now.

“Mind me asking where we’re going?” he asked, displaying a casualness he didn’t completely feel.

She didn’t slow her long-legged stride, her silky ponytail bouncing against her shoulders with each determined step. “You know exactly where we’re going.”

“No, I don’t.”

She didn’t seem inclined to believe him or answer his original question. Reaching the passenger side of the vehicle, she opened the door. With a hand on top of his head and her body crowding his in a very stalwart manner, she assisted him into 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.

Duffle bag in hand, she hit the switch that controlled the garage door, then ran out. The rolling metal panel doors clanged shut behind her seconds after her retreat, and she headed down the driveway to her vehicle, anxious to be on her way again.

Her captive didn’t seem as flirtatious and carefree now that he realized what an error in judgment he’d made with her. In fact, the scowl creasing his features as he stared out the passenger window watching her approach clearly reflected his displeasure.

She circled around the back of the Suburban, tossed his bag into the back seat, then slid behind the wheel. A loud “click” echoed in the vehicle as she took her usual precaution and activated all the door locks from the control panel on the armrest.

“So, where were you off to before I showed up?” she asked, wanting to gauge his mood and what kind of personality she’d be dealing with before she hit the road.

Her prisoners usually fell into one of three categories of behavior during the transport back to jail: belligerent and verbally abusive; brooding and opting for the silent treatment; or attempting to reason with her and trying to validate their innocence.

Dean wasn’t happy about the situation, but one look into his clear, striking green eyes and she knew she could rule out the first scenario. There was no malice in his gaze, just a wealth of frustration. His inexperience and first-time felon charge obviously hadn’t jaded him. Yet.

“I was on my way to a much-needed week-long vacation at a secluded cabin in the mountains.”

The gear she’d found in his car certainly verified his claim. She appreciated his honesty, though she thought the “much needed” part stretched credibility. “That would have been a good place to hide out,” she agreed, snapping on her seat belt. “I’m sorry to put a crimp in your plans.”

He shifted in his seat, managing to turn those wide shoulders her way so he was looking at her straight-on. His presence was potently male and more than she’d bargained for, filling the interior of the large cab with an enticing masculine heat and scent she hadn’t anticipated having to deal with. The combination aroused her senses and stirred something vital deep in her belly.

Hunger, she told herself, startled by the unexpected fluttering sensation she’d experienced. A craving for food, not something totally forbidden to her. She’d skipped lunch and had only munched on a chocolate-covered granola bar she’d brought along for the ride, and her stomach was making its needs known.

That’s all it was, she assured herself.

Dean’s gaze was direct as it connected with hers, his expression businesslike. “Look, Ms. Sommers, I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”

Here we go, she thought. Reality was finally settling in, and he was grasping at any excuse to gain back his freedom. Unfortunately, the argument he’d chosen was particularly overused, and a feeble one at that.

Unclipping the set of keys from the waistband of her jeans, she inserted one into the ignition. She actually felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He seemed so green about this entire process—or maybe he was dreading the return trip to San Francisco to testify against the leader of an auto theft ring. That would definitely explain the inkling of desperation she detected beneath his more confident facade.