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It would have been a fun 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?
CHAPTER THREE
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 duffel 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. One of the front pockets held his cellphone, which she turned off and tucked back inside. The other had his leather 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 duffel. 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 notable 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 being. 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 desire, 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.
Duffel 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. Then she sent a quick text to Cole to let him know she had her guy and would be back in San Francisco late the following afternoon.
“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.”
