Guilty Pleasures. Tori Carrington

he said.

      “Your car, sir.”

      He’d specifically asked for a rental from a used car lot, as opposed to one of the national agencies, preferring something tried and true, without an identifying sticker on a cookie-cutter sedan that would immediately identify him as an out-of-towner—something he was not, despite now living in Colorado Springs.

      Speaking of which, he hoped he’d be able to squeeze in some time to see his family, maybe after he delivered one very wanted Mara Lynn Findlay to the sheriff. He knew his mom wouldn’t mind him popping up on her doorstep unannounced. And any one of his four siblings would enjoy a visit. If everything went the way he hoped, he might finish up in time to have dinner at his mom’s, and a beer with one or three of his brothers and his sister at Flossie’s Tavern. Then he could soon be on a plane home, in time to have a long-overdue talk with Julie about the volatility of their relationship.

      Yes. Sounded like a plan.

      Jon opened the Jeep’s passenger door, stashed his duffel inside, then closed and locked it. He took the key from the kid and then handed him a twenty.

      “Thanks.”

      He rounded the Jeep and climbed in the driver’s side. He put the vehicle in gear and pulled away, his destination the apartment of one particular fugitive from justice, Mara Lynn Findlay….

       2

      JON WAS UNSURPRISED to find that Mara’s place wasn’t so much an apartment as it was space above an abandoned warehouse. He was familiar with the district. Jancy’s was an old automotive tool-and-die operation that finally closed its doors at some point in the mid-’90s. His uncle had spent a lifetime working there, as had a couple of cousins … until the factory shut down without warning, leaving them high and dry with no more than a Closed sign on the door one morning when they reported to work.

      Judging by the large Realtor sign affixed to the brick exterior, it was still standing empty.

      Except for the upstairs apartment …

      Jon parked the Jeep in the back corner behind an old Dumpster that probably didn’t see regular garbage pickup, and got out. There wasn’t much traffic in this area outside Winslow. Not now that the few factories that had once kept the town humming had shut down. He was glad he hadn’t gone through a car rental agency. A shiny new Ford would look a lot more out of place than his old Jeep.

      He looked around at the weed-choked cracked asphalt, piles of discarded tires and empty wooden pallets. On second thought, any kind of vehicle that wasn’t a rusty shell and whose engine ran, period, would stand out.

      He squinted against the strong midday sun, his black T-shirt and dark jeans absorbing the heat as thirstily as a sponge, his shoulder holster and 9 mm heavy against his skin. If the Feds were anywhere around, they were well hidden. He walked toward the back of the warehouse and the wrought-iron stairwell where a large mailbox sat crammed full of what he guessed was junk mail. The warehouse itself was unremarkable: a long, simple building that was a mix of brick and aluminum sheeting, with windows lining the tops of the walls to allow for natural lighting, and large doors spaced throughout, presumably for shipping purposes. Above the original building was a second story that ran maybe a quarter of the length of the structure itself, probably once housing the factory offices. Now, he guessed it was a personal apartment. He grabbed the railing, about to climb the stairs, when movement through the grimy window to his left caught his attention. He went to the large, double-loading doors and cupped his hands to stare inside.

      A Camaro. An old one, whose windshield had recently been cleaned by the wipers.

      He automatically drew his gun and tried the door. It opened easily … quietly.

      Shit. That couldn’t be good.

      His thought was verified when he felt something hard hit him on the back of the head. He was aware of the cement floor jumping up to smack him in the face before all went dark….

      MARA KICKED THE 9 MM away from the guy’s hand, checked to make sure he was out, then gave the area outside a visual sweep to verify he was alone, before closing the door and, this time, locking it.

      She knew she should have seen to that before starting to cover the car. He’d never have gotten inside if she had.

      Then 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