Guilty Pleasures. Tori Carrington

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 looking for something.

      “Ex-military?”

      She hesitated. “No.”

      He guessed that wasn’t entirely true. But surely, information of that nature would have been listed on her sheet. Going after a soft-around-the-middle civilian was a much different job than pitting wits against someone with the same training.

      He allowed his gaze to take her in, from her toned arms, her full breasts, flat abs and an ass you could probably bounce a quarter off. Military or not, she’d obviously had training. And not of the fluffy Zumba variety, either. The fact that she had gotten one over on him was evidence of that.

      Again, it was something that should have been on her stat sheet.

      Mara appeared exasperated as she slammed shut the drawer of a metal desk then propped her hands on her hips. She looked toward the areas that allowed a view outside.

      “You alone?” she asked.

      “You expect me to answer that?”

      She smiled, reminding him of a predatory creature capable of taking a bite out of him. More like the bobcat he’d compared her to when he’d first seen her photos.

      The fact that the idea excited him? Probably should have been of greater concern than it was.

      His cell phone rang, the chime “MMMBop” by Hanson chosen by Julie herself.

      Damn.

      Mara stared at him, then at his front jeans pocket.

      “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