Guilty Pleasures. Tori Carrington

waistband of her jeans and covering it with her shirt, then checking the ammo in the gun: he knew it was a full sixteen rounds. She stuffed that into her waistband, as well.

      She stopped to look at him.

      For a moment, he suspected she might leave him there. And he could tell she was giving it serious consideration.

      Then she said, “If he’s not with you, then I can trust you’re not going to make any noise, right?”

      He gave her a long look.

      She yanked the tape from his mouth and then headed for the door.

      “The hands?”

      She came back, leaned over him much as she had earlier with the same tantalizing view. He heard the teeth give, but when she straightened a moment later, he found his hands were still restrained … only now without the post involved.

      She stared at the question on his face. “You won’t be needing them. Now up, soldier. I know you know how to move with your hands tied behind your back.”

      He thought about making a smart-ass comment, but she was already through the door and ripping the tarp from the car.

      He got up and began following her, then backtracked to get his cell and wallet from the desk, stuffing each into back jeans pockets. Then he spotted a click-top pen. Bingo. He palmed it and stuffed it inside the waistband of his jeans before joining her.

      She climbed inside the car and reached to open the passenger’s door for him. He awkwardly got inside and was trying to figure out a way to close it with his foot when she reached across him, her breasts brushing against his thighs, to close it for him.

      Then she reached behind him, taking his cell from his pocket and tossing it to the dash.

      He had to give her credit; she didn’t miss a trick.

      Which made him feel a little less bad about being taken hostage by her.

      A little.

      “The doors?” he asked.

      She gave him a long look. “Blocked from the outside. The bastard parked on the other side.”

      “Then how are we going to get out—?”

      The engine started and the car was in gear before he could utter the next word. His neck jerked as she sped in Reverse, the old car’s monster engine roaring in his ears.

      She reached across him and yanked the seat belt across his lap, shoving the latch into his hands behind his back before doing her own.

      “Hold on,” she said, smiling in his direction.

      She pressed a button on the visor. Even as he awkwardly secured his seat belt, he looked over his shoulder, watching as another door, this one a garage type, lifted some fifty yards behind them on the opposite warehouse wall.

      “It’s not going to make it up in time,” he said over the engine’s growl.

      “It’ll make it.”

      Twenty yards … ten … five …

      The top of the car hit the bottom of the door, but it didn’t slow them down.

      She hit the brakes on the other side and did a one-eighty.

      “Oops,” she said.

      He couldn’t help shaking his head, amused.

      The car was barely straight before she shoved the stick into Drive, roaring off before the guy in her apartment had any idea what hit him.

      Or maybe not.

      Jon stared back at a large man in faded, full-out desert military gear rounding the side of the warehouse a hundred yards away. Only, he didn’t look like anyone he’d ever served with. This guy had long blond hair tied back and a full beard. And his weapon was Russian, more specifically an AK-47.

      Definitely not something an American soldier would be toting.

      Militia? Or military-loving mercenary?

      That meant their visitors numbered at least two: the one on the stairs and this one.

      He caught Mara’s glance as she looked away from the same sight. She didn’t appear surprised. But if he was expecting any kind of explanation, he was sadly disappointed.

      Jon shifted in the seat and worked on getting the click-top pen out of the waistband of his jeans, the spring of which he planned to use to pick his handcuffs….