Most Wanted Woman. Maggie Price

3

      Josh woke the following morning with a picture in his head of Regan Ford standing at her French doors, gripping a knife. Not your normal small town response when greeting a visitor.

      Of course, he had no clue if the woman who’d looked willing to wield that knife hailed from the country or a big city. No idea of where she’d come from. What, or who was in her past.

      No idea yet.

      Deciding to get his morning run over with before the heat set in, he pulled on shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves torn out, then snagged a pair of crew socks and his running shoes from the duffel bag he’d yet to unpack. Halfway down the broad oak staircase a rich, heady scent greeted him. Thankful he’d taken time last night to program the coffeemaker, he headed for the kitchen.

      The room was big and cluttered and, despite the gleam of snazzy appliances and shiny tiles, homey. Tossing his socks and shoes beside the granite-topped cooking island, he pulled a mug from a cabinet. While pouring coffee, his thoughts returned to Regan. Since he couldn’t shake her, he bowed to the inevitable and took a shot at analyzing what it was about the enigmatic bartender that had her clinging like a burr to his brain.

      His mouth formed a cynical arch. Her sexy, slim-as-a-reed build had a lot to do with it. Females with nifty little bodies had always drawn him like…well, a cop to a crime scene.

      He toasted a bagel before heading out of the kitchen. Steam billowed from his mug as he walked along the paneled hallway lined with a pictorial history of the McCall family. There’d be new photos soon, he thought. His three sisters had recently married. His oldest brother had reconciled with his wife and they’d renewed their vows. His parents had taken a boatload of pictures during the Valentine’s Day quadruple wedding ceremony.

      Josh stepped out onto the front porch, narrowing his eyes against the already intense morning sunlight. With his thoughts centered on the dark-eyed bartender, he was only vaguely aware of the sweet scent of the yellow roses spilling out of the clay pots lining the porch rail.

      Regan Ford had more attributes than just a body built to star in his fantasies, he conceded. There was that fox-sharp face, made even more compelling by a frame of thick, midnight-black hair he wouldn’t mind plunging his fingers into. And those auburn-flecked eyes. Watchful. Waiting. Intriguing.

      On a physical level, she wasn’t a woman he could easily rid his mind of.

      Then there was the challenge she presented. Last night at her apartment she’d been a package full of nerves and hostility. The nerves she tried to hide. She hadn’t bothered with the hostility.

      No problem—as a cop he was used to being where he wasn’t wanted. As a man, he savored the prospect of digging through whatever layers made up Regan Ford.

      Granted, it was her right not to tell him where she was from. And keep her last name to herself. A woman tending bar was smart to withhold information while engaged in a conversation with a stranger. People had all sorts of reasons for holding back personal information. One being privacy. Another, they had something to hide. Problem was, secrets sometimes held a nefarious edge, causing innocent people to get hurt.

      Finishing off his bagel, he strolled to the end of the porch. Etta’s blue two-story house sat bathed in sunlight, its white shutters gleaming.

      Like most cops, he believed in being thorough and covering every base. He had learned in both his personal and professional lives never to take anything or anyone at face value. Which was what Etta had done when she hired a stray off the street without checking her out.

      A stray who was damn prickly about questions.

      He did a mental replay of Regan’s small apartment. There’d been no photographs, letters or other personal items in sight. A lone vase of daisies was the only indication the woman who’d lived there half a year had done anything to transform the apartment into a home. The woman who’d answered the door looking pale as chalk, and gripping a knife. During his years on the force, he’d never met an abused woman who hadn’t been systematically isolated from friends and alienated from family. Was Regan Ford hiding from an abuser?

      Josh sipped his coffee. That was just one of many questions his gut told him needed answers, for Etta’s protection. And to satisfy his own curiosity, which he conceded had transformed overnight from idle to intense.

      The whispering slap of footsteps against pavement brought his chin up. Turning, he caught movement on the road. Raven-black hair bobbed in a ponytail as Regan, looking wasp slim in a black crop top, gray shorts and running shoes, jogged by at an impressive clip.

      “Speak of the devil,” he murmured then dumped the remainder of his coffee onto the lawn. No time like the present to start working on satisfying his curiosity, he decided as he swung back into the house to grab his shoes and socks.

      Ten minutes later, he jogged around a curve on the patchy asphalt road and had Regan in his sights. His gaze slid over the black crop top, down a long feline arch of spine to a small, shapely bottom in snug shorts.

      One hell of an inspiring view.

      Even this early, heat and humidity turned the air thick as syrup, forcing his lungs to work like a bellows. Sweat pooled on his flesh, soaked into his clothes as he focused on his target. She kept her speed steady. Her pace disciplined.

      Up to this point he had held back his own speed, letting the muscles he hadn’t taken time to stretch soften and warm. Now he quickened his pace, lengthened his stride as a mindless rhythm orchestrated his movements.

      He watched as Regan reached the turnoff for the marina. Traffic on the road had picked up so she had to pause and jog in place while a pickup pulling a boat on a trailer took the turn, grit popping beneath its tires. When she dashed off, she took the fork rimming the lake, heading in the direction of the tavern. He knew from previous runs that Truelove’s was five miles from his family’s house. Ten miles, round trip. If Regan made a habit of jogging from her apartment to Etta’s and back each day, she had to be in great shape.

      His gaze slid from her waist down to her trim bottom, then to her tanned, coltish legs. Amazing legs. Yeah, that sexy little body was in primo shape.

      After waiting at the turnoff for a break in traffic, he increased his speed. Since Regan gave no indication she was aware of his presence, he figured the heavy traffic muted the sound of his footsteps. By the time he closed in on her, all he could hear was the drum of his own pulse echoing in his ears.

      He reached out, touched her elbow. “How’s it going?”

      The next instant she rounded on the balls of her feet. Her arm swept up. He saw the Mace canister just in time to lock a hand on her wrist, twist her arm behind her back and turn her into the solid restraint of his body.

      “Sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear. “You need to work on your friendship skills.”

      With her locked against him he felt the outrage—and something more—shoot through her stiffened frame. Then his words must have penetrated and she began to squirm.

      “Let go!”

      He took a moment to savor the warm, salty smell of woman. Another to acknowledge that the tightening in his gut was raw and purely sexual. Then he dropped the arm he’d locked around her waist, but kept his hand clenched on her wrist. She instantly whirled to face him while trying to jerk from his hold.

      “Let me go.” Her voice sounded far away. Hollow.

      He pried the cylinder from her grasp, then gave her a long, speculative look. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. “Do you Mace every jogger you meet?”

      Regan’s heart slammed against her rib cage; she took choppy breaths, trying to control the adrenaline rushing through her system. “You snuck up on me. Put your hand on me. What the hell did you expect?”

      “A friendly hello?”

      Cars whizzed past while she glared up at him. The hand gripping her wrist was hard and strong. Like his face, his voice.