Bulletproof Bride. Diana Duncan

She had just stepped into the middle of a robbery.

      Gabriel Colton watched the vault gate swing closed. The faint click echoed like a gunshot through the hushed lobby. He sized up the woman frozen in the doorway. The baggy cut of her plain brown suit nearly disguised her curvy figure, and her long chestnut curls were clasped at the nape of her neck in a conservative ponytail. This little kitten wouldn’t give him any trouble.

      Then his eyes locked with her sharply intelligent gaze, her golden-brown eyes wide with horror. A jolt of recognition slammed into him. For a split second, his concentration splintered. Impossible. He’d never even seen her before. He shook his head to clear it. “You the vault teller?” he snarled in his best bad-guy voice.

      Her face blanched fish-belly white and she nodded.

      Man, he hoped she wasn’t about to pass out on him. “Get the cash delivery.” His jaw clenched at the fear shimmering in her big amber eyes, but he didn’t have time to reassure her. He needed to grab the goods and get out.

      She stood rooted to the spot, stunned and staring.

      Feeling as low-down as the guy who shot Bambi’s mother, he dropped his voice to a menacing rumble. “Now! Move it, sister!”

      Kitten squared her shoulders. Color flooded her cheeks. She raised her chin and shot him such a blazing glare he needed asbestos boxer shorts. He got the message loud and clear.

      Uh-oh. His kitten had morphed into a lioness. No heroics, sweetheart. Please. He glared at her. “Do it!”

      She hurried inside, quickly returning with six canvas bags. She stalked toward him and tossed the bags at his feet.

      Gabe reached for the money, but the sight of the cut seals brought him up short. Damn! This operation was going to hell on a torpedo. “Did you look through these?”

      After a heartbeat’s hesitation, she nodded. Then understanding flashed across her face.

      He was too late. She must have seen the checks! Gabe assessed the situation with the speed of experience and reacted on instinct. His gloved hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, hauling her up against him. She stiffened. “Pick them up,” he growled into her ear. As she complied, her softly rounded bottom brushed intimately against his groin and her warm vanilla fragrance teased his senses. He shook his head. Get a grip, Colton, before all your brains rush south and get you killed.

      What the hell was wrong with him? He never lost his focus. Ever. Especially not over a woman. Consciously tempering his strength, he yanked her out the entrance, hustled her to his black Corvette, and flung open the driver’s side door.

      His captive tried to wrench free. “What are you doing?”

      “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re now my hostage.”

      “No!” Her elbow stabbed his solar plexus.

      The breath slammed out of his lungs. Gabe lost his grip and she slipped under his arm. She sprinted toward the bank and he lunged, grabbing her jacket to yank her back. “Nice try.” He shoved her into the car, tossing the money behind the seat.

      She tried to climb out. “I can’t be your hostage. I have an important appointment this evening.”

      He frowned. Poor Kitten probably didn’t even realize what she was saying. Damn, he hated scaring her, but if she knew anything and he left her behind, she was dead. He pushed her back inside and threw himself into the seat. As he twisted the key, she scrambled away from him, over the console.

      “I won’t hurt you,” he attempted to reassure her. Sirens screamed, and the sweet, heady rush of adrenaline glittered through his veins. He grinned. A conscientious employee had tripped the alarm. Now life was getting interesting. Exactly the way he liked it. He turned to his wide-eyed passenger. “Fasten your seat belt.” The engine roared, and he tore out of the parking lot.

      The ski mask interfered with his vision, and he ripped the mask and gloves off. He’d deal with the repercussions of letting her see his face later. Right now, he had to get them out of here in one piece. He wasn’t about to add either of their names to the long list of casualties on this one. His foot slammed down on the gas pedal.

      “Hey!” his captive squeaked. “You’re running the red lights!”

      “No kidding.” Chuckles burst out of him. “A traffic citation is the least of my worries, honey.”

      “You’ve committed robbery, don’t add kidnapping,” she said in a reasonable tone, though her shaky voice gave away her panic. “You’re lengthening your sentence by at least five years. Let me go. Please.”

      “No time to explain. I’m taking you for your protection.” He ignored the screaming sirens behind them. The ’Vette responded to his touch like a familiar lover as he wove from side to side. Revved up to sixty, the car screeched around a corner. He skidded and spun into another sharp turn and they nearly rocked up on two wheels.

      A moan leaked out of his passenger and Gabe glanced over at her. Stiff and unmoving, she clutched the armrest like a life preserver, her face a bilious pea-green. Unless he missed his guess, she was about to yodel in living Technicolor. “You okay?”

      “Motion sick,” she murmured through white lips.

      Wonderful. Just what he needed. “Take deep breaths.” He stabbed the window button. Fresh air. Get the lady some fresh air.

      The window slid down and Tessa leaned out like a wind-drunk poodle, gulping in cool autumn air. She clung to the armrest, fighting her terror and the nausea pitching in her stomach. This was all a crazy nightmare. Any minute, she’d wake up, call Mel and have a good laugh. Right after she threw up. Distraction—she needed a distraction.

      The police would want a description. She forced together her scattered concentration and studied her captor. Six foot one, around a hundred and ninety pounds. All hard, male muscle in a black jacket, T-shirt and snug jeans. His thick black hair was cut military-short at the sides and back and left just long enough in front to stand straight up. Long, sooty lashes fringed light-colored eyes. She couldn’t see the shade in profile and the slits in the ski mask had concealed them in deep shadow before.

      The shifting light played over a tanned classical face with strong cheekbones and a Roman nose. His sculpted lips were quirked in a smile over even white teeth and his square chin cradled a dimpled cleft in the center. Her gaze followed his wide shoulders downward. His lean, tanned hands—musician’s hands—controlled the wheel with grace and power.

      She knew firsthand how much strength those hands possessed.

      Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he sucked in a sharp breath.

      She jerked her gaze to the front. A thousand yards ahead, two police cars charged toward them, blocking both lanes and thwarting their escape. She was saved! But instead of slowing down, the bank robber shifted gears, his muscled thigh tensing beneath the tight denim as he stomped on the gas. The car leapt forward at a blood-curdling speed. “What are you doing?” she yelled.

      An unholy grin of pure joy split his face. He looked like he was having the time of his life! “Playing chicken.”

      Was he insane? Dumb question. He’d robbed a bank and was attempting to outrun the cops in a high-speed pursuit. Of course he was insane. Fear clutched at her chest as they closed the distance with incredible speed. Stay calm. Humor him. Wrestling down her dread, she tried negotiation. “Do you know how unlikely that is to work?”

      He chuckled. “Never tell me the odds.”

      “Han Solo.”

      “Huh?” He flicked a quick, puzzled glance at her.

      Common sense told her to shut up. Screaming nerves made her babble on. “You’re quoting Han Solo.”

      “You are one nutty broad.” The handsome felon shook his head. “Don’t worry, I know exactly what I’m doing. They’ll blink.”

      Obviously he was