Bound to the Bounty Hunter

by Hayson Manning

  She rolled her eyes. Did he think she’d been beamed down to the planet and she couldn’t see this was all a ruse to win the bet?

  “Where’re the photos?”

  “In my office safe. I had you under surveillance when you came to my office. My colleague clocked the guy taking photos of you.”

  “So you admit you had me followed.” She leaned forward until their breaths clashed. “Seriously. You need to go. The only reason you’re still breathing is I hate orange jumpsuits.”

  His eyes sparkled, and that bone-melting grin transformed his face.

  “We need to move. I’ll find out who it is. Since you’re staying with me, no one will get close to you.”

  She stepped backward. “I’d no more pack a bag and jump into your machine of a car than I would enter myself in a Miss Venezuela bikini pageant.”

  The humor died in his eyes. “This is serious shit, Sophie, you need to listen to me and do what I say.”

  Harlan folded impressive arms across his chest, widened his stance, and stared at her. Where was the man from last night and this morning in his office who’d looked at her like he wanted to devour her?

  He’d morphed into I-will-control-the-situation-and-you-at-all-costs, and here he stood in her living room doing what he did best.

  Demanding.

  This Harlan Franco she knew. This man she took bail jumpers from. The man currently looking at her as if she were a stain.

  She took a deep breath and held his gaze. Time to dish up some facts so he’d be on his merry way.

  “FYI, I’ve got a great security system.” And she did. It had cost a fortune. She’d beefed up security after a cheating husband had followed her back here. Her hands landed on her hips. “My neighbor Titus is the self-appointed neighborhood watch captain. He writes down every car that comes into the street, and if that car hangs around he has a detailed description and the boys in blue on speed dial.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You rely on your neighbor?”

  She blew out a breath. “Are you listening to me? No, I don’t rely on my neighbor. I know this neighborhood. I know the people who live here, their vehicles, and when they change vehicles. I would know if someone was following me.” Between her and Titus, she was confident one of them would have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

  Harlan gazed around the room, as if inspecting her security system, his eyes resting on the antique cabinet that housed her treasured snow globes. All ninety-four of them and counting.

  Her favorite, the one that had started her collection, sat proudly at the front. Dorothy wearing her trademark ruby slippers, with the date her father gave it to her engraved on the bottom:

  S. You are my night and day. 7 May.

  The globe calmed her. Made her feel safe.

  She had carried on the tradition of engraving the date she purchased a new globe until she’d received her father’s personal effects and the world she’d thought she belonged to exploded.

  “I don’t have much time.”

  A tentative knock sounded at the door.

  She checked the watch that ran ten minutes late no matter how many times she changed the battery. “Turns out neither do I. You need to leave. Now.”

  His eyes heated and lazily dragged down her body as if she were naked. “Not a big fan of the insubordination, but I have a plan for that.” He reached out and tucked a length of hair behind her ear.

  Poof, there it was, that instant hit when he touched her. Her blood thickened, her heart rate kicked up several gears, and that good old feeling beat a path between her legs.

  What is it about this man that makes me want to bite him?

  Hard.

  She started toward the door on legs made of Jell-O. She didn’t know how he did it but, by a feat of physics, Harlan managed to get to the door before her and peered through the peephole.

  She tried to push him, but moving Jupiter would be easier.

  Close. He was too close. His scent battered her defenses. Standing next to the man, her brain shut down, but her body trembled in embarrassing anticipation.

  Why, why, why did she want him more than breathing?

  Surprise flared in his eyes.

  One hand landed beside her head. “You want me?”

  She shook her head. She hated him, hated herself, hated everything about this.

  “Hell no,” she said, sounding surprisingly and thankfully formal.

  The atmosphere crackled between them. She lifted her chin and refused to get lost in the depths of his deep blues or acknowledge the mesmerizing gold flecks in his eyes.

  “Miss Sophie, are you all right? There’s a tank of a car parked in the driveway. I’ve written down the license.” The concerned voice of her neighbor filtered through the heavy wood.

  She turned and opened the door, ignoring the wall of man next to her.

  “Hey, Titus.” Her neighbor’s dark eyes widened as he took in Harlan, who’d crossed his arms and stood guarding the door as if burly robbers were about to break in. She elbowed Harlan out of the way. “I’ve got your pickled onions.”

  “I didn’t know you had a man.” Titus’s smile lit up his face. At five-foot-two, he tilted his head back. “Well, I must say I am pleased.” Titus thrust out one hand, leaning on his trusty cane with the other, his eyes trained on Harlan, who grinned and shook her neighbor’s hand, introducing himself.

  Sophie’s heart threw in a mini-beat. Titus would hurry down their shared driveway, his cane on “rapid stomp.” He’d tell his wife, Sally, who’d forget in two minutes, so he’d repeat himself, hoping something would stick. All the while he’d be planning her “big day”.

  “I don’t have a man, Titus, but if I did it wouldn’t be this man.” She squeezed Titus’s shoulder. “I’ll get your pickled onions, and I’ll see you on Thursday as usual.” She paused, knowing Titus relied on her more than he cared to admit. “You know I’ve got a huge leg of lamb in the freezer I’ll never get through. I’ll roast it up and bring it over.”

  The only thing hanging out in her freezer was an expired Lean Cuisine and two frozen fishcakes that had escaped the box ages ago and lay like golden eyes staring at her.

  She loved her neighbors and often ate oatmeal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner on a slow workweek so she could help them out. Like her, they had no family. Titus had caught Sophie watering his garden at midnight after she had come back from a job and noticed the normally beautiful flowers looked thirsty. She’d turned down Titus’s requests for dinner until she’d run out of excuses. She’d joined them and they’d sat down to canned tomato soup, toast, and four potato chips laid in a row on the toast. Now every Thursday night she loaded up her groaning credit card at the supermarket and inflicted her cooking skills on them.

  “Well now. Since you have a man in your life, you should be on dates, cooking for him. Getting wooed.” Titus’s brown eyes twinkled.

  A bark of unexpected laughter broke free from deep in her chest, breaking the tension. “Ah, Harlan doesn’t woo, Titus, he commands his army of small, blond ‘yes-women’.” She checked her watch again. “And I’m commanding him to leave.” She ignored Harlan, walked to her cluttered kitchen table and hoisted the jar of Olde English pickled onions. She held the jar out to her neighbor whose eyes lit up at the size.

  “I know you said a small one, but these were on sale,” she lied. Heat radiated from her face. She turned to Harlan whose eyes were trained on her. He stared at her like she was a code and he’d been given the letters, S, E, and X.

  “I’ll see myself out.” Titus grinned. “I’ll see you Thursday, and bring your young man. He might want to catch the fishing channel with me after dinner.”

  “I’ll be there,” Harlan said.

  Sophie turned and glared at him.

  “He won’t, Titus, but I’ll see you Thursday, if not before, and don’t forget Fly Fishing Phil cheats.” She leaned forward and hugged her neighbor, inhaling his pine aftershave.

  Titus lifted
his cane and shuffled out the door.

  She turned to Harlan. “Now, I have a job tonight, and you need to leave.” She walked to her bedroom, closed the door, and jumped at the sound of the front door slamming. Unable to resist, she opened her door to see her living room and house Harlan-free. Only his spicy male scent lingered. Without thinking, she breathed deeply.

  “Wow, that was easy,” she said to Pongo, who opened one eye. “Suspiciously.”

  The clock on her bedside table drew her eye.

  Crap. I’ve got to get a move on.

  She swapped her polo for a slinky black top. She wore her newish black jeans, the ones that kind of flattered her ass if she squinted. Black boots on her feet. If she didn’t eat so many Pringles her ass wouldn’t be so round, nor her hips, but giving up the Salt and Vinegar? Never going to happen.

  She added a touch of gloss to her lips, then grabbed her bag, set the alarm, and locked the front door. Scanning the area, she found no cars out of place.

  Sophie sang along with Bruno Mars and headed toward the aptly named strip joint Beavers and Buttheads. She checked in her rearview mirror countless times but only a gray sedan stuck with her until she threw in an unexpected left turn. She let out her breath. Harlan’s words still sat in her brain. If he was telling the truth and someone was following her, tomorrow she’d launch her own investigation.

  …

  Harlan stood at the rear of the packed club, eyes on Sophie. She was good. Very good. She’d clocked him the minute he’d walked in. She’d raised an eyebrow then shot him a glacial look. He nursed a warm beer, scanned the bar, again, looking for any threats.

  Nothing.

  His gaze slid back to Sophie, who sat on a stool away from the front of the action. Jeans cupped her bitable ass and clung to her long legs, a T-shirt pulled across her mouth-watering breasts. His eyes stayed locked on hair that would feel awesome fanned across his stomach. He itched to pull the tie from her hair. He loved her hair down around her face in a mass of shiny, dark, shimmering curls. His dick sent him an “I’m here and functioning” message.

  If he closed his eyes he could imagine a hot running montage of Sophie naked, in various positions looking up at him, her body straining…for him, her eyes begging…for him.

  Damn.

  Getting a boner in a strip club was never a good idea. Girls would be offering lap dances when he only wanted one girl on his lap.

  Another sip of overpriced beer slid down his throat. He’d confirmed with Petrov that his client wasn’t running a double-team on Sophie—something Harlan had encountered before. Playing two teams against each other only stripped resources, wasted time, and pissed everyone off.

  He’d tightened the circle around Sophie. If Sophie spotted a detail, she’d think he was trying to find the recording because of their bet. He didn’t care if she complained. If he didn’t have eyes on her, one of his team would, 24/7.

  He gazed around. He hated this strip joint. Filled with trust-fund college students and an owner who preferred profit over pretty much everything, including under-agers with their older brothers’ IDs. The place was so packed it had to be violating a fire code. A man bumped into him, slurring an apology. Stale beer and pretty-boy aftershave tainted the air. The sooner Sophie finished the better, so they could breathe clean air.

  To his left, a bunch of guys in their late teens or early twenties were having a “drink as much shit tequila as you can” session. Above the techno base beat that made his teeth throb, their catcalls and whistles got louder as they downed more shots they didn’t know were watered down.

  Even if he weren’t being paid to guard Sophie, something about her pulled at him. Like some sort of fucked up magnet that both repelled and drew him at the same time. He couldn’t explain it, and he couldn’t stop it.

  The woman of the hour turned and looked at him, rubbing a spot on the back of her neck as if she knew he had been staring at her.

  Sophie stood and played her mark—a man enjoying a lap dance at the back of the club. She circled him, her handbag on her shoulder. Pausing, her hand moved up the strap, taking a photo. The man with his head thrown back and eyes closed, getting his happy ending, oblivious to everyone except the bored-looking woman grinding on his lap. Sophie headed toward the exit.

  Thank fuck.

  In Harlan’s peripheral vision, two men dressed in Armani suits, sunglasses covering their faces, moved toward Sophie, hands moving to the insides of their jackets.

  Shit.

  They weren’t here for the show.

  Harlan’s blood turned to slush.

  Fuck.

  He threw bodies aside, ignoring protests. His hand slid to the Glock in the holster at the back of his jeans. If the suits got to her before he did, there’d be a serious problem. It would be messy. There’d be gunfire, and the probability of someone with a hole in them leaking blood ran high.

  Not in the game plan.

  Sophie stopped by a group of dickheads wearing college jerseys. She then threw her arms around two jocks’ shoulders and pulled them in to her body, moving sideways into a crowd of drunk teens who’d stood to applaud two of their friends who looked like they were getting a longed-for, but largely mythical, threesome. If one of the boys so much as laid a finger on her, he’d dislocate his shoulder.

  He tossed one of the college students aside, ignoring his startled grunts, and grabbed Sophie’s wrist, curling her into his side and guiding her toward the stage.

  Sophie pried at his hand on her waist. Anger vibrated in her voice. “I’ve seen the threat, and I was positioning to get to the side exit.”

  She’d been using the college boys for cover. Great strategy.

  “Harlan. Stop.” Sophie pulled on his arm.

  He strode past the stage where two girls worked one pole. He threw open a door marked employees only, and jogged past a group of women applying Maybelline and adjusting costumes. Some appeared startled. Others hardly registered them, only sparing a glance as if they’d seen everything there was to see by the time they’d reached seventeen.

  He hit the back entrance, pushed open the door, and chugged cool air. Without letting go of Sophie’s hand, he scanned the area. He pulled the remote from his pocket and pressed two buttons. The roar of the Viper thundered across the parking lot. He ignored Sophie trying to peel his fingers from around hers.

  Getting the asset safe—his only priority.

  “This is ridiculous. Stop. Right. Now. I can take care of myself.”

  Sophie absolutely could look after herself under normal circumstances, but this was a whole bigger ball game.

  Harlan tightened his grip on Sophie’s hand. “We’ve got to get to safety.”

  An earsplitting scream ground him to a halt. Sophie stood, glaring at him, her mouth open and a sound that could launch a zombie invasion piercing the night air.

  When the scream gathered in intensity, he picked her up. She landed with an oomph on his shoulder, which silenced her, at least for the moment.

  He bent low and ran, her fists beating against his back. He absorbed the pain. The woman could pack a punch.

  He increased his pace, his muscles screaming.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she said in a voice that would crack ice. “I’m a grown woman and a private detective for Christ’s sake.”

  With his free hand, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and barked the word “office.” “Arabella. I need a car picked up.” He gave the address, the make and model of the car. “Call me when the car is in the driveway.” He pushed the phone into his back pocket.

  The locks of his car automatically opened when he got within ten feet. He opened the passenger door and, ignoring her startled protest, he deposited her on the seat, reached in, then buckled her belt.

  They both needed to be far, far away.

  And he needed to be on his game. He hadn’t noticed the suits entering the building; he’d been staring at Sophie. He was nothing more than a pussy-whipped teen.
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  An unprofessional pussy-whipped teen.

  By the time he’d opened the driver’s side and jumped in, the back door to the club opened, and the men jogged out. He gripped the steering wheel and threw the car into drive, keeping his headlights off until they cleared the lot.

  “Stop the car.”

  Her fury slapped him. He didn’t glance at her, but flicked the headlights on and headed toward her house, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror.

  He gripped the steering wheel tighter, replaying the past few minutes in his mind. Granted, she was good at her job. Yep, she’d clocked the trained militia, but those men played at a different level. He’d trained with the likes of them in Nicaragua. Intelligent, professional—they’d snap a neck, slice a liver, or sever a spine in a single move without a backward glance. All the things he’d been trained to do. They were well paid and didn’t leave until the job was done, under any circumstances.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Was this the same crew that had been at her place this morning?

  His muscles twitched. If he could get out and drop, he’d do fifty without breaking a sweat.

  He’d turned up at her house today hoping she’d move in with him where he could keep her safe. After leaving her place to let her calm down, he’d left one of his people around the corner and driven to his house to pack a bag.

  He glanced over at her then back to the road. Red cheeks underscored her pale face. Her eyes narrowed. He also noticed the tremble in her fingers.

  Her hand landed on his arm. “Stop the car.”

  “No.”

  The warmth of her fingers punched through his coiled forearm, making his dick hard in record time.

  He gripped the wheel until his knuckles throbbed, his eyes focused on the road, running how this would play out. He’d find out if Sophie was who Petrov thought she might be. Winning the bet, because he was a man who didn’t like to lose at anything, and having Sophie for one night after this had finished, would be the icing on the cake. Especially if Sophie icing tasted how he imagined Sophie icing would taste. Until the job was done, Sophie would be plastered to his side.