Bound to the Bounty Hunter

by Hayson Manning

  A few days later she’d started cross-referencing the names in the journal to the places they’d visited. She’d bought a stack of cards and written “Sorry,” and returned the amount he’d stolen, writing the name Josiah O’Connor.

  It wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough, but she’d never stop trying to pay it all back.

  Pongo squeezed his body through the dog door. She dropped to her knees and hugged his warm, wiggling body. His tail whipped the air like an out-of-control windshield wiper.

  “Morning, baby boy.”

  She smiled when he burrowed deeper into her neck.

  “You know how much I love you, right?”

  She stood and stretched aching muscles, sore from taking the jumper at Javier’s Gym. An army of knots had camped out on her spine and was holding it prisoner. She groaned, tensed, and turned to find Harlan staring at her.

  The man must be part stealth.

  Straight from the shower, his fingers stopped combing through damp hair. She wasn’t even going to think of him naked in the shower, with droplets of water running down his stomach, lathering his body in soapy circles.

  She swallowed.

  His gaze locked on the pink tank top covered in small white hearts that clung to her torso, then dropped to matching pajama shorts.

  He’d come dressed for the day. Denim stretched across his powerful thighs. A white T-shirt had replaced the seemingly endless stream of black shirts he usually wore. She’d wondered if Harlan had a factory somewhere that pumped out tight-fitting T-shirts that hugged every muscle—the fit so perfect and identical. Aviator sunglasses perched on his head, scuffed boots on his feet.

  Normally, she dressed before exiting her bedroom, but after a restless sleep she needed caffeine flowing freely through her veins. There’d been no sound from her spare bedroom, so she’d assumed Harlan either slept or was doing his extended workouts.

  She lifted her red and yellow polka-dotted Chiefs mug, and pain sliced through her shoulder.

  “You doing all right?”

  She stared up at him not comprehending.

  “Your shoulder. Your jumper landed a few good ones.”

  Because her brain wasn’t yet soaked in the marvelousness of caffeine, she stood staring at him with all the intelligence of a sponge.

  He walked the short distance between them.

  “Let me.”

  She winced when his surprisingly gentle fingers probed at a tender spot on her shoulder.

  Yep, the knots were in for the long haul.

  “I think it’s better living life as a knot.” She went to move away but his big paw stilled on her shoulder.

  “If you don’t get them out now they will turn into boulders.” His fingers probed deeper into the protesting muscle. “Relax,” he commanded.

  “I’m okay with boulders.” She wriggled to get away from his warm touch.

  He swept her hair from her back over one shoulder creating a wave of goose bumps that broke over her body.

  She held her body as stiff as she could.

  Tension swept into the room on a wave.

  “You handled yourself well against your jumper.”

  She nodded.

  His fingers were delicate yet powerful.

  The paradox of the man equaled a complex equation old Pythagoras would have had a hard time working out.

  Rough, then unexpectedly gentle. Controlling, but protective.

  “There were other men at the gym you could have taken right then and there.”

  Air trapped in her breastbone.

  Were they talking in some kind of code? In a roundabout way was he referencing himself?

  “Your legs wrapped around your jumper’s neck. That hook to his jaw. Your arms strained to breaking point. Hot…apparently.”

  Apparently.

  “Anyone in particular stand out?” she asked, her breath now lodged hard in her throat.

  His fingers flexed on her neck. “Nope.”

  No hesitation there.

  She winced partly from the comment and from his fingers that had dug out that knotted muscle into smoothness.

  “Didn’t mean to hurt you.” He brushed his hand across her back, sweeping her hair from her shoulder.

  “You can’t hurt me.”

  Tension thickened until breathing became a challenge. His eyes, hotter than coal, pinned her. Like he wanted to devour her, right here and now. And just as quickly, he looked like he had mistaken her for bad meat. She let out a long breath.

  This man wound her tighter and tighter until she thought she’d physically explode. No other man had made her feel this way. Admittedly, she could count her previous lovers on one hand, okay on three fingers. Until Harlan had bulldozed himself into her life, she’d decided one day she’d find a nice man, they’d have a nice marriage, have nice sex, maybe a couple of nice kids, and they’d grow old together, nicely.

  Anger at herself for her inability to block him twisted inside her and morphed into frustration and fear that one of her father’s victims was out for revenge.

  She picked up her coffee cup, took a final gulp, and placed it back on the counter.

  His mouth tightened, and his jaw clenched. He reached out to pick up her mug.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  His hand froze midair.

  Annoyance fizzed inside like a shaken can of soda. “I like my counter with a cup on it. I know when I come back home tonight, it’s going to be waiting for me to rinse it out.”

  He drew in a breath and held it, before he blew it out in a long exhale.

  She put her hands on her hips. “I also like to have a fridge with food past its expiration date. I don’t want everything sorted into this weird color-coded, height thing you’ve done. I know there are yogurt containers waiting to explode and withered carrots. I like magazines open to random pages. The remote under a cushion.” She leaned in to him, ignoring the scent of soap, spicy deodorant, and man. “My house. My rules. What I don’t like is having you here straightening things up. I like messy, it makes it a home. I like a home. I don’t like a house.”

  Impatience washed across his face. “A house needs order.”

  “A home needs the stamp of the person living there.”

  The sun hit the cabinet in the corner, throwing prisms of rainbow on the polished wooden floor. “Take that cabinet.” She tilted her head. “I could have gone to Ikea and nearly committed suicide putting it together. It would have been less work than renting a U-Haul and driving to Goodwill, then sanding through a million layers of paint to the beautiful wood beneath.”

  He blinked at her as if she now spoke in tongues.

  “It gives the room a personal touch. Makes it a home. So do dishes in the sink. I didn’t have that growing up, and I like having it now.”

  Dark brows drew together, his eyes appraising. “Where did you grow up?”

  She blinked at the change in conversation.

  “What?”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “Everywhere. You?”

  He scanned her. “Any place you stayed longer than usual?”

  “Seriously?” She dragged a cloth across the spotless counter. “And stop buying pine disinfectant. That’s Titus’s scent, and you’re ruining it.” She knew she sounded illogical, but she wasn’t going to explain how Titus’s scent left her feeling warm and loved, but the harsh smell of disinfectant made her think of cramped bedrooms filled with grieving relatives and her father praying for a dying person to live.

  He stared at her, waiting.

  She blew out a breath. “I’m not unfamiliar with interrogation techniques, Harlan. If you want to ask me a question, ask me, but don’t do it under the guise of actually wanting to know anything about me.”

  “I know you,” he said quietly.

  She stilled, her breath trying to burrow back into her lungs.

  Did he know about her father and what he’d done?

  “You tighten your ponytail when you
’re nervous. You rub the back of your neck when you’re tired. You go through life hiding. You keep people at arm’s length. There’s PI Sophie who’s got balls and there’s Sophie Callaghan who guards her heart—the woman who’d give her last cent if someone needed it.”

  Sophie sucked in a breath.

  A loud audible breath.

  He advanced, his eyes soft.

  “I’m guessing you can count on one hand the number of men in your life. You don’t want to be attracted to me, but you are. And you hate being told what to do.”

  I don’t know what to do with this.

  She pressed her lips together to stop the bubble of emotion slipping up her throat and sliding out of her mouth into the room.

  She turned her head and stared at her snow-globe collection.

  This complicated man confused her. One minute looking like he’d rather be chowing down on slugs, the next as if he’d glimpsed her soul.

  “What are we doing here, Harlan?” A tiny tremble filtered through her voice.

  Damn.

  “Keeping you safe.”

  She pressed on the knot in her chest and kept to the facts. “Those men haven’t been seen for two days,” she said, emotional, tired, and wanting to be far, far away.

  “Because I’m living here. They won’t, knowing I’m here.” He rubbed his hand across his chin, looking thoughtful before he headed to the fridge, opened the door, and popped the lid on one of his protein shakes. The scent of artificial banana filled the room.

  “What do you mean you grew up everywhere?”

  “I don’t want to talk about my childhood,” she said, the need for space gaining strength. “What about you, Harlan? Your parents. Do you take tea on Sunday? What made you want to be a bounty hunter? In what country did you do your training? Who was your best friend growing up? What’s your favorite TV show?”

  He took a long gulp and paused, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “This isn’t about me.”

  They entered a stare-off.

  God the man was as stubborn as Pongo giving back a stolen treat.

  “I give you something. You give me something.”

  She waited until he gave one sharp nod.

  She stared at her couch with a Soaps magazine open to Y and R spoilers and concentrated on Victor Newman’s face. “My father died. Before he did, we traveled a lot and traveled light, I was homeschooled, and we never had personal items. I have one photo of us taken on a beach when I was around seven.”

  Her peachy life in a nutshell.

  Silence stretched between them.

  “I gave, now it’s your turn. What about your mom? What made you want to be a bounty hunter? What’s your favorite color, TV show, and your star sign?”

  He stared at her a beat before answering, “I’ve wanted to be a bounty hunter since I was a kid. Never knew my father. I don’t have a favorite color. I watch the news, sports, and Deadliest Catch if it’s on and I’m around, and I have no idea what star sign I am.”

  “When’s your birthday?” At his confused look she blew out a breath. “So I can tell you your star sign so you can read the correct one in the morning.”

  His eyes sparkled, and his mouth twitched. “November sixth.”

  “Now you can read your Scorpio horoscope before flicking to sports and getting in an instant bad mood that the Raiders were voted suckiest NFL team ever. Again.”

  His eyes sparkled brighter.

  Damn.

  “I will have you, Sophie. For one night, you’ll be mine and do exactly as I say.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I believe we’ve had this conversation. As for losing myself to fit who you want me to be? No.”

  The first time she’d lost herself to a powerful man, after her father’s death, she hadn’t realized it until he’d tossed her aside because she’d become boring.

  The loss of dignity still shamed her.

  The second time, she’d somehow slipped into what her lover expected, sliding deeper into him, until he walked away.

  The third time, she’d realized what was happening, but she’d been so caught up in him, so caught up in the possibility of the relationship, she’d let him dictate. She’d fallen deep and hard. He’d ended the relationship when she wouldn’t give up her profession. Without a backward glance, he’d walked away, ripping out her heart and throwing it to the wolves.

  After a long night of soul-searching, Two-Buck Chuck, and tears, she’d come to the cold conclusion that, in reaching for a connection, she’d been afraid that the too-tall, too-plain woman wouldn’t be enough, so she changed to who they thought she should be.

  “Being dominated isn’t like that.”

  She stared at up him. “It is like that.”

  His eyes roamed over her face then dropped to her chest, lingering on her breasts, which hardened under his hungry gaze.

  “Do you wear that to bed every night?”

  She looked down at her pajamas.

  “What?”

  “Did you wear that last night?” His voice sounded strained.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you sleep well?” He’d edged closer.

  She clamped her arms across her chest, trying to hide tight, aching nipples.

  “It took me a while…but I got there,” she murmured. “You?”

  “Straight out.” He stared at the coffee machine as if it were art.

  “Right.” She stepped back and turned away.

  “I’ve got a full load today. I’m meeting a potential partner at my office. I’ll meet you at Titus’s.”

  The blood dropped from her head to her feet in a long, roller coaster swoop.

  “Small, blond submissive partner?” Her throat tightened with each word.

  He shrugged.

  It shouldn’t bother her, but it stung.

  She tried to steer the conversation away from the complicated feelings swarming in her head. “You never said what happened to your mom.”

  He stared at her a long time before answering. “Died when I was seven. Had her heart broken and her money stolen by a con-man preacher who promised to cure the cancer eating her.”

  The hatred on his face left her with no doubt what he’d do if he came across the preacher again.

  Oh my God.

  A sickening thought forced bile up her throat.

  “Sophie?”

  Harlan’s voice came from another era.

  “I just remembered an appointment.” She pushed her trembling hands to her hair. “I’ve got to go.”

  She did have an appointment. With her toilet. She barely made it to the bathroom in time.

  After emptying her stomach of its contents, she stood at the sink, her body in a full tremble.

  “Damn you,” she whispered. “Why couldn’t you have been a regular dad?” She wiped her hand across her face.

  “Sophie, I’m going. Are you okay?” Harlan spoke from outside the door.

  “I’m fine,” she managed, sounding relatively normal.

  She cleaned herself up and brushed her teeth. She opened the bathroom door to an empty house.

  She knew when Harlan had left. His presence filled the tiny space when he was there. She changed into her workday uniform, then stepped into her walk-in closet. On the top shelf, behind boxes and paperwork, she pulled on a sliver of wood built into the wall, which slid out, taking the side of the wall with it. She spun the dials on the safe until the door clicked, then took out her father’s journal. She forced herself to read each line, her hands trembling looking for the name Franco.

  Nothing.

  But some entries showed only initials. Pages and pages of initials.

  She slid the journal back into the safe and carefully reconstructed the scene. She made it back to the kitchen and drank a tall glass of water.

  Her phone vibrated on the counter where she’d left it last night.

  She grabbed it and headed toward the door, swiping the screen, ignoring the quiver in her fingers. T
he first of three texts was from Gemma.

  Gemma: Hey Gal Pal, can you work the 10 to 4 tonight? Candy’s grandmother has died for the fifth time. Don’t worry about Pipe, he’s a big teddy bear underneath.

  “Yeah, the Chucky of teddy bears,” she murmured at the screen.

  The second text was from her client Beth. She’d emailed the information she had on her missing mother, and she was looking forward to working with her.

  The final text was from Annie.

  Annie: Girlfriend, Gem and I are having a snack and wine-fueled evening tomorrow night where we will be talking male appendages. Bring wine, snacks, your insanely long legs, and any male appendages you have lying around. Battery or otherwise. My address is below.

  Sophie worried the inside of her cheek with her teeth. Her budget wouldn’t stretch to expensive snacks and wine after she’d cooked tonight’s dinner and sent fifty dollars to Jenny Mannering from Winter Haven, Florida, but that wasn’t totally it. She envied Gemma and Annie their easy friendship and the way they talked about themselves and their pasts. She knew she was guarded and tried hard to be breezy, but her father had taught her to deflect personal questions until it became second nature.

  As for appendages. She had none. Battery or otherwise.

  Heat surged into her face, thinking about a conversation on vibrators where she couldn’t contribute a single snippet.

  She couldn’t exactly tell them the truth.

  There’s a hot bounty hunter named Harlan living under my roof. The man used to look at me like I’m his favorite snack and he’s a death row inmate, now he looks at me like I’m some half-eaten burrito he found on a bus and he’s starving, but he knows if he eats the burrito he’ll throw up.

  Another interesting snippet. My father was a two-bit con artist preacher. Fun fact. Harlan’s mom lost everything to a con-artist preacher.

  Sophie: Sorry, I’m busy tomorrow night, but I’d love to come another night.

  A little white lie never hurt anyone.

  He’d despise her if he found out. Flat-out hate her. The raw emotion on his face didn’t look like it had diminished in the years since his mom died.

  With Harlan elsewhere she’d have to ditch the hot Viking who often tailed her. If she played her cards right and her car cooperated, she could get to the park and retrieve her equipment. Then she could get rid of Harlan before he got it firmly in his head that she’d be his for one night, then tossed aside like a candy wrapper.