Bound to the Bounty Hunter (8 page)

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. The 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.

Ah, no
.

Sophie sat in traffic, one foot on the accelerator, the other on the brake, her car protesting with a bone-shaking rattle. She sent a prayer upward to any mechanics in heaven, hanging around, discussing crankshafts.

The Viking had left his shift twenty minutes ago and the hot African-American dude had pulled in behind her.

Miss Sub sashayed into her head. She’d arrive at Harlan’s office in a crisp white business suit, a leather bag swinging from her gym-toned shoulders. Slender and petite, her straight, long blond hair would be in a high ponytail, bouncing against her toned shoulders. Six-inch heels on her feet. Large sunglasses shading her big blue eyes.

A UPS van stopped unexpectedly beside her. A harassed, brown-clothed driver dove out the door and ran into a building.

Sophie didn’t delay. Her foot left the brake, and her protesting car shot forward. She found a gap in the traffic and waved her thanks to the cars behind her. She took a left, another left, and ducked into an underground parking lot. She drove down three floors and parked between two cars in the long-term parking section and listened for a screech of tires.

Nothing.

She checked her watch.

Damn.

She had a burning, irrational need to catch a glimpse at Harlan’s latest, but she’d need to hurry if she was going to retrieve her equipment and get dinner prepared in time. Titus stuck to a schedule that became stricter as Sally deteriorated. Thrown off routine, Sally became agitated and distressed, which seemed to make her condition worse.

Sophie grabbed a hoodie from the backseat of her car, pulled it on, and buried her face into the side of the fabric. She exited through a gray door and blinked back sunlight. She kept her head down and wound through streets toward Harlan’s office. Her hunch had paid off. His Viper was parked on the street.

She walked to a park across from the building, where a large food truck was setting up. The scent of hot chicken, ham, and mashed potatoes and gravy had her stomach rumbling.

A man adjusted a blackboard showing a menu with the choice of a ham or chicken and roast vegetable meal followed by fruit and custard. A hairdresser would be on hand for anyone wanting a trim, which seemed odd for a food truck.

She briefly wondered about how the interview with Miss Sub was going. Would she be on her knees, head bowed, waiting for his command? Would she be on his desk, her skirt pulled over her hips, gasping when he rammed home?

Sophie dug her hands deeper into the hoodie’s pcokets.

A harassed suit scooted past her, mobile phone to his ear. Women with floaty dresses and spiky summer sandals that would have Annie sighing drifted past in a pack of fresh scent. Mothers hummed with efficient strides, dragging their protesting children toward stores with the bribe of a fast-food lunch keeping the gripes to scowls.

Sophie swiped her finger across the screen of her phone and read an incoming text.

Nice maneuver. Give me your address before Harlan has my balls.

Sophie’s fingers flew across the screen.

Sophie:
Keep your balls. Harlan doesn’t need to know. I’m on a case.

She stood as Harlan stepped out of his building and started toward the park with determined strides, no blonde attached to his arm. A group of admiring women poofed their hair; two turned on their heels, dazzling smiles on their faces.

Harlan didn’t glance their way.

Crap
.

She made it to a bench, sat, and pretended to play on her phone. All the while she had an eye on Harlan, her muscles bunched and ready to flee.

Had he finished his
meeting
with a small sub? Is that why he was all loose-limbed and with a smile on his face because he’d eaten?

Ugh.

She turned her face farther into her sweatshirt, trying to rid herself of the image that flashed into her mind of Harlan with his mouth between a woman’s legs.

As stupid as it was, she wanted to throw something at him.

Harlan headed toward the food truck, a large canvas bag in his hand.

A panty-dropping grin transformed his face.

Probably got panties stuffed into his pockets
.

She managed not to choke.

Harlan slapped the menu guy on the shoulder and was rewarded with a back-clapping man hug.

People started arriving, drawn by the scent of the food. They stood patiently in line waiting their turn.

Sophie stared at the line of people taking their plate of food with thanks. No money was exchanging hands. This was a soup kitchen. She looked closer. A soup kitchen Harlan was, at the very least, familiar with, judging by the way people shook his hand and thanked him. Sophie’s heart hitched.

Harlan helped an elderly man, shuffling forward, his back bent with arthritis, his feet visible through his shoes. The man looked like he might have been good friends with Moses.

“Clarence, you’ll lose your feet in those shoes. I know you said you didn’t need them, but I found an old pair at the back of my wardrobe. Size eight.”

The old man looked down at Harlan’s feet then down at his.

“You ain’t taking a size eight, Mr. Harlan. Yous has to be at least a ten, maybe eleven.”

Harlan shrugged. “They’ve been there for a while.”

The man looked up at Harlan, his face a roadmap of age. “I don’t want no handouts. I’m getting on my feet any day now.”

“I know you are. I want your feet to make it.”

The man took the canvas bag from Harlan, a shoebox sticking out the top.

Harlan nodded. “You’ve got my number, right?”

The old man nodded.

“You need anything, anytime, call me.”

The old man nodded. “I’ll do that, Mr. Harlan. I’ll do that.”

He smiled. “You getting a trim, Clarence?”

The old man ran his hand across his head. “I think I will take a trim. Make sure I’m looking my best for when Miss Devine calls.”

Harlan squeezed his shoulder.

“If you could have a word to young DeMilo.” Clarence gestured with his head to where a young boy who looked no older than twelve shuffled his feet and looked longingly toward the van. “His mom’s on a bender, and there’s no money for food. My guess is he’s feeding his sister before feeding himself. He’s skin and bone.”

“Leave it with me.”

“You’re a good man, Mr. Harlan.” The man looked down at the bag then wiped his hand across his eyes.

Harlan clapped him on the back. “Don’t let anyone know, Clarence, it’ll blow my cred.”

Harlan’s head jerked and swiveled left then right, scanning. He eventually turned away.

Sophie stood, her heart jackhammering in her chest, and walked away, head bowed. At the edge of the park, she turned to see Harlan sitting next to DeMilo, the boy inhaling a plate of food.

“Wow,” she breathed out with a wobbly sigh. She pressed the image of Harlan on a new, fresh memory where she wrapped it in delicate parchment.

She walked toward the underground garage taking a different route. Alert and vigilant but deep in thought. Something she couldn’t quite define pierced her heart and burrowed deep, making her insides unsteady.

She’d researched Harlan. He’d been a highly regarded and successful bounty hunter before opening Franco Security as a one-man band. According to the company bio on the web, the company had grown to fifteen highly skilled operatives trained in personal and business security, espionage, and bounty hunting. Harlan had trained extensively with operatives overseas, but nothing personal about where he’d grown up. No siblings, no education listed.