Bound to the Bounty Hunter (6 page)

…

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.

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.

His head swiveled to take in her clenched jaw. “From now on, you have a houseguest.”

Chapter Six

The next day Harlan stood at the back of a gym—gym might be pushing it. More like a disused warehouse. A hand-painted sign propped on the pavement let him know that Javier’s Gym was open for business. Sweat tumbled freely down Harlan’s back. The roof groaned under the expansion and contraction of heat. Industrial fans moved stale air around the room.

He’d hung around gyms like this, desperate to get away from life for a while and wanting to stack on muscle. Nothing sucked more than being a small kid starting another new school in a shitty neighborhood. Smaller gyms were more likely to turn a blind eye to a kid who wanted to shower and not ask questions. He paid back each year through anonymous donations to local gyms with a note asking they help out teens where they could.

Sophie had pulled on gloves after putting on headgear while chatting to a man who looked like he crushed rocks for a living. She tilted back her head in laughter. Her chocolate eyes sparkled, and her teeth flashed. Rock Crusher grinned.

Harlan forced his muscles loose and took in his surroundings. He’d read the rules when he’d walked in. If you were here to lift, then you were asked to throw in what you could. If you were here for the ring, then you threw in ten if you had your own gloves and fifteen if you didn’t.

His fingers probed a painful crick in his neck. His idea of moving in hadn’t gone down well. Sophie had sprinted from his car before it had come to a full halt. She’d secured the door to her house and set the alarms, then refused to answer her phone. Instead of creating an unholy scene and waking the neighborhood, he’d spent an uncomfortable night in his car’s front seat. Sometime during the night a blanket had arrived on the hood of his car.

After a quick shower, a protein shake, and an update from Zeb, he’d relieved his comms man, Israel, at midday and picked up Sophie’s tail. He’d been surprised when Sophie turned her car into this gym where there were no rules and no limits and you took your punishment with a smile. He was coming to the fast and uncomfortable conclusion that a lot of what Sophie did would be a surprise. He’d learned the fastest way to piss her off was to tell her what to do. Those big brown eyes narrowed, her tanned skin flushed and she looked like she’d send him off to the afterlife with a hearty good-bye.

He could jump in the ring and dispatch any man who entered. He’d
love
to join the group of men lifting weights in one corner, alternately shouting encouragement or the word “pussy” in equal measure followed by laughter. He’d missed his exercise this morning and, on top of last night’s events, he was wired.

Sophie broke away from Rock Crusher and walked toward him. Black bicycle shorts showcased her insanely long legs and the flare of her hips. A black wife-beater hugged her frame. Hair scraped back. Feet bare.

Before he could shut it down, he caught a whiff of her unique raspberry scent, and his body jerked. He dug his hands into his pockets trying to hide the evidence, but the denim, as always, was unforgiving.

Her eyes flicked to the front of his jeans, red creeping up her face.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She smiled. “I need to relieve some
tension
. Care to join me in the ring?”

Oh the possibilities of joining her in the ring, for a wrestle where she’d be underneath him, wriggling. But hitting women? Hell no.

“I don’t fight women.”

Picking up female bail jumpers he’d been bitten, scratched, and nearly lost his balls dozens of times, but he couldn’t hit a female. Some in his profession did, but he had a moral code that all his staff adhered to, and hitting a woman wasn’t tolerated.

She leaned in, and his body pulsed in response. “Honey, you wouldn’t get that close.”

He couldn’t help the grin stretching across his face.

He shouldn’t love how at times her attitude made his whole body smile, but that flicker in her eye, that tilt of the chin, and her confident smile was one tempting package that needed to be tamed.

Sophie turned and walked to the now empty ring.

Shit.

A couple of these guys looked like they could take on an eight hundred pound, pissed-off bull and win. They came for a serious workout. Male, female, or wolverine. They didn’t care—once you stepped into the ring, you left your name, age, sex, and occupation at the door.

He pushed off the wall, but as if sensing the movement, she turned and arched a brow. He pretended to slouch back against the rough concrete, but every muscle was coiled to launch if anyone hurt her.

After twenty minutes, a man a couple of inches shorter than Sophie, but who clearly worked out, entered. Sophie walked toward him.

Harlan pushed off the wall and walked to the ring. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but the man shrugged a shoulder and thrust out his hand, which Sophie bumped.

At Harlan’s growl, a few men shot him curious glances, but he ignored them. The metallic scent of blood mixed with sweat and muscle repair cream filled his sinuses. He walked to where the honor fridge sat, threw four dollars on the top, then took two bottles of water, his eyes never leaving Sophie. His gut did a full clench when Sophie stepped between the ropes and into the ring, the man she’d been talking to joining her.

The rules were simple. Three rounds lasting one minute each. If you went down and stayed down longer than ten seconds, the other person won.

Sophie hit what looked like a light switch on the wall. A sharp buzz followed.

The man, who had enough attitude to fill a maximum-security jail, swaggered toward Sophie. His gaze crawled across her body then landed on her chest. He licked his lips and adjusted his junk. A sleazy grin stretched across his ferret-looking face. He and Sophie circled each other. Sophie kept her hands up, her eyes never leaving her opponent. The man pretended to fall. Sophie went to reach for him to break his fall, he reared back, a gloved hand sweeping across her face. One second she was upright and the next she was down, having been felled by a leg sweep, the Ferret hitting her with short, sharp jabs across her face.

For what seemed like an ice age, Sophie didn’t react. Harlan fought to pull in shattered breaths.

Fuck
.

Harlan gripped the mat, hands bunched, about to swing into the ring, when Sophie’s legs wrapped around the fighter’s neck and squeezed. He tried to pull back but she held him in a vise grip.

The buzzer sounded.

Both stood and went to their respective corners.

Harlan stalked to Sophie’s corner and went to hand her a bottle of water.

“No, but thank you,” she panted.

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.

Before he could say a word, the buzzer sounded, starting round two. Sophie pranced into the center of the ring where she and Ferret squared off, circling each other, neither making a significant move, exchanging blows against the other’s gloves a few times. Sophie lunged left, but the man had anticipated her, and she stumbled back when a jab had her rocking back on her heels. She said something to him. Surprise flittered across his face.

The buzzer sounded. The Ferret started walking to his corner, stopped, and looked at Sophie over his shoulder. She smiled at him, the smile not moving past her lips.

The buzzer sounded for the third and final round.

This time Sophie wasn’t taken by surprise. The buzzer had barely sounded when she darted forward, knocking the startled man off his feet with a left hook Harlan felt from outside the ring.

She followed the fighter down and sat on his chest, dipping and swaying away from his legs trying to get her head in a grip.

His dick strained against his zipper.

Christ, I’m turned on watching her
.

A Hulk Hogan type came to stand next to Harlan, holding a massive hand weight.

“Fuck that’s hot.”

Harlan turned his head. The man stared at Sophie, his mouth open.

“I wouldn’t mind taking a beating from her.”

He stared at the man, who obviously caught his vibe and turned away grinning. Ferret still kept lashing out, hate twisting his features.

Sophie wasn’t letting him go. If anything, she seemed to be gaining strength.

“How does it feel to be powerless and have someone hitting you?” She grunted. “Feel good?”

The group of lifters had abandoned their weights and now stood in groups around the ring.

“You expected your about to be ex to drop the restraining order?” Sophie held him by the throat, ducking and weaving from the blows connecting with soft tissue. “She got smart. She’s gone. The next time you’ll see her is when she testifies against you.”

Harlan stared in surprise and grinned. He circled to where Sophie had maneuvered the man to a corner.

“A jumper?”

“Yep,” she grunted, flipping him onto his chest and pulling his arms behind him. “Princess here likes to beat on his wife in front of his kids. His wife got smart, got a restraining order, which he broke. His about-to-be
ex
-wife told me he sometimes turns up here for a session, so here I am.”

“Bitch got what she deserved, so will you.”

“Yeah, like you’re getting what you deserve now.”

Harlan pulled a bunch of cable ties from his pocket and held the plastic restraints out to her. She shook her head then using her teeth, she ripped at the Velcro on her gloves, pulling her hands free one at a time, keeping the pressure on his neck, then pulled ties from inside her T-shirt. He guessed her bra.

Lucky cable ties.

She grabbed a long cable tie and in a swift move had the thin but strong tie in place, pulling until it locked tight.

The man’s face went crimson, hatred in his eyes.

She hauled the jumper to his feet, her chest heaving, sweat layering her forehead, muscles in her shoulders flexing under smooth skin, and her eyes sparking.

Hot.

Scrap that.

Volcanically hot.

He shook his head. “You’re a schoolboy’s wet dream.”

Harlan followed Sophie and the man out of the gym. He waited until Sophie had the jumper buckled up in her car. She stood and moved to the driver-side door.

The scent of raspberries and sweat was way more intoxicating than Jack Daniels.

And far more deadly.

Frustration, sexual and otherwise, clawed his insides. The sexual he could take care of later, in the shower, a picture of Sophie tied and begging him playing in his mind. The frustration of guarding her when she wouldn’t do a thing he said…

“Are you planning on sleeping in my driveway again tonight?” she asked, her head tilted to one side.

“Every night,” he barked.

She frowned. “Every night?”

“Every single night.” He shot back.

She studied him until her jumper started banging on the roof of her car.

“Why do you care?” she asked quietly.

He couldn’t tell her he was guarding her, working her, keeping her safe. Nor could he tell her that the thought of anyone laying a hand on her could turn him into a felon. Instead, he spun her a patchwork of truth.

“You’re not getting hurt or worse when I can do something about it.” He leaned in, and because he was a stupid fucker, he scented her neck.

Her body jolted, and she stilled.

“I
will
be winning the bet. You
will
be mine for one night,” he said touching his tongue to the side of her neck, licking a drop of sweat. He’d sit in her driveway every night thinking of when he’d run his tongue along every curve on her body.

Anger rolled off her and slammed into him.

“We were going to have a
night
until you played me and left me locked in my underwear in a hotel bathroom,” she hissed, frustration, hurt, and pissed off rippling across her face. “I had to wait until a security guard came and let me out.” She shuddered. “I was in my underwear. Did you even know who he was? What could have happened?”

Shame and guilt splintered him.

Yeah, he’d been the biggest cock on the planet.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not my finest moment. I’m sorry. In my defense, I did confirm he was gay. After I processed the jumper I went back to make sure he’d let you out.”

He’d
been the one called out. Lionel the attendant had called him a dick, given him a lecture about leaving a woman in her underwear locked in a bathroom, and returned his money. He’d stomached the lecture, ate a shame sandwich, and chugged back a gallon of jerk.

She got straight into his face. “Let’s stop this bullshit act you’ve got going of pretending to like me. We both know this is an act, so just stop. Listen to this conversation in your head later.” Her eyes dropped to his dick, digging painfully through denim. “I mean your big head. Listen up. There will be
no
one night.”

An act? She thinks walking around with a boner every time I’m near her is an act
?

“What do you mean pretending to like you? I’m hard every time I’m around you. It’s hard to be around you, Sophie, because
I’m
hard around you.”

“Just stop.” She swatted at her eyes.

Shit
.

Tears usually didn’t affect him, but Sophie tears made him want to pull her into his arms and stroke the back of her head until all the shitty hurt he’d inflicted would be gone.

For the fifteen hundredth time, he mentally decked himself with a right hook.

If he could turn back time to that night he would, and it would have a way better ending. One where he wouldn’t be the dickhead who’d left her humiliated. Instead he’d give up the jumper and have her curled around his body.

“I hurt you, Sophie, and I’m sorry. It was a dick move, but I wanted you that night as much as you wanted me. We would have fucked each other senseless.”

“Our time has passed,” she countered, standing proud, blinking back tears. “Different rules this time. The game has changed, so when I win the bet, you’ll leave me alone.”

Nope
.

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Sophie, being Sophie, startled him again.