Bound to the Bounty Hunter (7 page)

“Since there is never going to be anything between us, you can stay in my spare room until one of us finds out who the militia is.” At his surprise she continued. “I’m only doing this because it will keep Titus from staying up all night.”

She turned and got into the driver’s seat. After repeatedly thumping the dashboard, her car spluttered to life.

Harlan jumped in his car and followed her, keeping his distance one lane over and three cars back. A black Jeep pulled in three cars behind Sophie in her lane and stuck close. Not one of his cars.

Harlan gripped the wheel. Tinted windows concealed the occupants. Sophie took a sharp left ahead. He breathed easy when the Jeep went straight past. He forced himself into gaps and took the turn at the last minute. Two minutes later, the Jeep tucked in behind Sophie again.

Harlan cursed under his breath and maneuvered behind the vehicle. Another Jeep pulled into position beside him to his left. Same tinted windows. Another Jeep pulled in beside him, to his right.

The hairs on the back of his neck lifted.

Cornered.

The bet now a memory.

Keeping her alive and finding out who wanted her the only things on his mind.

Chapter Seven

At some time around seven in the morning, Sophie padded into the kitchen, poured a coffee, and stared at her immaculate countertop. She gripped the counter and willed her aorta not to explode.

As soon as she put down a spoon or a fork, he washed it and put it away. Her idea of bringing home a bucket of KFC with all the sides and sharing the deliciousness that was deep-fried chicken coated in secret herbs and spices had taken on a new meaning when Harlan removed the skin and chowed down on naked drumsticks and glasses of water while she kicked back with box wine. He’d then tidied with the prowess of a seventies sitcom mom. No leaving the plates in the sink until the morning on his shift.
Oh, no.

At the supermarket he’d raised his eyebrows when she’d loaded up on Pringles, frozen meals for one, and had rummaged through the marked-down produce, meat, and bakery items. They’d had a stand-up fight at the checkout when he’d tried to pay for her groceries until she’d threatened to make a scene.

The experience of living with Harlan was as much fun as a case of hemorrhoids.

And then there was the kicker that walloped her heart like a pissed-off pony. Two days ago, he’d looked at her like he’d wanted to devour her. At Javier’s Gym she’d seen a flash of admiration in Harlan’s eyes when she’d had Williams in a chokehold. He even seemed genuinely sorry for being the jerk of the century. He’d looked at her with hunger and tenderness and she’d nearly fallen for it, again.

Now he looked at her as if she were diseased.

And it burned.

Like a deep, blistering scar.

The Jeeps scared the shit out of her—she wasn’t afraid to admit it. Outmaneuvered in her little hatchback she had no move to make. She had no idea what Harlan’s play would have been if two of the trio hadn’t peeled off, and she had no idea why they had. Some sort of pissing competition? Letting one another know of their presence but not ready to make a move? She’d started her own investigation, but whoever was following her had a lot of money and resources, two things she didn’t have in spades. That didn’t mean she’d be sitting around doing nothing.

An idea had wiggled into her brain and wouldn’t leave.

Could this be payback for one of her father’s cons?

Her fingers made circles on her temples.

Good old Dad.

The memory of the bony, parched hand of a farmer’s wife in the throes of the death rattle, the smell of grief and disinfectant in the room. Sophie had bit the inside of her mouth to stop from gagging. The anguished man pleading that the prayer would work and his wife wouldn’t die of cancer, leaving him a widower with six children.

She closed her eyes in shame.

The embarrassment that she hadn’t figured it out earlier made her feel equal parts idiot, gullible, and humiliated. The hopelessness and rage that he’d used her, used vulnerable people for a quick buck burned straight through to her soul.

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.”