Tempted by His Target
Moistening her lips, she brought a trembling hand to her chest.
For a quick, hot second, he thought she might let the towel drop. He pictured her untwisting the terrycloth and standing naked before him, offering herself. In the next heartbeat, he’d have her legs around his waist and her back against the wall.
But she didn’t loosen her towel; she clutched it tight. “I can’t.”
That made two of them. “Why not?”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “It’s complicated.”
His raging hormones disagreed. They said it was as easy as unbuttoning his trousers and urging her down on his lap.
“I like you—”
“I like you, too.”
Her eyes filled with anguish. “You don’t even know me.”
“Then let me get to know you,” he said, frustrated. “Why won’t you tell me what those men want? What have you done that’s so bad?”
She let her shoulders rest on the wall behind her, staring up at the ceiling. “They think I killed someone.”
“Did you?”
Her gaze reconnected with his. “I don’t know.”
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Dear Reader,
Thanks so much for picking up my latest Harlequin Romantic Suspense novel. I had a blast writing this one and hope you enjoy reading it.
Before we got married, my husband and I went on a three-week trip through central Mexico, visiting archaeological sites, colonial towns and coastal cities. We had such a great time that we returned two years later to tour the Yucatan Peninsula. Being from San Diego, we’ve also crossed the border for many weekend excursions to Baja California. I love the warmth and vibrancy of Latin America.
Viva Mexico!
With
Tempted by His Target,
I wanted to give readers a fun, exciting vacation in a foreign country. My heroine, Isabel Sanborn, is one hot target. She’s on the run and in need of protection when she teams up with the hero, Brandon North. This is a high-octane romance, so get ready for car chases, close proximity and sizzling sexual tension.
Enjoy!
Jill Sorenson
JILL SORENSON
Tempted by His Target
Books by Jill Sorenson
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Stranded With Her Ex
#1654
Tempted by His Target
#1678
Silhouette Romantic Suspense
Dangerous to Touch
#1518
JILL SORENSON
writes sexy romantic suspense for Harlequin Books and Bantam. Her books have appeared in
Cosmopolitan
magazine.
After earning a degree in literature and a bilingual teaching credential from California State University, she decided teaching wasn’t her cup of tea. She started writing one day while her firstborn was taking a nap and hasn’t stopped since. She lives in San Diego with her husband and two young daughters.
To Chris, my favorite traveling companion.
Contents
Chapter 1
B
randon stood at the edge of the beach, where jungle met sand, and watched his quarry wade out of the ocean.
He hadn’t expected to find her this soon.
Izzy Sanborn, aka Isabel Sanchez, dropped her surfboard on the shore, sluicing water from her dark hair. Her bikini top was snug, clinging to her lithe upper body, but her boardshorts were too large, almost falling off her hips. She knelt down on the sand, her back to him, and inspected what appeared to be a broken fin.
His heart began to pound with anticipation. Puerto Escondido was famous for big waves, and he was almost as eager to paddle out as he was to get his woman. Oaxaca’s “Mexican Pipeline” rivaled the strength and size of Oahu’s North Shore. Surfers from all over the world came here to test their mettle.
Ms. Sanborn had quite a bit of mettle, apparently. The beach was deserted and the conditions were precarious. Surfing here with no protective equipment was dangerous. Doing it alone was damned near suicidal.
Brandon strode forward, aware that she couldn’t hear him approach over the crashing waves. He hadn’t planned to sneak up on her but he knew that she avoided strangers. She might bolt if she saw him coming.
Before he had a chance to announce his presence, she tilted her head, catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye. Quick as a cat, she leaped over her surfboard, drawing up the leg of her shorts. There was a dagger strapped to her upper thigh.
He was impressed by her quick reflexes, and more than a little concerned that she would try to gut him like a fish. Resisting the urge to drop into a protective stance, he waited for her to make a move. Instead of unsheathing her weapon and launching an unprovoked attack, she slipped her hand out from under the hem of her shorts and straightened. She also relaxed her face, as if nothing was amiss.
“I’m sorry,” he said, keeping a cautious distance between them. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She remained silent, her expression cool now, impossible to read. Without being too obvious about it, he studied her appearance. Her black knit bikini top molded to her breasts in a tempting way. She had a trim figure: flat belly, slim waist, curvy hips. Every inch of her was smooth and tanned and toned. Strong, but decidedly feminine.
He lifted his gaze to her face, noting that she was even prettier in person. Her features were well arranged, her mouth nicely shaped. With her thick, dark lashes and fine brown eyes, she was striking.
Brandon had seen her picture in magazines, and memorized every detail, so he shouldn’t have been caught off guard by her beauty. He shouldn’t have been dazzled by it, either. For some reason, she made him feel like an awkward teen again. The circumstances were unusual, of course. He’d never had a female target before.
To put her at ease, he repeated his apology in awkward Spanish, as if he wasn’t sure she’d understood him.
She crossed her arms over her chest, more annoyed now than wary. “I speak English.”
“Cool,” he said, flashing a friendly smile. “You’re a really good surfer. Those were some sick moves.”
“Thanks.”
“Too bad about the broken fin.”
She shrugged. “It happens.”
“This looks like a tricky break. And a sharp reef.”
“Yes. Not for amateurs.”
“You surf alone?”
“All the time.”
“Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “You have more cojones than I do.”
He’d meant that figuratively, but her gaze drifted down to the Velcro fly of his boardshorts, as if checking out his male anatomy. His stomach muscles tightened on reflex and she glanced away, flushing.
Brandon watched a bead of salt water travel down the side of her face, fascinated. Her complexion wasn’t so dusky that he couldn’t see a tinge of pink on her cheeks. He wondered if she was embarrassed by his offhand remark, or angry with him for invading her privacy. “Can you give me some pointers?”
“You’ve got no business here if you’re inexperienced.”
“I’m experienced enough,” he said mildly.
“What do you see out there?”
He did a quick assessment. “This is a high-tide break. At low, the reef will be exposed, and the wave probably closes out. Swells are far-spaced, height is overhead and there’s a slight onshore flow.”
“Very slight.”
Brandon nodded with real pleasure. The only thing better was no wind at all. “Does it get any glassier than this?”
“Not much,” she admitted.
He moistened his lips, hungry for a taste of those waves. Intrigued by his most challenging assignment to date. “Will you spot me?”
It was clear that she wanted to say no, but surfing etiquette required her to agree. Refusing a safety request was like dropping in on another man’s wave, or trying to steal his girl. It just wasn’t done. “Okay,” she said, sighing. “I’ll keep an eye on you for thirty minutes. Maybe you can catch a few.”
Grinning, he offered her his hand. “I’m Brandon North, by the way.”
She smiled back, seeming amused by his enthusiasm, and her beauty took his breath away. In the years since her last photo shoot, she’d lost softness in her cheeks and dropped the exaggerated pout. Maturity suited her. She was confident, mysterious…and twice as appealing. “Isabel,” she said, accepting his handshake.
“Isabel,” he repeated. “Can I buy you lunch after this?”
She jerked her hand out of his. “No.”
“Do you eat alone, too?”
Her smile disappeared and she sat down on the sand, ignoring his question. “The reef is brutal,” she warned, dusting off her knees. “You’re better off taking a dive than risking a wipeout.”
Avoiding risk wasn’t his style, but he didn’t say that.
“The wave moves fast once it hollows,” she continued. “If you get a chance to stay inside the curl, go for it. It’s a luscious barrel.”
He eyed the formation, experiencing a rush of adrenaline that wasn’t unlike arousal. Sometimes he’d rather surf than have sex. Lately he hadn’t done enough of either.
Aware that Isabel was watching him, he pulled his attention from the water. Despite her dark coloring, she didn’t look like a native. Her skin was honey-gold, sun-warmed rather than God-given. Beneath her bikini top, she would be pale and delicate. He imagined pushing the wet fabric aside, revealing her bare breasts and soft nipples.
What Brandon felt now wasn’t similar to arousal; it
was
arousal. His face went taut as he struggled to stay cool. She stared back at him, her gaze burning into his, and a spark ignited inside him. He had the feeling that she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Her eyes trailed down his stomach again, lingering at the waistband of his shorts, which were riding low on his hips. “Go on,” she said, refocusing on the waves. It was both a dismissal and a challenge.
Muttering his thanks, he strode toward the shore. The sand beneath his bare feet was a pearly gray, darkened by volcanic ash and littered with crushed shells. Not pristine, but still very beautiful. The water was so clear he could make out the sharp-toothed reef beneath the surface, and the waves broke hard against it, creating one of the sleekest curls he’d ever seen.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He’d been surfing for more than ten years—that was the reason he’d been chosen for this assignment—but he wasn’t used to waves like this. The height was intimidating. It also reminded him that he was here to gain Isabel’s trust as a dedicated athlete, not to picture her naked.
Brandon waded into the foam-specked surf, determined to impress her. The water was only a few degrees cooler than the balmy air. He felt immersed in pleasure as it enveloped him. In San Diego, the ocean was so cold he usually needed a wet suit, but like most surfers, he preferred to trunk it.
He tossed his board on the water and leaped on top of it, paddling with easy, practiced motions. Ducking under the first wave, he resurfaced on the other side and kept moving to a calmer area beyond the breakers.
When he was in the right position, he turned back toward the beach, straddling his board and sitting upright.
Isabel was watching, waiting.
A decent six came up fast. Lying down again, he headed for the rising swell and paddled hard, standing up just as it gained momentum. His footing was off by a fraction. He lost his balance and the board went flying, propelled by the force of the wave.
Managing to avoid the reef, even while the whitewash swirled like a vortex around him, he felt the tug of his leash and followed it back to the surface. After securing his board carefully, because he’d been hit in the face by a rogue surfboard too many times to count, he cast another glance at the beach. Isabel looked bored.
He redoubled his efforts. His next few tries were more successful, and he fell into a nice rhythm. Although he didn’t forget his audience, he started surfing for himself. Ten minutes after he paddled out, a set of high overheads rolled in behind him. They rose up from the sea like liquid monoliths, ten thousand gallons of pure power.