by Nora Roberts
“You’d be a witness,” she corrected.
“Nothing to sweat over. I’d have been ticked off about having another bounty hunter snatch my job, but people in my line of work don’t go running to the cops. I’d have lost my fee, considered my day wasted, maybe bitched to Ralph. That’s the way they’d figure it, anyway. And Ralph would have probably passed me some fluff job to keep me happy.”
His eyes changed, went hard again. Knife-edged gray ice. “Somebody’s got their foot on his throat. I want to know who.”
“I couldn’t say. I don’t know your friend Ralph—”
“Former friend.”
“I don’t know the gorilla who broke my door, and I don’t know you.” She was pleased her voice was calm, without a single hitch or quiver. “Now, if you’ll let me go, I’ll report all this to the police.”
His lips twitched. “That’s the first time you’ve mentioned the cops, sugar. And you’re bluffing. You don’t want them in on this. That’s another question.”
He was right about that. She didn’t want the police, not until she’d talked to Bailey and knew what was going on. But she shrugged, glanced toward the phone he’d put out of commission. “You could call my bluff if you hadn’t wrecked the phone.”
“You wouldn’t call the cops, but whoever you called might have their phone tapped. I didn’t go through all the trouble to find us these plush out of-the-way surroundings to get traced.”
He leaned over, took her chin in his hand. “Who would you call, M.J.?”
She kept her eyes steady, fighting to ignore the heat of his fingers, the texture of his skin against hers. “My lover.” She spit the words out. “He’d take you apart limb by limb. He’d rip out your heart, then show it to you while it was still beating.”
He smiled, eased a little closer. He just couldn’t resist. “What’s his name?”
Her mind was blank, totally, completely, foolishly blank. She stared into those slate-gray eyes a moment, then shook his hand away. “Hank. He’ll break you in half and toss you to the dogs when he finds out you’ve messed with me.”
He chuckled, infuriated her. “You may have a lover, sugar. You may have a dozen. But you don’t have one named Hank. Took you too long. Okay, you don’t want to spill it and rely on me to work us out of this, we’ll go another route.”
He rose, leaned over. He heard her quickly indrawn breath when he reached down for her purse. Without a word, he dumped the contents on the bed. He’d already removed the weapons. “You ever use that can opener for more than popping a beer?” he asked her.
“How dare you! How dare you go through my things!”
“Oh, I think this is small potatoes after what we’ve been through together.” He picked up the velvet pouch, slid the stone into his hand, where it flashed like fire, despite its lowly surroundings.
He admired it, as he had been unable to in the car, when he searched her bag. It was deeply, brilliantly blue, big as a baby’s fist and cut to shoot blue flame. He felt a tug as it lay nestled in his hand, an odd need to protect it. Almost as inexplicable, he thought, as his odd need to protect this prickly, ungrateful woman.
“So.” He sat, tossing the stone up, catching it. “Tell me about this, M.J. Just where did you get your hands on a blue diamond big enough to choke a cat?”
Chapter 3
Options whirled through her mind. The simplest, and the most satisfying, she thought, was to make him feel like a fool.
“Are you crazy?” She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Yeah, that’s a diamond, all right, a big blue one. I carry a green one in my glove compartment, and a pretty red one in my other purse. I spend all the profits from my pub on diamonds. It’s a weakness.”
He studied her, idly tossing the stone, catching it. She looked annoyed, he decided. Amused and cocky. “So what is it?”
“A paperweight, for God’s sake.”
He waited a beat. “You carry a paperweight in your purse.”
Hell. “It was a gift.” She said it primly, her nose in the air.
“Yeah, from Hank the Hunk, no doubt.” He rose, casually pushed through the rest of the contents he’d dumped out. “Let’s see, other than the blackjack—”
“It was a roll of nickels,” she corrected.
“Same effect. Mace, a can opener I doubt you cart around to pop Bud bottles, we’ve got an electronic organizer, a wallet with more photos than cash—”
“I don’t appreciate you rifling my personal be longings.”
“Sue me. A bottle of designer water, six pens, four pencils. Some eyeliner, matches, keys, two pair of sunglasses, a paperback copy of Sue Grafton’s latest—good book, by the way, I won’t tell you the ending—a candy bar…” He tossed it to her. “In case you’re hungry. A flip phone.” He tucked that in his back pocket. “About three dollars in loose change, a weather radio and a box of condoms.” He lifted a brow. “Unopened. But then, you never know.”
Heat, a combination of mortification and fury, crawled up her neck. “Pervert.”
“I’d say you’re a woman who believes in being prepared. So why not carry a paperweight around with you? You might run into a stack of paper that needs anchoring. Happens all the time.”
He made a couple of swipes to gather and dump the items scattered on the bed back into her bag, then tossed it aside. “I won’t ask what kind of fool you take me for, because I’ve already got that picture.” Moving to the mirror over the dresser, he scraped the stone diagonally across the glass. It left a long, thin scratch.
“They just don’t make motel mirrors like they used to,” he commented, then came back and sat on the bed beside her. “Now, back to my original question. What are you doing with a blue diamond big enough to choke a cat?”
When she said nothing, he vised her chin in his hand, jerked her face to his. “Listen, sister, I could truss you up again, leave you here and walk away with your million-dollar paperweight. That’s door number one. I can kick back, watch the movie and wait you out, because sooner or later you’ll tell me what I want to know. That’s door number two. Behind door number three, you tell me now why you’re carrying a stone that could buy a small island in the West Indies and we start figuring out how to get us both out of this jam.”
She didn’t flinch, she didn’t blink. He had to admire the sheer nerve. Because he did, he waited patiently while she studied him out of those deep green cat-tilted eyes.
“Why haven’t you taken door number one already?”
“Because I don’t like having some gorilla try to break me in half, I don’t like getting shot at, and I don’t like being hosed by some skinny woman with an attitude.” He leaned closer, until they were nose-to-nose. “I’ve got debts to pay on this one, sugar. And you’re the first stop.”
She grabbed his wrist with her free hand, shoved. “Threats aren’t going to cut it with me, Dakota.”
“No?” He shifted gears smoothly. His hand came back to her face, but lightly now, a skim of knuckles along a cheekbone that had her blinking in shock before her eyes narrowed. “You want a different approach?”
His fingers trailed down her throat, down the center of her body and back, before sliding around to cup her neck. His mouth hovered, one hot breath away from hers.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned.
“Too late.” His lips curved, and his eyes stared straight into hers. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since you swaggered up the apartment steps in front of me.”
No, he’d been thinking about it, he realized, since Ralph shoved her photo at him. But he’d consider that later.
He skimmed his mouth over hers, drew back fractionally. He’d expected her to cringe away or fight. God knew he was ruthlessly pushing all those female fear buttons. It was deplorable, but he’d consider that later, as well. He just wanted the pressure to work, to get her to spill before they both got killed. And if he got a little twisted pleasure out of the whole thing, well, hell, he had his flaws.
&n
bsp; But she didn’t fight and she didn’t cringe. She didn’t move a muscle, just kept those goddessgreen eyes lasered on his. A dark, primitive thrill rippled down to his loins.
What was one more sin on his back, he thought, and, clamping his hand on her free one, he took a long, deep gulp of her.
It was all heat, primitive as tribal drums. No thought, no reason, all instinct. That surprisingly lush mouth gave under his, so he dived deeper. A rumble of pure male triumph sounded in his throat as he moved into her, plunging his tongue between those full, inviting lips, sinking into that long, tough body, fisting his hand in that cap of flame-colored hair.
His mind shut off like a shattered lamp. He forgot it was a con, a ploy to intimidate, forgot he was a civilized man. Forgot she was a job, a puzzle, a stranger. And knew only that she was his for the taking.
His hand closed greedily over her breast, his thumb and forefinger tugging at the nipple that pressed hard against the thin cotton of her shirt. She moved under him, arched to him. And the blood pounded like thunder in his brain.
She moved fast, all but twisting his ear from his head while her teeth clamped down like a bear trap on his bottom lip.
He yelped, jerked back, and, certain she would saw off a chunk of him, pinched her chin hard until she let him loose. He pressed the back of his hand to his throbbing lip, scowled at the blood he saw on it when he took it away.
“Damn it.”
“Pig.” She was vibrating now, scrambling to her knees on the bed to take another swipe at him, swearing when her reach fell short. “Pervert.”
He spared her one murderous look, then turned on his heel. The bathroom door slammed shut be hind him. She heard water running. And, closing her eyes, she sank back and let the shudders come.
My God, dear God, she thought, pressing a hand to her face. She’d lost her mind.
Had she fought him? No. Had she been filled with outrage, with disgust? No.
She’d enjoyed it.
She rocked herself, berated herself, and damned Jack Dakota to hell.
She’d let him kiss her. There was no pretending otherwise. She’d stared into those dangerous gray eyes, felt the zip of an electric current when that cocky mouth brushed over hers.
And she’d wanted him.
Her muscles had gone lax, her breasts had tingled, and her blood had begun to swim. She’d let him kiss her without a murmur of protest. She’d kissed him back, without a thought for the consequences.
M. J. O’Leary, she thought, wincing, tough gal, who prided herself on always being in control, who could flip a two-hundred-pound man onto his back and have her foot on his throat in a heartbeat—confident, kick-butt M.J.—had melted into a puddle of mindless lust.
And he’d tied her up, he’d gagged her, he had her handcuffed to a bed in some cheap motel. Wanting him even for an instant made her as much of a pervert as he was.
Thank God she’d snapped out of it. It didn’t matter that bone-deep fear of her feelings had been the motivation for stopping him. The fact was, she had stopped him—and she knew she’d been an instant away from letting him do whatever he wanted to do.
She was very much afraid that if she’d had both hands free, she would have flipped him onto his back. Then ripped off his clothes.
It was the shock, she told herself. Even a woman who prided herself on being able to handle anything that came her way was entitled to go a little loopy with shock under certain circumstances.
Now she had to put this aberration behind her and figure out what to do.
The facts were few, but they were clear. She had to contact Bailey. Whatever her friend’s purpose in sending the stone, Bailey couldn’t have had any idea just how dangerous the act would be. She’d had her reasons, M.J. was sure, and she thought it was likely to have been one of Bailey’s rare acts of impulse and defiance.
She didn’t intend for Bailey to pay the price for it.
What had Bailey done with the other two stones? Did she have them, or… Oh God.
She dropped back weakly on the bricklike pillow. She would have sent one to Grace. It had to be. It was logical, and Bailey was nothing if not logical. There’d been three stones, and she’d sent one to M.J. So it followed that she’d kept one, and sent the other to the only other person in the world she’d trust with such a responsibility.
Grace Fontaine. The three of them had been close as sisters since college. Bailey, quiet, studious and serious. Grace, rich, stunning and wild. They’d roomed together for four years at Radcliffe and stayed close since. Bailey moving into the family business, M.J. following tradition and opening her own bar, and Grace doing whatever she could to shock her wealthy, conservative and disapproving relatives.
If one of them was in trouble, they were all in trouble. She had to warn them.
She would have to escape from Jack Dakota. Or she’d have to use him.
But how much, she asked herself, did she dare trust him?
In the bathroom, Jack studied his mutilated lip in the mirror. He’d probably have a scar. Well, he admitted, he deserved it. He had been a pig and a pervert.
Not that she was entirely innocent, either, lying there on the bed with that just-try-it-buster look in her eyes.
And hadn’t she pressed that long, tight body to his, opened that soft, sexy mouth, arched those neat, narrow hips?
Pig. He scrubbed his hands over his face. What choice had he given her?
Dropping his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror, looked dead-on, and admitted he hadn’t wanted to give her a choice.
He’d just wanted her.
Well, he wasn’t an animal. He could control himself, he could think, he could reason. And that was just what he was going to do.
He’d probably have a scar, he thought again, grimly, as he touched a fingertip gingerly to his swollen lip. Just let that be a lesson to you, Dakota. He jerked his head in a nod at the reflection in the spotty mirror. If you can’t trust yourself, you sure as hell can’t trust her.
When he came out, she was frowning at the hideous drapes on the window. He glared at her. She glared back. Saying nothing, he sat in the single ratty chair, crossed his feet at the ankles and tuned into the movie.
Hercules was over. He’d probably triumphed. In his place was a Japanese science-fiction flick with an incredibly poorly produced monster lizard who was currently smashing a high-speed train. Hordes of extras were screaming in terror.
They watched awhile, as the military came rushing in with large guns that had virtually no effect on the giant mutant lizard. A small man in a combat helmet was devoured. His chicken-hearted comrades ran for their lives.
M.J. found the candy bar from her purse that Jack had tossed her earlier, broke off a chunk and ate it contemplatively as the lizard king from outer space lumbered toward Tokyo to wreak reptilian havoc.
“Can I have my water?” she asked in scrupulously polite tones.
He got up, fetched it out of her bag, handed it over.
“Thanks.” She took one long sip, waited until he’d settled again. “What’s your fee?” she demanded.
He took another soda out of his cooler. Wished it was a beer. “For?”
“What you do.” She shrugged. “Say I had skipped out on bail. What do you get for bringing me back?”
“Depends. Why?”
She rolled her eyes. “Depends on what?”
“On how much bail you’d skipped out on.”
She was silent for a moment as she considered. The lizard demolished a tall building with many innocent occupants. “What was it I was supposed to have done?”
“Shot your lover—the accountant. I believe his name was Hank.”
“Very funny.” She broke off another hunk of chocolate and, when Jack held out a hand, reluctantly shared. “How much were you going to get for me?”
“More than you’re worth.”
Now she sighed. “I’m going to make you a deal, Jack, but I’m a businesswoman, and I don’t make them bli
nd. What’s your fee?”
Interesting, he thought, and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “For you, sugar, considering what you’re carrying in that suitcase you call a purse, adding in what Ralph offered me to turn you over to the goons?” He thought it over. “A hundred large.”
She didn’t bat an eye. “I appreciate you trying to lighten the situation with an attempt at wry humor. A hundred K for a man who can’t even take out a single hired thug by himself is laughable—”
“Who said I couldn’t take him out?” His pride leaped up and bit him. “I did take him out, sugar. Him and his cannon, and you haven’t bothered to thank me for it.”
“Oh, excuse me. It must have slipped my mind while I was being dragged around and handcuffed. How rude. And you didn’t take him out, I did. But regardless,” she continued, holding up her free hand like a traffic cop, “now that we’ve had our little joke, let’s try to be serious. I’ll give you a thousand to work with me on this.”
“A thousand?” He flashed that quick, dangerous grin. “Sister, there isn’t enough money in the world to tempt me to work with you. But for a hundred K, I’ll get you out of the jam you’re in.”
“In the first place—” she drew up her legs, sat lotus-style “—I’m not your sister, and I’m not your sugar. If you have to refer to me, use my name.”
“You don’t have a name, you have initials.”
“In the second place,” she said, ignoring him, “if a man like you got his hands on a hundred thousand, he’d just lose it in Vegas or pour it down some stripper’s cleavage. Since I don’t intend for that to happen to my money, I’m offering you a thousand.” She smiled at him. “With that, you can have yourself a nice weekend at the beach with a keg of imported beer.”
“It’s considerate of you to look out for my welfare, but you’re not really in the position to negotiate terms here. You want help, it’ll cost you.”
She didn’t know if she wanted his help. The fact was, she wasn’t at all sure why she was wrangling with him over a fee. Under the circumstances, she felt she could promise him any amount without any obligation to pay up if and when the time came.