Romancing the Crown Series

by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)

  Sucking in his breath, he looked down respectfully at the tiny weapon she had in her hand. The one she seemed not to remember she was holding. Right now, the gun was aimed at the part of him that would put a dead halt to his part in propagating the Sebastiani lineage if a stray bullet happened to find its way out of that tiny barrel.

  Very carefully, he moved her hand so that the weapon she was holding pointed harmlessly at the floor.

  "Look, lady, I'm sorry if your boyfriend ran out on you, but it's not the end of the world—"

  "Boyfriend?"

  Astonished at the feeble mind that could possibly couple together a worthless creep like Weber with her, Cara temporarily lost her ability to speak. Hiking her skirt up, she holstered her weapon, then pushed the material back into place, aware that the man was watching her every move.

  "Eyes back in your head, mister," she ordered. "You think that lowlife's my boyfriend? Are you out of your mind? That was my bounty on the lam, not my booty."

  "Bounty?" the man echoed.

  "Yes, bounty." If he was trying for innocence, the man was a lousy actor. "Don't say it as if it's some kind of a foreign word to you. That's why you're after him, too, isn't it? To collect the money?" It wasn't a question so much as an accusation. "Well, you can't have him. I spent over two weeks tracking that creep down from Colorado and his tail is mine."

  She was firing words at him like bullets from an automatic weapon and it was all Max could do to hold his own. "You can claim his tail and whatever other parts of him you want once I'm through with him."

  "Through with him?" Cara cocked her head and scrutinized the man who had just cost her the reward money she had all but had in hand. On second thought, she reassessed her initial impression of him. He looked too well dressed and pressed to be a bounty hunter. "Is this some kind of private vendetta?"

  Interesting that she should choose those words. He would have thought the same thing, if he hadn't known what he did about the situation. On the surface he knew it would have seemed odd that the ruler of a faraway, proud country like Montebello would even know about, much less be interested in, an American bail jumper like Kevin Weber.

  His expression was cool, detached, as he looked at the woman who had temporarily thrown a wrench into his plans. "I don't see how what this is could be any business of yours."

  Cara called him a few choice names in her head, but kept the words from her lips. There was nothing to be gained by telling him what she thought of him, and Cara had learned to play games well. Whatever it took to win. She needed that money and soon.

  "Anything that involves that scum is my business—until I bring him into the county court system and collect the reward. Once I get what's coming to me, you can put your bid in for him." Her smile was smug, confident. She was going to nail that runaway son of a bitch and she knew it. She'd been at this trade too long to think about failing now. "I'm sure something can be arranged in, oh, say about fifteen to twenty years."

  "Is that the sentence Weber's facing?"

  He was getting better at this innocent act, Cara thought, evaluating the very masculine man before her. He made it sound as if he was entirely unfamiliar with Weber's offense.

  Cara folded her arms before her. "He is now," she told him, although she knew that the sentence depended entirely on the judge and jury. She'd seen hardened criminals go free and hapless losers incur real jail time. She made what she felt was a safe guess. "I don't see Weber getting any time off for good behavior."

  Dragging a hand through her long, silky hair, she sighed. Now that Weber knew there were people closing in on him, he was going to be even harder to track down. But nobody'd ever said this job was going to be easy. It would have bored her if it was.

  The man looked at her. "What's the offense?"

  She narrowed her eyes, studying the man's face, wondering if he was playing her for a fool for some reason. Could he be that ignorant about Weber and still be after him?

  "He's wanted for an attempted break-in at the Chambers' ranch." Cara paused, her eyes washing over the man. "You're not a bounty hunter, are you?"

  "I'm a private investigator." He put out his hand to her. "Max Ryker."

  "Cara Rivers." She shook his hand and was pleased that he didn't seem to be afraid of hurting hers. He returned her strong grip. "Well, Max Ryker, your being in the right place at the wrong time just cost me two weeks' hard work." She dropped her hand to her side and went back to looking around the room. The closet had only a couple of changes of clothing and nothing else. "If you're not after him for the burglary, why are you after him—not that it makes a difference to me as long as you stay out of my way," she qualified as she pulled open the night-stand drawer. It was empty.

  He skipped over the question, going to her final declaration. "Afraid I can't do that, Cara. My client wants him brought back to Montebello for offenses committed there."

  That was some tiny country halfway around the world, she thought. It didn't matter. She wasn't about to turn Weber over once she had him.

  She didn't bother asking who his client was. If Ryker was on the level about being a private investigator, that information was privileged. It was also irrelevant as far as she was concerned.

  "Sorry, but the sheriff of Shady Rock might have a few things to say about that. We'll give Weber back after we're done," she promised again, a whimsical smile playing on her lips.

  Max looked out the window to the alley where Weber had taken off. Sundown was slowly slipping over the entire region.

  "Looks like no one's getting him right now." He could leave, but Max believed in getting to know whomever he was up against, and something told him that when he went after Weber, he'd find this woman right behind him—if not in front. "Buy you a drink?"

  He had to think she was pretty stupid if he thought she didn't see through that. Oldest trick in the book. And also one that didn't work on her.

  "And get me smashed so I can't go after him? Sorry, it doesn't work that way." She led the way out of the claustrophobic room. "I don't get drunk."

  Though it was a pointless gesture, he pulled the door closed after them. "Is that because you don't drink, or because alcohol has no effect on you?"

  He was laughing at her. She'd seen it before. A big, strong, strapping male who thought because she looked the way she did, she was a pushover. Well, they'd just see who was the pushover, wouldn't they?

  "The latter."

  Amused, Max arched a brow as he looked at her. "Oh really?"

  For two cents she'd wipe that smirk off his face. "Yes, really."

  He had a man to track down. But now there was no doubt in Max's mind that when he did go after Weber, this feisty female with the pint-size gun and gargantuan ego would be right there, getting in his way. He couldn't afford to have that happen twice. She'd already cost him Weber tonight and the sooner he caught the man, the sooner he'd get his own answers.

  The best way to proceed was to make sure she was out of commission for the necessary time. He figured that wasn't going to prove to be a major problem.

  "Suppose I buy you that drink," he suggested, "and see."

  Now there was a challenge if she ever heard one. And one challenge begot another. She looked up at him prettily. "Only if you'll join me."

  "Done."

  He saw nothing wrong in the bargain. He'd been known to drink more than a few with no ill effects. His time in the Montebellan army had been marked by intense training and even more intense drinking during downtime. There was no doubt in his mind that, given her size and weight, it wouldn't take much to send the sprightly blonde sliding under the table, unconscious and out of the way.

  Cara hesitated for a moment over the invitation. As much as she wanted to see his butt fried, she knew that joining this man for a drink or three, or however many it took to get him drunk enough to be out of commission would still sidetrack her and take precious time away from Weber's ultimate capture. God knew she needed the money; she'd given her word to Bri
dgette that it would be there for her when she needed it.

  But she had a sneaking suspicion that this stunning specimen of manhood would get in her way again. And she wasn't entirely sure he was telling her the truth when he claimed not to be a bounty hunter. He might very well be one of those smooth-talking ones, bent on getting her out of the way so he could have sole access to the reward. Phil Stanford, the man she worked for, was not above farming out the work to more than one hunter at a time. All Stanford cared about was getting back the money he'd put up for Weber's bail, not any possible moral violations he might have committed in getting that money and the bail jumper back.

  If Ryker was working for Phil, then it was in her best interests to get him out of her way. Now.

  "All right, I know this bar about a mile away. The Saint." Her eyes washed over him as if she was taking measure. "You don't have to be one to get in."

  There was something about her smile that got under a man's skin, Max thought. It was both a

  innocent and calculating at the same time, as if she had a joke she was keeping under wraps, one that he might or might not be in on. Max gestured toward the darkening parking lot. "Lead the way."

  She fully intended to. "I'll drive." It wasn't an offer, it was an assumption.

  Model-pretty or not, the woman needed to be taken down a notch. "We'll both drive," he told her. "I'll follow you."

  She had her doubts about that, but there was nothing she could say. After all, it made perfect sense for him to want to take his car. But she didn't want to risk losing him. Losing him meant failing to eliminate him as competition.

  "See that you keep up," she told him. She knew most men were too full of testosterone to let the challenge fall by the wayside.

  Still, she kept an eye on her rearview mirror the entire trip to the bar to make sure he wouldn't suddenly turn around and disappear on her.

  Parking in front of the ramshackle building with its bright neon sign of a stick figure complete with a fallen halo, Cara quickly got out of her rented '87 Nissan. She was standing beside the driver's door waiting when Max pulled up. He was driving a sleek, black sports car. The vehicle looked as if it had just rolled out of the factory.

  It fit him, she thought, but it was a hell of a car for a private eye, if that's what he actually was.

  "Private eye business must pay well," she commented, running a hand along the hood as Max unfolded his long torso from the front seat and got out.

  Shutting the door, he flipped a switch. The whiny noise told him the antitheft device had been activated. "Can't complain."

  If he was on the level, Cara judged that Ryker had to do business with a very high-class clientele. "If your clients can afford to pay you fees that allow you to drive something like that around, what are you doing going after scum like Weber?"

  Max carelessly shrugged his broad shoulders. "Long story."

  She raised her eyes up to his in a look calculated to make his knees just a little weaker. It annoyed a her that he looked unaffected. "It's going to be a long night," she countered.

  We'll see, Max thought, opening the door for her. With any luck, he'd have her sleeping it off within an hour, if not less.

  Stepping into the Saint was like stepping into a dimly lit, smoky cavern that had faint, piped-in music and was populated by denizens who were more comfortable frequenting the shadows of the night than moving about in the light of day. He'd seen dozen of places like this in as many towns. It was almost painfully stereotypical as far as bars went. He figured that the people who frequented it didn't care.

  The door sighed closed behind him. He saw the bartender nod in their direction. Or was that hers? Lowering his head so that his mouth was level with her ear, he asked Cara, "Come here often?"

  A slight shiver danced over Cara's neck, shimmying down her spine. She kept her eyes forward as she crossed to the bar. She'd passed through here three or four times, always on the trail of a bail jumper. The bartender liked to pass on information, for a fee.

  But she wasn't about to give Ryker any details. "Often enough."

  He couldn't help wondering what a woman like her would be doing in a place like this. She looked like someone's little sister, in need of protection from the kinds of people he saw lounging at small tables, sitting on bar stools, all building relationships with the nondescript glasses sitting directly before them.

  But then, he reminded himself, she did have that peashooter strapped to her thigh.

  Max found himself thinking about that thigh in great detail. He curtailed the mental journey.

  He would have rather taken a table, but she selected a spot at the bar. "So, what'll you have?"

  "Whatever you're having," she replied cheerfully, making herself comfortable on the stool.

  "Scotch, neat," he told the bartender. Sitting down next to her, Max glanced at the woman he was trying to temporarily put out of commission. She looked as if she weighed somewhere in the vicinity of a hundred and ten pounds, maybe less. He figured he could easily catch her before she hit the floor. He'd rent a room for her at the nearest motel and deposit her there. Maybe she'd learn her lesson and stay out of his way.

  "Make it two," she told the bartender.

  Max didn't bother hiding the smile on his lips. This, he promised himself, was going to be interesting.

  The smoky blue mirror over the bar reflected his expression, bouncing it back to her. Cara spared him a look. "Something funny, Ryker?"

  If he went strictly by looks, not manner, she looked like someone who could sit under a shady tree, sipping a tall, cool glass of lemonade. "You just don't strike me as the scotch type."

  She exchanged glances with the bartender, although she was fairly certain that because of the angle of her body, Ryker hadn't seen anything. "I'll let you in on a secret, Ryker." She wrapped her hand around the glass the bartender placed before her. "I don't have a 'type.' I am a unique experience."

  Max couldn't help the short laugh. He'd run into confidence before, but not on this scale. "Think a lot of yourself, don't you?"

  She'd gone the shy, retiring route and it had gotten her abuse and heartache. Cara tossed her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. "Contrary to the popular hope, the meek don't inherit the earth, Ryker. All they get is the dirt."

  She caught him off guard. That was surprisingly harsh. "Meek is one word I wouldn't have thought of when looking at you."

  The bartender handed Max his glass. Once the bartender withdrew, Max picked up his drink and touched the rim of his glass to hers. "Here's looking at you, kid."

  She smiled, then threw the drink down in a long gulp that had Max staring at her incredulously. "Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca." She placed her glass down on the counter. "Don't you have any better lines?"

  "Actually that was from Key Largo," he informed her. "Common mistake."

  Maybe, she thought, but you just made another one.

  Waving to snag the bartender's attention, she held up two fingers, then turned her attention back to Max. "So, who are you working for?"

  Because he knew a silent challenge when it was given, Max downed his drink and offered his empty glass for a refill as well when the bartender approached. As an afterthought, he took out his wallet and peeled off the appropriate amount of money to cover the four drinks, plus a healthy tip. He placed the bills on the counter.

  "You know I'm not at liberty to say."

  The question was her way of feeling him out to see what kind of effect the drink had on him.

  Taking a breath, she downed the second drink. Glass bottom met countertop with a resounding smack. "That's all right, I already know."

  Max followed her lead and downed his drink, although he had to admit that he preferred taking in his alcohol at a slower pace. But then, going this route only meant the lovely creature sitting beside him would cease to be a problem that much quicker.

  He was amused at her certainty that she knew who he worked for. There was no way she could be privy to his work f
or his uncle. But for the sake of distracting her from his true goal, he played along.

  "You do?"

  "Sure. It's Phil."

  "Phil," he echoed. The name seemed to resound briefly in his head as he said it.

  "Phil," she repeated, holding her glass aloft so that the bartender could see her from the other end. "Phil Stanford."

  Damn it, how was she holding all that alcohol so well and where was she putting it? She should have been slipping off her stool by now. These drinks were potent. His eyelids were beginning to feel as if they could easily peel off.

  "I don't know who that is."

  Maybe he wasn't lying at that. Cara pushed the conversation another notch to see if she'd stumbled across the truth.

  "Sure you do. The nasty son of a bitch who doesn't know the meaning of the word 'ethics.' He hired you because he was afraid I couldn't deliver Weber." Which was a prime insult in her book, seeing as how she had always, always gotten her man—or woman—before. "But I still have almost another week before Phil has to forfeit his bail money and I'll have Weber safely locked up long before then. So don't get any ideas."

  The ideas he was getting, fueled with two shots of scotch and working on a third, had very little to do with the swarthy man he'd been sent to round up and everything to do with a woman who made him think of warm, moonlit nights and dancing along the banks of a tranquil river. Barefoot.

  Max took a deep breath before addressing the glass in his hand again. He wouldn't mind seeing her barefoot. Up to the neck.

  "What makes a woman become a bounty hunter?" He was aware that it took effort for him not to slur the last word.

  It wasn't a new question. She'd heard it before. A dozen times.

  "Opportunity," she replied mechanically.

  It had been that, pure and simple. She'd spent six months on the Denver police force, feeling hemmed in by all the rules she seemed to always be tripping over, when she spotted the ad in the newspaper, of all places, for a bounty hunter. The notion struck her fancy. She already knew she was a good cop, she was just a bad bureaucrat and not much of what the sergeant liked to call a team player. Becoming a bounty hunter seemed to emphasize all the right things for her.