Bound to the Bounty Hunter

by Hayson Manning

  Gemma shook her head and made introductions.

  Annie smiled, her questioning gaze landing on Sophie’s boots.

  Sophie crossed her arms across her chest and stepped back. “I…um…don’t do heels.”

  Annie stared at her until Sophie started to squirm.

  “There’s a shoe shop out by me that does fabulous shoes in all size heels. My motto is a girl can never have enough shoes. The next time I’m going, want to swing by with me?”

  Sophie opened her mouth, her lips forming the word “no”.

  Annie held up her hand. “Not that I’m saying the boots don’t rock, because they totally do, just saying there’s a special pair of shoes out there for everyone.” She held up her shot glass, twirled it, then flipped the amber content into her mouth without her eyes watering. “Mother’s milk.”

  “I’m not paying you to stand around gassing.” A man who looked like he’d been living rough since the Vietnam War walked to the bar, shrugging off a leather jacket. Denim-clad, biker boots. Piercing blue eyes locked on Sophie, then narrowed. “Who’s this?”

  “Keep your hair on.” Gemma rolled her eyes. “We’re taking a two-minute break, and this is your new waitress who, incidentally, the patrons of your fine establishment find hot.”

  Eyebrows hit the biker’s hairline, and scary eyes turned to Gemma, who didn’t seem to pick up on the arctic glare directed her way.

  “No it isn’t. I told you to hire someone men will want in their station and who’ll come back because she’s in their station. That ain’t her.”

  That was her. Too tall, too plain.

  Gemma’s hands landed on her hips.

  “She’s good, Pipe. She didn’t take Boris’s shit, stared him down, and tapped her foot until he smiled. She had Mick on the ground when he went to slap her after she told him she’d cut off his dick and serve it to him in a sandwich with a fry. She’s quick and does her job well. I’m fairly certain she isn’t out for a quick fuck with a biker.”

  Sophie felt her eyes widen.

  “I’m tired of working shifts on my own because you hire girls who are only here to get a glory fuck by a biker before they walk up the aisle in their WASP dress and marry their missionary position boyfriend.” Gemma poked Pipe in the chest. “She’s better than good.”

  Her heart threw in a double beat. “Thanks,” she murmured to Gemma, who reached over to squeeze her hand.

  “Besides, I think the boot thing is hot. I’m guessing half the guys tonight will go home and jack off thinking of her mile-long legs wrapped around their hips.”

  Sophie pulled on the hem of her skirt, her cheeks burning.

  “No stilettos, no job,” Pipe barked. He turned to Cope. “No one touches the girls. Mick’s banned.”

  Sophie pressed her lips together. Not like there was an HR department. Lodging an official complaint about sexism in the workplace would fall on deaf ears. She could either inform him that it was sexist to make women wear ridiculously high shoes and he must be breaking some UN Women’s Rights legislation, or tell him to stick his job, get changed, and never come back.

  She mentally calculated the tips she’d received so far. She’d already paid the overdue gas bill and Melissa Gibson. Next up she’d be paying the electricity. She liked electricity. Electricity cleaned clothes, granted her access to The Young and the Restless, and provided hot water. If this kept up, Michelle P from South Florida would be receiving two hundred dollars.

  Another name paid back.

  Gemma moved into Pipe’s space, hands on her hips again.

  “If she goes, I go.”

  Pipe stared at Gemma for half a second before his icy glance cut to Sophie.

  “You’re only here because of her. Give me a reason to get rid of you, and you’re gone.”

  At three a.m. when she started swaying with fatigue, the bar emptied out. Sophie hauled herself around, each step feeling like she’d dunked her boots in another layer of cement. Finally, Dave, the other bartender, closed the door. The four of them delivered empty glasses to the kitchen area, stacked empty bottles in the keg room. Gemma had tossed her a cloth, and they’d sprayed the tables in artificial lemon and wiped them down. Much to her horror, Pipe insisted on walking her to her car, leaving Cope to escort Gemma to her Beetle.

  After insisting she was fine, five times, Pipe ignored her and walked by her side.

  Well this isn’t awkward.

  “For the time you’re working at the bar, if you need a place, for whatever reason, you can come here,” Pipe said, looking straight ahead.

  If they weren’t the only two in the parking lot, she’d have thought he was talking to someone else. He didn’t turn his head to address her, instead aimed for the only car left in the lot. She’d parked under a light with what looked like drunk moths slamming into the glass.

  “Right,” she said. Having as little as possible to do with the man seemed the best way to keep her job.

  As for turning up here?

  As much chance of that as being flogged naked by Babic in a room full of nuns.

  “I mean it.” He stood beside her door.

  “Um, thanks.” She hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder.

  She unlocked the car and willed him to walk away.

  Pipe hadn’t said a word when the car took five turnovers to fire or when she tapped the check engine light until it shifted from a steady glow to a flicker. He’d stood under the fading neon until she turned the corner.

  On the way home she checked her rearview mirror. The plan of detouring to the park was nixed when a sedan came out of a side street and sat on her tail a few cars back.

  Is it me being paranoid or am I being followed?

  She shouldn’t chance it. If there was something on that recording, she couldn’t risk losing what Babic had said. In a few hours she’d go back to collect it, taking public transport, changing her route if she was being followed, or she’d join Paranoids Anonymous.

  She made it through her front door just as Pongo lumbered through the dog door. She lavished praise on her dog and gave him a treat. After she washed her face and brushed her teeth, she slapped on supermarket moisturizer. She kicked her uniform to the floor, changing into pj’s she’d grabbed from under her pillow, then crawled into bed, whispering her prayers as she went.

  Sophie’s phone danced out her favorite ringtone, and Pongo’s face flashed on the screen announcing an incoming call, pulling her from a deep sleep.

  She groaned. The soft light of dawn filled her room with pale tangerine streaks and watery shadows. Birds were up and doing their rounds, judging by their happy songs.

  Why can’t they sing the blues for once?

  Pongo pushed open her door looking like he’d starve to death if food didn’t arrive in his bowl. She went to stretch her shoulders and groaned. Seems her brain had received the memo that they weren’t turning up today. It wasn’t just her shoulders. Every muscle in her body protested movement.

  “Hello,” she answered in a rusty voice.

  “This is Franco. We need to meet. How long would it take you to get to my office?”

  “I’m not meeting you. Go away.” She ended the call and flopped back on the bed.

  Her sluggish brain started to jog into life. Did he know about the recording? Had he followed her last night?

  Crap.

  Fully awake, she threw back the covers and stumbled to the bathroom where she had a shower, a quick shampoo, and an even quicker condition. She slapped on her favorite raspberry-scented body butter, brushed her teeth, then pulled her wet hair into a band.

  Her home phone roared to life.

  She ignored it for ten rings but, worried it might be Titus in trouble, she picked up the receiver, keeping silent.

  “Did you hang up on me?” Harlan’s clipped voice made her smile.

  “New experience I gather.”

  “How long would it take you to get to my office or I’ll come to you.”

  She clutche
d the cordless phone while dashing around the room, pulling on her boots. “It’s illegal to obtain an unlisted number. I could have you charged and arrested.”

  His voice purred. “The strangest thing, I found your number on a piece of paper you left for me last night at Hostage.”

  Her blood started a slow boil. “I swear to God, if you were standing in this room I’d squeeze the life out of you, and no jury would convict me.”

  Amusement softened his sexy voice. “You’re into dirty talking this early in the morning? Interesting.”

  She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her keys, calculating how long it would take to make it to the park, grab the recording, make it back home, and hide it in her safe. There was no way he’d be coming here. This small, barely two-bedroom house was her sanctuary. Her first home.

  The last thing she wanted to do was serve him coffee out of a Goodwill cup. Have him smirk at her snow globe collection. He only knew Sophie the PI. He didn’t know Sophie Callaghan, and he never would.

  “I can be there in two hours. I have an appointment this morning,” she lied, having no intention of going anywhere near Harlan Franco ever again.

  “I know what you have.”

  She opened her mouth to protest but his words, wrapped in stone, stopped her.

  “And if you’re not here in two hours, I’ll find you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Amazingly, she sounded crisp and formal.

  “You do have something I’m going to have.” His voice, like molasses, flowed through her to one spot in particular.

  She squirmed at the throbbing between her legs, the tightness of her nipples, the shiver of remembrance of when he’d kissed her.

  Scrap that. Harlan didn’t kiss. He devoured. Demanded.

  Owned.

  She shook her head.

  Nope, he played with her. He was a big tabby cat, and she was the little mouse.

  Well, this little mouse was done with his games.

  Chapter Four

  I-36 passed in a blur of flat land, brown grasses whispering in a dying wind. The ground so parched, if Sophie lowered her window she was sure she’d hear the earth groan.

  She checked in the rearview mirror at the black Silverado sitting two cars back. She’d pushed her brave car to its limits and tried to ditch the pickup, but a strange whine and unfamiliar shudder had made her pull back. She’d thrown in unexpected turns, and a few times she thought she’d lost it only to have it reappear.

  Once again, she ran through the meeting with Harlan in her head.

  Sophie would walk into the office.

  She’d be professional.

  She’d be polite.

  They’d clear up the misunderstanding of whatever he thought she had.

  She concentrated on last night and how he’d played her, and she blew out a breath with a giant whoosh.

  She could imagine the conversation he’d have.

  Sophie Callaghan? Yeah, I know her. Tell her you’re going to fuck her hard, and she’s all yours. Easy.

  Heat pounded her face in a fresh wave.

  Be polite. Be professional. She’d briefly considered nixing the meeting but hadn’t been able to shake the tail and retrieve the equipment. She was anxious to find out if the recording would give her any intel on Babic’s boss, Petrov.

  After her meeting with Franco, she had to get some shopping done, then get home, change, and head to a strip club. Another of her clients was suspicious that her one-and-only disappeared every Monday, supposedly working late in retail. Last week, while dressed as the world’s lamest runner, Sophie had trailed him to the door of the club. Tonight, appropriately attired, she’d follow him inside and film him, then hand her client the evidence.

  Once again she’d deliver heartache along with an invoice.

  She’d checked her phone this morning. Still nothing on the jumper who frequented Javier’s Gym. Weeks earlier, Javier had told her to go have sex with herself when she’d asked him to contact her if the man appeared, but after laying out her case, he’d told her if the prick showed up he’d call her.

  At least one potential client had moved to actual. A straightforward case of a daughter searching for her lost mother.

  Never-Stressed Nancy kicked into life as she hit downtown Denver. By a miracle, Sophie found parking and squinted up at the standard office complex.

  She allowed herself a single smile.

  She’d always enjoyed the kindness of the people of Colorado when she and her father had passed through. One year a woman in a local church had found out it was Sophie’s birthday and had made her first birthday cake—strawberry shortcake with vanilla frosting. It was the reason she’d moved here after her father’s death.

  The whir of a high-end coffee maker mixed with the scent of fresh ground coffee halted her momentarily. A businessman in a crisp suit walked out of a nearby café holding a cup in one hand and his phone in the other. A wave of shimmering heat rolled up the pavement.

  She pushed the edge of her red T-shirt into the waistband of aged jeans, the shirt that made her upbeat whatever the circumstances. She pulled on the tie holding her hair in a high ponytail at the back of her head and walked inside the building. After consulting the business directory, she took the elevator to the fourth floor and stood outside a solid, polished pine door with Franco Security engraved in plain black ink.

  Brain, this is your body. There will be no tingles, no tightening, no flushing, no drooling. Definitely no drooling. Hormones will stay in the box labeled “monthly.” Brain is in charge at all times.

  Be polite. Be professional.

  She knocked, squared her shoulders, then opened the door.

  Be polite. Be professional…

  Her mouth dried.

  Harlan wore his uniform of choice. Tight black T-shirt, worn Levi’s, and scuffed boots. Stubble darkened his jaw. Black silky hair still messy. Aviator glasses covering his eyes. He held a phone to his ear, leaning one hip against his desk.

  Damn.

  Her brain sent urgent messages to her body to shut down now. She breathed deep and gazed around, getting her body under control, concentrating on the office. No Broncos coffee mug on the smooth wood. No rogue stapler. No paper clips spilling out of the top of a container, threatening revolt. She craned her neck. Even the trash can lacked garbage. The man took “neat” to a whole new level. She moved to admire the artwork, her boots heavy on the polished wooden floors. Two nudes in charcoal adorned the walls. Beautiful. She knew the artist. Local guy. One day she hoped she could afford a small sketch of his work.

  “Sophie.”

  She turned.

  Harlan pushed his phone into his back pocket, slid the glasses above his forehead, moved from the desk, then planted his legs wide.

  His gaze dropped to her chest.

  “What are you wearing?”

  She frowned at his tone and looked down at the red K and C interlocking against the white arrowhead. “The best team in the NFL’s shirt. Go Chiefs.”

  “I should shoot you for wearing that in here.” He shook his head. “A Kansas City fan.”

  The blood drained from her face.

  One of the fiercest rivalries in the NFL. The most hated team in the league. Harlan had to be…

  Well of course he is.

  “An Oakland Raiders fan? Oh God, I’m so sorry. You know there’s rehab for that, right?” She cocked her head. “Why are you an Oakland fan? Isn’t that illegal in Denver?”

  “I’m not from Colorado. What about you and Kansas City?”

  She shrugged, not even knowing herself. Her father hadn’t followed the NFL, but somewhere along their travels she’d seen a Kansas City Chiefs flag, and something had clicked in her head. A heart-shaped memory of a strong, warm arm around her waist, the scent of deep-fried chicken, and weirdly, beets. A flash of red and white. A feeling of belonging. For years she tried to figure it out, but the more she delved into her subconscious the more the memory floated ou
t of reach.

  “Well, hello? Because Kansas City is the best team in the universe.”

  His eyebrows hit his forehead.

  Her eyes feasted on his muscled forearms as he crossed them over his chest. She tightened her ponytail, eager to be on her way. “As much as I want to chat about why your team blows, I have a lot to do today, so let’s get this done.”

  “Where’s the recorder, Sophie?”

  She blinked and felt her body jerk slightly.

  Damn.

  He’d noticed.

  His eyes widened then narrowed.

  His gaze roamed over her body, like she was a bowl of cream he was about to lick dry. Delicious sparkles headed straight between her legs.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She was pleased that she sounded calm and efficient, hoping she hid the firestorm going down in her body.

  He put his hands into his jean pockets, pushing down the denim and showing tanned skin.

  Her eyes widened at the bulge in his pants.

  At the extra-large bulge in his pants.

  She bit the soft inside of her cheek.

  He shrugged one sexy, muscled shoulder that she wanted to bite.

  He moved close, too close, and the scent of sex, musk, and him drilled through her, flooding her body with hot, desperate, unescapable need.

  “You left behind a sizeable amount of clay at Babic’s table.” His laser-beam eyes pinned her.

  She stilled and, with every fiber in her body, blocked him.

  Just.

  “You’ll never find it,” she whispered.

  His gaze swept down her frame and stopped at her rock-hard nipples, which ached.

  “Oh, I’ll find it. I bet you I’ll find it.” His dark, gravelly voice made her shiver again.

  She forced a lazy chuckle. “I take your bet and I will win, because I will retrieve it, and you’ll never know.”

  “You won’t, but I want something when I win.”

  From the look in his eyes he was running through scenarios of what he wanted, and none of them were G-rated.

  She tackled the hormones running rampant in her body. Hormones that demanded she be naked and plastered against his long, hard body. She froze when he unexpectedly pulled free the band holding her hair in a ponytail and buried his face in her hair.