by Shirl Henke
“Strip and put these on.”
Matt cocked his head and grinned. “With you watching, Ms. Ballanger?”
“I’m a trained medical professional,” Sam said coolly. A bit too coolly. Her indifference to visions of Matt Granger’s naked body was pure bravado. She tightened her grip on her weapon as she tossed the pajamas to him.
He gave her another of those infuriating grins, then pulled his shirt over his head…very slowly. She could see every muscle flexing. Tossing the shirt to the floor, he started to remove his jeans.
“I imagine a trained medical professional’s seen it all, hasn’t she?”
“Pretty much.” She managed to leash her libido. But only by reminding herself about the cool $10K plus expenses she’d collect at the end of the road. Right now that road was looking really long, hard and rocky. Don’t think long. Don’t think hard. Don’t think rocks!
Dear Reader,
I pictured Sam Ballanger’s character as clearly as if I’d met her—because I had! She resembles a good friend and former agent of mine, a petite but shapely brunette with a razor-sharp wit, a passion for money and an aversion to pushy men. What better nemesis than a tenacious reporter after a Pulitzer? Matt Granger is a young Tom Selleck, six-six to her five-four. Sam’s adventures embody several of my favorite fantasies—to excel at a dangerous job, to keep a powerful, sexy male under my complete control, even to have a quick comeback for every one of his wisecracks. She gets to drug and kidnap him, even cuff him to a motel bed! But then Matt turns the tables on her. What can I say? I love alpha women but I love alpha men even more!
Have fun,
Shirl Henke
Shirl Henke
Finders Keepers
For Jim,
who was my “salsa suicide” driver and, as always, helped with the punch lines
SHIRL HENKE
received her B.A. and M.A. in history from the University of Missouri and then worked at many different jobs, including running the circulation desk on a small daily, writing and editing “house organ” newspapers, administering a federal information program for the elderly and finally as a university instructor.
Ever since she was a child she read avidly, everything from Robert Heinlein’s sci-fi adventures to the big historical sagas of the 1970s and 1980s. She sold her first novel to Warner Books in 1986. Within two years, she was able to quit her day job. Now she can’t imagine doing anything but writing for a living.
She and her husband, Jim, share their cedar house in the woods with an utterly spoiled and very geriatric tomcat. As with writing, life without cats would be unimaginable. For therapy when she’s not at the computer, she cooks large dinners for their extended family, works in her garden and greenhouse, and still reads avidly. When deadlines permit, she loves to travel. Visit Shirl on the Web at www.shirlhenke.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
This is my first venture into comedy/adventure. I think Bombshell and I were meant for each other! Lots of people helped make Sam and Matt’s story possible, beginning with all the friendly residents of Miami. You are as sunny and warm as your climate!
My husband, Jim, drove on my research trip to Miami. Besides navigating the metro area, he helped gather information. A former navy man, Jim wore a cap bearing the logo of his ship that opened many doors for a writer. Former marine turned tour guide and boat captain, Juan F. Campos regaled us with entertaining stories about the Intracoastal islands and suggested yachts and speedboats for the chase sequences.
At the U.S. Coast Guard Station on Terminal Island, Joel Aberbach, SO-PS DIV VI, of the Coast Guard Auxiliary explained which causeways were closed for boat traffic, the height of each causeway, the ebb and flow of tides affecting when larger craft might slip under them and the procedure for raising drawbridges.
Detective Juan Delcastillo of the Miami-Dade Police Department, Media Relations Section, furnished us with essential background information on the Russian mob in Miami, gave us neighborhoods where nefarious activities might take place and filled us in on all procedural matters regarding one of America’s largest and finest police organizations.
Growing up on the Mississippi, Jim and I knew nothing about oceangoing crafts. Mr. D. Larry Deitch, owner of a Tiara, was so kind as to give us a tour of his yacht, explaining how various mechanisms worked. The folks at Florida Yacht Charters and Sales were most helpful furnishing us with ideas about yachts and chase boats—and they didn’t even get to make a sale.
The experts furnished me with accurate information. Any errors are mine. If I fudged with a bit of literary license, I hope they forgive me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 1
“What a great set of buns,” Samantha Ballanger said under her breath with a low whistle. It wasn’t professional, but then this wasn’t an ordinary job.
From the cover of her van door, she watched Matthew Granger bend over to pick up a beer can some litterbug had tossed on the sidewalk. He pitched it into a nearby trash can like a good citizen, then turned and continued walking down the opposite side of the street. He’d spot her in half a minute.
The photos didn’t lie. He was tall as a church steeple, six-six if he was an inch, and looked like a young Tom Selleck. Very appealing, but his size might present some logistical complications. Brushing that worry aside, she pulled the other door to her Econoline van wide open and slid an oversize box halfway out. Then she pretended to struggle loading it.
At five-four, the curly-headed brunette was, as her Irish-Catholic mother euphemistically put it, “well endowed.” That’s why she choose to wear a sprayed-on pair of hip-hugger shorts and a halter top that displayed her assets like an Excel spreadsheet. If this getup didn’t grab his attention, he had an eyesight problem her research hadn’t revealed.
As soon as he looked across the street, she could tell there was nothing wrong with his vision. Sam increased her exertion, even emitting a few ladylike swearwords to indicate she was in big trouble. A guy who cleaned up litter surely wouldn’t refuse to help a damsel in distress. She watched him vacillate, obviously wanting to help her as he glanced down at his wristwatch.
Chivalry won out just as she hoped it would. Granger crossed the deserted street. She knew this wasn’t the best neighborhood in San Diego for a woman alone, especially an attractive one whose least provocative article of apparel was the fanny pack strapped to her waist. The big brick complex of buildings where Granger lived was called Samaritan Haven, a place where people hid from their pasts, or ran from their futures. Not all of them were exactly hospitable to strangers.
“Need some help?” he asked, nodding to the box, half in, half out of the van.
“Yeah, I could use some. Thanks,” Sam replied with a bright grin, stepping back so he could take the box in both hands. Predictable as snow in Boston.
“What’ve you got in here, rocks?” he asked, bending his knees to put some muscle behind shoving the box across the carpeting of the van.
Sam moved in close behind him, giving him a whiff of her perfume, a faint musky rose scent. Just for added measure, she let her breasts brush against his shoulder to distract him further. When he shoved the
box all the way inside, she shoved the barrel of her gun sharply into his right kidney.
He grunted in surprise as she said conversationally, “It’s exactly what it feels like, so don’t get cute.”
“You’re the one who’s cute, honey, or I wouldn’t have walked my stupid butt across the street to be mugged,” he replied.
“No mugging, honey, but this will be a prelude to a funeral if you don’t spread your legs and lean forward into the van. Put all your weight on your palms.”
“If you’re a kidnapper, I have to warn you there’s not enough in—”
“Just do it,” she snapped curtly, pressing the gun muzzle harder into his kidney to emphasize her point. He was too big to take any chances with.
“Ouch,” he muttered with an oath, leaning forward and spreading his long legs.
Sam tossed a small plastic nasal inhaler next to where his left hand pressed into the plush carpeting. “Squeeze a spray into each nostril, then snuff it up—good and hard,” she instructed.
When he hesitated, she cocked the snub nose. He picked up the bottle and squeezed. She could see that he was trying not to get much of the spray up his nose, but with this new drug, that shouldn’t matter. “Now inhale.” She used the gun to emphasize her point. He complied with a noisy snuffle.
“What is that stuff? My nose’s tingling,” he said, trying to turn around.
“Stand still,” she commanded him, jamming the snub nose harder in his kidney until she was satisfied that he wouldn’t try anything stupid. Then she grabbed the back of his shirt with her free hand and balled it up tightly between his shoulder blades.
“Hey, you’re choking me,” he protested.
She ignored him. No time to fool around now, she thought, eyeing the deserted street again. “Drop the bottle and put your hand back on the van floor.”
“Okay, you’re calling the shots.” He coughed as his shirt collar bit into the sides of his throat. “For a little broad, you have a grip like a sumo wrestler. Now what?”
“We wait,” she said. This was her first use of the new inhalator. Just her luck to experiment on a guy tall as a skyscraper. He coughed again. She imagined his brain starting to spin like the Seattle Space Needle.
His right arm buckled. He straightened it and shook his head. “Shit, that stuff wasn’t Vicks, was it?” he muttered thickly.
Sam heard the slight slurring in his voice and swore silently. Jules had told her the nasal delivery system worked fast, but with a guy this big she’d never imagined it could work quite this fast. Damn! He was starting to puddle up real quick. She found it distracting enough that the man was drop-dead gorgeous. But did he have to be twice her size to boot? If he oozed beneath the van she’d be screwed. There was no way she could heft over two hundred pounds of male muscle from the pavement into her vehicle.
When his legs suddenly started to give way, she hissed, “Lock your knees. Stiffen your legs, for God’s sake.” A little panic was not all that unprofessional.
“Stiffen…stiff… My ass.” The sibilant sound hissed between slack lips. “I cudn’ get stiff for Julia Roberts.”
Sam could see his legs were liquefying. She uncocked the .38 and slipped it into her fanny pack to have both hands free to work. She reached up between his legs to grab the front waistband of his Levi’s.
“Doan get fresh!” It came out “fesh.”
He grunted in acute discomfort as she levered her forearm up against his testicles. It was an old jujitsu move guaranteed to turn any man into a toe dancer. Any man not already higher than a satellite. His knees continued to wobble like Jell-O as she tried to shove him inside the van.
He muttered, “Hey, hey, tha’s m…m’ fam’ly jew’ls.”
“Either you help me get your ass in that van or I’m going to liquidate a couple of the family assets right now. Got it?” Braced behind him, Sam cupped her left hand under his knee, trying to get him to lift it onto the floor of the van. She revised her estimate of his weight. He was the size of her uncle Declan’s semi carrying a full load of sheet steel.
She tugged at his knee again, cursing as she became truly desperate. “Come on, throw your friggin’ leg up there!” A quick glance up and down the street revealed no spectators, her only break so far. Finally, using her body weight against his rump, she bumped him hard several times until she was able to lever his knee high enough to slide it onto the van floor and roll him inside.
“Guy’s ’posed ta do the h-humpin’,” he said, collapsing, giggling in baritone as he flopped onto his back.
Now she only had one of his long legs and an arm dangling out the doors. “I can do this,” she muttered to herself, leaning over him so she could pull the offending limbs inside.
“Ya got great k-knockers…ash, too,” he murmured as his hand groped clumsily around her hip.
Quickly she bent the leg and shoved it inside, then threw the offending arm across his chest and slammed the door before it flopped out again. Sam could hear the crack of his elbow hitting the door panel but he was clearly feeling no pain. The giggling continued, a side effect of the drug she hadn’t been warned about.
“Crap, ‘happy hour’ at ten in the morning,” she muttered to herself. Relief made her almost giddy enough to giggle in return while she once again scanned the street. Not so much as a window shade moved in any of the buildings. Southern California. It figured. “I could’ve gone after him with a net and trident and nobody would’ve noticed a thing.”
Sam climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, then placed the .38 in the glove compartment before pulling out and driving away slowly. In the back of the Econoline she could hear soft male snoring as her new “retrieval” settled into a deep, drugged slumber.
“Well, handsome, we sure as hell gave added dimension to the term tailgating,” she said, turning the corner of the street and heading for a deserted strip mall next to the freeway.
Pulling into the back of the parking lot beneath a cluster of blue gum trees, she shifted to Park, keeping the engine running while she climbed over the seat and quickly changed into a loose set of pink hospital scrubs. After exchanging her slides for a pair of crepe-soled lace-up shoes, she climbed out of the side door of the Econoline and opened the back.
Changing Granger’s appearance took a bit more work but she’d had lots of practice. Still, her usual “snatches” weren’t built anything like this specimen. It took her twice the average time to get his big body trussed up in a lightweight straitjacket concealed by a large institutional-looking terry robe. The faintest hint of a raspy black beard gave him a piratical look. More eyelashes than Liz Taylor. She shook her head in aggravation and slipped a sleeping mask over those wonderful eyes, then taped his mouth shut.
By the time she’d swathed his head with gauze bandages, Sam felt her confidence return. She replaced his shoes with bedroom slippers, then used the custom seat-belt straps attached to the floor to secure him safely for the ride. The belt would also minimize any thrashing when he woke.
So far, so good, she thought as she climbed out of the van carrying two oblong magnetic plates. After locking the rear door, she attached the signs to the sides of the vehicle. They read Fairview Hospital and gave a bogus address about five hundred miles northeast of San Diego on Interstate 15. When they neared there, she had other sets for the cross-country trip to Boston.
“Sweet dreams, gorgeous.” Humming softly to herself, she pulled out of the deserted parking lot and hopped on the freeway. With any luck they’d make Utah by nightfall.
Funny, but he’d never gone blind with a hangover before. Matt blinked and tried to focus through the blackness, past the pounding inside his head. He’d been fading in and out of consciousness for an indeterminate length of time while someone was driving him someplace. He hadn’t the foggiest who or where. His head throbbed so wickedly he didn’t much give a damn. But then the vehicle came to an abrupt stop and he was forced into full and painful wakefulness.
Sam co
uld see he was conscious if not exactly alert. She gave him an experimental shove. “Rise and shine, sweet cheeks.”
Matt wished to hell he could choke the life out of whoever it was and just fade back into blissful oblivion. Must’ve been one hell of a party. He couldn’t remember tying one on this badly since he was a freshman at Yale. The woman prodded him again. Shit, he was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey! What the hell was going on? No party, for sure. It started to come back to him when he heard that Boston accent again and smelled her rose perfume.
“Just sit up. You can do it,” Sam wheedled, tugging on the robe covering the straitjacket that held his arms immobilized.
If only his head would stop the trip-hammer pounding so he could think. Did she work for Renkov? He asked but only mumbles came out. When he tried to talk he sounded like Bruce Springsteen singing. Then he recognized the tight burning feeling over his mouth. The loony bitch had taped it shut! And blindfolded him. His senses were starting to coordinate now, feeding his aching brain enough information to let him know that he was in trouble.
Big trouble.
For all he knew she intended to dump him in San Diego Bay. Yeah, she had to be working for that mobster Renkov. But how the hell had the bastard found out he was here? Had he compromised his sources and placed Tess and her son in danger, too? Matt swore to himself, frustrated, unable to think of anything he could do to break free.
Sam could sense the wheels turning in her captive’s cunning mind. She knew he was going to make this difficult for her as she yanked his legs over the side of the van and pulled him into an upright position. He tried falling backwards into the van, but she applied pressure to a reflex point under his jawbone just in front of his ear that sent a nasty wave of pain shooting into his skull, which she was certain already pounded with agony from the nasal Mickey she’d given him. She’d studied martial arts since her early days with the Miami-Dade PD.