He dug his hands into her hair and kissed her while she worked his belt loose. “I love you,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Her hand tensed at his waist. Uh-oh. Could be he’d misread this.
Needing to see her face, gauge the expression, he backed away from the kiss, but kept his hands cupped around her head. Her blue eyes were on him, focused, studying, but her expression remained neutral.
“Do you?” she whispered.
She wanted to play. “I do.”
Finally, her lips spread into a slow, wicked smile and she tipped her head up to kiss him. She ran her tongue along his bottom lip and he groaned, deepened the kiss, brought his hands back to her ass and squeezed her against him. Letting her see just how much his body craved her.
She stepped back, finished unfastening his cargo pants and shoved them to the floor. He kicked out of them. His shirt went next and she let her fingers glide over his chest, laid her palm flat over his heart where the pounding increased.
But she hadn’t responded to the whole I-love-you thing. Nothing. Was this how it should go when a guy told a woman he loved her? Somehow he didn’t think so and a spark of panic flicked at that back of his neck. He might have just blown this whole relationship. What did you do asshole?
She kissed his chest, right smack in the middle, letting her lips linger there before looking up at him.
He tipped her chin up, took in the tears filling her eyes. Crying. Jesus. He’d driven her to tears. What could that mean? “You okay?”
She blinked a couple of times. “I thought it was just me. Or lust or whatever, and it scared me. I don’t want either of us to have to give up jobs we love. We have to figure it out.”
What the hell was she talking about? Women. No wonder men went insane. “Now you want to talk about this?”
“No. I love you too. That’s all. I love you.”
Finally. She’d said it. He shoved her backward onto the sofa and she pulled him down with her, laughing as she hit the seat.
He sat next to her, turned sideways. More than ready for her. “You’re beautiful, Jo. Every crazy-assed inch.”
“Even my smart mouth?”
“Even that.”
“Good.” She pushed him back against the chair. “I want on top.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She straddled him and, with her eyes on his, lowered herself onto him. The explosion of heat hit him and he bucked his hips, grabbing her, holding her down. Damn, he loved this part. That first second inside her.
Turbulence shifted the plane and Gabe grabbed her, held her in place as the ding of the seat belt sign sounded. “A little chop,” the pilot said. “Seat belts on, folks.”
Jo burst out laughing. “Now that’s funny. I think we should listen.”
If Gabe knew anything about her, he knew she was breaking balls. When they were together like this, she craved it as much as he did. No way she’d stop now. “I’ll save you.”
On her knees, she slid up, and that same explosion of heat fried him. Reading his signals, she picked up her pace, rocking her hips, driving him to the brink while his hands roamed. Breasts, belly, ass, everywhere he could find, he touched her.
“It’s so good with you,” she said.
And that did it. The sound of her voice, that low raspy tone that meant she was close to orgasm. He knew this woman. Wanted her. Loved her.
She arched, threw her head back sending her hair flying and exposing the long column of her neck. He sat up, devoured it, nipped and kissed as she continued to rock her hips through the shattering orgasm, and then she went quiet. But those hips—those amazing hips kept moving—and his world tilted. The tension in his body built, climbed higher and higher, and then—snap. The wave assaulted him, just pummeled him and he held her, digging his fingers into flesh, praying she wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t do anything to take these final seconds from him.
Slowly, she eased forward, rested her head against his heaving chest. Hell of a way to join the Mile High Club. Helluva way.
After a minute, he brought his hand up, set it on her head and rubbed. “Amazing. Total bucket-lister.”
Jo shifted off him, dragged her hand across his still heaving chest. “Now, Mr. August, we have work to do.”
Chapter Three
Gabe parked the rental car on the street across from the sheriff’s office in Leeville, South Carolina. Stuck in the grass of the house next door was a red and white re-election sign. Sheriff Connelly, the sign said, the man for us. It didn’t take a creative genius to come up with that campaign slogan. Gabe slid out of the car, enjoying the blue sky and fifty-nine degree temperature that welcomed him. Winter in South Carolina.
The sheriff’s office was actually a converted church, one of those old brick deals complete with scrollwork over the red double doors at the entrance. Maybe they had a confessional inside. Talk about multitasking. Bad guys could step into the box and make things right with God and the law all in one stop.
Wait until I tell Tom. “Un-frigging-believable.”
The passenger door slammed and, unable to resist his habit from home, he hit the lock button.
“Listen, city boy,” Jo said walking around the car, “we’re in someone else’s town. They do things differently here. You’ll need to dial it down.”
He met her at the rear bumper and assumed the I-am-Officer-Townsend stance of squared shoulders and folded arms. “What does that mean?”
She circled her open hand in front of his chest. “All of this. It works at home, but we need to play nice with these people. They probably don’t like Yankees. You’re definitely a Yankee. A big one. You need to get smaller.”
Smaller. That made him laugh. A good, deep rumbling one that made Jo smile. “Should I go in on my knees?”
She grinned up at him, waggled her eyebrows. “No. But maybe later.”
Damn, he loved this woman. “Oh, honey.”
She threw her hand up. “Zip it. I know I started it, but sometimes you don’t have to take the bait.”
“You know better.”
She spun to the road and took three steps, but a sound—the not-so-distant hum of an engine—made Gabe reach for her—grab the back of her blazer. She stopped, glanced over her shoulder, her eyes questioning. Gabe turned left and all at once, as if fast-forwarded, a black pick-up tore around the corner, its tires shrieking as it swerved and the driver over-corrected. Probably a teenager screwing around.
He glanced back at Jo, in the street, transfixed by the charging truck. A horn blared and Gabe’s chest squeezed. Blood filled his head like a battering ram. “Jo! Back!”
Get her. He gripped the back of her blazer tighter, checked the oncoming truck—ten yards—and hooked his free arm around her. Now. The explosion in his head droned on as he plowed her against the car and pinned her there.
The truck roared by, the driver still sitting on the horn. He glanced at the rear of the truck. No plate. He ticked back a few seconds, replayed what he saw. Front plate. Had a P in it. PC something.
Damn. For a cop, he’d just done a shit job of capturing the details.
Jo pushed away from the car, her body pressing into him. He stared straight ahead into the square where a statue wobbled. Dizzy. He shook his head, closed his eyes, focused on controlling his breathing.
“You okay?”
“For God’s sake! He almost killed me. Don’t these people know how to drive?”
“Did you see the driver?”
“Not really. All I saw was that big grill coming at me.”
Gabe rested his forehead against the back of Jo’s skull and let out a soft grunt. One way or another, she’d do him in. “Damn kids.”
“Okay, sergeant. Let me up.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, big boy. You just saved me from being a tattoo on the street.” She turned and faced him, patted his chest and went up on tip-toes for a quick kiss. “Thank you.”
“Scared the crap out of me. Y
ou need to watch, Jo. Even down here, you gotta look before you step into the street.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I got caught up and wasn’t paying attention.”
“It’s okay.” He pointed across the street. “Let’s find the sheriff.”
After checking traffic—thank you—they crossed the street and climbed the brick steps to the church—ah, sheriff’s office—and tried the door. Locked.
Gabe snorted. Nobody home.
Jo marched back down the stairs, waving her hand at him. “Don’t start. They knew we were coming, but maybe they had an emergency. Let’s take a walk through town. See what’s what. I’m starved anyway. We’ll eat and come back.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Ha! I’ll remember you said that.”
—:—
After finding a café for an early dinner, Jo waited outside for Gabe, who had ducked—literally—into the men’s room. Everything about this town, the doorways included, screamed casual and cozy. A softer way of life so unlike New York and the frenetic pace that intimidated some, but Gabe and Jo thrived on. Still, this way of life offered possibilities in terms of vacations and down time. Short bursts of it she might enjoy.
Behind her, the bells on the door jangled and Gabe came out of the restaurant, his stride, as usual, determined and with a commanding grace that never failed to attract attention.
On the plane, he had changed into his favorite pair of broken-in jeans, a black T-shirt she’d bought him at Eddie Bauer last weekend, and sneakers. Dressed like this, he could have been an average guy out for a meal with his girlfriend.
Could have been.
Anyone with eyes saw he wasn’t any average guy. Gabe’s presence, that relaxed, confident stance that came so naturally to him, screamed power and strength and the ability to rock a woman’s world if she’d let him.
Mr. August. In the flesh.
“You’ve got that look, Jo.”
She knew the look. The one that set both their sexual engines purring. “Can’t help it.”
He grinned. “We can head to the hotel if you’d like.”
“Later, big boy.”
A woman loaded down with bags left the dress shop beside the restaurant and Jo perused the items behind the plate glass window. Well, lookie here.
Gabe waved a hand in front of her face. “Jo?” When she didn’t respond, he followed her gaze. “Oh, shit.”
She took two steps, only to have a giant hand grip her arm. “Forget it.”
“Let’s just look. Could be the real thing.”
She doubted it. Her hand over Gabe’s, she walked backward toward the window. “Let’s play tourist. You can be my soon-to-be-hubby. I’ll hang all over you. I’ll even undo a couple of buttons for you. Whaddya, say? Deal?”
“I say nuh-uh. We both know that’s a knockoff Barelli and you’re trying to bullshit me into letting you go in and buy it.”
Jo gasped, but it didn’t pack the wallop of authentic shock.
“You’re full of crap, Jo. The deal was that the sheriff would handle this and you’d stay out of it. You haven’t been in this town two hours and you’re already saddling up. Our only job here is to offer support to local law enforcement and hopefully escort Martinson back to New York. Getting into our own investigation is a giant no-no.”
Of course, she knew all that, but she didn’t see any harm in confirming the bag was counterfeit. Wasn’t that what they were here for?
Yes.
All she needed to do was convince Gabe to let her take a teeny-tiny step over the line. Teeny step. Not all of her knowledge regarding Gabe Townsend involved creating sexual positions. No, she knew exactly how his mind worked on a professional basis too, and it was time to put that knowledge to work.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She turned toward the window, feigning wistful. “I guess I just don’t see how it would hurt to go in and buy the bag?”
“An hour ago you were telling me we were in someone else’s town. These small town sheriffs don’t like us city folk busting into their business. Trust me.”
Now he’s getting mad. She leaned in, walked two fingers up his chest and rested her head against him. Just a couple in love enjoying the fading sunlight. “We could use it as evidence for the local authorities. Think about it. If we score a counterfeit Barelli bag, we have proof someone, probably Martinson, is moving fakes through this area. And they’re probably coming through the Charleston Port Authority. That’ll be it. I promise. We’ll just hand the bag over to the sheriff.”
He breathed in. Not once. Not twice. Three times.
Come on, big boy, come to the dark side. Stroking his ego couldn’t hurt.
“Please? You’re with me. I’m safe. What could go wrong?”
He slid an arm around her shoulder, dipped his head and nuzzled her ear. “You are a pain in the ass.”
Gotcha. “But you love me.”
He pulled her closer, snuggled in and bit her ear. “I’m seriously rethinking that. Let’s go buy you a purse that will probably haunt me for years.”
She patted his chest. “Thank you, honey.”
“Screw off.”
“Your love language is truly wonderful.”
He opened the shop’s door with enough force that the glass panes should have shattered.
“Helloooo!” a tiny brunette with giant hair called from behind one of the clothing racks stuffed into a shop barely bigger than Jo’s office.
The saleslady wore a light blue, long sleeved dress tailored to fit her reed-thin body. A well-dressed woman who understood the benefits of good clothing. Excellent. Jo entered the land of hopefully forbidden fruit and waved. “Hi.”
The woman eyed Gabe and glanced back at Jo. “My, my, my, he’s a big one.”
Sister, if you only knew. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s a giant teddy bear.”
“Honey,” Gabe said, “you’re killing me here.”
That would be the warning to get this fiasco rolling. Jo spun to the front window. “I saw that lovely purse. Could I take a look at it?”
“Of course. I’m Ellie, by the way. I own the shop. Are y’all visiting?”
Gabe settled himself against a shelf packed with sweaters, his gaze shooting around the shop. She’d known him long enough to know he’d be taking in the details—the oak wall units, the strategically placed clothes, the jewelry and handbags—and mentally cataloguing the items.
“It’s a Barelli,” Ellie said. “They’re such beautifully crafted bags.”
Not this one. This one was a piece of crap. “Yes, they are.”
Jo dragged her hand along the front of it. The buckle would pop after the second use. A Barelli buckle weighed enough to give someone a concussion. This thing would fall apart on the first swing. “What’s the price?”
“One twenty-five.”
For a so-called Barelli. Please. The purse Jo held in her hand, if authentic, would retail at eight hundred dollars. She turned to Gabe still leaning on the wall unit, and that beautiful mouth of his dipped into a frown.
“Baby? What do you think?”
He offered up an eye roll. Calling him baby might have been pushing it, but, hey, call it method acting. And she was trying to bust a counterfeiter.
“If you want it, buy it.”
“Oh, I want it.”
“Wonderful,” Ellie chirped.
Jo ran her hand over the cheap leather again, eyed it with what she hoped were lustful eyes and held the bag back to Ellie. “I’m terrible with impulse buying. Let me think about it.”
Ellie glanced at Gabe. Without even trying, the man looked like a badass. Excellent method acting from him as well. Only he wasn’t acting.
“Well,” Ellie said, “I don’t usually do this, but that item is scheduled to go on sale next week. I want you to have it. How about seventy-five?”
Seventy-five. For a bag that cost less than five bucks to make. Criminal. Literally.
Jo shoved the crappy bag at Ellie.
“In that case, I’ll take it. Thank you so much.”
Ready to close her sale, Ellie swung to the register and Jo waggled her eyebrows at Gabe. Mission accomplished. She now had the evidence she needed to get the sheriff fully on board. This would be easier than she’d thought.
—:—
“Happy now?” Gabe said when they reached the sidewalk.
“Ecstatic, sergeant. Now we have proof that someone is moving counterfeits through this area. Counterfeits with my client’s name on them. With your informant’s lead and now this, it has to be Martinson. I want this guy. Bad.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
Jo poked him in the chest. “Save it, buddy. Let’s find the sheriff.”
Gabe climbed the church—uh, the sheriff’s office—steps while staring at Jo’s exceptional ass. Why not? It was right there and her slacks fit in a certain way that wasn’t tight, but showed off the rounded fullness. If they hadn’t been in public, he’d smack his palm right over that gorgeous work of art.
At the top of the steps, Jo turned the handle on the huge arched door. If that thing fell off its hinges, it’d crush someone. “Ooh, it’s open.”
Oh, goodie. Gabe crowded behind her to push the door open and caught the lingering citrus scent of her soap. He inhaled, thought about all the distractions she created and—sure enough—the little brain came alive, tightening his jeans in the crotch area.
Focus here, dumbass.
Before too long, one of them would have to flinch and give up the task force. And it would most likely be him. He was okay with that. Jo wasn’t. She wanted each of them to be able to keep their task force positions. By her way of thinking, they should be able to bend their task force jobs to fit into their personal lives. Nice thought, but unrealistic. What she didn’t understand was that working together messed with his mind, and a guy who did what he did for a living needed all brain cells in working order.
The Evasion Page 3