Hot Pursuit (To Catch a Thief Book 1)

by Kay Marie

  Jo moved first, pressing her palms to his chest as he inhaled sharply, her touch as burning as his simmering skin, too hot to handle, a fire she couldn’t stop herself from stoking. Jo ran her hands up his smooth chest, pushing the shirt from his shoulders, feeling every contour of hard muscles as her fingers gripped his biceps and traced the cut edges all the way to his wrists. His cufflinks dropped to the floor with two soft thuds, followed by the silent flutter of his shirt. As she stared at the firm ridges of his abdomen, the deep V disappearing into the line of his pants, Nate reached for her hips, found the zipper to her dress, and pulled it down. His hands slid beneath the fabric, the rough calluses scratching in the right way as his fingers traveled slowly up her sides, grazing the edges of her breasts, not stopping until he reached the straps balanced carefully on her shoulders. Nate pushed them to the side and let gravity do the rest as her dress slid all the way to the floor. His eyes followed, tracing every inch of her body in the moonlight coming through the window, gaze as tangible as a soft caress, turning her blood molten. She sucked in sharply, finding it difficult to breathe.

  Those baby-blues found her again, hooded with passion.

  The moment stretched as the temperature around them flared.

  They were two objects on a crash course, stuck in that indefinite moment before the inevitable, where time seemed to stop and hover, both aware that in a split second everything was about to change, but there was nothing to do but hold tight and give in and ride the wave.

  Jo’s throat went dry.

  Unable to stop her defenses from flaring, she parted her mouth. “Better in person, huh?”

  Nate lifted his hand and ran his thumb across her lower lip. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Well—” she started, but the earnestness in his eyes made her pause, overwhelmed.

  “You’re perfect, Jo,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

  And just like that, they collided. No more slow. No more calm. Urgent and hungry, throwing caution to the wind, letting the wild spark that had always simmered between them take over. Their kisses were demanding and rough. He clasped the back of her head, fingers digging into her updo, tugging bobby pins loose with the perfect sort of pain, until all her hair tumbled free. Jo undid the buckle on his belt and pushed his pants to the floor before dipping her fingers beneath the elastic band at his waist. With a groan, Nate grabbed her hands and stumbled forward, until her back hit a wall and he pinned her to it, bodies so tight there wasn’t an ounce of air between them. He held her hands above her head with one of his, taking charge, taking over, as his lips tasted every inch of her skin, starting from her neck, working their way over the peak of one breast, down her stomach, farther and farther until she gasped for air.

  He grabbed her by the thighs and lifted her into the air. Beneath her palms, his biceps flexed, strong and more than capable as he carried her to the bed. They sank slowly down, eyes locked the entire time he pressed her spine into the mattress, then settled his weight on her. Jo went for his waistband again, but Nate grabbed her wrists and held them against the pillow as his free hand dipped beneath the band of her bra, exploring her supple curves, a clear destination in mind, as though he’d spent a lot of time mapping his route and nothing, not even Jo, could steer him off course. His palm sank farther, and the protest died on her lips as bright lights flashed behind her closed eyes. A sigh slipped out instead.

  Clearly, Nate had rules for the bedroom too.

  Though as his lips dipped to find the spot his hand just vacated, Jo decided she didn’t mind these rules.

  No…she didn’t mind these rules at all.

  - 22 -

  Nate

  Nate didn’t think he would ever tire of touching her, running his hands along her curves, connecting the dots between her freckles, marveling at the silky softness, so perfectly feminine compared to his rough hands and hard edges. Jo was sprawled across his chest, her chin resting on her hands, which were folded over his heart. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back, splashing over his abs, a gossamer curtain framing her lovely face. His left arm wrapped around her torso, holding her close, fingers continuing to explore because he couldn’t physically force them to stop. His right arm was folded beneath his head like a pillow, holding his eyes at the perfect angle to study the woman casually displayed before him.

  He tried to focus on what she was saying, but the more he studied the plump arc of her lips, the more his mind went to other activities, activities they’d already done twice already, but his body seemed to want more. And Nate wasn’t exactly complaining about that…

  “Nate. Nathaniel. Nate!”

  “Huh?” He blinked.

  Jo grinned, arching a brow. “You’re insatiable.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe you’re just irresistible.”

  “Well, I am that,” she teased, smile deepening. But her head dropped to the side with sleepiness as a yawn interrupted her taunt. “I was asking what you’ll be assigned to next. Will you be able to stick around for a while? Or will you just be gone?”

  He didn’t like the hollow sound of her voice as she finished speaking. “I don’t know.”

  Jo pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, biting it for a moment as her gaze dropped to his chest, but not fast enough. Disappointment flashed in those green eyes, disappointment and gloom. It wasn’t the first time Nate had seen a similar response to his demanding work, but it was the first time it hit him like a punch to the gut, painful and in need of fixing. If Jo was about to uproot her entire life to help him, to help the bureau, the very least he could do was try to stick around for a while, to be there for her while she adjusted to what would be a whole new world. He held her closer, prompting her to look back up.

  “I can talk to Leo, see what he thinks, but we’ve been nonstop for the past few years. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to lie low for a while, put in some time at the office instead of in the field. If we get—” Nate paused, flicking his gaze to the side for a moment and then back. He was going to say, if we get your father to confess, if we nail the Russians, but he didn’t want to mention Carter or Ryder, didn’t want to see more shadows cloud her eyes. “If everything works out, we’ll be doing paperwork for a while to prepare for trial anyway. And by the time that’s done, who knows, you’ll probably be sick of me.”

  “Hmm…”

  Nate didn’t realize the vulnerability laced through his words until she didn’t immediately contradict them. But his chest pulled tight as his breath hitched with an acute shot of panic.

  “I don’t think that’ll happen,” she confessed softly. And then everything in her expression shifted to mischief and mirth, lips curving, brows raising, eyes sparkling. “If anything, you’ll get sick of me. You seem like the type to fold his underwear.”

  “What?” Nate blurted, unable to stop himself as the typical Jolene Carter whiplash syndrome hit. A protest stirred on his lips, but he shook his head, because he was, after all, an underwear folder. Well, a boxer-briefs folder to be exact, but that was beside the point. “What does that even mean, Jo?”

  She shrugged against his chest. “I’m not an underwear folder, Nate. I’m not really much of a folder at all. I’m a piler. I pile and pile and pile until it starts toppling over and I can’t pile any longer.”

  Nate shuddered. The image of his pristine apartment overrun by mounds of clothes, heaps of shoes, strewn without rhyme or reason, without order… “I’ll do the laundry,” he said quickly, dispelling the horrifying picture in his mind. “You do the cooking, and I’ll do the cleaning.”

  Jo grinned. “That was easier than I thought it’d be.”

  “What?” He arched a brow, studying her, taking in that self-satisfied smirk. “Are you playing me, Jo?”

  She opened her eyes and dropped her jaw in mock horror. “Would I do that?”

  Yes.

  Yes, you would.

  “Using my own vices against me,” Nate drawled, shaking his head.

  “Cleanline
ss is a virtue,” she countered.

  “Fine,” Nate said, tightening his grip on her waist. “Then you’re using your vices against me, which is even worse.”

  “I never claimed to play fair…” Jo trailed off as she traced a heart over his chest. “I play to win.”

  Nate snorted. “Okay then, Jo, maybe we should do my favorite thing. Lay some ground rules. So we both know exactly what we’re getting into here.”

  “Ugh,” Jo groaned and rolled her eyes in mock disgust…at least, he hoped it was mocking. “Lay it on me, Parker.”

  “The last woman I lived with was my mother, a decade ago, so I leave the toilet seat up sometimes. You’re going to have to get used to it.”

  She studied him for a moment, as if balancing the options, but nodded with silent approval. “I’m not one of those girls who only eats salad and loves to share food. When I order a bowl of pasta, it’s because I want to eat that whole damn bowl of pasta. And if your fork wanders over to my dish uninvited, I can’t be blamed for the consequences.”

  “Noted,” he said smoothly, but really, he found a woman who enjoyed eating a turn-on. “Working for the FBI, you get used to hard deadlines and having to constantly monitor the time. If you’re running late, or we’re running late, I might be a bit of an ass about it. But I’ll always apologize later.”

  “Can I get flowers or chocolates as part of that apology?”

  The edge of his lip twitched. “That could probably be arranged…”

  “Then I’m in,” Jo confirmed. She absently drummed her fingers against his chest as she thought of what to say next. “Ooh! Contrary to what tonight might lead you to believe, I’m totally a morning person. My idea of a late night is staying up past eleven. And if I fall asleep and you try to wake me up, I can be vicious in my catatonic state…or so I’ve been told.”

  “Good thing I don’t seem to have a problem carrying you around,” he said, letting his tone verge into the highly suggestive, so both their minds drifted back to her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands digging into her thighs, her back against the wall. No, lifting her was not a problem in the slightest. In fact, it had been nothing but immensely pleasurable thus far.

  The sight of her blush made his blood stir. “Yeah, well… Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Okay, here’s a doozy for you.” He paused for dramatic effect, waiting until her eyes narrowed with curiosity and her lips puckered. “I don’t like sweets.”

  “What?” She gasped and leaned on her elbows, sitting up. And then she stared at him, really stared as though trying to see straight through him. “You’re joking.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not.”

  “You don’t like dessert?”

  “Worst part of the meal.”

  “Cake?”

  “Not my favorite.”

  “Brownies?”

  “Too rich.”

  “Ice cream. You have to give me ice cream.”

  “I’d rather have a cold beer.”

  Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “This might be a deal breaker. I can’t risk the DNA passing down and having a child who won’t eat my homemade chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Jo,” he muttered, worried for a moment that there was true panic in her voice.

  “Cookies!” she cried suddenly, and then turned on him, pressing both of her palms into his shoulders. Jo held him down against the bed with all her weight as she leaned over him, closer and closer, so they were practically nose to nose. “Don’t tell me you honestly didn’t like my coopies.”

  “The coopies…” He paused while she sucked in a breath and held it. Then he grinned. “The coopies, I loved.”

  The energy in her smile could’ve powered the entire hotel. Hell, it could have powered all of New York. “Then there’s hope for us yet, Nate Parker.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from closing the distance between their lips and sealing that promise with a kiss. Because for the first time, tonight with Jo, when he thought about the future, his chest wasn’t clenched tight in fear. The past had stayed buried. There were no memories of gunshots and blood, of screams and tears, of panic and despair. There was hope. Unfiltered hope. Something he’d never felt before. There was a reason he’d chosen a job that made relationships difficult, that kept him on the road a lot, too busy to think about his own life, too distracted to care. His father’s death had put a cloud over his head, one that had been there, gloomy and depressing and constant, for nearly twenty years. And tonight, in her eyes, he saw sun. Brief but glimmering and there. Nate loved his job too much to quit, but he could cut back once the Russians were dealt with, once she helped destroy them, once that long chapter of his life was over. And if she was in his home waiting for him, there was no criminal important enough to keep him away. He had a sense that she would understand—Jo knew this life, from the other side maybe, but still. She understood what he did and why. And she had dreams of her own, goals of her own, that would draw her to late hours and maybe long distances. But they’d already overcome an impossible divide, so everything else was easy. Doable at least, if it meant she’d always look at him the way she was looking at him now, as she broke off their kiss with her eyes sparkling brighter than the skyline outside the window.

  “This is going to be fun,” she commented mirthfully.

  “What?” he asked, unable to stop the sarcasm from leaking into his voice. “Pushing each other’s buttons all the time?”

  “Well, you can’t knock the results…” She eyed him pointedly. “But what I meant was you, me, us. This is going to be fun.”

  “Fun, huh?” He cocked an eyebrow and tightened his grip on her waist. Jo had just enough time to narrow her eyes suspiciously before he flipped her on her back and rolled over, pinning her to the mattress. She let out a yelp, but he caught it with his lips, letting his hands slowly make their way up her waist, before he settled his forearms on either side of her head and pushed against the pillows, breaking the kiss off with a grin. “For once, Jo, fun is exactly what I have in mind.”

  - 23 -

  Jo

  Jo stared at the clock on the nightstand. Nate had fallen asleep forty-five minutes ago with his torso pressed against her back, his arm draped over the dip in her hip, his hand clasping her tight. And though she closed her eyes over and over, fighting for sleep, her mind was wide awake. And her gaze kept slipping back to that clock. Again. And again. And again.

  Because it was 2:00 a.m.

  And then 2:05.

  And then 2:15.

  And now it was 2:40.

  And she was supposed to meet Thad in fifty minutes. Thirty blocks uptown. Which she’d have to walk as to not leave a digital record of her location. So they could do what they came to New York to do—steal a painting from a rich man so he could cash in his insurance and they could get paid. Only now, Jo knew there was a much darker side to the whole exchange, a much more dangerous and despicable one than she’d ever cared to realize before.

  How did it work exactly? Would her father sell the painting to the Russians? Did they pay him a set fee for his work? Did Thad know all the details? And what would the mafia use a painting for? Collateral on a drug deal? To launder money? In exchange for human trafficking? For murder? The very thought made Jo shiver, cold despite the warmth seeping into her back from Nate’s body.

  Nate.

  Nate…

  Thinking of him caused physical pain, a burning in her chest, because the past few hours had been the most magical of her life. A living dream. The future he painted—oh, she wanted it so badly she could taste it, a sugary, buttery vanilla cake that was too indulgent by half. But now the high had worn off. With Nate asleep and her mind left to wander, the elixir of his touch had faded, leaving memories that would turn bitter with time.

  Because she couldn’t stay.

  She had to go.

  She had to leave.

  Jo glanced at the clock again.

  2:45.

  If she didn�
��t get out of here in the next ten minutes, she’d be late.

  As though sensing her thought, Nate sighed and shifted his grip, tugging her the slightest bit closer and nuzzling his face against her back. Jo closed her eyes. Why did he have to fit so perfect? Feel so perfect? Say the perfect things? Perfect Nate Parker. With his perfect lips. And perfect hands. And perfect…

  Jo cleared her throat.

  Focus.

  But she couldn’t. Her mind kept wandering back to an image of the two of them snuggled on his couch, arms intertwined, her head on his chest, both their gazes focused on the view outside his apartment window. For some reason in her mind it was snowing, which she knew didn’t happen all that often in Washington, DC, but it never happened in the Bahamas, and the idea of watching that white glitter float and fall had always seemed so cozy, so romantic. Maybe there was some smooth jazz playing in the background. Jo had made fresh hot cocoa, with marshmallows of course, and the smell of chocolate hovered in the air around them. The idea of that singular moment filled her with so much bliss, because it was ordinary yet extraordinary, mundane yet remarkable, the way all her favorite love stories always were.

  Jo blinked.

  The scene shifted.

  She sat in a hard plastic chair with fluorescent lights shining painfully in her eyes, turning everything a sickly shade of chartreuse. Her palm was pressed against a wall of thick glass, fingers scratching at the impenetrable divide, unable to break through. In her other hand rested a phone, filled with nothing but static, as she stared at her father, a man who now looked old in every sense of the word. His gray hair was wiry and thin, starting to bald at the top. His eyes were empty of all the life she remembered, dull and devoid. His once firm, tan skin was now an ashy sort of gray and limp with wrinkles. Why? the silence seemed to ask. Why did you do this to me, to us, Jolene? Why, pumpkin? Why? But when this ghoulish version of her father finally opened his mouth, that’s not what came out.