Dangerous Loves Romantic Suspense Collection (44 page)

“Give me whatever’s on tap,” she said to the burly bartender whose shifting gaze had followed her from the moment she stepped into the bar. She slid a couple of dollars across the wooden bar top that probably had never been cleaned.

“You a cop?” the bartender asked, staring wide-eyed at her money.

She leaned over the bar, inwardly wincing at the thought of smearing the filth from it onto her favorite leather jacket. “Does it matter?” she asked.

“Not to me.” He pulled a glass from a shelf.

There was a large baseball bat hanging on that wall. She doubted the man was a sports fan.

“Might matter to some of these guys, though,” he said as he filled a mug with frothy beer. “If’n you’re not a cop, I hope you carry a gun just the same. Wouldn’t trust a man in here with a woman as clean as you. Ain’t a pleasant place, you see.”

“Thanks for the warning.” She took a deep drink of the beer, pretending not to notice the smudges of dirt on the glass. “Though, I
can
take care of myself.”

“I hope so,” he said as he wandered away.

She’d traveled too far to find this bar sitting in the middle of what the locals called Hell Hole Swamp, to run away now. Though she’d rather be spending Christmas Eve anywhere but here—more than thirty minutes from a freaking paved road—she wanted nothing more than to slap her cuffs onto her quarry’s wrists.

Jack had promised her that she could find this Grayson Walker with her eyes closed.

That had been a month ago.

She sipped the beer—slightly watered down—wondering again if she’d been mistaken about this place. Turning around, she stood with her back to the greasy Formica bar, letting her gaze search the darkened corners of the room.

The burly bartender could be the owner, Tommy Fisher. There was a definite resemblance to the photo tucked into her pocket. According to Tommy’s cousin, Grayson and Tommy hadn’t exactly remained friends after serving together in Special Ops. But they weren’t enemies. That made Tommy a contact, a very good contact considering Grayson’s short supply of friends.

She watched as the bartender carried a beer over to a gloomy booth in the far corner of the bar. A man, who was slumped down in the cushions, sat upright for a moment to accept the proffered drink.

Bingo.

The unmistakably finely chiseled cheekbones of Grayson stood out in this bar like a cut diamond in a pile of coal.

Unconsciously, she reached around to the small of her back to where her Glock 9 sat nestled in its holster and unhooked the latch. She was not about to take any chances with this one. Not after Grayson had rewarded the last bounty hunter to go after him with a bullet in the head.

She glanced around, assessing the situation.

Taking him here, in this bar filled with lawless hicks, would be just asking for trouble. But there was a back exit only steps away from where he sat. If she could get him to go out the back way, she could trap him.

There was nothing out that way except a dumpster sitting on a concrete pad. The property sloped sharply down into a murky swamp. An army of towering cypresses rising up from a sea of black water slowly advanced on the building, probably trying to reclaim the land that had been stolen years before.

Surely Grayson, from Atlanta’s concrete wilderness, wouldn’t risk the dangers of the swamp in the middle of the night. He’d stand and fight.

Fight. That was exactly what she wanted him to do.

The bartender bent down and whispered something in Grayson’s ear. Both men turned to stare.

Undaunted, she smiled and raised her glass in a mock salute. She pushed away from the bar and started toward them, swinging her slim hips.

I sure hope he’s attracted to women
, she thought while she sidled across the room, slowly unzipping her jacket. She could feel several eyes burning into her skin as she used her figure, which had been described as sexy more times than she cared to hear, to throw Grayson off-guard.

“Buy me a beer,” she said, her voice husky, just before sliding into Grayson’s corner booth. She looked up at the burly barkeep—his expression literally growled—and graced him with her most disarming smile. “He’ll pay,” she said. She turned her sultry gaze back toward Grayson. “I guarantee he will.”

Grayson stared at her, his mouth slightly open. “I want to be alone,” he grumbled after Tommy left, shaking his head as if trying to clear out a bunch of cobwebs.

“On Christmas Eve? No one wants to be alone on Christmas Eve.”

“I’m Jewish,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, though she knew full well he’d been raised Protestant. She knew damn near everything about him, except for his taste in women. “Well, maybe
I
don’t want to be alone.” She looked around the room at the motley group of men sipping on their drinks. “At least, not here.”

Grayson nodded. “I understand. This isn’t exactly a safe place. You don’t belong here.”

“You don’t look as if you belong either,” she said.

At that, he quirked a brow. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“Yes, they can, can’t they?”

“Look, I’ll pay for your beer since it is Christmas and all.” He glanced around the room. His shoulders were as tight as steel under his hand-tailored blazer. She wasn’t exaggerating when she’d said he looked out of place in the Broken Cricket. She blended into the bar much more smoothly than he could ever hope to. “I don’t mean to be rude. I just don’t want any company right now.”

He tossed a few dollars on the table in front of them and began to inch out of the seat.

“Wait.” She covered his hand with hers. Their eyes met. An electricity rose between them, catching her completely off-guard as the tingling settled low in her belly.

She mentally kicked herself. This seedy bar was not the kind of place where she’d willingly hook up with a man. And Grayson was certainly not the kind of man who could give her the happily-ever-after she never really wanted in the first place.

He’d murdered his best friend, she reminded herself. But still, when she withdrew her hand, she could not deny the pang of regret in her chest. Surprising really, her emotions rarely intruded into her professional life.

He stared at her, looking just about as startled as she felt. His soft brown eyes weren’t nearly as sharp as the man’s she had seen in her file photo. Exhaustion had taken a toll. This was a man who had not slept a full night in months. He was nearing the end of his rope.

She’d have to take extra care with him.

“At least walk me out.” She glanced toward the back exit. “I don’t want to have to fight off any of these bar beasts tonight. Not on Christmas Eve.”

He shrugged. “Guess it wouldn’t be right to leave you alone. Come on.” He pushed up from the table and waited for her to follow.

She looped her arm around his and easily directed him toward the back exit. He held the door open as she stepped out. The air was damp and sharp from the winter cold, a refreshing change from the smoke-filled bar.

“Oh,” she said with a mock shiver. “Is it ever cold!” She waited for him to close the distance. He wasn’t much taller than she was. She’d guess that he had a few inches on her. Still, she’d clearly felt the strength in his arm muscles, and wasn’t about to take any chances with him.

The heavy back door slammed against its frame, leaving them in near darkness. She could hear, better than see, the scraping of footfalls as he approached.

Her heart still insisted on feeling a vague tenderness toward him, damn him.
He was a killer,
she reminded herself.

Vicious. Heartless.

She’d made it a point to memorize the crime scene photos. Gruesome had been an understatement.

“I know who you are, Grayson Walker.” It wasn’t her job to judge him. She just needed to deliver him back to the justice system. “I know what you’ve done.” She raised her gun. She’d do well to remember he’d already killed one bounty hunter. “It’s time to return to Atlanta and face responsibility.”

She heard him suck in quick a breath. “Tommy said you smelled like a cop. I should’ve believed him. Since when does a cop look like she belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine?”

He didn’t seem to notice the gun in her hand, a weapon that could easily leave several gaping holes in the center of his chest. Or if he did notice, he didn’t care. He walked casually toward her, arms spread wide.

“I’m more dangerous to you than the police, Grayson. I’m a bounty hunter. I don’t get paid unless you get captured.”

He laughed in the darkness, a rather pitiful sound. “The fourth one, I believe. I wonder what makes you think you can succeed where those other brainless goons have failed? Are you planning to seduce me into surrendering?”

Without warning, he lowered his head and tackled her, tossing her to the ground as if they were playing a game and she was holding a football not a loaded pistol. Her breath whooshed out of her lungs. Grayson could remain where he was, straddling her torso, his hands pinning her arms, for the moment. She tightened her hold on the pistol he was working so doggedly to wrench from her grasp.

Pulling in a deep breath to calm her muscles and focus her strength, she visualized her first move. Her first approach, her attack, was crucial since everything that would follow would be born from instinct.

“Hope I didn’t hurt you, sweet,” he whispered in her ear. “I just couldn’t give you the chance to shoot me.”

His lips curled into that killing smile. “You are really very pretty.”

Those eyes of his, eyes she’d memorized from the photo posted in her office, were nearly hypnotic in the darkness. He leaned forward. She heard his breath hitch. “I haven’t had a woman like you in…” His lips covered hers. She could taste the raw hunger in the forced kiss.

“Sorry,” he said, ripping away.

“Get off me or I’ll really hurt you.”

He laughed. He
actually
laughed.

In a fluid move, she twisted to the side, upsetting his balance, and pushed against the asphalt to propel herself up.

He tumbled to the ground.

He didn’t stay down long. She swung her fist, hitting his jaw as he sprang back to his feet. She didn’t need brute strength when he was so obliging in connecting his face to her fist with such force. She stood back and watched as he staggered, tripping over a cypress knee that had grown up through the broken asphalt.

Her fingers produced one of the two pairs of handcuffs she carried in her jacket pocket. Capturing him, a former Special Ops officer, seemed far too easy.

He stared up at her dazed, his eyes hazy and unfocused.

“You put up a good chase, Grayson.” She locked a metal ring over his left wrist.

He let out a light groan as she rolled him over onto his stomach. With her knee pressing onto the center of his back, she reached for his right arm.

His hand shot out and captured her wrist as strongly as his left wrist had been ensnared in the trap of the handcuff.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he said gruffly—which was really a funny thing for him to say since she still had him on his stomach with his face pressed into the pavement.

She held his left wrist with her left hand. He held her right wrist in his right hand. She wracked her brain while trying to remember which side he favored.

“I’m left-handed,” he said, startling her. He yanked his arm out of her grasp and swung with incredible speed back and up, slapping her in the face with the metal handcuff still hooked to his wrist.

She reared back, unwittingly giving Grayson an opening. Before she realized what he was doing, he’d snagged her pistol and twisted around to point it at her.

“Oh, no you don’t!” She wasn’t ready to let him win that easily. She lunged for her gun. The barrel flared red in the darkness as it fired. The force of the bullet’s impact at such a close range sent her flying. She hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Great, just great. Braving a backwoods medical facility to be sewn up by a doctor, who probably doubled as the local veterinarian, was not her idea of a pleasant Christmas.

Her shoulder burned, and her arm had already turned painfully numb. Gulping air, she focused all her energies on Grayson. It took everything she had to hug her throbbing arm to her chest and charge him. She prayed he wouldn’t have time to take careful aim and fire again before she could knock the gun from his grasp. She had nothing to lose. He’d already killed one bounty hunter, and she had no doubt she was about to be next.

She staggered—the back wall of the bar must have just collapsed—surely, that was a wall that had just fallen on her.

Clutching her splitting head, she sank to her knees.

“Damn.” Was the last sound she heard.

* * * *

“Damn,” Grayson cursed again. The pistol slipped from his fingers and clattered against the pavement.

He stood transfixed, staring at the beautiful hellcat lying unconscious at his feet. Her dark blond hair shimmered in the smoky, yellowed light streaming through the back door. The light created an eerie halo around the bounty hunter.

Tommy towered over her, the baseball bat from the wall resting against his shoulder. “She wouldn’t have stopped fighting you,” he said, giving his head a shake.

Grayson reluctantly agreed. He’d seen how that glazed look, a look of unrelenting determination, had turned her beautiful cornflower blue eyes wild. She’d crossed over the line and made the decision to fight him to the death.

“I shot a woman,” he whispered.

“Never mind her,” Tommy said. “There’s something wrong with a woman who looks like that and chooses to do a dirty job like this. You’d done her a favor, if’n you ask me.”

Tommy was probably right. But still, he didn’t like shooting women. Killing a man felt different, like he was a warrior championing some cause. Hurting women just made his stomach roil.

He knelt down beside her and peeled open her leather jacket. Blood oozed steadily from the gaping wound. He applied the weight of his hand to the nearest pressure point while fumbling around in her coat.

Tommy gave him a queer look. “Now are you gonna tell me what happened between you and Greg or do I have to keep guessin’?”