Running Hot
Authors: Helenkay Dimon
For Wendy Duren, my inspiration for a heroine who is the perfect blend of beautiful and fierce.
Contents
An Excerpt from
An Heiress for All Seasons
by Sophie Jordan
An Excerpt from
Intrusion
by Charlotte Stein
An Excerpt from
Can't Wait
by Jennifer Ryan
An Excerpt from
The Laws of Seduction
by Gwen Jones
An Excerpt from
Sinful Rewards 1
by Cynthia Sax
An Excerpt from
Sweet Cowboy Christmas
by Candis Terry
W
ARD
B
ENNETT JERKED
back into consciousness. One shift, and he nearly wrenched his shoulder out of its socket. He didn't need to see the plastic zip tie to know that's what dug into his wrists and bound them behind his back.
Moving his ankle, he didn't meet any resistance. The person who shackled him had made a pretty big miscalculation. As if he needed his hands to escape. Any idiot could break a zip tie. But first he had to figure out how he'd gotten in this position and why.
That must have been one hell of a date. It was a fucking shame he couldn't remember one minute of it.
Humidity made his skin slick, and sweat gathered between his shoulder blades as he scanned the open area. He'd been in similar structures for a week now but didn't recognize this particular one. He'd call it a bungalow or cabana of sorts. The locals referred to it as a bure. Wooden beams, a thatched straw ceiling soaring a good twenty feet above his head, open walls, and not a stick of furniture other than the chair he was tied to.
A warm breeze blew over him, and darkness fell around him on all sides. He could make out the shadow of trees and smell the ocean in the distance. He strained to listen for the usual sounds of the resortâthe mumble of conversation and ever-present local music piped through the speakers, maybe the sound of motorboats in the distanceâbut heard nothing.
People described this place as paradise. Right now, to him, Fiji pretty much sucked.
As soon as the thought registered, footsteps echoed around him. The gentle sway of hips came into view. His gaze traveled up the tanned, lean legs peeking out from under the navy cargo shorts. Then to the sliver of bare stomach visible at the bottom of the slim tank top and to the impressive breasts filling out the top of it. He finally landed on that face.
Tasha Gregory, the damn-she's-hot, smooth-talking bartender from the Waitui Resort. The same one with the husky voice that made him stupid. From the slight wave in her long blond hair to the big brown eyes, everything about her worked for him. Which was how they ended up at her place last night . . . but the rest between then and now was a blur.
The “how” was simple enough to understand. The zipping attraction had led to flirting. That explained why he'd spent most of the last six nights parked on a stool across from her, trading bits of island gossip. Well, that and because he was on Maku, a private island in the pacific nation of Fiji, to gather intel. She just happened to be a smokin' hot source of intel.
Which led to a new issue. For a supposed resort bartender she sure knew her way around a zip tie. And he was not an easy man to get the jump on. He'd been trained by the best at the Farm, the CIA's top-secret training facility near Williamsburg, Virginia. There he'd learned how to do everything from survive interrogation to fly a helicopter to cut a man's head off, sometimes all at the same time.
A hundred-twenty-pound hottie shouldn't worry him, but he'd lived long enough to appreciate the power of a pissed-off female. And he seemed to have ticked this one off in a big way. Normally not a problem, but he had a job to do and being tied to a chair made that tough.
He twisted his hands, trying to keep the rest of his arms still and not give away his movements as he inched his thumb closer to his back jeans pocket. “Uh, Tasha?”
“You're awake.”
He still wasn't clear on when and how he'd gone to sleep. “You don't seem too happy about that.”
“Not really.” She didn't bother to look up as she shuffled her way through his wallet, picking out one item at a time, checking it then letting it drop to the floor by her feet.
Again, not exactly the usual bartender MO. Of course, every item on the floor could pass for real but wasn't. His cover depended on that level of craftsmanship.
He cleared his throat. “This is not the way I generally end a date. Start one, sure, but not end.”
“Shut up.” She exhaled as she dumped the rest of the wallet on the floor and slipped a phone out of her back pocket.
“Now, that phrase I've heard on dates.” His eyes narrowed as he realized the cell she held looked an awful lot like his burner. “Care to tell me what we're doing?”
She finally glanced up, firing a load of you're-a-dead-man fury in his direction. “Who are you?”
There was a question he couldn't answer. The CIA tended to frown on black ops agents spilling their biographical data. She could pull out a flamethrower and put it to his dick and he'd still duck this one. And he was starting to worry she had a lethal weapon of some sort on her.
“I thought we dealt with that days ago. I came to the bar. You served me drinks. We've been flirting and then we graduated to touching.” Sweet Jesus, the touching. She had smooth skin and this body that was so fit and curvy it made his fucking eyes cross. “Any of this sound familiar?”
“We're done playing games.” That's all she said. Dropped the comment, and then nothing.
She stood eight feet away, outside of kicking distance, and didn't move. No telltale signs of nerves. She didn't shift her weight or her gaze. She looked at him as if she could kick his ass and was just seconds away from starting. For some reason, Ward found that sexy as hell.
The fact she'd dropped her usual smile and now came off as trained and not some random bartender was not quite as sexy. A grifter maybe? A hot woman who conned men out of their vacation money. Possible.
Thinking she might have a partner, Ward glanced to the side. The kick of pain had him blinking and swearing. Looked like he couldn't move his head without bringing on a stabbing sensation. That was new. “My head is killing me. What the hell kind of sex did we have?”
“None.”
Well, that was a damn shame. “Is that why you tied me up? Because I'm totally capable. I assure you. We can go right now.”
“You talk too much.” But she stepped in closer.
He'd been accused of a lot of shit on this job. Being chatty was not one. “You're not exactly coughing up information here.”
“Nor will I.”
“You were more fun as a bartender.” Her arm shot out so fast he almost didn't twist away in time. In and out. One shot, then she backed up again. Not that he could get too far while stuck in the chair or do anything to grab her anyway. At the last minute he threw his head to the side and took the brunt of the smack from the heel of her hand on his collarbone instead of his chin. Good thing, since his head ached enough already. “Damn, woman, that hurt.”
“It was supposed to.”
Felt like she held a weight in her hand or something. “Then congratulations.”
“This isn't funny, and you're no tourist.”
That made them even, as there was no way that hit came from a novice. Still, if she wanted to play, they'd play. “I'm a businessman.”
“A financial planner. Yeah, you fed me that line days ago.”
“What, you're not a fan of money?” It was a good cover. Solid. On business in New Zealand before he flew over for a vacation detour. Getting some sun, relaxing . . . maybe finding a hot bartender.
“Actually, I hate liars.”
This was not going well. Hard to charm a woman who looked ready to kill him, but he tried anyway. “Maybe you could untie me.”
She pulled a gun out from behind her back. Not a baby gun either. No, this was a SIG Sauer P229, the same type that he preferred to carry and could put a good-sized hole in him.
He cleared his throat. “Or not.”
“Your record is clean.” She took a step closer. Just one and not quite far enough.
“I don't know what that means.” But he did. She was talking in a language he knew all too well. In an instant he went from thinking about her as some kind of con woman looking to score on a hapless businessman to something very different. Something mercenary and potentially dangerous to his operation.
“The underage drinking charge was a nice touch on your record. Most people clean up their backgrounds a bit too much.” She shot him a level gaze. “But I think you know that.”
Forget mercenary. This woman worked for someone. Getting that deep into his cover, past the stuff that even though faked should have looked as if it were expunged, meant connections. Impressive ones. “And you know this as part of your job as a resort bartender?”
“Yes.”
“Now who's lying?” He focused on her face as he slipped the homemade shim out of his back pocket and went to work forcing it under the locking mechanism on the zip tie.
The who-was-she possibilities spun through his head. He was there on a sanctioned job to find a nasty dictator hiding in paradise. The operation's directive was clear: find Drissa Tigana and neutralize him before he started selling off some of those rocket launchers he'd stolen when he skipped his country and headed here. Fear was Tigana would destabilize Fiji, and no one wanted that to happen except possibly Tigana.
Tasha could be one more person looking to make a quick buck in Fiji. Ward leaned toward believing that possibility but wondered if maybe he'd stumbled into something unrelated to Tigana. Maybe she liked tying guys up. Any way you looked at it, their time together was about done, which was a damn shame since they'd skipped the sex part.
Her gaze bounced away from his face then returned. “You're not as smooth as you think you are.”
“I refuse to believe that's true.” But just in case, he stopped fiddling behind his back.
“You're not as attractive as you think either.” She took another step.
“Come on now. Take that back.” He judged the distance between them. Another few inches and he'd take her down. Might even feel bad about it for a few seconds, despite the fact she'd tied him to a chair.
“And that thing you're doing . . .” She eyed him up.
Interesting, but she was going to need to be more specific since he had about ten exit strategies swimming around in his head at the moment. “Being charming?”
“You're counting my steps and thinking, âWow, she was too dumb to tie my feet to the chair,' and are now spinning all kinds of plans about getting the jump on me.”
Well, shit
. “I have no idea what you're talking about. I sit at a desk all day.”
“You should know, if you move your feet even one inch I will punch you in the junk so hard I'll have to send an apology to the future kids you'll never have.” She winked at him. “Got that, stud?”
Sweet hell. Enemy or not, mercenary or con woman, she was so fucking hot. “You have my attention.”
“Then tell me your name.”
“Ward Bennett.”
She sighed. “Your real name.”
He wedged the shim under the tie's locking bar and tugged. If she'd bound his hands together in front of him, he'd be out and knocking her down already. “You think if I made one up I'd go with that?”