He chuckled, infuriated her. “You may have a lover, sugar. You may have a dozen. But you don’t have one named Hank. Took you too long. Okay, you don’t want to spill it and rely on me to work us out of this, we’ll go another route.”
He rose, leaned over. He heard her quickly indrawn breath when he reached down for her purse. Without a word, he dumped the contents on the bed. He’d already removed the weapons. “You ever use that can opener for more than popping a beer?” he asked her.
“How dare you! How dare you go through my things!”
“Oh, I think this is small potatoes after what we’ve been through together.” He picked up the velvet pouch, slid the stone into his hand, where it flashed like fire, despite its lowly surroundings.
He admired it, as he had been unable to in the car, when he searched her bag. It was deeply, brilliantly blue, big as a baby’s fist and cut to shoot blue flame. He felt a tug as it lay nestled in his hand, an odd need to protect it. Almost as inexplicable, he thought, as his odd need to protect this prickly, ungrateful woman.
“So.” He sat, tossing the stone up, catching it. “Tell me about this, M.J. Just where did you get your hands on a blue diamond big enough to choke a cat?”
Chapter 3
Options whirled through her mind. The simplest, and the most satisfying, she thought, was to make him feel like a fool.
“Are you crazy?” She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Yeah, that’s a diamond, all right, a big blue one. I carry a green one in my glove compartment, and a pretty red one in my other purse. I spend all the profits from my pub on diamonds. It’s a weakness.”
He studied her, idly tossing the stone, catching it. She looked annoyed, he decided. Amused and cocky. “So what is it?”
“A paperweight, for God’s sake.”
He waited a beat. “You carry a paperweight in your purse.”
Hell. “It was a gift.” She said it primly, her nose in the air.
“Yeah, from Hank the Hunk, no doubt.” He rose, casually pushed through the rest of the contents he’d dumped out. “Let’s see, other than the blackjack—”
“It was a roll of nickels,” she corrected.
“Same effect. Mace, a can opener I doubt you cart around to pop Bud bottles, we’ve got an electronic organizer, a wallet with more photos than cash—”
“I don’t appreciate you rifling my personal be longings.”
“Sue me. A bottle of designer water, six pens, four pencils. Some eyeliner, matches, keys, two pair of sunglasses, a paperback copy of Sue Grafton’s latest—good book, by the way, I won’t tell you the ending—a candy bar…” He tossed it to her. “In case you’re hungry. A flip phone.” He tucked that in his back pocket. “About three dollars in loose change, a weather radio and a box of condoms.” He lifted a brow. “Unopened. But then, you never know.”
Heat, a combination of mortification and fury, crawled up her neck. “Pervert.”
“I’d say you’re a woman who believes in being prepared. So why not carry a paperweight around with you? You might run into a stack of paper that needs anchoring. Happens all the time.”
He made a couple of swipes to gather and dump the items scattered on the bed back into her bag, then tossed it aside. “I won’t ask what kind of fool you take me for, because I’ve already got that picture.” Moving to the mirror over the dresser, he scraped the stone diagonally across the glass. It left a long, thin scratch.
“They just don’t make motel mirrors like they used to,” he commented, then came back and sat on the bed beside her. “Now, back to my original question. What are you doing with a blue diamond big enough to choke a cat?”
When she said nothing, he vised her chin in his hand, jerked her face to his. “Listen, sister, I could truss you up again, leave you here and walk away with your million-dollar paperweight. That’s door number one. I can kick back, watch the movie and wait you out, because sooner or later you’ll tell me what I want to know. That’s door number two. Behind door number three, you tell me now why you’re carrying a stone that could buy a small island in the West Indies and we start figuring out how to get us both out of this jam.”
She didn’t flinch, she didn’t blink. He had to admire the sheer nerve. Because he did, he waited patiently while she studied him out of those deep green cat-tilted eyes.
“Why haven’t you taken door number one already?”
“Because I don’t like having some gorilla try to break me in half, I don’t like getting shot at, and I don’t like being hosed by some skinny woman with an attitude.” He leaned closer, until they were nose-to-nose. “I’ve got debts to pay on this one, sugar. And you’re the first stop.”
She grabbed his wrist with her free hand, shoved. “Threats aren’t going to cut it with me, Dakota.”
“No?” He shifted gears smoothly. His hand came back to her face, but lightly now, a skim of knuckles along a cheekbone that had her blinking in shock before her eyes narrowed. “You want a different approach?”
His fingers trailed down her throat, down the center of her body and back, before sliding around to cup her neck. His mouth hovered, one hot breath away from hers.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned.
“Too late.” His lips curved, and his eyes stared straight into hers. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since you swaggered up the apartment steps in front of me.”
No, he’d been thinking about it, he realized, since Ralph shoved her photo at him. But he’d consider that later.
He skimmed his mouth over hers, drew back fractionally. He’d expected her to cringe away or fight. God knew he was ruthlessly pushing all those female fear buttons. It was deplorable, but he’d consider that later, as well. He just wanted the pressure to work, to get her to spill before they both got killed. And if he got a little twisted pleasure out of the whole thing, well, hell, he had his flaws.
But she didn’t fight and she didn’t cringe. She didn’t move a muscle, just kept those goddess green eyes lasered on his. A dark, primitive thrill rippled down to his loins.
What was one more sin on his back, he thought, and, clamping his hand on her free one, he took a long, deep gulp of her.
It was all heat, primitive as tribal drums. No thought, no reason, all instinct. That surprisingly lush mouth gave under his, so he dived deeper. A rumble of pure male triumph sounded in his throat as he moved into her, plunging his tongue between those full, inviting lips, sinking into that long, tough body, fisting his hand in that cap of flame-colored hair.
His mind shut off like a shattered lamp. He forgot it was a con, a ploy to intimidate, forgot he was a civilized man. Forgot she was a job, a puzzle, a stranger. And knew only that she was his for the taking.
His hand closed greedily over her breast, his thumb and forefinger tugging at the nipple that pressed hard against the thin cotton of her shirt. She moved under him, arched to him. And the blood pounded like thunder in his brain.
She moved fast, all but twisting his ear from his head while her teeth clamped down like a bear trap on his bottom lip.
He yelped, jerked back, and, certain she would saw off a chunk of him, pinched her chin hard until she let him loose. He pressed the back of his hand to his throbbing lip, scowled at the blood he saw on it when he took it away.
“Damn it.”
“Pig.” She was vibrating now, scrambling to her knees on the bed to take another swipe at him, swearing when her reach fell short. “Pervert.”
He spared her one murderous look, then turned on his heel. The bathroom