Page 1 of A Ruthless Bargain

ChapterOne

Why werethe hottest cops always the biggest assholes? Especially Feds. Giant men in well-cut business suits in alleys were almost always federal agents of some kind. At least on television. And television never lied. I glared up at the dark-haired man in the mirrored sunglasses.

“I will not ask again. Why are you here?” His sharp jawline flexed, grinding his teeth at my mere presence.

“I already told you,” I said, fisted hands planted on my hips, but not stepping forward to get in his face. Though, I very much wanted to. “I was reading a text and didn’t see you.”

“Are you finished texting?”

I flushed at what I imagined was a mocking tone, even though his voice stayed level. “Yes.” That text had the potential to solve the problem of my dwindling finances. Hopefully my distraction when reading and responding to it wasn’t about to result in a new problem. I still wasn’t clear what had happened; I’d been cutting through the same alley I had a hundred times before, when a tall, burly man smacked into me, causing me to spin around and hit Federal Asshole.

“ID.” The man held a hand out.

“You first.”

An eyebrow rose above the glasses.

“Who are you to order me around?” I challenged.

Without speaking, he reached into the inside jacket of his dark-blue, pin-striped suit. My heart rate spiked and I had a moment to consider if I’d misjudged the scenario. The man withdrew a two-sided passport book and a badge, instead of the gun I feared. He flashed the badge and flipped the book open to show me the identification card.

“US Marshal?”

“That is what the badge says.”

“Jax Smith.” A chuckle slipped out. “That doesn’t sound like a real name. What are you doing in tiny Sandy Creek? We’re not even that close to Atlanta.” Actually, we were, but I wanted answers. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something made me doubt my initial assessment, and his badge saying otherwise. I’d need more information to figure out exactly who he was.

His kissable lips thinned into a displeased line. “Federal task force.”

Wait, kissable? Some random man in an alley could not have kissable lips. No matter how kissable they were.

“That I am not at liberty to discuss,” he elaborated, though I hadn’t asked.

I refocused my irritation. “My apologies, Marshal Smith,” I said, my words clipped but civil. “I was checking texts on my phone, not paying attention—which isn’t like me. I got spun a bit by the first man who ran through.” Why was I explaining myself to this guy? “And then you hit me.”

“I did not hit you,” the marshal disagreed, sliding his badge back into his pocket.

“Wait.” I pointed at his pocket. “I’d like to get a picture of your badge and ID with your name and number.”

Marshal Smith scoffed at the request. “You helped my fugitive escape,” he sidestepped.

“I did not!”

“I say you did, and now you are refusing to show requested identification. Perhaps I need to take you down to the station for an interrogation.”

“What?” That couldn’t happen. The text that had gotten me into this trouble was from the recruiter. She’d let me know the company I’d interviewed with was moving forward with a background check prior to making an offer. I couldn’t take the chance this shithead would put something official in the system. All because I got disoriented by men playing chase.

“ID, then.” Smith stood tall, his hands clasped before him. His relaxed stance belied the almost palpable energy flowing off him. He looked like private security, with his mirrored sunglasses and suit barely containing the linebacker-wide shoulders.

I swallowed past the knot in my throat. “Um, okay.” Several long seconds followed while I fumbled in my purse. “Here.” My hand shot forward, driver’s license framed by my fingertips.

“Melanie Morrison. Dark brown hair. Hazel eyes. 5’9”. 130 pounds.” His eyes raked me up and down, no doubt comparing what he saw with the statistics.

“Yes, that’s me,” I needlessly confirmed, rubbing my damp unoccupied hand against my jeans.

“Why are you nervous, Miss Morrison?”

“Mel,” I said without thinking and then wanted to kick myself. Like I would be friends with this hulking neanderthal. Kissable lips be damned. “I’m not nervous,” I lied. Of course I was nervous. The federal agent was dicking me around. If he put a note somewhere he shouldn’t, my tax accountant job would go poof. I dropped my license back in my purse, heedless of where it fell, consumed by the thought that I had to turn this around.

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