Page 9 of Chasing Paradise

For the time being.

Though I still hadn’t worked out how I would essentially kidnap a full-grown man without the local authorities coming for me.

I’d always been more of a brute force kind of bounty hunter. But my mother had regaled me with many stories of her glory days when a tight dress was her best method to bring a man in.

The thought of putting on a dress made me feel itchy. But I had to admit that the only way I could probably get this job done was to rely on the whole feminine wiles thing. And a shit-ton of that local “firewater” that sounded particularly capable of putting a large man on his ass for a few precious hours.

Long enough, I hoped, to get him gagged and bound, then smuggled out to some airport or boat that could get me back to the States without getting me arrested in the process.

“Oh, thankGod,” I groaned as two magical words caught my eye.

Espresso Bar.

I made my way in, flashing the picture of Warwick around to a few customers and the barista behind the counter as I waited for my drink.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I grumbled under my breath as I saw someone passing outside the windows.

Someone in a familiar white tee and cargo pant combo, only he’d added a new white Panama hat to the ensemble.

I cast a longing look at the coffee I’d already paid for before turning and booking it out of the café. I couldn’t lose sight of him. It would only make more work for myself in the long run if I lost him now.

I immediately broke off my run, though, as I spotted him a few yards ahead, paused to look in the window of a shop.

“Play it cool,” I reminded myself, smoothing my sweaty palms on my pants as I started to casually stroll up the street.

So for the next half an hour, I played the part of a tourist who was just checking out local shops, sometimes hanging behind Warwick, sometimes moving ahead of him to throw him off my track if he was getting suspicious about me being around.

“Shit.” I turned in a circle, gaze scanning the streets, looking for that white straw hat, the frame that towered over everyone else.

“Shit shit shit.” I rushed forward, cursing myself for getting distracted by a street vendor selling sunglasses.

He couldn’t be far.

Maybe he just dipped into a shop, a restaurant, or somewhere to use the restroom.

I just needed to calm down, slow down, keep an eye—

The hand came out of nowhere, dragging me down a small alley between buildings.

My arm was dragged up and over my head, then pinned back to the wall before I could even draw a breath.

Then there he was.

Warwick Hughs.

Three inches away, towering over me, those bright green eyes pinning me as surely as his arm was, making the wall behind bite into my forearm and the back of my hand.

“Who sent you?”

Okay.

Well.

I hadn’t been anticipating that deep, whiskey-smooth voice.

I’d maybe been a bit ungenerous, imagining him with one of those nasal, pitchy voices that always kind of came across like nails on a chalkboard.

I also could not have known the way that same voice—and the fierce way he spoke to me—would create a fire of need inside of me.

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