Page 9 of Tempting the Bounty Hunter

Even under the odors of coffee and fried food, I still smell Hannah—fragrant and floral.

How the hell is that possible? It’s like all these amazing scents emanate from her very being.

“Grab a menu and sit wherever you’d like,” a waitress calls from behind the counter.

I take two plastic-covered menus from the host station and walk toward the row of booths next to the front window. I wait for Hannah to slide onto the bench before I sit across from her.

We study the menus. The waitress—whose name tag readsBev—swoops in with two waters and a cheerful, “What can I get for you folks?”

Hannah orders a loaded burger and fries along with a lemonade. I ask for black coffee and the meatloaf platter. Bev brings our drinks first, then hurries to the kitchen.

Sitting back, I assess Hannah. She fiddles with the wrapper of her straw. Purple smudges line her eyes, like she hasn’t slept well in a while, but her shoulders are tense, her features set with determination. She won’t give up easily—if ever.

She glances up at me. A sharp, hot current sizzles through the air before her expression shutters. “Can I use my phone, or are you going to take it away from me?”

“You can use it. I’d recommend not contacting anyone for help, though.”

“You caught me alone in a trailer in the woods, Mr. Armstrong.” She takes her phone out of her backpack and swipes the screen, ducking her head. “If there were anyone I could ask for help, don’t you think I’d have done so already?”

Good point, even if her flat rhetorical question makes my chest tighten. I want to know her story with increasing urgency.

Aside from her mother, is she alone in the world?

What happened?

How did she get arrested?

Why did she have drugs on her?

She’s not a user in any lifetime, which means she was holding or transporting the drugs for someone else. Who? The junkie boyfriend Benny speculated about?

I grit my teeth at the thought of any guy—much less a pimple-faced burnout—using Hannah or putting his hands on her.

No fucking way.

A tidal wave of possessiveness crashes through me, increasing my heart rate.

“Here you go.” Bev’s cheery voice breaks into my thoughts.

She deposits plates of hot food in front of us, refills our water glasses, and heads back to the counter. Hannah puts her phone away and spreads ketchup over her burger before picking it up. She has long, graceful fingers that make little indentations in the bun. She takes a bite and makes a humming noise of pleasure.

It’s damn sexy. I imagine her fingers curling around my dick and squeezing. I hear her throaty little noises as I spread her legs and open her nice and wide.

Christ. I’m hard again.

Grabbing the mug, I take a gulp of coffee. This assignment isn’tgoingto be brutal—it already is.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Hannah indicates my plate.

I cut into the meatloaf, but I’d much rather watch her. I love the way she eats—ladylike and neat but with obvious relish. She takes small bites, like she wants the food to last, and every now and then, I catch a glimpse of her pink tongue as she eats her fries and drinks the lemonade. Her mouth purses like a little flower bud whenever she closes her lips around the straw.

“So. Bounty hunting.” She lifts an eyebrow. “Interesting career choice. Were you fulfilling a childhood dream?”

“Hardly.” I huff out a laugh, forcing my attention away from her mouth. “Unless it was one about becoming Boba Fett. I was a high school dropout and juvenile delinquent. Got myself arrested for carjacking and armed robbery and ended up in prison. The judge assigned to my case offered me a deal. He’d drop the case if I went back to the streets and brought in a couple of guys who’d jumped bail. I knew the guys. Used to run in their gang and get into trouble. I took the deal and brought both of them in the next day. That night, a bondsman called, offering me another job.”

I shrug. “The rest is…not exactly history, but my life.”

She studies me, her eyes clouding. “How long have you been a bounty hunter?”

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