Page 4 of Tempting the Bounty Hunter

I scramble back on the bed, my mind suddenly racing.Serial killer? Bigfoot? The ghost of my grandfather? The police?

Whatever or whoever it is, they’ve got me cornered unless I can open the window and get the hell out. I lift my hand slowly toward the latch. Maybe if I’m super quiet, they won’t know I’m—

The door opens. The outside step creaks as a very large male figure enters.

Fear claws up my throat. My fingers find the window latch and twist. It doesn’t budge. Rusted shut. I twist harder, hardly daring to breathe. The latch squeaks.

He turns toward me, his face shadowed. I push back farther on the bed, trying to make myself invisible and willing the lock to open. I can’t make out his features, but he’s wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a black jacket—not a police uniform.

He’s tall, well over six feet, and incredibly solid-looking, which means he’s definitely not a ghost. And he has short, dark hair and a light coating of stubble, so he’s not Bigfoot either.

Which leaves…serial killer.

Panic courses through me, and I smother a groan. Of course you can’t hide out at a deserted campsite in the woods and not expect to encounter a killer. Didn’t horror movies teach me anything?

Escape. It’s my only chance. I fight with the window latch. He takes a step toward me.

“Hannah Clark?” His deep voice inspires the strange thought of decadent things like bittersweet chocolate and aged whiskey.

I shake my head sharply.He knows my name. He’s a serial killer slash stalker.

Turning, I get on my knees and shove the latch with all my strength. A fingernail breaks off, but the lock doesn’t move one millimeter.

Before I can try again, two muscular arms latch around me from behind and pull me against a chest that feels like a brick wall. I’m not tiny and slim, but it feels like he’s engulfing me. Like he could swallow me whole.

Fresh panic fills me. I open my mouth to scream. He clamps a hand over my mouth.

“Don’t fight,” he orders, his voice a low, calm stream right into my ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

My instincts almost yield, like they’re urging me to believe him. But it’s not as if my instincts have served me well in the past, so my brain goes into self-preservation mode.

I struggle to escape his ironclad hold, kicking backward to try to make contact with his kneecaps. It’s like trying to fight a massive redwood tree—the man doesn’t budge. He just tightens his hold on me and wrestles me down onto the bed. I can barely manage to wiggle, much less move around his imprisoning grip.

“Let go of me,” I yell, my voice muffled against his hand.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeats. “But if you don’t stop squirming, I’ll end up embarrassing both of us.”

It takes a second for the meaning of that statement to sink in. I go still. My body is pressed right up against his, my ass practically nestled against his groin. Where—I think—there is a distinct growing bulge.

Oh my god. I’m arousing a serial killer.

Yet another thing to add to my “How did I end up like this?” list.

Heat scorches my face. His arm is clamped right under my breasts. I’m not wearing a bra, and my nipples press against his rock-hard forearm. I make another muffled “umph” noise, and he slowly lowers his hand from my mouth, allowing me to take a deep breath.

“Not going to hurt you,” he says again, the words unwavering, like he’s determined to make me believe him.

I’m suddenly and acutely aware that we’re bothlying on the bed. In a parallel universe, I might even be “wrapped in his arms” rather than held down like a dog about to get a rabies shot.

Although…I don’t exactly feel like a nervous dog. Not anymore. For whatever reason, his hold lessens my frantic urge to escape. Maybe it’s the way his furnace-like body heat radiates into my back, warming every part of me. Or the fact he’s not overpowering me or trying to prove his dominance. He’s just holding me.

I can’t remember the last time someone hugged me. Or even touched me in a way that didn’t make my skin crawl with revulsion.

My skin prickles, for sure, but not with the slightest hint of disgust. Just the opposite. I almost wish he’d pull me closer.

Which means I must really be losing my mind.

“Hannah Clark,” he says, and again that voice pours over me like…what…dark, melted honey or something.

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