He just grinned and waited for me to pay the clerk, a middle-aged woman who looked like she frequented bingo parlors.

“Wonderful.”

I paid and we gathered our bags and strolled to room 201.

“You know, you could take a shower this time, if you were so inclined.” Reyes wore a mischievous grin as he went around pulling on pipes and fixtures before he seemed to settle on the bed frame.

“I’m pretty clean, thanks.”

He shrugged. “It was a thought.” Without warning, he lifted the mattress and box springs off to the side, exposing the frame, and motioned me toward him.

“What?”

“I can’t have you escaping when I least expect it.”

“Seriously? Look,” I said as he motioned me to sit, led my hands behind my back, and cuffed them to the freaking frame, “let’s say Earl Walker is still alive.”

“Want to, really?”

I sighed to express my annoyance nonverbally and shifted to get more comfortable. “I’m an investigator. I can, you know, look for him. And I can investigate a lot better without an escaped convict handcuffing me to anything metal within arm’s reach.”

He paused and eyed me. “So, what you’re saying is you can do your job better without me around?”

“Yes.” I was already getting uncomfortable in the awkward position.

He leaned into me and whispered into my ear. “I’m counting on it.”

“Wait, you’re going to let me go?”

“Of course. How else are you going to find Walker?”

“Then why did you handcuff me to this bed?”

A grin as smooth as glass spread across his face. “Because I need a head start.” Before I could comment, he raised a paper in front of my face. “These are the names of Earl Walker’s last known associates.”

I tilted my head and read. “He only had three friends?”

“He wasn’t real popular. I promise you, one of these men knows where he is.” He sat beside me, his dark eyes sparkling even in the low light, and it hit me again that Reyes Farrow was in my presence, a man I’d been infatuated with for over a decade, a supernatural being who radiated sensuality like other people radiated insecurity. He pushed the small piece of paper into one of my pockets and let his hand linger on my hip.

“Reyes, uncuff me.”

He bit down and turned away. “I couldn’t be responsible for my actions if I did.”

“I’m not asking you to be.”

“But they’ll be here any second,” he said, regret edging his voice.

“What?” I asked, surprised. “Who?”

He stood and rummaged around in the bag before he kneeled down next to me again. “I apparently made the ten o’clock news. The clerk recognized me, probably called the cops the minute we walked out.”

My mouth fell open. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because this has to look good.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on that.” Then I found out why he needed the duct tape. “Wait!” I said as he readied the tape. “How did you text me from my sister’s number?”

“I didn’t,” he said with a grin, and before I could say anything else, I had duct tape covering part of my face.

Reyes grabbed the duffel bag, then took my chin into his palm and planted a kiss right on the tape. When he was finished—and I was breathless—he looked into my eyes apologetically. “This is going to hurt.”

What? I thought, half a second before I saw stars and the world darkened around me.

10

The police never find it as funny as you do.

—T-SHIRT

Moments after I’d been clocked by the man voted Most Likely to Be Killed by an Angry White Chick, the world came spinning back with a nauseating vengeance. A SWAT team crashed through the door, rifles at their shoulders as they swept the room. One of them knelt beside me and I moaned, partly to make it look good and partly because that was all I could do.

Reyes hit me! He’d actually hit me! It didn’t matter that hitting me wasn’t really like hitting a regular girl and I’d be completely healed in a matter of hours. I was still a freaking girl, and he damned well knew it. I’d just have to hit him back. With a lead pipe. Or an eighteen-wheeler.

“Are you okay?” SWAT guy asked, studying my eye.

Damn, I loved it when men in uniform studied my eyes. Or my ass. Either way. I nodded as he slowly peeled the tape off. He secured it onto a piece of plastic and sealed it in an evidence bag as a detective and two patrolmen strolled in to talk to the sergeant in charge. With the help of one of the patrolmen, the officer unlocked the cuffs and helped me onto the bed after they righted it.

“Would you like some water?” he asked.

“No, I’m good, thank you.”

“I think we should arrest her.”

Startled, I looked up at the patrolman. It was Owen Vaughn. The Owen Vaughn. The guy who tried to kill-and-or-horribly-maim me in high school with his dad’s SUV. Well, this sucked ass. He hated my guts. And everything about my guts. He even hated the cavity encapsulating my guts. What was that thing called?

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Officer,” the detective said. “Wait a minute.” He stepped closer. “You’re Davidson’s niece.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” I said, testing my eye with my finger. It stung. Not my finger, but my eye.