Janelle Denison - A Wicked Seduction

That’s all it was, she assured herself.

Dean’s gaze was direct as it connected with hers, his expression businesslike. “Look, Ms. Sommers, I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”

Here we go, she thought. Reality was finally settling in, and he was grasping at any excuse to gain back his freedom. Unfortunately, the argument he’d chosen was particularly overused, and a feeble one at that.

Unclipping the set of keys from the waistband of her jeans, she inserted one into the ignition. She actually felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He seemed so green about this entire process—or maybe he was dreading the return trip to San Francisco to testify against the leader of an auto theft ring. That would definitely explain the inkling of desperation she detected beneath his more confident facade.

“Mr. Colter, this isn’t a mistake.” Surprised to hear the regret in her own voice, she quickly replaced it with indifference. “Your arrest is as real as it gets. I have the paperwork to prove it.”

At the sound of the engine turning over, a touch of panic flared to life in his eyes. “Don’t I have any rights?” he demanded. The handcuffs behind him clanked together as his arms and shoulders flexed from their unnatural position. The corded muscles in his biceps bulged, drawing her gaze as they strained against the short sleeves of his knit shirt.

Impressive muscles she’d be a fool to underestimate—no matter how much they, or the man, fascinated her.

“I have to have some kind of rights,” he reiterated when she didn’t immediately answer him. “A phone call to my attorney, at the very least, to sort out this misunderstanding?”

She shook her head, which helped to gain her bearings and remove her traitorous gaze from his physique. “You forfeited all your rights when you jumped bail. You can call your attorney, or anyone else you want, when you’re back in jail.”

Exasperation clenched his jaw and radiated off him in waves. “I want to see that information you claim to have on me,” he said abruptly, just as she reached for the gear shift to put the vehicle in Drive. “Is that within my rights?”

He sounded so indignant, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. She recognized his appeal for the stall tactic it was, but decided to grant him this one small concession which would only take a few minutes out of her time. Besides, in her experience, she’d always found that being faced with irrefutable facts had a way of making a person much more accommodating, and much less argumentative.

And there was no refuting the incriminating evidence she had on Dean Colter.

“I’d be happy to show you the information.” Smiling sweetly, she withdrew the pocket folder she’d tucked between her seat and the console, then pulled out the file nestled within containing all the pertinent reports, releases and documents she had on him.

“You could have killed me with that shotgun you were carrying, you know,” he said, his tone rough with censure.

“What?” His abrupt change of topic threw her off-kilter, and she looked up from sorting through the papers to find his expression disapproving, and his full lips thinned into a flattened line. Then it dawned on her what he was referring to. “Oh, that wasn’t a shotgun. Not a real one, anyway.”

He gaped at her. “You go around confronting people with a toy gun?”

Her stomach clenched, and her hands grew cold and clammy as unexpected memories swamped her…of a pistol trembling in her hands, her frantic shouts to the perp she’d cornered to drop his gun, and ultimately her inability to follow through with the threat he’d posed, to her and her partner. Then two simultaneous gunshots—one the perp’s, the other Brian’s.

She winced at the awful recollection, which still remained so sharp and fresh in her mind—as if the life-altering incident had happened yesterday instead of two years ago. The revolver holstered at her side felt like a two-ton weight, reminding her of failures, disappointments and the heart-wrenching burden she’d have to live with forever.

Yes, she carried a real gun with her, but she wouldn’t draw it unless she absolutely had to. Because now she knew if she drew her weapon, she’d put herself in the position of having to fire the gun. And she doubted her ability to do so, more than she feared protecting herself with less deadly forces.

She swallowed to ease the tightness closing up her throat. “It’s a beanbag shotgun,” she replied, her voice still tight from those grim memories of the past. At his questioning stare, she explained. “It would have brought you to an immediate halt, possibly knocked you on your ass, and no doubt have given you a nasty bruise, but you would have lived.”

“I’m so relieved,” he drawled sarcastically.

She shrugged. “You’re certainly no good to me dead,” she said, adopting a flippant attitude.

A huff of disbelieving laughter escaped him at her sassy reply. Feeling a smile tug the corner of her mouth, she ducked her head and trained her thoughts back to the file. Spreading the folder open on his lap, she allowed him a quiet moment to read the bail bond and authorization form, as well as look over the photographs the bondsman had provided.

His gaze narrowed and a frown formed as he glanced from the unflattering mug shot to the picture on the copy of his driver’s license. He examined each one, back and forth, his intense scrutiny causing her own gaze to drift to the photographs to do her own idle comparison.

Without a doubt, the men in each picture resembled two different personas. But their coloring and features were so similar it was difficult to refute that they were one and the same. In both photos, Dean was cited as having green eyes, and the man in front of her definitely had those…gorgeous, sexy green eyes she’d seen darken with desire earlier, and flash with annoyance moments ago. Both pImages** possessed pitch-black hair, and it was clear to her that the man sitting beside her owned a head of thick hair as dark as a raven’s wing.

Somewhere between his booking photo and today, he’d gotten a haircut, changing back to his short, neat style—an executive cut with the longer strands on top falling into soft, precision layers that invited a woman to touch and feel.

And she had.

She’d gained intimate knowledge of just how silky and warm those strands were—could still remember the velvet texture and warm feel as those locks had sifted through her fingers when she’d touched his head to guide him into the car. Could still recall the shimmering awareness that had taken up residence within her with that brief contact.

The only thing she couldn’t find any resemblance to was the cocky, arrogant smirk on the face of the man in the booking photo. Her instincts stirred. She’d yet to see that side of the Dean Colter she’d cuffed—the flirtatious, charming guy who’d only revealed a few bouts of ire and frustration, and not the aggression she would have expected judging by the conceited expression in the mug shot. If contrasting personality traits gave her a second’s pause, then it was the glaring evidence Dean himself had provided that brought everything back into perspective.

He’d openly declared to being Dean Colter.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, looking both stunned and confused when he glanced back up at her.

“I take it you’ve seen enough?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled it. The file balanced on his thighs started to slip, and she made a grab for the folder, then returned the information to its spot next to her seat.

“You’ve got the wrong guy, Jo.”

His voice was quiet, eerily so, causing a distinct shiver to ripple down her spine. No pleading. No begging. Just a statement of fact that discounted everything he’d just read. His eyes had turned a shade of green so startling clear and sincere they made her want to believe him.