evasion failed. He had weapons and knew how to use them.
In truth, he was a warrior, a warrior who won at any cost.
In fact, he was exactly what she needed.
The realization hit her hard, all of a sudden, like a thousand watts of halogen quartz snapping on at the end of a long dark tunnel. She needed help staying alive, help evading Sergei and the men like Reinhard Klein that Sergei would never stop sending after her until he'd recaptured her. She needed another new identity, and sanctuary if she could find it. She needed some breathing room, a place and the time to think—and she needed it all yesterday. She'd been on the run for weeks. She wasn't sharp anymore. She'd made a mistake somewhere, to have been found so quickly—but if she could win Creed Rivera over to her side, she'd have someone to watch her back. She could catch her breath.
All she had to do was get him to slow down, keep him from turning her in.
All she had to do was sweeten the deal.
She lowered her gaze, letting it drift over the tangled length of his sun-streaked hair, the short dark lines of his eyebrows, over the hard, wide curve of his jaw. He was the ultimate surfer boy all grown up, ocean blue eyes washed through with green and faded by the sun to a pale silvery sheen, his face tanned and carved in classic lines—which was, she admitted, all beside the point. But he was also rock-solid against her, which wasn't beside the point, all corded muscle-and-sinew-wrapped testosterone honed to a razor's edge. Despite the underlying prettiness of his rough-boy looks, everything about him said “switchblade” more than “surfboard.”
He was more than a match for her nightmares. She was sure of it. The only remotely soft-looking thing about him was the slight fullness of his lower lip. It fascinated her, the one sensual touch in a face that could easily have been described as too hard by half.
And he'd kissed her on the roof. A smart girl would use that to her advantage.
She was a smart girl.
But maybe not that smart.
Hell
. She'd spent too much of her time the last three months avoiding just that sort of complication, avoiding it at all costs, determined not to let herself be used like the bimbo she'd been pretending to be—and for the most part, she'd been successful.
So could she use him?
Of course she could, she told herself. Get a grip, take a breath, and grow up.
The deep shadows of the stacks suddenly rose up around them, signaling the end of their descent. It was now or never. She either ran and took her chances with Bruno and Ernst, or she took Creed Rivera for all she could get and let him be the one to make sure she got out of downtown Denver in one piece.
She didn't doubt that he could, and once he'd helped her escape downtown, she wouldn't have any trouble escaping him, especially if she could get him on her home ground.
He stepped off the rope onto the floor, and with all the enthusiasm she could muster on such short notice, she slowly slid down the front of him until her feet touched the ground.
Looking up, she let her arms gradually fall from around his neck. “I have something in my apartment you need to see,” she said, adding just the slightest hint of breathlessness to her voice.
CREED looked down at her, wary as hell, with every cell in his body telling him she suddenly, for whatever reason, had just decided to set him up. She'd slid down him like hot on a Dreamsicle popsicle—and he'd liked it, a lot.
And that, he knew, was why Dylan always did any “girl work” that came SDF's way, because Dylan Hart was a cold-hearted, by-the-book, take-no-prisoners and give-no-ground kind of guy who would never fall for such a cheesy come-on, especially when it was delivered by a gamine-faced waif with boy-cut hair dressed in at least two layers of the baggiest clothes God had ever put on the planet.
I have something in my apartment you need to see.
Of course she did, and it was probably a .357 magnum or a boyfriend
In truth, he was a warrior, a warrior who won at any cost.
In fact, he was exactly what she needed.
The realization hit her hard, all of a sudden, like a thousand watts of halogen quartz snapping on at the end of a long dark tunnel. She needed help staying alive, help evading Sergei and the men like Reinhard Klein that Sergei would never stop sending after her until he'd recaptured her. She needed another new identity, and sanctuary if she could find it. She needed some breathing room, a place and the time to think—and she needed it all yesterday. She'd been on the run for weeks. She wasn't sharp anymore. She'd made a mistake somewhere, to have been found so quickly—but if she could win Creed Rivera over to her side, she'd have someone to watch her back. She could catch her breath.
All she had to do was get him to slow down, keep him from turning her in.
All she had to do was sweeten the deal.
She lowered her gaze, letting it drift over the tangled length of his sun-streaked hair, the short dark lines of his eyebrows, over the hard, wide curve of his jaw. He was the ultimate surfer boy all grown up, ocean blue eyes washed through with green and faded by the sun to a pale silvery sheen, his face tanned and carved in classic lines—which was, she admitted, all beside the point. But he was also rock-solid against her, which wasn't beside the point, all corded muscle-and-sinew-wrapped testosterone honed to a razor's edge. Despite the underlying prettiness of his rough-boy looks, everything about him said “switchblade” more than “surfboard.”
He was more than a match for her nightmares. She was sure of it. The only remotely soft-looking thing about him was the slight fullness of his lower lip. It fascinated her, the one sensual touch in a face that could easily have been described as too hard by half.
And he'd kissed her on the roof. A smart girl would use that to her advantage.
She was a smart girl.
But maybe not that smart.
Hell
. She'd spent too much of her time the last three months avoiding just that sort of complication, avoiding it at all costs, determined not to let herself be used like the bimbo she'd been pretending to be—and for the most part, she'd been successful.
So could she use him?
Of course she could, she told herself. Get a grip, take a breath, and grow up.
The deep shadows of the stacks suddenly rose up around them, signaling the end of their descent. It was now or never. She either ran and took her chances with Bruno and Ernst, or she took Creed Rivera for all she could get and let him be the one to make sure she got out of downtown Denver in one piece.
She didn't doubt that he could, and once he'd helped her escape downtown, she wouldn't have any trouble escaping him, especially if she could get him on her home ground.
He stepped off the rope onto the floor, and with all the enthusiasm she could muster on such short notice, she slowly slid down the front of him until her feet touched the ground.
Looking up, she let her arms gradually fall from around his neck. “I have something in my apartment you need to see,” she said, adding just the slightest hint of breathlessness to her voice.
CREED looked down at her, wary as hell, with every cell in his body telling him she suddenly, for whatever reason, had just decided to set him up. She'd slid down him like hot on a Dreamsicle popsicle—and he'd liked it, a lot.
And that, he knew, was why Dylan always did any “girl work” that came SDF's way, because Dylan Hart was a cold-hearted, by-the-book, take-no-prisoners and give-no-ground kind of guy who would never fall for such a cheesy come-on, especially when it was delivered by a gamine-faced waif with boy-cut hair dressed in at least two layers of the baggiest clothes God had ever put on the planet.
I have something in my apartment you need to see.
Of course she did, and it was probably a .357 magnum or a boyfriend
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