Stepping back, she shrugged out of the blouse she wore over her tank top, exposing the revolver holstered to her left side that he hadn’t known she carried—if the sudden raising of his brows were any indication. Tossing the light-weight garment onto the nearby bed, she unsnapped the leather strap to free the weapon as an added intimidation tactic, though her stomach rolled at the thought of having to withdraw or use the gun. Especially on Dean, whom she truly liked, despite his criminal status.
His gaze traveled from the gun to her face, his initial surprise replaced by something far more playful. “And here I thought I was the only one with a concealed weapon,” he teased, a slow smile easing across his lips. “Is that thing loaded?”
His sexy innuendo was reminiscent of the provocative banter that had passed between them when she’d patted him down in his garage—before he’d realized that her cop act was for real. “I do believe that’s my line,” she shot right back.
“Touché,” he acknowledged, then groaned in relief as he rolled his stiff shoulders and shook out his cramped arms. “My hands were starting to tingle and fall asleep. Thank you for releasing me,” he said gratefully, then flashed her a sinful smile. “Though I have to admit that I was really looking forward to being hand-fed. You’re taking all the fun out of this captive fantasy for me, Jo.”
She rolled her eyes at his outrageous, flirtatious comment, then retrieved their bags of food and drinks from the dresser and slipped into her own seat across from him. “What can I say? Fulfilling fantasies isn’t in my job description, and fun isn’t a top priority for me when I’m on assignment.”
“Too bad, on both accounts.” Feigned disappointment touched his voice as he reached into a bag with his free hand for one of his double western bacon cheeseburgers and supersize fries. “So, you’re an all work and no play kind of girl?”
She poured the container of Caesar dressing over her salad. “Yeah, something like that. Too much work and not enough time for play.”
Which was her own fault, she knew. For the past few years she’d deliberately made work her sanctuary, a convenient way to dull the pain of the past that seemed to be her constant companion. Her cases kept her mind focused and her emotions sane…yet those same assignments were also responsible for keeping her secluded in an office during the day and crawling into a cold, lonely bed at night. Single and very much alone, if she didn’t count the awful nightmares that sometimes woke her in the darkest recesses of the night and haunted her until the break of dawn.
He considered her remark for a moment as he took a big bite out of his burger and chewed. “Seems you and I have something in common.”
She stabbed a forkful of lettuce and cast him a dubious glance. A cop turned PI and a felon couldn’t be more opposite in her opinion, no matter how attractive, sexy, and tempting said felon was. “Now that’s hard to imagine.”
“No, really, we do,” he insisted. Tearing open a small pouch of ketchup with the edge of his straight white teeth, he squirted the sauce onto the wax paper liner so he could dip his fries. “Too much work and not enough time for play is exactly the reason why I was taking off for a week in the mountains. And I have to tell you, Brett is going to get one hell of a good laugh when I tell him how I spent my vacation and how I mistook you as my birthday surprise.”
She squeezed lemon into her iced tea and stirred the amber liquid with her straw. “Again, I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
“I’m not disappointed, Jo,” he said softly, then shook his head. “Let me rephrase that. Yeah, I’m disappointed that I didn’t get the show I was expecting, but my birthday isn’t for another six days, and I’m still hopeful.” He winked at her.
Heat suffused her skin at the thought of being this man’s private stripper and slowly, gradually peeling away layers of clothing while he watched with those intense green eyes of his. “Only in your dreams, Colter.”
The metal cuff around his left wrist clanged beneath the table as he leaned forward in his seat. “I’d be happy to share the details of tonight’s dreams with you tomorrow morning if you’d like.”
Judging by the wicked gleam in his gaze, there was no mistaking what visions would be dancing in his mind once his head hit the pillow—the very same provocative images she’d just visualized herself. “You can spare me the details, thank you very much.” Plucking a piece of grilled chicken from her salad, she bit into the tender meat and rerouted the direction of their conversation. “So, who is Brett?”
“He’s one of my best friends, and he also works for me.” Swiping three french fries into the pool of ketchup, he popped the trio into his mouth, then took a hefty drink of his soda.
She stared at him for a long moment as she mentally analyzed his statement and came to the most logical conclusion. “So, the two of you are partners in crime and steal cars together?”
He chuckled, though she couldn’t imagine what he found so humorous. “No, Brett’s the CEO of my company, Colter Traffic Control.”
“Really?” she drawled, wondering what kind of story he was trying to concoct. “Interesting name for a company, unless it’s a front for the cars you’ve stolen.”
A heavy sigh unraveled out of him. “No matter what you might believe about me, no matter what those police reports say or how similar I look to that guy in that mug shot you showed me, I’m not a thief.” A sudden impish look passed across his features. “Well, not when it comes to cars, anyway. When I was seven, I stole a pack of gum from the grocery store. When I got home and my mother found out what I’d done, she immediately took me back to face the store manager and return what I’d taken. After the lecture I got about shoplifting and being prosecuted to the full extent of the law, which terrified me at the time, I swore I’d never steal anything ever again. And I haven’t. Gum or otherwise.”
She smiled and pushed her salad around on her plastic dish in search of more chicken. “Cute story, but you have to admit that ‘Colter Traffic Control’ sounds like a clever way of saying that your solution to controlling traffic is by taking high-end cars off the road so they can be taken to a chop shop or sold to a foreign market.”
“Interesting theory, Ms. PI,” he agreed, unwrapping his second burger to devour, “but totally off the mark, I’m afraid. ‘Traffic Control’ is the name of the company I inherited from my father when he died a few years ago.”
He seemed so serious, his story almost too well-thought-out for a first-time felon. She wondered how far he planned to take this charade and was curious enough to play along to see what he revealed. “Since you claim the business is legit, what, exactly, does your company do?”
He held up a finger to ask for a minute as he chewed the big bite he’d just taken, and she figured he needed the extra time to invent something believable. Done with most of her salad, she pushed the plate aside and rested her arms on the table, waiting for his explanation.
“Sorry ’bout that,” he apologized when he could speak again, then swiped his napkin across that full, sensual mouth of his. “We rent, lease, and sell traffic control devices to general contractors for highway and freeway projects.”
She had to give him extra points for originality. “Devices such as?” she prompted, certain she’d eventually back him into a corner that would leave him stammering for answers.
“Highway medians and barriers, traffic lights, signals and divider cones, parking meters, and even those big lighted signs they use during freeway construction to reroute traffic,” he replied easily. Finished with his dinner, he sucked a smudge of sauce from his thumb, then opened the lid on his chocolate mousse cake. “Those are just a few of the more popular items we supply.”
Propping her elbows on the table, she rested her chin on her laced fingers. “And supplying these traffic control items is such a stressful job that you needed a week-long vacation at a secluded cabin in the mountains?”
Dean pushed his plastic fork through his dessert, slipped a slice of the rich, chocolate concoction into his mouth, and met Jo’s gaze, which brimmed with undisguised skepticism. Considering she was used to dealing with hardened criminals on the lam, he couldn’t blame her for being suspicious and cautious—even if that lack of trust was at his expense. The damning evidence and reports she carried with her about “Dean Colter,” coupled with what she’d witnessed back at his house led her to believe he’d been on the verge of eluding authorities.