Hot and Sexy (Some Like It Hot 1)

If so, he was doing a damned good job.

He dropped the shirt to the floor and toed off his shoes, then pulled off his socks, and again she was treated to another round of muscles rippling, in his arms and across his shoulders.

The sound of metal scraping against metal sounded much too erotic in the quiet room as he unzipped his pants. He tucked his thumbs into the waistband, and she held her breath as he inched the denim downward, and exhaled gratefully when he remained clad in a pair of black boxer briefs that hugged his tight ass.

Then, without wa

rning, he turned around, and she found herself staring at the juncture of his muscular thighs. Her cheeks flamed when she realized that he was semi-aroused, too. Her gaze shot up to his, and he grinned unapologetically.

“Do I pass inspection?” The double entendre in his voice and coating his words was unmistakable.

Just so long as the only concealed weapon on you isn’t loaded. The saucy reply zipped through her mind but, thankfully, didn’t escape her mouth.

Clearing her throat, she smoothed damp strands of hair behind her ear. “You pass just fine. Five minutes in the shower,” she reminded him, then glanced at her wristwatch, surprised to discover it was already a quarter after eight. “I’ll let you know when your time is up.”

“Then I’d better get started and not waste any of my time.” With a playful wink, he turned and entered the bathroom, leaving the door cracked open a good twelve inches as she’d requested. Seconds later the rush of water echoed into the outer room, and the click of the shower door indicated he’d stepped inside the stall.

She leaned to the left a few inches just to verify that he was, indeed, inside the shower and caught a glimpse of bare skin, and so much more than she’d intended. Even though the glass enclosure was frosted, she could still define his silhouette and identify features—like his broad chest that tapered into a lean torso and gave way to athletic thighs.

A warm, sexual glow spread through her. The man was so completely, overwhelmingly masculine, in every way possible. And despite what she’d said earlier about doubting he had something she hadn’t already seen before, she was forced now to admit that she’d been wrong. Very, very wrong. He was amply, generously endowed. Impressively so.

A groan escaped her throat. Good Lord, if she didn’t turn her mind to something else, like business, she’d end up ogling Dean throughout his entire shower. Not an unpleasant thought at all, if the circumstances between them were different. But, according to the information she had on him, he was a man wanted by the law for a crime he’d yet to face trial for.

Or was he?

With that perplexing question weighing heavily on her mind, she retrieved the file on Dean that she’d brought in from the truck, determined to find more clear-cut answers. She skimmed through the paperwork once again, searching for a shred of proof that might corroborate the story he’d told her earlier. Unfortunately, all she discovered in the formal documents and police reports was glaring evidence against him.

She chewed absently on her bottom lip while broadening her way of thinking. If someone had assumed his identity, then of course all those physical statistics and the personal identification of the man who’d stolen his ID would match with Dean’s, as they did in the paperwork filed by the police. And if he had been robbed of his wallet, then there would be undeniable facts to validate that particular claim.

With that in mind, she went back to Dean’s duffel bag and rechecked the driver’s license in a leather billfold that hadn’t yet been broken in. Sure enough, the issue date beneath his photo was only a few weeks ago. She rummaged further and found credit cards that appeared to be brand new, then withdrew a stash of about a dozen business cards that were tucked into one of the compartments of the wallet and read the navy blue imprint: Colter Traffic Control, Dean Colter, President.

“I’ll be damned,” she muttered, her head spinning with the knowledge that Dean’s story, for the most part, seemed credible. Everything she’d just discovered lent credence to his claim of innocence, yet without fingerprints to establish his true identity, she couldn’t set him free and risk the very slim possibility that her gut intuition might be wrong.

She thought about sending Cole a text and letting him know about the possible identity theft, but decided against it. She didn’t want her brother to think she was allowing a felon to manipulate her emotions because that wasn’t the case, considering the evidence she’d found that corroborated Dean’s story. Contacting Cole wouldn’t serve any purpose at this point, because no matter what, Dean would have to show up at the police station in person to resolve this issue. Which meant taking him back to San Francisco, regardless of his guilt or innocence.

“Did I beat the clock, warden?”

Startled by Dean’s deep voice so near, his wallet slipped through her fingers and drop to the floor, and she spun back around as a surge of adrenaline rushed through her blood and her heart slammed in her chest. Her hand automatically reached for the beanbag shotgun that wasn’t attached to her waistband, but lay on the bed between them where she’d left it after her shower.

Shit. With no other option available, she gripped the handle of her revolver. Her stomach pitched, and she knew if he stepped any closer and posed any threat to her at all this was where her black belt in martial arts would come in handy, because she knew she wouldn’t be able to remove her weapon from her holster with the intent of using it on him.

Frustration and anger swept through her at her weakness, and the fact that she’d let down her guard when she knew better. What the hell had she been thinking?

She shored up her mental and physical defenses. “Don’t move,” she warned.

He stood absolutely still, his hair damp and tousled around his head, and wearing nothing but his gray cotton sweatpants. Slowly, he held up both hands with fingers spread wide in a gesture of acquiescence. “Whoa, Jo, I’m sorry,” he said, instantly contrite, his gaze on the revolver she’d yet to withdraw. “I swear I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you heard me get out of the shower.”

Her jaw clenched, and she was loath to admit that she’d been so caught up in her search for his innocence he’d taken her completely by surprise. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

When she issued no response, he nodded toward the shower. “Do you want me to get my personal things out of the bathroom for you?”

She shook her head, and unable to detect any signs of danger from him, she finally let her hand fall away from her weapon, but remained physically alert. “No, I’ll do it.” A thread of irritation underscored her tone—not directed at him, but at her own foolishness for putting herself in such a vulnerable position when she knew the consequences that could result from being too relaxed, too trusting. And claiming extreme exhaustion and being caught up in doubts about this man’s criminal charges were no excuse for being careless and leaving herself so exposed.

“Then I guess this is the end of my freedom for now, huh?” He held his wrists in front of him, offering himself back into her custody.

“’Fraid so,” she said evenly, despite how shaken she still was by the incident and what could have happened with someone more vindictive. Keeping her gaze on him, she quickly stooped down to retrieve the wallet she’d dropped and stuffed it back into his bag, then approached him cautiously, regaining control of herself and the situation.

She snapped one of the silver loops around his right wrist, and made sure that the far side of his bed was away from anything he could use to his advantage, or against her. “I’m going to have to cuff at least one of your hands to the headboard during the night,” she told him.