All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“Done yet, princess?” he demanded as he strolled into the bathroom.

I glared at him in the mirror. “Do you think I just roll out of bed and my hair looks this good? This is art.”

“It looks like you woke up and ran your hand through it.”

“I know, and that takes time. Each strand has to stand at a different angle or it doesn’t work,” I explained to my ignorant partner. “All the pieces have to be in the right place.”

“Or what?”

“Or it’s not sexy.”

“You’re plenty sexy,” he yawned, snatching my empty cup off the counter before walking out. “Now, can we go before we’re too old to do our job?”

It was as good as it was going to get. I flipped off the light and walked to my bed so I could sit down and put on my harness boots.

“Corduroys?” he said like he was in pain.

“You didn’t notice in the bathroom?”

“I didn’t look in the bathroom,” he said dryly.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t own a pair of Wranglers like you do,” I informed him. “Or Levi’s for that matter.”

“There’s nothing hotter than button-fly, my friend.”

He had a point.

“But really, your fuck-me jeans would not have gone over well.”

I ignored him, and when I stood up, he winced.

“What now?”

“How much did those boots cost?”

I lifted my foot to check the bottom. “I dunno, three, four hundred.”

“Please take them off. I know my black leather combat boots are in your closet somewhere; just wear those. I beg you.”

“These are boots.”

“No, they’re not,” he cajoled. “C’mon.”

“I have a pair of Antonio Maurizi wingtip boots that I could—”

“I don’t know what those are, but I can’t imagine they’re any better than what you’ve got on your feet right now. Just change ’em.”

“I have the biker boots that—”

“No, I have your biker boots from that Saturday we went out to the farmers’ market.”

“Oh.” Funny that I hadn’t even missed them. “Do you have the Dolce&Gabbana distressed-leather biker boots or the—”

“I have no idea what I have. They’re soft, that’s all I know.”

I had to think.

“Miro!”

“Yeah, okay,” I muttered, sitting back down and pulling off the boots as he stalked over to my closet, rummaged around, and came back with his beat-up military-issue combat pair. They were worn but still in great shape, and most of all, stupid as it was, they were Ian’s and so I loved wearing them. And they fit like a glove.

“God, I should move in,” he grumbled, oblivious as I stopped breathing. The things that came out of that man’s mouth would be the death of me. “Imagine how much faster this would go in the morning if you didn’t have to think: should I wear the Antonio-whoever shoes instead of the—”

“Antonio Maurizi,” I yelled as he took the stairs.

“Like I fuckin’ care!”

I followed him down minutes later, and when I went to the hall closet and pulled out my chester coat, he stopped me.

“Grab your uniform parka and let’s go.”

“Yeah, but—”

He growled, so I grabbed what he wanted, made sure I had my badge, gun, ID, wallet, keys, and phone, and then went out ahead of him.

After he locked my front door, he shook his head like I was exhausting and charged down the front stoop.

“Why’re you mad at me?”

“Do you have any idea how long it takes me to get ready in the morning?”

I grinned wide. “That’s because you’re naturally gorgeous. I have to work at it. Getting this level of pretty doesn’t come easy.”

“Get in the car!”

I was still chuckling when I got in and told him I needed more coffee.

“If you didn’t take so long in the bathroom, you could chug down more caffeine.”

“Yeah, well, again. I need time to look this good.”

He pulled away from the curb like he was driving the getaway car in a bank heist, and instantly I had to grab hold of the dash.

“Jesus, Ian.”

The wicked smile was not lost on me.

LUCY KENSINGTON looked like she belonged on the cover of a romance novel in which the heroine is one of the sweet plucky virginal ingénues who the hero falls head over heels for. In reality, she swore like a sailor and went after Ian with a knife, trying to dig out his heart as quickly as possible.

I was guessing she was normally handled more delicately, because she screamed in indignation when he disarmed her, put her facedown on the concrete, and cuffed her. She called him a lot of foul names I’d heard and a few I hadn’t—a real achievement—until the shooting started. Once we were all under fire—Homeland Security, local police, and us pinned down in the courtyard of the halfway house—she shut up, curled into a ball behind Ian, and apologized to both of us over and over.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, her cheek against Ian’s broad muscular back. “But I wouldn’t have made it this far if I wasn’t a total bitch.”