Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Four days later, Anne picked through the Keurig pods to find a fudge-flavored coffee. It looked to be a long night, and she’d need all the caffeine she could get.
Hopefully, her insides could handle the brew. After being sick since Sunday morning, she’d finally been able to keep food down today. At least she knew the origins of her illness—from babysitting her niece and nephew last week when they’d been home with a stomach bug.
More like a stomach demon.
After the machine finished hissing and thrumming, she carried her coffee out to the deck, snuggled into her favorite wicker chair, and checked out the view.
Apparently, the weather report warning of a tropical storm had been accurate for a change.
A high wall of black clouds in the west gave her normally white beach a gray cast. The wind whipped at the nearby palms as if trying to bend them in half, and white caps topped the choppy Gulf water.
Wonderful. Should she call off the fugitive recovery team for the night?
No, skips often holed up during a storm, making it an excellent time to rout them out.
From the mansion beyond Harrison’s house on the left came laughter; her nieces and nephews must be visiting her parents. On the right were the sounds of her brother Travis mowing his lawn.
She tipped her head back, drawing in the salt air, feeling blessed.
Her mother’s grandparents had bought up almost two acres on Clearwater Beach Island back when land was cheap.
When her mother inherited, she resisted the pressure to sell to condo developers.
Instead, her parents had gifted Anne and her two brothers with a half-acre and house.
Best present ever. She made good money as a fugitive recovery agent, but not enough for a house right on the shore.
Ben had seen her house. She took a slow sip of her coffee and frowned. Did he think she was rich? Was that why he’d pushed her to top him last weekend? The idea cast an ugly light over what had been a beautiful scene.
But no. She was way off base. Maybe they’d never spoken other than a good evening, but she’d “known” Ben for years. As had Z. The owner of the Shadowlands was not only far too empathic for anyone’s peace of mind but was also a psychologist. Ben wouldn’t hold that position if he wasn’t trustworthy.
She wrinkled her nose. So much for that weak excuse to devalue the scene. And all because she was unsettled about what she’d done. About Ben.
Because she’d felt a real thrill when he’d obeyed her, and another thrill when he’d come. They’d both been caught up in the moment and in each other. She’d sensed his every flinch, every breath, every tensing of his muscles.
And the man had muscles. Warmth stole into her core as she remembered.
When his arms had been raised, his grip on the pegs had made his forearms rigid, the veins noticeable and begging to be traced with her tongue.
His trapezius muscles had bunched, his lats had widened, the long muscles beside his spine had been like solid pillars of concrete.
And he had a simply gorgeous cock, completely proportional to his massive body.
Sex with him would be comparable to drinking strong coffee with chocolate—a definite kick with a mouthwatering extra.
Wasn’t it odd how she’d been satisfied with such a lightweight scene? She hadn’t done a session with so little pain provided in…in years. And yet she’d been perfectly content.
But, even if he were interested in more, she was finished. She didn’t play with newbies to the lifestyle, especially ones like him who had no clue what was involved. The man was vanilla. And he was Z’s employee—not someone to turn into her slave.
Besides, her emotions around him were uncomfortable. She didn’t do uncomfortable.
Aside from not having a slave at the moment, her life was exactly the way she wanted it. Her job with its flexible hours was great. Her house, great. And when she found a young man to take as a slave, everything would be good.
Thinking of work, she needed to get moving.
She spent most of her daytime work hours doing searches on the computer and phone, knocking on doors, and picking up skips during the day.
But often apprehending the more elusive fugitives meant going out at night.
Tonight the team’s quarry was a low-life dealer who tended to move between houses up in the Land O’ Lakes district.
The team would split up and make some simultaneous visits to his closest buddies who might have offered him shelter.
She eyed the dark clouds and sighed.
That night, drenched to the skin and getting grumpier by the minute, Anne knocked on the fugitive’s door. Covert body armor when soaked? Really heavy.
The gray-haired woman who opened the door saw Anne’s dark green polo shirt with “THE brOTHERS BAIL BONDS” logo and the weapons belt with the .38 S a good teammate.
A second later, her cousin, Robert, swaggered in, hand on his holstered firearm. The same weapon that a fugitive had kicked out of his hand last week.
If Anne were given the choice, the idiot wouldn’t be issued anything deadlier than a squirt gun. He sure wouldn’t be on this team that she’d built. But her uncles—the owners of the bail company—had, as usual, caved in to his whining.
The distinctive click and thud of someone playing pool came from a room to the left. At least one person was in there.
Anne glanced right and noted what appeared to be a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom. “Robert, check the rooms to the right, please, and remain on guard here. Call if you find the skip. Aaron, let’s go left.”
Robert puffed up, mouth turning mulish. “But I want to—”
“Do it now.” Anne’s cold stare reminded him that she was in charge.
He stomped off, his “fucking bitch” quite audible.
She exchanged exasperated glances with Aaron, then led the way across the faded carpet to where the dining room had been turned into a game room. That poor mother.
A quick glance showed a man playing a solitary game of pool.
Anne mentally checked his appearance against the arrest record photo she’d obtained during preparation. One hundred percent match.
She walked into the room. “Mr. Edward Wheeler, I’m with The Brothers Bail Bonds and here to pick you up. There is a bench warrant out for your failure to appear at your court date.”
“Hell with that.” Starting toward the kitchen door, he glanced out the window and spotted Mitchell in the middle of the backyard. Escape route blocked, Wheeler spun—and charged Anne.
Fun. Smiling slightly, she stepped out of his way, caught his arm on the way past, and redirected him into the doorframe.
He hit with a pleasant thud—but hey, she’d avoided sending him into the wall where the mother’s pictures might be damaged.
Aaron tackled him.
On his stomach, Wheeler kicked and cursed but couldn’t get enough leverage to struggle effectively.
What a jerk. Making his mother risk her house because he chose to sell meth to children.
Anne pulled her cuffs off her belt and secured his left wrist as he swore at her, using the f-word as a verb, adjective, and adverb.
“Young men today lack originality,” Aaron complained. Then again, he’d married a history professor who could curse for hours without using a four-letter word.
“There he is!” Robert charged through the door, thumping into her as he tried to grab the perp’s free arm. “Give me your wrist, you asshole.”
Anne scowled, easily pinned the skip’s tattooed arm, and finished cuffing him. “Get back to your post, Ro—”
A roar came from the doorway.
Anne caught movement from the corner of her eye and flung herself sideways. The boot aimed for her head slammed into her hip. Pain blasted into her. The kick knocked her into the pool table, and her head hit with a nasty crack.
Ears ringing, she shook her head, trying to clear her vision. Son of a bitch. Wheeler had a buddy.
Footsteps thudded as he stomped toward her.
Move! She rolled, kicked, and nailed his knee. The asshole buddy went down like a felled bull.
Head still spinning, she pushed to her feet, tested that her leg would hold her weight—her hip screamed a protest—and delivered a carefully placed kick into his testicles that would eliminate further attacks until after they’d left.
Holding his head, Aaron staggered to his feet. Apparently, the bull had got him on the way to her.
Robert stood beside the fugitive. Doing nothing.
She eyed him. “Way to back up your teammates, Robert.”