Finders Keepers. Shirl Henke
uncontrollably until he was blissfully drained. Sam’s hair tickled his chin as she collapsed on his chest. Those sensational breasts pressing into his pectorals felt nice. Real nice. He wanted to hum with the warm comfort of it and just lay there melded together with her like two pieces of licorice, softened in the noon heat.
The window unit’s compressor groaned back to life after a catnap, pummeling Sam with a sudden gust of frigid air. Goose bumps marched down her spine, drying her sweat-slicked skin and abruptly cooling the mad ardor of a moment ago. Bliss was gone and conscience had returned.
With a vengeance.
What the hell had she done? Talk about sleeping with the enemy! This was a hundred times worse. She had violated one of the most sacred trusts of her profession—she’d taken advantage of a helpless prisoner, cuffed and blindfolded…well, maybe he had lost the blindfold, she amended, peeking through her damp, tangled hair to glimpse his face. When had that happened? Back in the shower?
Damned if she knew. But she did know she’d done the unthinkable and now she’d have to face the consequences. Apologizing to an arrogant bastard like Matthew Granger was going to be pure hell. And they had another four days on the road together. How the hell was she going to get through it? Well, Sam, old girl, only one thing to do. She had to look him directly in the eye and get her P.C. guilt out in the open.
At least he wasn’t some poor mentally unbalanced cult member. Small consolation, but it salved her conscience just the slightest bit. Damn if she wouldn’t kill Patowski when this was over. After she collected the ten K from Aunt Claudia. A girl had to keep her priorities, after all, she reminded herself.
Stalling, Ballanger. Just do it.
Taking a deep breath, she sat up and stared down into his face. He looked beatifically content. Not exactly smug. Just…happy. She cleared her throat and he opened his eyes, grinning at her like a large spaniel who’s just been given a good scratch behind the ears—after woofing down a pound of hamburger.
“Thank you, Sam,” he said simply, then grunted when she moved slightly, shifting her weight so the cuffs bit into a place where his wrists weren’t already numb. Sharp pains radiated like pulsar beams from both shoulders when he instinctively tried to jerk his arms into a less agonizing position. He let out an involuntary oath.
“Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry,” she practically sobbed, now guilty beyond endurance. He must realize what a terrible thing she’d done to him.
“Well, I’m not—at least not about this,” he said, raising his head so his eyes could travel down to where she still sat astride his cock. “But could you please move so I can get up before my shoulders separate from my collarbones?”
Sam jumped off of him as if a bucket of ice water had just been dumped over her head. The air conditioner picked that instant to release another icy billow directly on the limp remains of his privates, which quickly shriveled to far less impressive dimensions.
“Aah, crap,” he muttered, rolling onto his side so he could sit up and turn his back to the infernal machine torturing the most sensitive part of his anatomy.
The compressor chose that moment to kick off, allowing the sound of pounding water to filter through from the bathroom. “Ohmigod! We left the shower running and the curtain open,” Sam croaked, dashing naked toward the bathroom. Before she got halfway to the door her toes began to squish over soaked carpet. The tile floor was covered with water, lapping gently over the doorsill.
Grumbling some of Uncle Declan’s better oaths, she sloshed to the shower and shut it off. The motel would charge quite a bit for damages. How the hell could she explain that one to Aunt Claudia on the expense account? Thoroughly chastened, she began throwing the excess of towels from the rack onto the floor to soak up the water.
“I hate to interrupt a woman in a housekeeping frenzy, but I could use a little help here,” Matt said with a grunt of pain in his voice.
He was still sitting on the bed, hands cuffed behind his back. And she was…buck-ass naked, bent over mooning him as she picked up towels! “I told Pat this was a lousy idea,” she muttered to herself as she made her way across the wet carpet to the open case where she kept her clothes. She stuffed her arms into her robe, then fished frantically in her fanny pack for the key to the cuffs.
My God, his shoulders must hurt like hell! His hands were as white as her Econoline. Ugly red indentations bit deep into his wrists. The circulation in his hands could be permanently impaired and it would all be her fault!
Without saying a word, she knelt behind him and unlocked the cuffs. “Move your arms in front of you—slowly,” she cautioned as he started to stretch them forward, only to curse sharply and let them drop to his sides. Still careful to stay behind him, she began rubbing one wrist, chafing it until the pinkness of circulation returned to his hand. After repeating the process on the other hand, she began massaging his shoulders until he let out a contented, “Mmm.”
As she worked, Sam rehearsed her apology. Better to make it while his back was turned. Chicken shit, Sam, she chided herself. But it would be easier. Just as she started to open her mouth, he broke into her guilt-wracked thoughts.
“Now can we head back to San Diego?” he asked.
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