Prologue

Magnus
London, England
Seventeen Months Ago

I survey the street for the tenth time, scanning the vicinity with care to make certain I don’t overlook a sign that my quarry is nearby. Hiding in an alley affords me the cover of darkness. I’d waited until nightfall to attempt to snare my quarry for that very reason. My body stays taut and ready. All my senses remain on high alert. This is my favorite part of the hunt—the moments just before I seize a fugitive.

No one visits this part of London unless they want to buy drugs, hire a prostitute, or steal something. Dilapidated warehouses and abandoned shops occupy the street. My quarry must think she can hide here and escape under the cover of night, but no one gets away from me.

My mobile pings.

I check the new text message. Do you have her yet? My client has grown more agitated with every passing hour. He hired me this morning, and already I have a bead on the fugitive. Piper Lang will not be free for much longer. So I type my response: In custody by midnight.

It’s now eleven forty-five.

Stuffing the mobile back into the interior pocket of my leather jacket, I scan the area yet again. Any moment, she will show herself. The information my client had sent made it clear the lass knows nothing about evading the law—or a hunter like me. She’s a museum archivist, not a ninja.

A flash of movement catches my eye peripherally.

My pulse beats faster, and adrenaline courses through my veins, triggering a dark sort of excitement. Aye, I love the hunt. Whatever that says about me, I donnae care. Turning my head slowly, I catch sight of a figure hustling out of an abandoned warehouse and turning left down the street.

Heading straight for me.

I consider pulling my gun out, but I doubt I’ll need that. The wee lass cannae fight me. I’m much taller, stronger, and deadlier.

She crosses the street and swerves this way, jogging toward me at a good clip. Her clothes betray her lack of skill in sneaking around—light-blue jeans and a matching jacket, a grey T-shirt, and white running shoes. Well, at least she chose footwear that will let her flee, but their color hardly blends into the background. She’s an amateur, and no match for me. This will be too easy. Hardly satisfying.

Piper Lang watches the street as she hurries along, but she ignores what’s right beside her—me, hiding in this alley.

I wait until she takes two steps past me, then I rush out to wrap my arms around her torso from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. She yelps and tries to break free, but I’m far stronger than the wee lass. “Stop fighting. It’s over. Piper Lang, you are coming with me to the Met. That’s the Metropolitan Police, just to be crystal clear.”

“No. Please don’t do this. I’m innocent.”

“That’s for the court to decide.” I squeeze her a wee bit tighter. “I’m the hunter, not the judge.”

“If you take me in, I’ll die. Someone wants me dead, just like Archer Caldwell.”

“Donnae care. You are accused of murder, and now you’re caught.”

“Please, listen to me.”

I reach behind my back to pull the handcuffs out of my pocket, keeping one arm around her.

She seizes my slat and twists hard.

My jeans cannae protect me from that. The minx has tried to rip my cock in half. As pain erupts, I suck in a breath and lose my grip on her just enough that she wriggles away and takes off down the street.

Bod an Donais.

It’s not the devil’s penis that throbs with pain, though. I need a few seconds to get over the agony, then I race after her with my heart pounding and every inch of my body electrified by the thrill of the chase. Piper veers around a corner, and I lose sight of her. Even when I swerve onto the side street, I can’t catch up to the woman. My client hadn’t mentioned she can run like an Olympic sprinter. She races down an alley, and just as I come within ten feet of snaring her, she leaps onto a dumpster and uses its height to vault over the six-foot chain link fence behind it.

Piper Lang vanishes into the night.

Mhac na galla. I do not let anyone get the better of me, especially not a woman. That’s why I cursed myself as a son of a bitch in Gaelic. The fact that she did get away impresses me—and makes me randy. My slat has finally stopped throbbing as I clamber onto the dumpster and climb over the fence, a feat I manage with far less agility than Piper had done. I pelt down the alley, coming out on another street. This one hosts a motel, the seedy kind that charges by the hour. But the business has clearly gone bust. The sign is tilted to the side, the interior is dark, and no vehicles occupy the car park. Its asphalt has cracked, and the lines that demarcate the spaces have faded.

A figure slips inside one of the rooms.

Piper.

I slow to a walk and steal across the street to the motel, molding my back to the wall as I inch toward the room she had entered. The door is closed. I sidle up to it and grasp the knob, twisting it carefully so I won’t make any noise, then I ease the door inward.

Someone shouts, and a weight slams into the door.

But I’m ready for her this time. I use my entire body as a ram, knocking her backward though I cannae see the lass as more than a darker shape within the shadows inside the room. I rush inside and kick the door shut. As I switch on the pocket torch I always have on me, the sudden brilliance of its bulb blinds me for a few seconds. My eyes adjust quickly, though, and I set the torch on a scarred and filthy tabletop so the light spreads through the small room.

Piper Lang lies sprawled on the floor.

She glares up at me. “You bastard.”

I seize her arm and force her to stand up. She faces me, but rather than trying to flip her around, I pull her into me and cuff her hands behind her back. “No getting away this time. You’ve shown me all your tricks, which means ahm ready for ye.”

“Please don’t take me to the cops.”

“You are a fugitive. Donnae bother telling me your sad story about how you’re innocent and someone framed you. I’ve heard it all before.” With her body pressed to mine, I cannae help that my slat starts to rouse. It’s a natural response to the thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction of the capture. “I would rather not tie your feet. Needing to carry you over my shoulder will slow me down.”

“Oh, I’m so damn sorry I’ve inconvenienced you.”

“Ye haven’t. And ye won’t.”

She wriggles in a vain attempt to get free of me. The action rubs her stiff nipples against my chest. Even though she smells of sweat, the lass is beautiful. Her shapely body is molded to mine, her whisky brown eyes remain riveted to my gaze, and her chestnut hair glistens with coppery highlights. She’s breathing hard thanks to our chase and the barnie we had a moment ago, but our tussle got me even more aroused. I dip my head to let her hair brush against my cheek, needing to know if the locks are as silky as they look. They are. I want to bury my face in that hair, but I won’t do it.

Piper is a criminal.

But aye, she has the kind of body I’d love to explore while we’re both naked. The adrenaline from the chase always leaves me on edge, needing the sort of release only a woman’s body can provide. But I cannae shag Piper Lang.

I slide my hand down to her erse.

She gasps. Her eyes have widened, her gaze drawn to my mouth, and she glides her tongue across her bottom lip.

Bod an Donais. I want her.

To distract myself from the feel of her body pressed against mine, I survey the room. A small suitcase lies on the floor beside the bed, and a lantern—battery operated, I think—sits on the nightstand.

Piper rubs her body against me. “If you won’t let me go, maybe we could have a little fun before you take me in.”

Her voice has turned sultry. The lass is up to something. I don’t trust her, but fuck, I crave her.

“Come on,” she almost purrs. “I need to have sex one more time before I go to prison. You’re amped up too, I can tell. Let’s blow off some steam together.”

Though I know what she’s doing, because it’s dead obvious, I cannae stop myself from massaging her erse and groaning when she rocks her hips into my growing erection. I can have a poke with her, then take her in. She’s handcuffed, which means she willnae get away from me.

I hoist the lass off her feet, keeping that body molded to mine, and stalk over to the bed. Once I’ve turned on her lantern, I can see a single sheet of fabric covers the bed. “Where did you get a blanket?”

“Stole it from a washing machine at a laundrette.”

A thief and a murderer. Yet I still need to shag her.

I toss Piper onto the bed. “Donnae try anything.”

Then I shut the door and turn off my torch, switching the lantern on so its glow is the only source of illumination. I willnae undress. That would leave me vulnerable, and a hunter never allows weakness to get in the way of the hunt. So I unzip my trousers and dig a condom out of my pocket.

Aye, I always need a release after a capture. Not hard to find a willing lass.

Piper’s breasts rise and fall with her labored breaths. She stares at my slat while I stalk toward her and get the condom on.

I unzip her jeans, hook my thumb inside the waistband, and drag them and her knickers down to her ankles. She shimmies to get into the middle of the bed. I kneel between her legs, planting my hands at either side of her shoulders.

“Please uncuff me,” she says. ” I want to touch you.”

“No.”

I push inside her, groaning at how good her body feels wrapped around me.

“Oh, yes,” she moans. “But please, let me touch you. I can’t get away when we’re having sex.”

“No.”

She rolls her hips, driving my cock deeper into her soft, wet flesh. When she squeezes her inner muscles around me, my eyes roll back in my head and I groan deeply.

Maybe it’s lust making me drunk, impairing my decision-making. Whatever the reason, I find myself unlocking the cuffs and tossing them onto the battered nightstand. She throws her arms around me while I start pumping into her, hard and fast and rough, consuming her body with every thrust.

We shag for an hour, and it’s the best sex I’ve ever had. But then I do the last thing I ever imagined I would. I fall asleep. A hunter knows better—I know better—but something about this woman erases everything I’ve learned about tracking fugitives. All I could l think about was having her.

I wake up alone. All I can do is get dressed and leave.

But I notice a piece of paper on the nightstand beside the lantern.

Grabbing the sheet, I read the words Piper wrote on it. Thanks, I needed that. But you will never catch me again, Magnus MacTaggart. PS, I know your name because I peeked in your wallet.

I growl and crumple the paper, tossing it away.

For the next seventeen months, I hunt Piper Lang. Many times I get close, but she always evades me. How does a museum archivist know so much about hiding from the law? I am not the law, though. I can do things the police can’t, take risks no sane person would, and capture fugitives even law enforcement failed to find.

I always get my man. Yet one woman has outwitted me.

Chapter One

Piper
Montijo, Portugal

Life as a fugitive sucks. I’m stuck on that thought as I wander down the sidewalk to stop in front of a clothing store. My stuff is getting old, and I’d really like to buy something new. Gazing through the store’s window, I see lots of pretty, feminine things. But I can’t wear pink or yellow or any color that might stand out in a crowd. I can’t wear perfume either, or go to a dance club. I need to blend in and disappear.

So yeah, being a fugitive sucks.

I’d love to blame Magnus MacTaggart for all my troubles, but he didn’t frame me for murder. Someone else did. Someone I haven’t identified yet. Maybe I’ve gotten damn good at evading Magnus, but I’ve had no luck trying to identify the person who killed my boss and pinned the crime on me.

A young couple breezes past me, laughing and smiling, their arms around each other. They chatter in Portuguese. I don’t speak the language. Being on the run means I don’t have time to download a language instruction app and learn how to speak the native tongue of every country I’ve visited. So I stumble along the best I can. I’ve stuck to European countries because they seem the most likely to have enough English speakers that I can get by.

My gaze veers back to the store window. Pretty clothes. Cute shoes. Shiny baubles. Those things are not for me, no matter how much I want them. No, I’ll have to choose nondescript stuff. I glance down at my current ensemble—khaki pants, a brown shirt, and beige tennies.

I turn around and walk back to my motel.

The red clay tiles of the roofs in this town are beautiful, but I can’t muster any enthusiasm for admiring the scenery. I’m thinking about how long I can stay here. That damn Scot has pursued me relentlessly, giving me little time to investigate and discover who framed me. I think about that bastard at least a dozen times a day, though I wish I didn’t. It’s hard not to think about him since the man refuses to give up on catching me.

After a five-minute walk, I approach the door to my motel room. This isn’t a picturesque establishment, but it’s clean and cheap and the desk clerk speaks English. I’d kill for one of those auto-translate devices they had on Star Trek. The online translators I’ve found do a crummy job, and I wind up saying things the not-quite-right way. It’s no wonder people think I’m nuts.

I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob. A shiver trickles down my spine. I sense… No, it can’t be. My paranoia has reared its head again, that’s all. Seventeen months on the run wreaks havoc with a girl’s sense of security. So I shove the key into the lock. Yeah, this place doesn’t have keycards, just the old-fashioned kind made of metal. As I push the door inward and shuffle into the room, that feeling tickles my senses again.

The door slams shut.

Whirling around, I gape at the man standing there. “How—”

Magnus MacTaggart aims his squinty-eyed stare at me, his lips flattened and his body tensed as if readying for a fight. “How do ye think? You’re clever, but not as clever as I am.”

He always dresses like a reject from a biker gang, with a skull-and-crossbones shirt, dark jeans that match his dark hair, and a well-worn leather jacket, not to mention that scruffy goatee. But I can’t deny he has gorgeous blue eyes and hot muscles.

He whips out a pair of handcuffs. “Piper Lang, you are coming with me.”

“Like hell I am.” I stumble backward, shaking my head so hard my hair flaps around my face. I keep gaping at him, the demon who won’t give up. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Did I suggest you have a choice?”

No choice? I’ve gotten away from him before, dammit, and I can do it again. Besides, I’ve got a secret weapon he doesn’t know about. It’s my turn to squint at him. I sneak a hand behind my back and pull my revolver out of my waistband, raising it in front of me. “Get out of my way, MacTaggart.”

Okay, yeah, my secret weapon is a weapon.

My hand shakes a touch, despite my best efforts to remain calm. I don’t understand how he found me, but the bastard probably has a team of psychics helping him. Not that I’ve ever believed in the paranormal. But this man seems to have a supernatural ability to track me.

He takes one big step toward me, and my gun grazes his chest. “Last chance. Come willingly, or I’ll do it by force.”

I poke the gun into his chest. “Get out of my way, or I’ll shoot you.”

“Been shot before. Stabbed too.” He slants closer, pressing the gun’s muzzle into his chest. “A wee lassie doesnae scare me.”

“I got away from you once, I’ll do it again.” He kept chasing me, sure, but he didn’t catch me again—until today.

Magnus snatches the gun from my hand so fast I don’t have time to react. He drops it onto the floor and snares my wrist, spinning me around before I realize what’s happening, using his big hand to bind both of mine behind my back. He tugs me backward into his body and lashes his other arm around my waist. “Willnae get away this time.”

His gaze flicks down to my chest. The low neckline of my shirt gives him a good view of my cleavage. He slides his hand up my belly, grazing the underside of my breast.

I suck in a breath. Try not to, really I do. The creep has some kind of voodoo sex power that turns me into a weak-willed moron whenever he touches me. He might be big and mean and grizzled, like a beast from the depths of hell, but I can’t deny one simple fact.

He’s hot in bed.

“Let me go, please,” I say, like that will work. Desperate times and all that shit. I spoke those words in a huskier voice, though I hadn’t meant to do that. Maybe my sultry tone will get him horny enough that he’ll slip up, and I can get away.

My nipples have tightened and started to ache, but that’s irrelevant. I will not let him screw me again. No way.

“I don’t let murderers go,” he growls into my ear. “Ye should’ve considered the consequences before ye poisoned your boss so you could get a promotion.”

“That’s insane. I was an archivist at a museum, not next in line to be CEO of a mega-corporation.”

“Greed is universal. And you should’ve wiped your fingerprints off the glass after you gave the man champagne laced with strychnine. But ye aren’t that clever, are ye?”

“Outsmarted you, didn’t I? The great Magnus MacTaggart screwed up.”

I can feel his dick stiffening against my backside. Now if he’ll just make one little mistake…

“I’m innocent,” I say, breathing harder for some stupid reason. “Someone framed me. I had to run because the cops wouldn’t believe me. Please, you can’t take me back to the UK. Everyone there thinks like you do, that I’m an American slut who tried to advance her career by seducing and killing her boss.”

“Not my problem. I bring in fugitives, I don’t try their cases in court.”

“Just listen. Let me explain—”

“Donnae give a damn if you’re guilty or innocent. I’m doing my job, full stop.”

“But—”

He drags me to the bed and tosses me onto it, reclaiming my wrists before I realize what’s happening. Magnus restrains my hands over my belly. I squirm and glare at him, but I can’t get free. He hooks one handcuff around my right wrist, then slides the other cuff through the rails in the headboard, snapping it tight around my left wrist. “No slithering away from me this time.”

“What are you going to do?”

If I have sex with him, maybe he’ll fall asleep like he did last time. Then I can escape. The fact that I really, really want him to screw me has no bearing on anything. I’ve been celibate for too damn long. A fugitive can’t go trolling the clubs for a lover. So I’d taken care of my urges on my own, mostly. Under no circumstances will I ever admit to Magnus that I fantasize about him while I get off.

Magnus crawls onto the bed, straddling my legs, and bends over me to brace his palms on the mattress at either side of my shoulders. “Ye want me to fuck ye.”

“Ugh. I hate you.” But yeah, I want that. And I despise myself for it.

“Donnae care if ye like me.” He molds one hand to my breast, and my breath hitches. “But we both know you want me inside you.”

“You are evil.”

He chuckles, the sound rough and dark and sexy as hell. “Aye, but you like that. Wouldn’t have seduced me last time if ye didn’t.”

“Maybe I…kind of like it. But I still hate you.”

“Good.” He scrapes his tongue up my throat. “Then ye’ll be wanting me to take ye now.”

Breathing hard, I bite down on my bottom lip and struggle to quell this dangerous lust. I hate him, I’m afraid of him, and yet I need his dick inside me.

“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me what you want—really want—right here, right now.”

I can’t stop my back from arching when he squeezes my tit. “Just hurry the hell up and do it, MacTaggart.”

“Not until you beg for it.”

Of course he wants that. He’s a sadistic jerk, after all. But I glare at him instead of speaking the words he wants me to say. “Told you to do it already.”

He pinches my nipple and rubs his hard-on into my groin.

My hips thrust up as if my body has a mind of its own, and I can’t stop the words that tumble from my lips. “Please, you bastard, fuck me.”

Magnus pulls out a switchblade and grips the neckline of my shirt. He slices it open, the halves gaping away from my breasts. No, I’m not wearing a bra. I have two that I wear sometimes, but today I’d gone without extra support because my shirt is tight enough to hold my tits up. That means the bounty hunter can see all of my breasts. He’s staring at them, licking his lips.

He shoves the knife back into his pocket and yanks my pants and underwear down to my ankles, effectively shackling me with my clothes. Then he pauses, roving his gaze over my body while he strokes himself through his jeans.

My mouth decides to override my common sense again. “Please let me touch you.”

“No.” He unhooks his belt and unzips his jeans, freeing his dick, and wraps his fist around it to skim his palm up and down his length. “You’re at my mercy, and I mean to keep it that way.”

I writhe, grasping the headboard rails, so ready that it’s humiliating. The fact that I’m wet and tingly between my thighs means nothing. I’m doing this to get away from him, nothing more. Yeah, hot sex is an escape strategy.

Magnus pushes my legs apart and plunges his cock inside me.

Oh God, this feels incredible. Just for a little while, I’ll forget about who he is and what I am. I need to feel good, if only for a brief time.

Then I’ll sneak out while he’s asleep.

Magnus hovers over me while he thrusts in and out, slowly at first, then faster and faster until the bed starts to shake and I’m gripping his biceps, my nails sinking into his flesh. His erection is big and thick and hot, just the kind of dick every woman needs to experience once. Or twice. This will be the last time. His clothes rasp against my bare belly and breasts, the sensation amping up my lust until I can’t catch my breath. He pumps harder, pounding into me at a rough and almost manic pace. My cream dribbles down my thighs because I’m wetter than I’ve ever been in my life, even more than the first time I’d had sex with Magnus. He grunts and gasps, bends his head to latch on to my nipple, and suckles it so fiercely that know I’ll come any second.

He pulls away. My cream glistens on his dick, but he just sits there, kneeling at my feet while struggling to regain his breath.

I try to kick his thigh, but my own pants prevent it. “Don’t stop. I was about to come.”

“Aye, I know.”

He curls his fingers around his length and pumps himself so vigorously that he starts grunting and gasping while the bed shimmies. Squeezing his eyes shut, he throws his head back and…milky liquid jets out of his cock. It sprays onto my belly. He steps off the bed and zips up his jeans.

The bastard got himself off but left me hanging.

“You can’t do this to me,” I say, trying to sound nasty but failing. A thwarted climax is torture. “Are you really going to leave me here with your…excretions all over me?”

“Excretions?” He chuckles. “Never heard it described that way before.”

“Finish what you started.”

“What if I don’t?”

“At least clean this off my tummy. Don’t want your crap glued to my skin.”

He studies me for a moment, then saunters into the bathroom, shutting the door.

That asshole is going to leave me like this. What, is he marking his territory?

Oh, that man is going to pay for this.