Hanna Boudreaux was not mousy.
She was standing with one of her hands on the handlebars of that ridiculous bike of hers, talking to Paul Moyer.
No.
Laughing with him. Her shining blonde head thrown back, her pretty face lit up, her body shaking, her other hand clutching Paul’s arm like she had to hold herself up with the hilarity of it all.
Paul had been watching her tits while she laughed.
Raid had wanted to land a fist in his face.
He held back.
They needed to know if Hanna was clean, then they needed to be certain Hanna was clean, then they could extricate her from the scenario and carry on with the operation.
And after Raid had finally caught sight of her he had decided that he would personally be extricating her because Hanna would be in his bed, under his protection and she’d feel none of that shit.
Fortunately, it took about a nanosecond to figure out that Hanna was being taken.
Unfortunately, before he could get her in his bed, she’d overheard him and blown the operation, so now they had nothing.
No one to lead them to the supplier who fucked with Raid and Creed’s buddy, Knight, who lived in Denver, had a successful nightclub, a questionable side business and a shitload of money with which he could use to throw at problems he wanted solved.
Something he didn’t hesitate doing.
So Knight contracted with Raid, Raid’s crew and Creed to solve it.
Now they had nothing.
Knight was going to be pissed.
Raid already was.
He turned onto the single lane road that led to three houses, the last one being Hanna’s, and pulled over. He yanked out his phone and made his call to Knight.
He was right. Knight was pissed.
He ended the call, pulled back into the lane and headed to Hanna’s house.
The light, upstairs right, was on.
Her bedroom.
So was the light, downstairs left.
The living room.
This meant she was up.
Excellent.
He threw open his door and folded out. He prowled to the front door, put his hand right to the knob and turned.
Fuck.
Now she locked it.
He hit the bell.
Nothing.
He looked to his left.
The lights were on, curtains drawn. He could see no movement.
He hit the bell again then pounded.
He stopped.
Still nothing.
“What the fuck?” he clipped.
He turned and prowled to his car. He opened his glove compartment, got his kit and prowled right back. He squatted by the doorknob, pulled out his tools, and in about five seconds picked her shitty, going-to-be-replaced-tomorrow lock.
He shoved his tools in his back pocket, opened the door and saw her instantly, standing in the foyer, staring at him, her big, pretty blue eyes huge.
He slammed the door behind him.
Hanna jumped.
She was very lucky that she’d changed into an adorable pair of very short drawstring pajama shorts and a skintight ribbed tank, both that left little to the imagination, both in colors that highlighted the golden tan that shimmered on every inch of her skin. She was also lucky she had her hair up in another messy knot his fucking hand fucking itched to yank out or he wouldn’t have had the patience to draw in the breath he needed to calm down.
But he drew in the breath he needed to calm down.
In that time she whispered, “Oh my God. You picked my lock.”
“How’s your headache?” he asked.
Her eyes, which had moved to the doorknob, shot to his.
Then she started backing up.
“Smart,” he murmured as he advanced.
“Raiden—”
“You heard me on the phone.”
She visibly swallowed. Her shoulder hit the doorway to the back hall and she shifted sideways.
Raid followed her. “You came to the table and lied through your teeth, right to my face.”
“I—”
“You told me you had a goddamned headache, which worried me, then you pressed tight to me, giving me your mouth and takin’ it away, a bullshit bitch tease move I didn’t know you had it in you to execute.”
She stopped dead. “I wasn’t teasing you.”
“What was that shit then?”
She stared into his eyes and announced, “A good-bye kiss.”
It was at that Raid stopped dead. “What?”
“Raiden, the gig is up,” she declared, and Raid closed his eyes.
Jesus, how could the woman be so infuriating and so fucking cute all at once?
He opened his eyes and asked, “The gig is up?”
She leaned into him and hissed, “Yes.”
Fuck, he wanted to kiss her.
He also wanted to shake her.
“Baby, it’s jig,” he corrected, and her head jerked, which made that mess of hair on her head jerk, which reminded him he wanted his hands in that hair.
Then elsewhere.
He needed to speed this shit up.
“Sorry?” she asked, sounding confused, and he looked from her hair to her eyes and saw she was, in fact, confused.
Yeah. Infuriating. And fucking cute.
“The jig is up, not the gig,” he told her.
Her eyes narrowed. “Seriously? You’re correcting my street lingo?”