Read Online Tempted by His Target by Jill Sorenson - Free Book Online Page B

enigma.
    “Are you ready?” he asked, tearing his gaze away from her face.
    She nodded, rising to her feet.
    He tossed a few bills on the table and waited for her to precede him, stifling the urge to place his hand at the small of her back. This wasn’t a date. It was better than any first date he’d been on, and he’d never felt so attuned to a woman, but that didn’t mean either of them were getting lucky tonight.
    He wasn’t used to spending every waking moment with a target, and he didn’t know how to handle it. The more intelligence he gathered on Isabel, the more conflicted—and infatuated—he became. Most of what she’d told him earlier had been truthful, other than the little white lie about where she was born. It was obvious that she missed her mother. She also seemed so innocent compared to her wild child persona. Izzy Sanborn had posed boldly for men’s magazines; Isabel Sanchez blushed at a simple compliment.
    From what he could tell, Izzy had wielded her sexuality like a blunt object. Isabel was subtler, but no less dangerous. Her sex appeal crept up on a man, killing him with a whisper-soft caress.
    They walked the short distance to the hotel and ascended the stairs. She’d secured a room that overlooked the street. When she opened the door, her face fell. It was even smaller than last night’s room, with a modest bed and a set of dresser drawers.
    Brandon took the space near the window, his back to her. If he looked out at the street, he could avoid looking at her.
    She disappeared in the bathroom. A moment later, the shower faucet came on.
    He tried not to imagine water sluicing down her naked body. Unfortunately, he’d studied photos of her in various states of undress, and he couldn’t erase what had already been burned into his brain.
    Groaning, he leaped to his feet and left the hotel, jogging across the street to the pharmacy. There he bought a pay-per-use cell phone and sent a quick text to his boss. He wasn’t supposed to work more than twelve hours without making contact. When he returned to the hotel, she was still in the bathroom. The sound of the shower faucet morphed into a faint sloshing of water. After puzzling over it for a few seconds, he realized she was washing something in the sink, probably clothing. A few moments later, she came out wearing a towel.
    “It’s all yours,” she said, nodding at the bathroom. She clutched the towel to her chest, holding a small bundle of wet clothes.
    He took a cold shower that didn’t cool him off in the least. Taking Isabel’s lead, he scrubbed his shirt and shorts with bar soap. Hanging the shirt up to dry, he put the shorts back on, along with his dusty cargo pants. There was no sense in washing a pair of trousers that wouldn’t dry by morning.
    Isabel knocked on the door. “Brandon?”
    He gave himself a warning look in the mirror before he answered. Don’t touch her.
    Because of their respective heights, her eyes were level with the center of his chest as he opened the door. His muscles tightened on instinct. She dragged her gaze up to his, a pulse in her throat fluttering. “Do you want to use this hair dye?”
    He didn’t want that crap in his hair. Or her hands on him, for that matter. His nerves were as taut as a bowstring, and she looked like a wet dream in that damp towel. He moistened his lips, studying her smooth, suntanned skin.
    “It’s the cheap kind, so it probably won’t last long,” she said. “And you can always get it removed in the States.”
    Anything that helped them blend into the crowd was worth it, so he nodded his assent, standing aside to let her in. While she mixed the ingredients in a small plastic tray, he took a seat on the closed lid of the commode. He examined the terry cloth knot between her breasts, half hoping it would come undone. Tendrils of dark hair clung to her neck, leaving beads of water on her bare shoulders.
    There were mental tricks he’d learned, survival techniques in the event