“Seriously? I need to get another rag to wipe up all the drool you left on my table,” Persis sasses as she heads toward the front door.
The mystery biker steps through the door, running a hand through his silky smooth hair. I wondered how it would feel to grab hold of it while he was going Downtown To Coochie Town on me.
I shake my head and force my eyeballs to look anywhere else but at him.
“Catalina Saber?”
My head whips up, and I’m staring right at Mr. Biker. My eyes narrow. “Who wants to know?”
He holds out his hand. “Carlson Pyle.”
“No fucking way.”
His eyebrows shoot up, but he continues to hold out his hand, waiting for me to shake. I’m too stunned to do anything about it.
“Identification.”
He smirks and pulls a leather wallet out of his back pocket. I yank it from his fingers, eyeballing him for a few more seconds before I open the wallet and look at his ID.
Carlson Pyle.
The man I’ve been waiting for.
All your life, the Coochie Mama in my pants chuckles.
Not now,I warn her.
How about now. Then. Tomorrow. And every damn day after that? That man looks like he can go for days at a time, like that British rocker fella. He claims he only takes a break from sex for a sandwich.
I snort-laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Carlson frowns.
I cough. “Nothing. Stand by.”
Carlson seems amused, which aggravates the tar out of me for some reason. I dial into the back office at the U.S. Marshals Service.
“Sagadore.”
“Premy?”
“What’s shakin’ bacon? Where you at, Miss Cat?”
“Do you always have to sound like Dr. Seuss?” I laugh.
Premy Sagadore is the second-best computer person in the world. The first is Tatiana Martel at Saber Security. And she’s so far ahead of the competition. There’s no contest.
“Because you like it like that,” Premy laughs. “Oh, baby!”
I shake my head. “All right. Down to business. I need you to double-check on someone for me. Carlson Pyle.”
I hear Premy typing on her keyboard. “Black hair, blue eyes, six feet. Stellar record in the Marshals Service.”
Carlson remains standing next to the table, but I can tell he’s six feet.
“Tattoos?”
“A few,” Premy draws out. “Why?”
