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kind of cop are you, Detective?”
    She didn’t flinch, but he felt the tension in her wrists stretch even tighter.
    “I’m not a cop.” She briefly closed her eyes. They flashed open, the momentary blip in her otherwise complete control might have gone unnoticed had he not been watching her so intently. “Who’s Martin Riggs?”
    “You might not be a cop any longer, but you were. A detective, as I believe I deduced earlier.”
    She said nothing, her expression remained stony.
    Oh, she was good. He was better. “As for Riggs, any self-respecting officer of the law watches cop shows. Martin Riggs was the Mel Gibson character in the
Lethal Weapon
movies.”
    She studied him for a second longer, then lifted her head a fraction and flicked a dismissive glance over his shoulders and chest before meeting his eyes once again. “Your ego really does need a reality check.”
    He almost smiled. “You’re just mad because I’m on top this time.” It occurred to him that he was actually enjoying himself. Big mistake.
    “Don’t get used to it,” she shot back.
    His lips quirked. “Hey, I’m a sensitive guy. I let the woman be in control. Occasionally.”
    “Let?”
    “Now whose ego is bruised? What’s the matter, Detective Princess, you don’t like giving up control?” He pressed his lips a little closer to her ear. “No matter what women say, they like being pulled beneath a nice, hard body, they like feeling the weight of their mansettle between their legs.” He relaxed his weight more heavily on her thighs. “But not you, right?”
    Had he really heard that soft intake of breath? When he’d made the tactical error of pressing too much of him against too much of her, it became hard to hear past the thrumming in his own ears.
    For all her trim muscle and smart mouth, her body felt pliant beneath him. He redoubled his concentration and worked on steadying his heart rate. She’d tricked him once before. He might be enjoying this unexpected, if intriguing twist in his hunt for Lucas, but he wouldn’t let it interfere with his ultimate goal. He sighed. Playtime was over.
    He didn’t pull away, deciding the position lent more advantage than disadvantage. For the moment, anyway.
    “Why don’t we dispense with all the bondage foreplay and get to the main act,” he said. The amusement disappeared, his tone was cool and sharp. “What do you want with me?”
    Scottie swore silently. She should have kept him talking, kept him preoccupied and focused on his sudden reversal of power until she found the weak link. She doubted he’d let her take him as easily as before, and her current position didn’t lend itself to many possibilities.
    Then he’d dropped his already deep voice to that rough whisper and painted visions in her mind that were all too clear and none too safe. Damn her. Even exhausted as she was, she’d responded—with great enthusiasm.
    She could have made excuses for herself by pointing out that any woman with two-hundred pounds of beautifully sculpted, aroused, naked male above her wouldhave to have been dead not to react, but she didn’t. Scottie didn’t make excuses. Not for herself, not for her team.
    So why was there this tiny, niggling sense of relief picking its way into her brain? Relief? Just because she’d responded like a healthy, sexual human being?
    Exactly
.
    “You didn’t answer my question,” she said, as much to keep him talking as to distract herself from that train of thought. “How did you get out of the restraints? Or should I ask,” she added mockingly, “how did Mel do it?”
    “Riggs could dislocate his shoulder.”
    “On purpose? You can do that?”
    “No. But I am double-jointed.”
    “Handy.”
    She felt his breath caress her, tickling her ear. “It has its moments.”
    That quivering sensation rushed over her skin again. “I bet.” Scottie wasn’t so sure having proof that her sexuality still existed was such a relief after all. Being in thrall to her