Encroachment

by rangerfetish

While Ranger's in the wind, Stephanie and Ranger's men go after a pro football player who has skipped on bail.

There was a time when I thought the nine-to-five-thirty life was ideal. Back when I was a buyer of women's lingerie for E.E. Martin, my days had been filled with purchase orders, client meetings, and fabric samples. I hadn't loved it; it was tedious, mind-numbing work. But that was nothing compared to this. My name is Stephanie Plum, and I'm bored.

A smarter woman would have seen this coming. Then again, a smarter woman never would have accepted this job in the first place. Especially considering the circumstances. I had started working for RangeMan Enterprises, LLC in a clerical capacity a few months ago, doing routine background searches on potential clients, and gathering information on the various bail-jumpers that passed through. At first, it seemed like the way to go. The pay was good, the job was easy, and since there was a secured lot underneath the building, I could get in and out of my car without fear of being blown to smithereens. It was a far cry from my last job as bounty hunter, which routinely left me smelling like soiled diapers and checking for explosives every time I cranked the engine. No, the problem wasn't with the job, itself. It was with my boss.

Ranger, A.K.A. Ricardo Carlos Manoso, is second-generation Cuban-American, with skin the color of mocha latte, and the eyes that send shivers down my spine. He's street-smart, business-savvy, and absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. When I first blackmailed my cousin Vinnie into giving me the bounty-hunting gig, it had been Ranger who helped me out, teaching me the ropes of the bond enforcement trade. He was my mentor, my friend, and, for one spectacular night, my lover. We have since cooled it back down to "just friends" status, while enjoying a game of cat and mouse to combat the sexual tension, which seemed to be escalating at an alarming rate now that my work for RangeMan put me in close contact with him more often than not.

There was a plethora of reasons why indulging in my Ranger cravings was a bad idea. For one, he didn't do relationships, and I didn't do just sex. Then there was the thing with my on-again, off-again boyfriend, Joe Morelli. Morelli was a plainclothesman for the Trenton Police Department. His recent promotion to homicide detective had renewed his fervor for wanting me out of the bounty-hunting biz, and far away from Ranger, a man whose morals don't always run parallel to those of the legal system. This had led to another round of our screaming competitions inside his house on Slater Street, and had been the catalyst which eventually brought about a mutual parting-of-the-ways.

I looked at my clock and sighed. Three-fifteen. Two hours left, and then some. I casually clicked on the next email, put the name into the search program, and pressed Enter. Once everything checked out, I printed the file and moved it to a stack on the far right-hand corner of my desk, and blew out some air. I leaned back in my chair and peered out onto the control room floor. Tank was talking to one of the guys at one of the monitor banks. We locked eyes, and he started toward my desk.

"You heard from Ranger?" I asked, slouching in my seat. Tank nodded, just barely. "Know when he'll be back?"

He shook his head. I tried not to look dejected, and failed miserably.

"You okay?" asked Tank. "You look a little strung out."

"I'm bored."

"Figured as much. You up for some field work?"

If I had been a dog, I would have humped his leg. "Absolutely."

"Good. Go home and get ready. We'll meet back here at seven. Be dressed. I'll get the details to you once they're available."

"Got it."

Tank nodded once, and retreated to the back of the control room.

I left the office at a little after four, and drove on auto-pilot back to my apartment on Hamilton Avenue. Rex was spinning on his wheel when I stepped into the apartment. I dropped a grape in his food bowl and tapped on the glass.

"I'm going out," I said to Rex. He eyed me for a moment, then slipped the grape into his cheek pouch and retreated back into his soup can. "Well, I'm excited. Do you know what it's like being cooped up in a box all day, doing the same thing over and over again?"

Rex poked his head out and gave me a look.

"Okay," I sighed. "So maybe you have an idea. Doesn't mean I shouldn't have a little fun."

Rex slunk back into his soup can, leaving his butt sticking out. I stuck my tongue out at him and padded into the bathroom. I stepped out of the shower at a quarter to six, and smoothed some anti-frizz serum over my curls. I did the makeup thing, slicked on an extra coat of black mascara for the hell of it, and fumbled through my closet. Tank's instructions had been to dress on the slutty side of conservative. I opted for a figure-hugging blue pinstripe skirt with a sheer white blouse, and paired the ensemble with a pair of steel-heeled stilettos and a push-up bra. Then I dabbed some perfume onto my pulse points, said Goodbye to Rex, and locked the door behind me.

Tank, Bobby, and Hal were waiting for me when I pulled into the underground lot. I parked my black Kia Sportage on the far wall, and met them across the lot.

"Nice," said Tank. "But you forgot something."

He pulled a small S & W .38 caliber revolver from the shoulder harness underneath his windbreaker, and handed it to me. I took it with two fingers, and made a face.

Here's the thing with me and guns: I hate them. I hate holding them, and I hate using them. Even when they're not loaded, they freak me out.

"I don't know where to put this," I said, shaking my head. I passed it back to him with a shrug.

Tank looked like he was thinking about smiling. "I got a few ideas," he said, dropping the gun into the palm of my hand. He pressed a hand at my back and guided me toward the elevator. "Ella's waiting for you on six. She'll help you figure it out."

I gave him a smile that was half-grimace as the elevator doors closed. Twenty minutes later, I arrived back at garage level. The solution had been a four-inch wide band holster which discreetly secured the gun at the inside of my left thigh. I piled into the passenger seat, while Bobby and Hal positioned themselves in the back. Tank angled in on the driver's side, and swiveled to face me.

"You okay?"

"Fine," I lied. Truth was, because of the length of the skirt, I'd had to wear the holster high. Now the butt of the gun was poking me in my private area. Not something I wished to share with a car full of hard-bodied men.

"Target's name is Jim Cline. Wanted on a possession charge," said Tank. He passed the file to me, and I flipped it open. A full-color 8x10 was paper-clipped to the top. Cline was six feet tall, two hundred and fifty pounds. Caucasian, with brown hair and blue eyes. He had been an offensive lineman for the Buffalo Bills in the nineties. Now he sold life insurance, and possibly cocaine.

"He's hosting a conference at a hotel in Piscataway," Tank was saying. "He's not known to carry, but keep your eyes open. Your objective is to lure him out the front entrance. We'll take it from there."

I nodded.

"Take this and hide it somewhere accessible."

Tank handed a small buzzer and I dropped it into my tiger-print clutch.

"I said accessible," said Tank. "That means on your person."

There was only one place I could think of to put it, and that was my bra. No way I was going to go there with an audience. "I'll move it when I get inside," I said.

Tank dipped his head a fraction of an inch, and cranked the engine. It was almost eight when we pulled into the lot behind the Embassy Suites Hotel in Piscataway.

"Remember," Tank said to me as I got out of the SUV, "you're here to distract, not to capture. You get into trouble, you let us know. Ranger finds out we got you killed over some jerk-off crack head, he'll be four men down. We clear?"

"Crystal."

I shut the door and made my way to the front entrance. I followed a group of suit-and-tie-clad businessmen into the hotel lounge and waited at the bar while I scanned the area. Cline wasn't hard to miss. He was standing by one of the tables with a group of about four men, all of which were booming with laughter. His tie was loose at the neck, and a few stray hairs from his comb-over were plastered to his forehead. Either he was really enjoying himself, or he was shit-faced. Hard to tell from my position. I ordered a club soda from the bartender and made my way across the floor. I could smell the bourbon on him from ten feet away.

"Excuse me," I said.

One of the men looked over his shoulder at me and pointed to my left. "The bathrooms are that way, sweet thing."

I clenched my teeth and smiled. Sweet thing? "Actually, I was wondering if…"

My voice trailed off, buried beneath another one of Cline's big booming laughs. I rolled my eyes and trudged off in direction of the ladies' room. I pulled my cell phone out of my bag and punched in Tank's number.

"We've got a problem." I checked the stalls to make sure I was alone, and pulled the panic button from my purse. I dropped it into my almost non-existent cleavage, and shifted it to the left. Then I hiked up my skirt and re-adjusted my gun.

"What kind of problem?"

"I'm having trouble getting his attention."

Tank let out a bark of laughter. "You're shitting me."

"He's drunk. And I think he's talking about football."

"And?"

"And the only thing I know about football is that it's brown and people chase it."

Tank laughed some more. Then after he'd calmed down, he said, "Do you have a pen?"

I looked in my bag and sighed. "No. But I've got some eyeliner."

"Good. Write this down."

The lounge had settled down a bit when I returned. I had written Tank's advice in eyeliner on a napkin. I reviewed it a couple of times, and stuffed it in my clutch. Then I made my way back to Cline.

"Excuse me," I said, placing a hand on his forearm to get his attention. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Cline took a moment to look appreciatively at my boobs, and smiled in my direction.

"Omigod," I said, feigning doe-eyes, "you're Jimmy Cline. Kansas City, ninety-four. You helped assist with a one-hundred-forty-yard rush against the Chiefs." Cline looked impressed. I made a series of small circles on his arm, and added, "It was McNair's all-time high."

He took a drink and nodded. "Got two sacks that game."

"I'm Stephanie," I said, offering him my hand. He gave it a squeeze, and I began walking two fingers up his forearm. "Maybe you could tell me all about it. Maybe someplace quiet."

Cline smiled. "You saying you wanna go upstairs?"

Eep. "Um. Sure. Okay."

Cline set his drink on one of the tables and slid an arm over my shoulders, pulling me in the direction of the elevators in the main lobby.

"But maybe we should go outside first. Get some air."

"I've got a balcony."

"Uh-huh. But I think I'd rather go out here."

Cline eyed me warily. "What's the matter? You afraid of heights or something?"

"Yup. Terrified."

He let out a soft chuckle and tightened his grip on my shoulders. He led me down the lobby to a set of double glass doors. He held the door open, and motioned me through. It was the middle of November, and freezing out. The cold was nipping at my bare arms and legs as I led Cline down the walk to the rear lot.

"Hello, Stephanie," came a voice from behind me. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around. Dickie Orr, my horse's ass of an ex-husband, was leaning casually against his red Saab.

Oh, shit.

"You really have it the bottom of the barrel, haven't you?" He looked Cline and me up and down with a shake of his head. "What happened, Morelli give you the boot? Can't say I blame him. If you're as lousy a lay now as you were when we were married–"

His voice trailed off into a low whistle. I lunged for his throat, but Cline beat me to it. BAM! His fist caught Dickie's chin in an uppercut, knocking The Dick back against his passenger's side door.

"Fuck!" said Dickie, massaging his jaw. His lip was split at the corner, and bleeding onto his blue tie. He wiped the blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned back to Cline. "I was trying to do you a favor, man!" he yelled. "This bitch isn't a good time. She's a bounty hunter. Last I heard she was boning a vice cop in Trenton. Probably only suited up as a hot piece of ass so she could get you by the balls."

Dickie swung the door open, and disappeared into the hotel lobby, leaving me alone with Cline. I could practically hear the wheels clicking in Cline's head. He looked at me, face scrunched in, mouth wide open. Then it hit him. "Vice cop? You're with the fuzz?"

"No," I said, backing away. "I don't know what he's talking about. He's crazy. Probably snorted his last bonus up his nose."

I reached for the panic button in my bra, but Cline caught me by the wrist. He twisted my arm backwards, and I yelped.

"I don't like being had," he said, running a finger down my cheek. "So here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna go upstairs, and we're gonna have a real good time, like you promised."

"And what if I don't like that plan?"

"Then I'll cut you in places you don't want to be cut, and leave you here to bleed to death on the sidewalk."

I gulped. "Oh."

"Not a peep." he said, pulling on my arm. I nodded, and took a few steps toward the door. Then I opened my mouth and screamed at the top of my lungs. Cline's fist caught me with a right-hook to the temple, and I went down on the concrete, momentarily dazed. A pair of headlights came around the corner, and the doors slammed shut. Then there were feet rushing around me, followed by a lot of cursing, and a loud crash as Cline fell to the ground. I rolled onto my back and looked up at Tank, my head swimming. He crouched beside me and helped me into a sitting position.

"Can you stand?"

"Don't know," I said while Tank swirled in and out of my field of vision. "Can you hold still?"

Tank grimaced, and pulled me to my feet. He held me steady and turned his attention to Hal and Bobby. "Recovery's on its way. Make sure he's restrained before he wakes up. We're going to head back."

Hal nodded in my direction. "She okay?"

Tank dipped his chin a fraction of an inch. "Punch-drunk's all."

He helped me into the black SUV and reached over to fasten my seatbelt. "Still dizzy?" I tried to nod, and my head rolled to the side. "Let me know if you're gonna be sick. Pizza's a real bitch to get out of the carpet."

By the time we pulled into the underground lot on Haywood, my vision had gone back to normal, and the pounding in my head had died away to nothing more than a dull throbbing. We got out and Tank beeped the SUV locked. I heard the elevator doors open, and turned around just in time to see Ranger step out. He was dressed in his usual Rangeman black. Black T-shirt, black SWAT pants, black boots. He looked me over, and his eyes flashed, inciting a warm tingle which started in my stomach and slid downward.

He cut his eyes to Tank. "Hal checked in a few minutes ago. Cline's in custody. We'll debrief tomorrow."

Tank nodded once and disappeared into the elevator.

"You just get in?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual. I guess I didn't do a very good job, because the next thing I knew, Ranger had edged over to where I was standing. He wrapped his hands around my waist. Then he kissed me, and that punch-drunk feeling came back. We pulled apart, and I held onto the SUV for support.

"Were you going out?"

Ranger shook his head. "No. I saw you pull in from the control room."

"Good. You got a few minutes?"

"Babe."

We took the elevator to the seventh floor, and I followed Ranger into his apartment. Relax, I told myself. We're just here to talk.

Yeah, right.

Ranger dropped his keys on the silver dish by the flowers Ella, his housekeeper, had left earlier that day, and pulled me to him. His eyes locked on mine as his hands ran the length of my suit. His fingers rested at the base of my left breast, and my nipples contracted.

"I thought we came up here to talk," I said as he leaned forward and kissed my neck.

"Start talking."

"Well, it's about–"

He licked the spot he'd just kissed, and my sentence dissolved into a moan. I could feel him smiling against my bare skin as his fingers crept up the front of my bra.

"Ranger."

He pulled away just slightly. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face. Then he leaned forward and gave me one of those kisses. The kind that made my knees grow weak. His hand trailed the length of my suit, and I gasped when his fingers slid up the inside of my thigh.

"Babe," he said. His hand wrapped around the gun, and he flashed me one of his rare full-on smiles.

"Tank helped me pick it out." Ranger's eyebrows shot up, and his jaw clinched. "But Ella helped me put it on," I amended.

His features relaxed, and he released the holster from the tether at my waist. He dropped it on the sideboard and put his hand back on the inside of my thigh, sending a thousand volts of electricity through my body straight to my doodah.

Think of something nonsexual, I told myself. Grandma Mazur. Big Blue. Dr. Phil. His hand was creeping up my thigh in soft circles. Cold showers. Garbage. Michael Jackson.

Omigod!

"P-poaching," I said, clinging to the wall for support. "You're p-poaching."

Ranger leaned into me, pinning me with his weight. He dropped his hand a few inches, and I bit down on my lip to keep from groaning in frustration.

"You want me to stop?"

My jaw dropped and I made a few vowel sounds. The honest answer was no... and yes. I knew first-hand what would happen if he continued. The lower half of my body was all for it. The upper half of my body was still undecided. I was still surveying my options when Ranger's mouth crashed onto mine. I parted my lips and allowed his tongue to explore. There was a faint pop, pop, pop as he flicked open the buttons of my blouse. His hands were warm against my skin, traveling back up to my bra. I had his T-shirt in a death grip at his shoulders as he expertly kneaded my breast in rhythm to his kisses. His hips were pressed against mine, and I buzzed with excitement. Ranger broke away, and I realized the buzzing was from his cell phone.

Don't answer it, I was thinking. "You should probably get that."

Ranger rested his head on mine and sighed. Then he pushed off against the wall and flipped the phone open. "Yo," he said, followed by a few noncommittal monosyllables. Then the line of his mouth curved upward, and he turned to me. I gasped as he dipped his fingers into the cup of my bra and pulled out the panic button. Mental head slap. I'd completely forgotten about it.

"Disregard," he said into the phone. "I found the problem."

He folded the phone and stuck it on the sideboard next to the gun. His body was shaking with silent laughter. "That was Ram. He wanted to know why you were reporting distress from inside the building."

My face flushed bright pink. "Just tell me they didn't have sound."

"No." Ranger shook his head. "They didn't have sound. What was it you needed to talk to me about?"

I took in a deep breath and held it. Probably there was a better time and place to have this discussion, but I was afraid if I let it go any longer, I would change my mind. I let the air out slowly, and told myself to get it over with.

"My resignation."

Ranger looked slightly taken aback. "Babe," he said.