. . Dylan Jones. His name ran through her mind. She knew him. She was sure of it. The flash of memory set off by his smile was unmistakable, her intuition one hundred percent reliable. She was known for never forgetting a face. Still, she couldn’t place him, couldn’t put the name or the man into the right place, the right time. She searched the face above her in the dim light, noting the gentle arch of his eyebrows, the straight line of his nose, the wry sensuality of his mouth—and another, more startling memory clicked into place. She’d not only known him, she’d been attracted to him. The thought seemed unimaginable now, with his gun pressing on her body and him straddling her across the seat, trapping her. But she wasn’t a woman given to casual attractions or casual flirtations, and her emotional memory bank was telling her she’d experienced both with him. Where? Her gaze trailed back over his face. His smile had faded, and he was watching her with an intensity that unnerved her on very basic female levels.
