This was definitely not a dream…

Breasts. Bare breasts. That’s the first thing Joe saw as firm thighs squeezed his hips. “Stay still,” the woman on top of him quietly ordered.

What did she mean? He was still. Oh, well, maybe there was one part of him that wasn’t completely obeying….

The balcony doors slid open, but before Joe could see what was going on, the woman was kissing him.

No, she wasn’t kissing him—she was devouring him. He groaned against the mattress. This was better than any dream. Forgotten were the strangers on the balcony, the identity of the woman straddling him, the bizarre notion that he didn’t have any idea what was happening. All he could think about was the rush of heat to his groin, the taste of the mouth now plundering his….

Then she moved. Oh, God, she moved.

Somewhere in the back of Joe’s mind he realized the shadows were no longer at the balcony doors. And his dream nymph moved again—only this time, it was away from him. Joe blinked, trying to focus on the gorgeous, naked woman now standing at the foot of his bed.

In a panicked voice, she said, “I need your help.”

Dear Reader,

Is there one thing you’ve always wanted to do, but never dared try? Have you yearned to shrug off your usual nine-to-five clothing and slip into something a little more adventurous…risqué, even? In Private Investigations, Ripley Logan does just that by chucking her job as a secretary for a more exciting career as a private investigator. Only, she doesn’t anticipate just how very exciting things will get. And sizzling, sinful Joe Pruitt is all too willing to show her….

An ex-jock turned successful businessman, Joe isn’t thrilled when he gets pulled into whatever professional mess sexy Miss Logan has gotten herself into. After all, he’s willing to go only so far for a good turn in the sack. The problem is that line keeps getting farther and farther away….

We hope you enjoy Ripley and Joe’s sexy adventure! We’d love to hear what you think. Write to us at P.O. Box 12271, Toledo, Ohio, 43612, or visit us on the Web at www.toricarrington.com.

Until next time,

Lori & Tony Karayianni

aka Tori Carrington

Private Investigations
Tori Carrington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one’s for all our online buds at Writerspace.com,

NovelTalk, R.E.A.D., Writers Club Romance Group,

Cata Romance, Compuserve, Romance and Friends,

The Romance Journal and last but definitely not least,

RomEx. Thanks for keeping it real.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

1

SLICK FINGERS slid down the length of the long, hard surface then back up again. Moist heat swirled up and around, dampening her skin, making her long for something that was taking far too long to achieve. She gave a good squeeze, gauging the liquid ready to ooze out, then rested her cheek against the familiar object she’d been longing to get her fingers around all day.

Ripley Logan finally judged the bathtub water deep enough, uncapped the bottle of bubble bath in her hand and upended it. She watched, mesmerized, as the contents mixed with the rapidly falling water. She couldn’t wait to sink in and soak away the weariness that had built up through the long day.

Okay, she admitted, maybe she’d made more informed decisions in her life. Sitting on the side of the hotel room bathtub, she took a deep breath, allowing the smell of peaches to wash away some of her exhaustion. Who would have thought being a private investigator would be so grueling? Exciting, yes. That was the whole reason she’d learned how to handle a firearm, taken six months worth of specialized classes and studied up on the finer points of surveillance equipment. But her first case, and second day on the job, and she was wondering why no one had told her about the long hours, the countless people who wouldn’t talk to her even if she threatened Chinese torture treatment and, well, the plain loneliness of the job. Turning the nearly empty bottle upright, she capped it then stretched to her feet. Muscles she’d forgotten she had hurt. If the reason for her tired state had been interesting, that would be one thing. Pounding the pavement looking for a woman who didn’t want to be found was quite another.

She glanced at the time, then took off her watch and laid it on the sink. After midnight, and she was no closer to finding out anything more about a certain missing person, Nicole Bennett, than she had been twelve hours ago, roughly the time her plane set down at Memphis International Airport.

Ripley could practically hear her mother saying, “Maybe they’ll take you back at your old job, honey. You do have six years in there. And you’re a reliable and skilled worker. I’m sure they’ll understand that you’ve had a change of heart.”

Merely imagining the conversation with her mother was enough to snap Ripley’s spine straight. The company she’d worked for had been bought out by another company, and a good third of the employees had been offered early retirement or attractive severance packages. She’d been the first in line to take one of the latter. Of course, the part she’d never tell her mother was that she’d seen the offer as a sign that she should stop chomping at the bit and run full out. The perfect opportunity to do something more exciting with her life. Something that didn’t involve carrying an extra pair of nylons in her purse and hours shopping for dress shoes that wouldn’t kill her.

Not that she expected her mother—or her father either, for that matter—to understand her recent decision. Vivian Logan had been forty-five when she and Fred had given up trying to have a child of their own and adopted Ripley. They’d always been out of step with her friends’ younger parents. While classmates were having cool birthday parties with roller-skating or movie themes, she had suffered through Kool-Aid and cupcake get-togethers with games of pin the tail on the donkey—or worse, piñatas. It wouldn’t have been so bad when she was five. But she’d been fifteen.

After the last humiliating experience, when her mother had introduced crazy string to the party and emptied an entire can on top of Jason McCaffee’s handsome blond head, she’d talked her parents into the notion that she was an adult and no longer needed parties, and her birthdays were marked with a quiet dinner out with her parents.

Yes, she knew her latest career move would worry the hell out of them. But the thought of continuing with her blah life the way it was scared the hell out of her. It would be one thing if she actually made her parents happy by leading her life the way she thought they wanted her to. The problem was that they seemed ceaselessly exasperated by her decisions, especially during her very brief but frequent streaks of rebellion that neither began nor ended with adolescence. Rather, Ripley had come to suspect that the alter ego behind those streaks was the real her. And she’d found it was fun finally letting her out to play.

She unstrapped her brand-spanking-new nickel-plated 9mm from her shoulder holster and weighed the two and a half pounds of steel in her hands. Despite how many times she held it, she couldn’t get used to seeing herself holding the firearm. She felt like a kid playing cowboys and was ceaselessly filled with the urge to point it and mouth, “Pow, pow!” Only if she did it now, the pow would put a very real hole in something or someone.

The pad of her index finger easily slid to rest against the trigger. Her thumb checked the safety. It was all she could do not to hold it out, close one eye and aim at an imaginary tobacco-chewing cowboy. Instead, she pushed the cartridge release, caught the magazine, then thrust it into place, shivering at the metallic clicks and scratches. She let the powerful firearm drop to her side, then placed it on the sink beside her watch. The way things were going, the only shooting action she’d ever see was at the range. She twisted her lips. Not that she thought she could shoot anyone if the situation called for it. There was a big difference between a black-and-white outline of an individual and an actual flesh-and-blood human being. But just the thought that she could if there was absolutely no other choice made her smile.

And to think, only last week her biggest physical risk had been getting a paper cut.

The problem was that right now she’d be downright ecstatic with a paper cut.

Ripley sighed and pushed her auburn curls from her face. Okay, so today hadn’t been as thrilling as she’d hoped. But that didn’t mean things wouldn’t liven up tomorrow. If foul play was involved in Nicole Bennett’s disappearance, then Ripley was going to uncover it. All she needed was a nice long bath and a good night’s sleep. Things couldn’t possibly look as bad in the morning.

Suds flooded over the side of the tub to pool at her feet. Ripley rushed to shut off the faucet. The water level was midtub. Perfect. She stripped out of her slacks, shirt and panties, then gingerly stepped into the tub. As she stood there, growing accustomed to the heat of the water, she glanced in the bathroom mirror, then did a double take. What was it about hotels that they had to position every mirror so that you had a view of every corner of the place, much less of your personal self? Choosing to ignore the bit of cellulite that begged for exercise on her right thigh, she noted that the bathroom mirror reflected the mirror on the bathroom door that in turn reflected off the mirror in the bedroom, which then revealed a view of the sitting room. She supposed some guests found comfort in seeing their surroundings—and perhaps even their stubborn cellulite. For Ripley it only served as a reminder that she was alone in one of the best hotel suites Memphis had to offer.

She reached out and pushed the door to close it. Only it didn’t close all the way. As she sank into the silky bubbles she still had a sliver of a view of the rest of the suite. She closed her eyes, blocking it out.

Bubbles tickled her nose. She wiped them away with a bubble-laden hand. Well, that worked, didn’t it? She grabbed for a towel and cleaned away the fragrant bubbles, then lay back and relaxed again. Her feet felt as if she’d just run the Boston Marathon. Either that or walked the entire distance between her home city of St. Louis to Memphis. Her body felt like she’d swum the Mississippi, which was visible just beyond the open balcony doors of her bedroom. What she wouldn’t give for a thorough massage right now.

As far as she was concerned, massage was a highly underrated skill when it came to choosing members of the opposite sex. Out of the three guys she’d dated in the past five years, a total of zero had known what to do with his hands. She groaned, finding her mood going from bad to worse. After the last dating disaster, she’d given up trying to find that one guy for her, that soul mate magazines touted, the storybook prince little girls dreamed about. She’d gotten to the point where she’d accept companionship. The problem was none of the guys she had dated had been interested in that, either. So she’d decided that her entire life in general needed some livening up. Her friend Nelson Polk had made the fateful mistake of agreeing with her.

“Never found a woman who lived up to my idea of one, you know?” Nelson had said, the steel-wool-like tufts of hair above each ear not stirring as he shook his head and considered his next chess move. The late autumn weather had been mild, the St. Louis park teeming with people out to store up memories to see them through the winter ahead. “Took me three divorces and two bankruptcies to figure that one out. Don’t let the same happen to you, Ripley.”

That conversation had taken place seven months, two days and ten hours ago. Ripley could pinpoint the exact moment because it had been the only time Nelson had revealed a clue to what had led to his hanging up his P.I. hat and ultimately calling a homeless shelter home and the park his backyard. That moment would be forever locked in her mind because she could envision her life turning out just like his if she didn’t do something about it…now.

She had immediately voiced her thoughts to Nelson, expecting objections or arguments or even exasperation. Attempts to talk her out of her silly idea. Instead, he had smiled, neither encouraging her nor discouraging her. And she remembered thinking that if one day she ever did become a mother, that’s the type of parent she would be. She wouldn’t try to stuff her child into a mold. She would give her son or daughter the freedom to make his or her own decisions.

That conversation had opened an irreparable and irresistible crack in the mold she’d felt suffocated by her entire life, and she’d stepped right through it. She’d looked up shooting ranges in the phone book and held a gun in her hand for the very first time. A life-altering experience. Not because she harbored any secret desire to go around blasting people to kingdom come. That couldn’t have been further from her mind. Rather the act of standing there with her feet planted at shoulder width pointing a .22 at the target a mere five yards away shined a spotlight on her and her life. In that one moment she’d known she was solely in charge of the direction she was going. That if she continued going with the flow, making as few waves as possible, she’d end washed up on shore somewhere wondering how in the hell she’d gotten there. She’d been a secretary because… She frowned into the bubbles. It seemed so long ago even she could hardly remember. Her degree was in computer science. But she’d signed up with a temporary agency to get a feel for various companies and ended up staying a secretary.

Going with the flow.

A brief knock sounded on the hotel room door. Ripley snapped open her eyes. Room service forgot something, maybe? The bathroom mirror revealed her chef’s salad still on the table in the sitting room, untouched, the requisite glass of water, side order of dressing and bread sticks all there. She reluctantly began sitting up when she heard what sounded suspiciously like a room key being slid into the lock mechanism, then an ominous click she was afraid had allowed entrance.

Someone was coming into her room.

Ripley stared wide-eyed into the mirror even as she slowly sank lower in the tub. The first thing she saw was two hands holding a nasty-looking gun. One that made her 9mm look like a toy.

This didn’t make any sense. She’d spent all day beating the bushes, hoping for some sort of revealing reaction to her questions about Nicole Bennett’s whereabouts. The most exciting response she’d gotten was a belch from the pawnshop owner whose coffee cup probably hadn’t held coffee. At least she thought she hadn’t caused any interesting reactions. She’d have to go back over her notes on reading people. Obviously she must have brushed past that section. And now there was one—now two…and three—gunmen slinking into her room.

Speaking of guns…

Sloshing as little as possible, Ripley reached out and grabbed hers from the sink. Then disappeared completely under the bubbles.

Talk about being in over her head….

OH, BOY, was this ever a night to remember.

Joe Pruitt tossed the shoe catalog to the hotel room floor then switched off the bedside light and lay back, folding his hands behind his head. Pale moonlight streamed in from the open balcony doors, reminding him of the overly bright sliver of moon he’d seen earlier. A moon made for lovers, he remembered thinking. He grimaced. Lovers. Yeah, right. For the past ten years his only lover had been his athletic-shoe company, Sole Survivor, Inc. Well, okay, maybe he wasn’t being completely honest. There had been Tiffany in Texas. Nanette in North Dakota. Wendy in Washington. He just now realized the correlation between the names and the states, and his grimace deepened. Anyway, his relations with each of the women had lasted no more than a couple of weeks. Long enough for them to figure out that his company came first and everything else a very distant second, and for him to discover that once sex was out of the way, he had very little in common with any of the women. Not that it made much difference. He’d figured out a while ago that settling down wasn’t in his blood.

Home base was in Minneapolis, but he had a house in San Francisco, an apartment in Chicago and a condo in New Jersey, and he probably couldn’t recite the phone numbers of any of them. His cell phone. Now that was the important number.

Although recently an altogether different number had begun resonating through his brain. The number one. The Three Dog Night song of the same name had been playing right along with it. Where one had been more than okay with him before, now it seemed to be emerging the loneliest number, indeed. He noticed it during his last trip to New Mexico, when he’d landed the big deal with Shoes You Use. Deals like that one always planted a grin on his face. But for some reason, the three months of courting the account, wining and dining the company’s reps, then the bigwigs, had felt anticlimactic somehow.

Anticlimactic. Now there was a word. Yeah, well, if he’d paid more attention to the girls at the strip joint earlier, maybe even now he’d be experiencing some real climactic moments. Instead, he’d spent the four hours at the men’s club staring at the dancers’ feet, fixated on his plans to expand his collection of sports shoes to include daily wear. It was then he knew something was really wrong with him. Here were fantastically sculpted women with perfectly bare breasts, and he was fascinated with their feet.

Joe shifted uncomfortably. He was reasonably sure that the account reps he’d been schmoozing hadn’t noticed his distraction. Then again, why should they have? They’d been doing all the things normal men did when a naked woman was shaking her wares in their faces. Namely hooting, hollering and stuffing sweaty bills into barely there bikini bottoms.

Maybe he’d just been to one too many strip joints, he reasoned. There was nothing wrong with him. It was normal to encounter the odd rough patch, wasn’t it? Times when things didn’t make much sense? When a guy stopped cold in his tracks and asked himself just what it was all about, anyway?

Yeah? Well, then, why had he never experienced one before?

He’d always been happy with his bachelor status. Very happy. A jock of all sports throughout high school, he hadn’t allowed his physical capabilities to get in the way of his education and he’d graduated in the top ten percent of his class. An injury while playing college basketball had left him facing a long recovery period. But rather than wallowing in self-pity, he’d traced his injury back to the shoes he’d been wearing and had designed the first of what would be many pairs. He’d graduated, was featured in Forbes at age twenty-five and for all intents and purposes was one of the most successful bachelors on either side of the Mississippi. He’d even finally managed to earn his father’s stamp of approval a couple years back when he’d finagled a sponsorship deal with a top player with the Minnesota Timberwolves. A basketball fan from way back, his retired Army colonel father had grinned from the courtside seat the entire season. It was the first time Joe had ever seen tears in his father’s eyes, the day when the entire team had posed for a picture with the old man in center court.

Joe found himself grinning. Yes, that had definitely been a highlight. And his actions had earned him an ally against his mother whenever she launched one of her “I want grandchildren” attacks.

Joe figured he’d had it pretty good. An only child. A successful entrepreneur. A relatively problem-free existence.

Then why in hell did he suddenly feel like he was missing the point? That there was something he just wasn’t getting?

A shadow fell across his bed from the direction of the open balcony doors. Probably a cloud. He rolled over, away from the balcony, and folded the pillow under his head. He had a full day on tap for tomorrow. Another tour through the target company’s inventory warehouse. A look at charts and graphs of how their other products were doing. Another night spent playing the good old boy.

The sheet around his midsection stirred. He grimaced and looked at it. What the hell?

His thoughts stopped completely when a slender female hand circled his waist from behind. Simultaneously, he felt a hot, wet body slide against his back. A very naked, hot, damp body.

Had he fallen asleep? Was this a wet dream, like the ones he used to have when he was seventeen?

The hand rested against his abs between his ribs and his navel. His stomach automatically tightened. The smell of peaches teased his nose. The details seemed very real to him. And if he was asleep, he wanted to get a glimpse of this dream girl.

He moved to turn around.

“No, don’t!” a female voice whispered, the arm tightening around his waist, the hand slipping a little lower.

Joe swallowed hard. Definitely not a dream.

Sounds of footsteps on the balcony, and more shadows fell across his bed. Then suddenly, where he’d been pinned in place moments ago, the same arm was flattening him on his back and the woman was straddling him.

Breasts. Bare breasts. That’s the first thing Joe saw as firm thighs squeezed his hips. The same type of breasts that hadn’t moved him one iota at the strip joint earlier but now made his mouth water, the stiff, peaked tips swaying a mere inch or so away.

The woman bent forward. “Stay still,” she quietly ordered.

What did she mean? He was still.

Oh. Well, maybe there was one part of him that wasn’t completely obeying.

The sound of the balcony doors being slid open, then the woman was kissing him.

No, she wasn’t kissing him. She was on the brink of devouring him. The instant her lips pressed against his, her tongue darted shamelessly inside his mouth, along the length of his, then around the interior like it was a hot, dark cave she was determined to map out.

Joe stared at her, bug-eyed in the dim yellow light. Lots of dark curly hair, wide, dark eyes—her tongue dipped again, flicking against his—and a hotly decadent mouth.

He groaned against the mattress and lifted his hands, burying his fingers in the mass of damp fragrant curls tickling his face.

Sweet Jesus, but this was better than any dream. Forgotten were the strangers on his balcony, the identity of the woman straddling him, the bizarre notion that he didn’t have any idea what was happening. All he could think about was the rush of heat to his groin, the thunk thunk of his heartbeat in his chest, the taste of the mouth even now plundering his, the feel of soft curls clasped in his fingers.

Then she moved.

Oh, God, she moved.

Joe had to break contact with that incredible mouth and groan as his erection pressed into the V of her thighs. He grasped her bare hips and held her still, his hips jutting upward against her.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized the shadows were no longer at the balcony doors.

The dream nymph on top of him moved again. But this time it was away.

Joe reached for the shadowy silhouette but missed as she padded toward the balcony. A dull click, a rasp of fabric, then the light next to his bedside table was switched on.

Joe blinked at the woman standing in front of the backdrop of the closed balcony doors and heavy maroon curtains, finding her visually every inch as delectable as she had felt. Wild, curly auburn hair framed her oval face, contrasting against her pale skin, the length brushing her shoulders. Breasts full and pouty stood high on her chest, shadowing the slender waist below. The triangle of fleecy curls between her toned thighs was just a shade darker than her hair and seemed to point toward her legs—wondrously long, shapely legs that ended in a pair of sexy feet.

But it was her eyes, almond shaped, brown and large as chestnuts, that told him what had just happened was an aberration.

“I need your help,” she said, her voice void of the sexy whisper of moments ago and filled with what he could only equate with panic.

2

WELL, THIS WAS NEW.

Ripley stared through the peephole in the door. Two of the three gunmen left her room then strode down the hall, obviously minus one of their buddies. Had he stayed behind in her room in case she returned? She jumped when the gruesome twosome seemed to look directly at her before stepping into the elevator. But that was ridiculous—they couldn’t see her through the peephole. She drew her head back. Could they?

She turned, her hands flat against the thick metal door. The only problem was that the new view offered another unfamiliar man who also made her want to jump. But for altogether different reasons.

Peering at him through the open door to the bedroom, she saw him lying on his side against the crisp white bed linens, one elbow propping him up, the top sheet draped across his bare waist. Ripley’s heart felt like it might beat straight out of her chest. When she’d formulated her plan in her bathtub, she hadn’t thought beyond getting out of her hotel room—stat. She lay under cover of the bubbles for as long as she could, avoided a probing with what she thought looked suspiciously like a silencer, but the instant the men left the bathroom and were in the sitting area, she’d hightailed it out of the bath and straight through the open balcony doors. Of course she hadn’t stopped to consider that she was as naked as the day she was born or that her room was two floors from the ground. She’d merely clutched her 9mm for dear life, eyed her neighbor’s balcony some two feet away and acted.

She swallowed hard. She supposed she should be glad her neighbor wasn’t some middle-aged, pudgy salesman. But she wasn’t convinced that this guy was better. She stared at the Playgirl poster material staring back at her. He had tousled deep blond hair with the slightest of coppery tints, a handsome cowlick over his forehead making him look even more devastating. Blue, blue eyes that tempted every last clichéd comparison to the sea, with a fringe of dark lashes. She knew from visual confirmation as well as touch that he was one hundred percent lean, hard muscle. And he was…long. When she’d straddled him, it had taken a bit of a stretch to reach his mouth, a kiss the best she could do at the time to keep him from reacting as the gunmen appeared at the balcony doors. Well, at least she had prevented him from reacting to them. To her…well, he’d been a more than welcoming host.

Ripley realized her breath still came in rapid, shallow gasps and fought to control it. The problem wasn’t that the guy was handsome. It was that, despite her predicament, for a minute there she’d actually enjoyed the kiss. Enjoyed it? She’d damn near inhaled him when a simple closed-mouth peck would have done.

In fact it had taken the shock of feeling just how thorough his reaction to her had been through his knit boxers to snap her out of it.

She’d never been so fiendishly unabashed in her life. It didn’t matter that three ugly guys toting guns had been the motivation. They didn’t explain the genuine hunger that had filled her lying on top of a hot, anonymous guy in a dark hotel room.

“I’m, uh, what I mean is…” She faltered, not quite sure what to say to him now that the immediate danger had passed. She rolled her eyes to stare at the ceiling. You’re a P.I., for God’s sake. An independent woman in charge of your own destiny. She blew out a breath. Yeah, right.

“Thanks,” she finally, lamely offered, waving her hand in his general direction.

The rasp of sheets. She blinked to see that he had thrown back the top sheet to reveal the other half of the mattress. “Well, don’t you think you should give me a chance to give you something to thank me for?”

Ripley stared at him as if he’d gone insane. Then his suggestive, heat-filled perusal of her person left her mind resonating with one undeniable fact—she was still naked.

“Oh, my God.” She slapped one arm across her breasts and her other hand over her…oh, my God. It wasn’t that she was overly modest by any means. Her mother had always had to remind her to keep her legs crossed when she wore a skirt, or put her robe on over her pj’s. But this definitely didn’t fall into the same category. She looked first this way, then the other, visually searching the room for something to put on. Against her better judgment, she stepped into the bedroom. The closet door was ajar.

“Wow, the rear view is just as amazing as the front.”

Ripley started, then turned slightly, giving him a side view. Awkwardly positioning her leg so nothing showed, she reached in and grabbed a blue oxford shirt from a hanger, pulling the hanger with it. It took some doing but, with her back still to him, she finally managed to shrug into the soft cotton with what she hoped was a modicum of dignity. At least until she realized that the mirror on the sliding closet door allowed the man behind her a full view of the open front of the shirt. And judging by the grin on his face, he was enjoying every moment of it.

She made a face at him. Just what kind of man didn’t blink at a strange, naked woman climbing into his hotel bed in the middle of the night? She shakily buttoned the shirt. Scratch that. She didn’t want to know. The truth was, she’d come across one too many just like him. Well, okay, maybe not as drop-dead gorgeous, but externals didn’t matter in this case. What did is that he was probably just like every other guy she’d ever dated. “Forget the small talk, babe, and let’s get down to business.”

Hadn’t guys figured out yet that a woman needed more?

Then again, she couldn’t blame him. Hey, when a naked woman sneaks into your bed in the middle of the night, what do you do? Kick her out? No. You make the best of the situation, right?

She crossed to the bed, noticing his grin grow wider. She grabbed the sheet and gave it a yank. He moved over to make room for her. She smiled and reached toward his crotch.

“Now that’s more like it,” he said, patting the spot beside him.

She withdrew her 9mm revolver from under the sheet and weighed it in her hand. She was gratified by the vanishing of all amusement from his face.

“Whoa,” he said, holding his hands up almost comically. “You climbed into my bed, remember?”

Ripley smiled and sat on the edge of the mattress. “Yes. And it’s a good thing you’re used to such events, isn’t it? Or else neither one of us might be here now.”

She didn’t think she’d ever seen a person move quite so fast. One minute he was in a reclining position, looking like temptation incarnate, the next he was standing next to the bed, clutching the sheet to his chest like he’d been violated. Which, she decided, was how he should have looked when she crawled into bed with him. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re not a…gift from one of my colleagues.”

Ripley’s brows moved up on her forehead. She polished the nickel-plated gun with the corner of the sheet. “Do you often get gifts of that nature?”

“Never.”

“No, I’m not a gift from one of your colleagues. And I’m not housekeeping looking to make your bed while you’re still in it. Or room service, wanting to redefine the meaning of the term.” She waved the revolver. “Don’t worry, I pushed the wrong button and the clip fell out in the bathtub anyway.” She put the handgun on the bedside table closest to her, then leaned across the bed, her hand extended. “Hi. I’m Ripley Logan, P.I.”

Oh, how she’d always longed to say that. Some of the patina had worn off during her daylong search for answers, since not one person had seemed impressed by the badge she’d ordered from a magazine. But this guy’s reaction made all those blank, unimpressed stares worth it. Even if his expression was probably due more to the gun he kept staring at. While the people she’d encountered all day had gone out of their way to see that she didn’t get what she was looking for, this one had wanted to give her everything she was looking for. Er, everything she wasn’t looking for.

A surprising shiver shimmied along her arms then down her back as she remembered the texture of his tongue against hers and the hot, hair-peppered skin of his chest whispering against her hardened nipples. God, but the guy could kiss. She’d give him that. It had been a good long while since someone had made her toes curl.

She watched him, waiting for him to snap to. Only when he did, she immediately wanted the other guy back. This one…well, the amused glint in his blue eyes warned her to prepare herself. “P.I., huh?”

Just as she thought. She finished buttoning the borrowed shirt, her damp hair falling over her face. “Do you have a name?”

“Uh-huh.”

She slid a glance at him. “Are you going to share it with me?”

“Depends,” he said, looking to where he still grasped the sheet. He dropped the linen then widened his stance, planting his fists on his hips. For a guy in nothing more than clingy cotton knit boxers he managed to look sexier than all get out.

“On what?”

“On whether or not there’s a camera crew ready to spring through the door and tell me this is a practical joke.”

“Don’t I wish,” Ripley said quietly, then added while stabbing a thumb toward the hall, “be my guest.”

He stood still for half a heartbeat, then strode to the door in the other room.

Oh, boy. Talk about the back looking just as great as the front. He had a pair of buns a girl could dig her fingers into. And thighs that hinted at an endurance level beyond anything she was used to. He peeked through the peephole then turned, catching the direction of her attention. She quickly looked away and reached toward the bedside table where a wallet lay. She flipped it open. “Joseph Albert Pruitt.” She closed the fragrant, faded leather and put it back where she found it. “Nice to meet you, Joseph.”

“Joe.”

She smiled. Joe. She liked that. Where he could have easily pulled off a name like Fabio, Adonis or Romeo, he had a simple, everyday name. But he was far from your everyday average Joe.

She watched as he took a pair of jeans from a chair and easily stepped into them. She swallowed. Of course he was the type to leave the top button open, revealing where the dark V of hair trailing from his navel disappeared into the waistband.

“So,” he said. “The way I see it, we have two options.” His suggestive grin should have sent her packing. Instead it made her stomach dip to somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles. “Either we both climb back into that bed…together.”

Ripley couldn’t believe she found the idea very, very tempting. For crying out loud, she didn’t know the guy from…well, from Joe. “And the second option?”

Joe ran his right hand over his tousled hair and shrugged. “You tell me what’s going on.”

AN HOUR LATER Joe sat across the sitting room table from one very hungry Ripley Logan, P.I., trying not to think that under the shirt she wore, his shirt, was nothing but a precious expanse of flawless skin and shadowy crevices. She had one knee pulled up to her chest, leaving him to wonder what the view looked like under the table as she popped another French fry into her mouth and chewed. Part of the deal she’d made with him included ordering up room service. Only after the meal arrived would she tell him what he wanted to hear.

Well, not exactly what he wanted to hear, he amended. If he had it his way, she’d be making those quiet little throaty sounds she was making as she ate, but she’d be making them in the bed in the other room.

“I can’t believe how hungry I am,” she said, digging into a burger the size of a plate, then licking ketchup from the corner of her mouth. “When I got back to my room earlier I couldn’t even think of food. Amazing what a little action can do, huh?”

Joe sat up straighter. He wished she were referring to the type of action he was interested in. The sight of her pink little tongue sweeping her lips just about undid him. “Yes, I suppose running from armed men will do that to a person.”

She stopped chewing and blinked at him. Then a twinkle entered her cognac-colored eyes. She was enjoying this, he realized. Not the meal. Not his company. Not what had happened between the two of them in that perfectly good, imperfectly empty bed in the other room. No, she had enjoyed being pursued by gunmen—one of whom could still be camped out in her room, if he bought what she was telling him.

“I guess,” she said, waving the burger.

“The funny thing is, I haven’t a clue who they are or what they’re after, even though I know they have to be involved in this missing persons case I’m working on, but considering all the dead ends I hit today, and I mean not one person would—”

Joe took that as his cue that no further participation was required by him for the time being and tuned out. The way she was going, he figured he had a good five minutes before she ran out of steam and expected a response from him. He sat back and crossed his arms, enjoying watching her. He’d never seen a woman eat and talk at the same time. His mother would have been absolutely horrified. His father would have probably made one of those sounds of disapproval deep in his military throat. But all Joe could think about was how damn sexy the action was. If she approached food and conversation with such vigor and passion, he could only imagine what she would really be like in bed. Ravenous. Insatiable.

Joe rubbed his chin with his index finger. He didn’t quite know what it was about Ripley Logan that captured his attention. Yes, she had Julia Roberts’s girl-next-door good looks, but compared to the women at the strip club earlier in the evening, she didn’t begin to scream bedroom material. But that’s exactly where he wanted to get her—in his bed. Take up right where they’d left off.

The top few buttons of the oxford she filched had been left undone, and as she leaned forward to take a French fry from his untouched plate, the shirt bowed open, revealing more than a healthy stretch of soft skin. He nearly groaned, remembering all too vividly how it had felt to have the rounded flesh of her breasts pressed against his chest.

He started coughing and reached for his water glass only to find she’d already drained it.

“Sorry,” she said. She wiped her hand on her napkin, then held out her cola. “I guess I was thirsty, too.”

So was he, but he wasn’t about to say for what. He gulped the rest of the cola then held out the glass. She narrowed her eyes and took it back.

Brushing her hands together, she said, still chewing, “So that’s it. What I know, you now know.”

Joe sat back. Well, that had ended quicker than he’d thought. He’d entirely missed all the cues women usually gave when they were reaching the end of their monologues. Which caught him off guard. “Well, that’s…interesting.”

“Exciting,” she said, and that twinkle entered her eyes, making him wonder all over again what put it there. “At least after the bath part.”

“Hmm. The bath.”

She laughed, and he had the distinct impression it was at him. “You didn’t hear a single word I said, did you?”

His brows rose high on his forehead. Women were usually offended when they figured out he wasn’t paying attention. She appeared amused. He scratched his head. Go figure.

“Sure I did. I heard every word,” he said, feeling required to make at least the token objection.

She pushed her plate away and rested her elbows on the table, then crossed her arms. “So tell me what I said.”

Now this he was used to. All he had to do was choose a few words he’d picked up during the past half hour and he’d convince her he had been listening. “There’s the missing person…the bath…the gunmen.”

Her full lips quirked. “And?”

“And…” He was surprised at his own laugh. “Okay, you’re right, I wasn’t listening.”

Now why had he gone and admitted it? He’d never done that before.

Ripley waved her hand. “That’s okay. I don’t think I made much sense even to myself. I probably won’t until I figure out who those guys are and what they wanted.” She looked to her left, then her right, then leaned forward to peer into the bedroom. “Is it nearly two already?”

She began to get up, and he caught her wrist. “What did you say?”

She blinked at him. “Is it two already?”

He shook his head. “No. The other part.”

“What? That I’m going to figure out what those guys wanted?”

Yes, that was it. Now that his mind was functioning at least seminormally, an obvious thought emerged. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea if you reported them to the police first?”

“Police? Why would I call the police?”

She glanced at where his hand rested against her slender wrist. He swore he could feel the thrum of her pulse there. He removed his hand. “Oh, I don’t know. Call me stupid, but if three armed men were pursuing me, and one was still possibly camping out in my room, the police would be the first people I’d call.”

She reached out and grasped his shoulder, bringing her face mere inches from his. He caught a brief whiff of peaches. “Don’t worry, Joe. I think I can handle a couple of armed men all by my lonesome. That’s part of what being a P.I. is all about.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re one scary woman?”

She was insane. It was as simple as that. And if he knew what was good for him, he would be picking up the phone right now and calling the police himself.

She smiled, then turned from him, allowing an unobstructed view of her from behind. Okay, maybe he’d call in a minute. The shirt she wore was creased at her waist on one side, revealing just a glimpse of a curved cheek. He cleared his throat.

“Besides, what do you think the police would say?” she offered along with the fantastic view. But he’d bet she didn’t have a clue what she was doing. “‘Do you know who the men were, Miss Logan?’ No. ‘Do you know why anyone would want to hurt you, Miss Logan?’ No. Then they’d flick their little notepads closed and tell me to call them if anything else happens.” She waved her right hand, hiking up the shirt even more as she walked away from him. It was all Joe could do not to slump in the chair and groan.

She tossed him a glance over her shoulder. “By the way, you’re not married, are you?”

“Married?” He all but croaked the word.

She smiled. “I’ll take that as a no. Good. I wouldn’t want anyone getting jealous over my staying here.”

“Jealous?”

“Yeah, you know. Wives tend to get a little crazy when they find other women staying in their husbands’ rooms.”

“Yeah, um, crazy.” Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. “What do you mean by staying? What—here?”

She frowned. “Why, yes. Where else would I stay so long as one of those mean, nasty men is still in my room?”

Mean? Nasty? Joe scratched his head. Did those words come straight from the P.I. academy?

He didn’t get a chance to ask. Ripley waggled her fingers at him, then disappeared into the bedroom, not even the view she’d offered enough to take his mind from the situation at hand. “Good night, Joe. Oh, and thanks again.”

She closed the door.

Huh.

Joe sat there for long, silent moments staring at the white enamel of the door, trying to convince himself that what had just happened had, in fact, happened. Had she really locked him out of his own bedroom? He slowly shook his head. This was nuts. In fact, not much of what had happened tonight made much sense. First a naked woman smelling of peaches climbs into his bed buck naked and plants a wet one on him, awakening all sorts of reactions he had just been wondering if he’d grown immune to. Then she virtually takes over his hotel room, wearing his clothes and ordering room service on his tab. Now she’d just told him she was taking over his bed…without him in it.

The same woman who claimed to be a P.I. but struck him as anything but.

Making that phone call to the police was looking more and more appealing.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

He got to his feet, made it to the closed bedroom door in five strides and opened it. “I think you and I need to have a…”

His words drifted off along with his thoughts. Lying flat on her back, her mouth slightly open, one certain sexy, mystifying Ripley Logan was fast asleep in the exact spot he’d been lying in when they’d, um, first met. Slowly he neared the bed. Although why he was being quiet he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to wake her up. Didn’t he? He grimaced. Okay, maybe he didn’t. Well, not to kick her out of bed, anyway.

The top sheet was bunched around her knees. He reached for it to pull it up then caught himself. Since when had he developed protective instincts? If she was cold, let her cover her own damn self up. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood stoically for a whole two seconds then sighed and reached for the sheet again. Only something else caught his attention. Namely the soft cotton of her—his—shirt. She must have moved around a bit trying to find a comfortable spot. Her squirming had caused the sheet to come off and the shirt to ride up. The hem brushed her upper thighs, mere inches from the area that had driven him crazy ever since she’d covered it. He could imagine the springy curls just under the soft material. Joe swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room.

There was something decidedly decadent about standing there like that, watching her without her knowledge. Imagining her slick, swollen flesh just under the soft cotton.

Get a grip, guy.

Joe shook his head and turned toward the door to head for the couch in the other room. Suddenly, he stopped. Ripley lay on the far side of the bed. That still left three quarters of the king-size mattress free. He ran a hand through his hair. They were both adults, weren’t they? Certainly they were capable of sharing a bed without sex being a factor. There was plenty of room. They wouldn’t even have to touch. Unless, of course, they wanted to.

Ripley shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her side and bending her leg at the knee. The movement caused the shirt to pull tight across her shapely little bottom.

Without sex being a factor? Yeah, right.

He left the room and softly closed the door behind him.

3

“THIS IS THE CHART showing our fiscal growth over the past three years during our contract with your competitor.”

Joe sat in the cramped Shoes Plus conference room with the great view of the Mississippi that no one was looking at, trying like hell to concentrate on what the company sales rep was saying. If only the peaks and valleys on the graph didn’t remind him of a certain someone’s peaks and valleys, he’d probably be having an easier time of it. Unfortunately, the distractedness he’d noticed yesterday, even before one certifiably insane Ripley Logan had thought about climbing into his bed, was doubly worse today. He pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced at his expensively produced graph showing his projections for the next two years if Shoes Plus decided to contract with his company. But he couldn’t seem to summon up the energy to do as he planned, which was to use his graph to cover the one the rep was droning on about.

No, he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Call him an idiot, but he hadn’t called the police. He hadn’t been able to do anything more than lie on that uncomfortable, scratchy couch not even trusting himself to go into the bedroom to get the spare linens from the closet. Instead he’d tossed and turned on the narrow sofa, fallen off the sucker no fewer than two times and spent a perfectly miserable night fantasizing what would have happened had he been able to convince the delectable Miss Logan to finish what she had so skillfully started earlier in the night.

Finally, the sales rep put down his pointer and wrapped up his spiel. Ten sets of eyes turned in Joe’s direction in unison. He blinked at them, having completely forgotten where he was.

He discreetly cleared his throat, then smiled. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute…”

He pushed from his chair and stepped from the room, closing the door against the open mouths that followed his progress. He pulled out his cell phone and moved toward the farthest corner of the waiting area, nodding at a woman waiting there. He punched a number, asked to be put through to someone, then waited. And waited. He waited for a full eight rings before a decidedly sleepy, infinitely sexy voice answered.

“What are you doing answering the phone?” he asked in a fake chastising voice.

He heard a soft gasp, then sheets rustle. “Who is this?” Ripley finally responded.

“Who do you think it is?” Joe turned away from the woman watching him curiously. “The guy you threw out of his own bed this morning.”

“Joe?”

“Unless there’s someone else you evicted from their room.”

“Where are you?”

He glanced toward the closed door to the conference room. He was supposed to be working. “In a meeting.”

A long, protracted yawn. “I didn’t even hear you leave.”

Which was a wonder, because he’d gone out of his way to make as much noise as possible two hours ago, slamming doors, opening and closing drawers, after the sounds he’d made showering and getting ready hadn’t broken the rhythm of her soft snoring. He’d come out of the bathroom with her smack dab in the same position he’d left her in the night before.

“Isn’t sleeping so soundly a job hazard?” he asked. “Especially after what happened last night?”

A pause. “I wasn’t in any danger after I got to your room.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because…because, well, I have a sixth sense about these things, that’s why.”

“Ah, something else you learned from the private investigator’s handbook?”

A soft laugh. Joe found himself smiling.

“Is there something in particular you wanted, Mr. Pruitt, or did you just call to annoy me?”

Joe realized that there really hadn’t been a reason for his call beyond seeing if she was still there. And his relief that she was proved a little off-putting. He thought of the display case on the conference table in the other room and asked if Ripley saw it around the hotel room anywhere. She told him to hang on and he waited while she looked.

He supposed he should tell her that he’d spotted the guy left behind in her room leaving at the same time he did. In fact, he’d shared an elevator with him. But that might mean she’d leave the minute they hung up.

Joe glanced at his watch and called himself a moron. A moment later she was back on the line. “Nope. Nothing of that description around here.”

“Damn. I must have left it in the car,” he said.

“Is that all?”

He grimaced, drawing a blank for other reasons to keep her on the line. Well, aside from the guy. “Yep. That’s it.”

“Okay. Well, bye then.”

“Yes, bye—wait.”

He was afraid she’d hung up, then she sighed and mumbled a distracted, “What?”

“Don’t answer the phone again. You, um, never know who might be calling.”

“I thought you said you weren’t married.”

“I didn’t say I was a monk.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Joe disconnected the line, waited a heartbeat, then pressed redial. As expected, Ripley picked up on the first ring.

“I thought I asked you not to pick up the phone.”

“Well, then, quit calling me.”

Joe disconnected again and chuckled as he headed to the conference room, ready to face the suits in there.

RIPLEY REACHED OVER to replace the receiver on the nightstand, then collapsed against the pillows, smiling. And he thought she was weird. What kind of person called to tell her not to answer the phone, then called back and checked to see if she would? She stretched. The kind of guy with a sense of humor, that’s what.

She settled her head more comfortably against the pillows. How long had it been since she’d dated someone with a sense of humor? A while. Maybe never, even. At least not a guy with the same wicked, inventive sense of humor Joe had. Of course, she and Joe weren’t dating. They’d just slept together. In the same hotel room.

She pushed up to her elbows. A hotel room she should be at least thinking about getting out of.

She caught a glimpse of a note next to the phone and reached over to pluck it up.

“Call the police,” was written in large block letters. It was signed, “Joe.”

She put the paper down and glanced at the clock then leaped off the bed. Was it really nine-thirty already? She’d meant to get up early and try to follow the third guy when he left her room. Assuming, of course, that he had left her room.

She crossed to the wall and pressed her ear against it, although common sense told her one person waiting for another to return probably wouldn’t make all that much noise. She sighed then eyed the phone. A person waiting for another probably wouldn’t answer the phone in that room, either.

She placed an order for room service to deliver to her room. As soon as she broke the connection, she rushed into the bathroom for a quick shower, only after toweling off realizing she didn’t have anything to wear. She stood in the doorway to the bedroom and eyed the drawers. Well, she’d already borrowed the guy’s bed. A pair of underwear wouldn’t be completely out of line, would it? She put Joe’s shirt on, fished a pair of those clingy cotton boxers out of the top drawer, then a pair of socks from the next. Not exactly the epitome of fashion, but it would do. Then she hurried to the door to stand watch for room service, wishing she had thought to have something sent to Joe’s room when her stomach growled.

Five minutes later she watched the elevator open and a white uniformed guy roll a cart in the direction of her room. She followed it as far as the peephole would allow, then with the security block securely in place, cracked the door open so she could listen.

A brief, determined knock next door. “Room service.”

Ripley smiled. She couldn’t help thinking that Nelson Polk would be proud of her little ruse. She resisted the urge to open the door the rest of the way and peek her head out, deciding that wouldn’t be very smart. The way her luck was running, the guy would spot her when she was trying to determine if he was still there.

Another knock and a more strident call.

Ripley gave in to temptation and her screaming stomach and opened the door. The room service guy was just beginning to turn away from the door to her room when she waved at him, hurrying down the hall.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I locked myself out of my room.”

He eyed her skeptically. “Ma’am?”

“I’m Ripley Logan. This is my room.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You don’t believe me. Okay. I’ll tell you exactly what I ordered then.” As she told him, he silently read the order. “Convinced?”

He grimaced while she cautiously eyed the door to her room. Was the guy in there even now, watching her? Attaching a silencer to his gun? She shuddered and stepped a little closer to the wall where she couldn’t be seen from the peephole. She’d seen a movie once where someone was shot through the peephole. Even if the logistics didn’t make much sense, a little caution never hurt anybody.

The delivery guy called to a maid cleaning a room down the hall. Within minutes she was unlocking the door. Ripley hung back, trying to see beyond the small crack.

“Ma’am?” the delivery guy asked.

“What? Oh, of course.”

She swallowed the wad of wool in her throat and tentatively pushed the door open, smiling her nervous thanks to the maid. If the guy was in there, she wanted to be sure she could make a clean run for it. Besides, the room service guy was pretty hefty. He would jump in to protect a damsel in distress, wouldn’t he? She eyed him more closely. More likely he’d be running down the hall right after her.

Nothing in the living area.

Ripley tiptoed into the room, craning her neck to make out the bedroom. Remembering the mirrors, she glanced behind her. From the living room, into the bedroom, into the bathroom, she saw no scary shadows. She stepped into the bedroom and closed the balcony doors. Whew. He was gone.

THE WOMAN was an ego booster.

Joe grinned at the conference room full of sales reps and company bigwigs, confident that after a sluggish start, he’d made a successful comeback and had just given one of his strongest finishes ever. Jackpot. This contract was as good as in the bag.

“Gotta tell you, Joe, you had me worried there for a while,” VP John Gerard said, pumping Joe’s hand after he took down his chart and slid it into its carrying case.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I had myself worried there, too.”

John chuckled and moved away. Joe straightened to shake hands with the remainder of his colleagues, easily moving from speaker to greeter. His secretary, Gloria Malden, once told him she loved to watch him work. That no one could work a room the way he could. It was a good thing Gloria was fifty and a grandmother or else he might have thought she was coming on to him. Instead, he’d taken her words as a rare compliment. Lord knew he’d had so few of them growing up. And while he’d like to think he’d grown beyond the shallow desire for praise, he reasoned that it wasn’t hurting anyone to acknowledge it when the occasional bit did come his way.

“Dinner tonight, right?” Percy said quietly, leaning closer to him in a conspiratorial way.

Percy had been the biggest tipper at the strip joint last night. Joe was surprised he had money left to slip in any more G-strings.

Joe thought of the sexily provocative Ripley Logan and wondered if she was still in his room and whether or not she’d still be requiring his…services when he finished here. He grimaced. Even if she was and did, he had too much riding on this deal to chuck it all in exchange for some amateur sleuthing with someone who was so wet behind the ears she squeaked.

“Mr. Pruitt?”

Joe told Percy they were on, then glanced toward the door through which most of occupants of the room had already exited. His smile froze on his face when he saw the guy he had shared the elevator with that morning, the one who had chased Ripley from her room and into his bed, standing squarely in the doorway. His body—as wide as it was tall—effectively blocked the exit, and two guys with the exact same build and height stood behind him.

Damn.

RIPLEY REACHED across the table and plucked a strawberry from the nearly empty service tray in her room, then turned over the picture she was staring at. Dressed in dark blue jeans and a purple T-shirt, she felt much better now that she had regained possession of her room and there were no armed gunmen hiding in the shadows. Her chewing slowed as she eyed the security lock on her door. Of course, it probably wasn’t a good idea to stick around too long, lest they figure everything out and make a return appearance.

She brushed her fingers on her jeans then turned the photograph right side up again. The black-and-white shot was of a dark-haired woman of about her age who could have been a double for Angelina Jolie, except that her hairstyle was different. But it wasn’t so much the woman in the picture that caused questions. Rather it was the picture itself.

Ripley ran her thumb along the length of the photo. It wasn’t on traditional stock paper. Rather it appeared to have been run off a printer. And the grainy quality and downward angle of the shot made it look like something from one of those low-end security cameras. Which really didn’t make any sense considering she’d gotten the picture from Nicole Bennett’s sister, Clarise.

She glanced over the information again. Nicole Bennett. Twenty-eight years of age. Dark brown hair, gray eyes. No noted employment. She’d been visiting her sister one day when she just up and disappeared with the family silver. The pieces, bearing the recognizable initials ZRD, had popped up at a Memphis pawnshop two days ago.

“She does it all the time,” Clarise Bennett had said in response to Ripley’s questioning stare. “One Christmas she took antique ornaments from the tree.”

No, she hadn’t reported the episode to the police. This was a family matter. And all Clarise was really interested in was retrieving her silverware and making sure Nicole was all right.

As to the initials, Clarise had said she’d inherited the set from her maternal grandmother.

Ripley propped her chin on her palm and stared at the photo again. What type of person stole from her own sister to finance a trip to Memphis? Allowing, of course, that that’s the reason she’d stolen the items. Was she on drugs? Clarise had assured her she wasn’t, but Ripley wasn’t convinced. Especially when she’d visited Nicole’s apartment in East St. Louis and found that it was little more than a room in a flophouse, a furnished room with a sink in the corner that could technically be listed as an apartment but was little more than a closet with running water. She hadn’t found anything there to give her a clue about the woman she was looking for.

She reached for another strawberry only to discover they were all gone. As were the eggs Benedict, the two pieces of toast, a side of bacon and an extra large helping of hash browns and fruit. She glanced at the front of her jeans and groaned. If she wasn’t careful, she would need a whole new wardrobe in a larger size by the time this woman hunt was over.

She reached for the phone to call Clarise and give her a status report. Asking for a better picture of her sister probably wouldn’t hurt, either. She consulted the file then dialed the number. A moment later the sound of a recording telling her the number was no longer in service couldn’t have surprised her more. She pressed disconnect and tried again, only to get the same result.

Well, that didn’t make any sense. The number had worked just fine yesterday when she’d called to tell Clarise she was on her way to Memphis. She tried one more time then finally dropped the phone into its cradle, drumming her fingers against the cold plastic, before putting in a call to her own answering machine. Nothing. Not even a call from her mother reminding her to come for dinner Sunday night.

She hated when there were no messages.

A dull, muffled sound came from the direction of the hall.

Ripley nearly catapulted from the chair and fell on her face, given the way she was sitting with her leg bent under her. But that was nothing compared to the way her heart thunked in her chest. She tiptoed toward the door, her hand resting against her chest as if to keep the rowdy organ still.

She knew she shouldn’t have hung around as long as she had. She should have gathered her belongings and hightailed it right out of there the instant she knew the gunmen had left. But no. She’d had to sample the room service tray. And while she was doing that, she thought she might as well review the case file, too. No sense wasting any time.

Right.

Another sound.

Ripley scrambled for the bedroom, hoping she wasn’t in for a replay of the night before.

WHAT IN HELL was he getting himself into?

Even as Joe asked himself the question, he knew that whatever it was, it was sure to be a whole hell of a lot more interesting than his life had been of late. He got off the hotel elevator on his floor and strode purposefully toward his room. He’d called there no fewer than four times after Larry, Curly and Moe had left him at Shoes Plus twenty minutes ago. No answer.

Which was essentially what he’d given the three men who had introduced themselves as FBI agents. No answer.

Oh, he’d spoken with them, all right. Only he suspected he hadn’t given the responses they had been banking on. Instead, he’d asked them how they’d known where he was. The first guy had said they had gotten his name from the hotel, then put a call into his secretary in Minneapolis.

Great. They probably knew more about him than any of the women he’d dated in the past five years.

No, he’d told them, he didn’t know the person in the hotel room next to him. And for good measure asked what the guy was wanted for. Yes, he’d had a female visitor last night. A little Memphis treat from his, um, colleagues. Did he know how to contact her? Well, they might try the Kitty Kat Lounge, but he really couldn’t give them any more than her stage name.

After talking around in circles like that for fifteen minutes, Joe had somehow gotten away with not even telling them what that stage name was. If it had come down to it, though, he probably would have made up a name. Like Naughty Nelly or something. Over the past ten years, building his own company, he’d gotten good at staving off disaster. He’d never had to lie, really. He’d merely stretched the truth now and then.

Of course he had lied to the FBI agents. Blatantly. Which meant he’d be in deep doo-doo if they figured that out and caught up with him.

After giving a brief knock on the door, he slid in his card key, then opened the barrier. No sign of Ripley, not that he expected one. The fact that the security block hadn’t been on the door was a pretty good indication she wasn’t in there. Still, he walked to the bedroom. Either housekeeping had already visited or his surprise visitor was a neat freak. The bed was made. The room service tray from the night before was in the hall. He looked in the bathroom. All the discarded towels sat in a neat pile in the corner.

Neat freak. What kind of woman cleaned up a room at a hotel?

He backtracked to the living area, plucked up the phone and dialed the room next to his, although he’d tried it, along with his number several times earlier. No answer.

Great. The FBI was on his tail for Lord knew what reason. And the woman who was the reason for it had as good as disappeared.

Or at least she wanted to make it appear as though she had.

Joe stalked to the balcony and pulled first the curtains, then the doors open wide. He looked from the left to the right then strode toward what would be Ripley’s balcony. He hiked his brows up. There was a good two feet between the railings, and a two-story drop. Had she really climbed over, naked, last night?

The question was, was he ready to climb across, fully clothed, in the light of day?

He gripped the railing and looked over the side. An Olympic-size pool sat in a courtyard surrounded by trees. People milled about, but no one seemed to notice the man staring down at them. All it would have taken was one glance and he’d have scrapped any idea of climbing over. He’d been athletic throughout high school and college. Heights were the only thing that had ever gotten to him.

He gritted his teeth and tried to see into her balcony doors, which wasn’t going to work from this vantage point. So much for that idea.

The only way to do something difficult was just to do it.

He gripped the railing tightly and vaulted to the other balcony then stood straight up, brushing his hands together in a show of great pride. Hey, what do you know? It hadn’t been half as difficult as he’d thought it would be.

He stepped to the balcony door, expecting to find it locked. Instead, it slid easily open.

Damn. Not a good sign. If Ripley was in there, he highly doubted she’d left the balcony doors unlocked.

The white filmy curtain sheers billowed out and hit him in the face. He yanked them out of the way. The bedroom was just a little too quiet for his liking. Then again, Ripley might have hightailed it out of the hotel altogether the instant after they’d hung up earlier. Maybe she’d gone to the police, as his note to her suggested.

Yeah, right.

He hesitantly stepped inside, not knowing what to expect. At least he was fairly sure The Three Stooges couldn’t have beat him to the hotel. Then again, who was to say that there were only the three of them?

He grimaced and looked around the bedroom for any sign that Ripley might still be there.

Well, at least the fact that she wasn’t a neat freak was reassuring. Whereas she’d straightened up his room, this place was a mess. In the bathroom he made out discarded clothes on the floor. If he stood staring at the red lacy bikini underwear a little longer than he should have, he wasn’t going to admit it. He crossed into the living room where a room service tray sat, not a crumb in sight to indicate what it had held. He stepped to it and smiled. The girl had an appetite, he’d give her that much. He leaned beyond the tray to the table. Papers were strewn across it. He frowned. He was fairly certain they were her papers. But had she left them there the night before, or had she been in the room recently?

He backtracked to the bedroom and stood silently in the doorway, gripping the doorjamb speculatively. The closet door was open, revealing no one was in there. The shower curtain was wide, showing an empty tub. He rubbed his chin, then crossed to the bed. Reaching blindly underneath, he groped around a bit. He heard a gasp at the same time his fingers wrapped around a warm, slender ankle. He gave a good tug, and Ripley Logan lay staring at him as if she expected Jack the Ripper.

He grinned.

RIPLEY KICKED at Joe’s shins, muttering every last curse word she’d ever learned, heard or sounded like it fit the occasion. “For God’s sake, Pruitt, why didn’t you say anything when you came in here? I thought you were one of them.”

She got to her feet and stood glaring at him, completely humiliated at having been caught skulking under the hotel room bed. And given his expression, she didn’t think he was going to make it any easier on her.

“Don’t tell me. Rule number two in the P.I.’s handbook. If you hear an intruder, hide under the bed.”

She told him to do something that was physically impossible then strode toward the living area. Yes, this might be her first case. And yes, she was probably making a first-class mess of it. But that didn’t mean she had to put up with Joe’s wiseass remarks at every misstep.

“Where’s your gun?” he asked, following her.

She lifted the lid that had kept her eggs warm and snatched the 9mm. She’d put it there thinking that if she was interrupted during breakfast, it would be close at hand.

Of course, the minute she’d needed it, she’d forgotten it. Out of sight, out of mind, or so the saying went. She took some pride in that the clip was firmly in place. At least this time it had been loaded. She chose to ignore the rest for the time being.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked as she swung around.

“Whoa, there.”

Ripley found him standing closer than she thought he would be, and the muzzle of the gun nearly pressed against his solar plexus. He carefully pushed the gun and her hand aside.

“Don’t worry. It’s on safety,” she told him.

“Tell me why that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

She smiled at him. She’d forgotten how enticingly handsome he was. Her gaze caught on his mouth, and she leisurely licked her lips.

“Ripley?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t look at me that way.” She watched a swallow work its way down his throat. “You might not like what happens as a result.”

For all intents and purposes last night marked their first kiss. But given the circumstances, Ripley hadn’t enjoyed it to the extent she would have normally. Gunmen probably had that effect on a woman. But right here, right now, there was nothing to stop her from thoroughly exploring Joe’s smart, sexy mouth. She stepped forward, her gaze firmly on his lips. He caught her by the shoulders.

“Sorry, Ripley. Some men might find a woman with a gun attractive. Me? Frankly, it scares the shit out of me.”

She realized she still held the 9mm in her right hand and sighed. “Party pooper.”

His grin could have coaxed seedlings into full-grown plants. “You had your chance last night.”

“Last night I didn’t know you.”

“You don’t know me all that much better now.”

She twisted her lips to rid them of the itching. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

He glanced at his watch. “And of course you would pick now to change your mind.”

“Of course.”

He sighed. “I’m supposed to be in a meeting right now. A very important meeting that could have a very important impact on my company.”

“Uh-huh.” She could tell by the way his gaze kept drifting to the front of her T-shirt and her mouth that the idea of her kissing him was looking better by the second. She leaned in until their lips were almost touching.

“Which, um, brings me to the reason I’m here,” he murmured.

“You mean you didn’t come back just to pull me out from under the bed?” But before he could answer, Ripley softly pressed her lips against his.

Joe groaned, his left hand going for her right and the gun. He held it still while his right hand skimmed under the hem of her T-shirt to grasp her breast. She dipped her tongue and tasted his lips. Coffee. Something sweet. A doughnut? She worked her tongue into his mouth. Vanilla. Definitely a doughnut. Bavarian cream.

He quietly cleared his throat, flicking the pad of his thumb over her erect nipple. “What I have in mind takes place on top of the bed, not under it….”

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