The P.I. Who Loved Her

“I think you’re wildly attracted to me and don’t know what to do about it?”

“Wildly attracted?” Liz raised one eyebrow. “At one time, I might have been very attracted to you, Mitch McCoy….” She paused and looked him in the eye. “But now I wouldn’t even consider…”

“Sleeping with me?”

“You already missed your opportunity there. From here on out, something like that will only happen in your dreams.”

Mitch nodded. “Yep, there too.” He shook his head. “Only, I know for sure I’m not dreaming now. Because if I were, the diner would be empty. And you wouldn’t be standing there wearing that uniform, no matter how cute you look in it.”

“Oh, and where would I be?” she countered.

He gave her a sexy grin. “For starters, you’d be stretched across this counter, with those long legs of yours…”

Liz took a step back, her pulse leaping. “That’s enough. I think I get the picture.”

“But darlin’, you didn’t even let me get to the part about what I was doing….”

Dear Reader,

Ask and you shall receive. When we wrote License To Thrill, the first book in THE MAGNIFICENT MCCOY MEN miniseries, we were overwhelmed with requests for more stories about Marc and his sexy-as-sin brothers. So how could we resist?

In The P.I. Who Loved Her, restless Mitch McCoy comes face-to-face with his former fiancée, Liz Braden, on the side of a dark country road. Not only did Liz leave him at the altar seven years ago, but the wedding dress she’s wearing tells him she’s just left another poor fool in the same situation. Mitch’s dilemma: keeping his hands off the only woman he’s ever wanted—long enough to figure out what, or who, she’s running from.

We hope you enjoy watching Liz lead Mitch on a merry little dance that ends up where it should have seven years ago—in the bedroom! We’d love to hear what you think. Write to us at P.O. Box 12271, Toledo, OH 43612, or visit us at the web site we share with other Temptation authors at Temptationauthors.com. And be sure to keep your eyes peeled for the next MAGNIFICENT MCCOY coming your way….

Here’s wishing you many happy endings,

Lori and Tony Karayianni

aka Tori Carrington

The P.I. Who Loved Her

Tori Carrington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

We lovingly dedicate this book to the memory of our fathers, Carl J. Schlachter and Vagelis Karayianni, two men who showed us what being a true hero is all about.

And to Kostoula Karayianni, a woman who would make any heroine envious.

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

Epilogue

1

“YOU KNOW, Mitch McCoy, you really need to get a life.”

Mitch downshifted as he neared the outskirts of Manchester County, Virginia, then tugged at his tie. Only the pickup’s headlights broke the inky darkness, his own voice broke the all-consuming silence. Still, he wouldn’t be surprised if Sheriff Mathison waited on the other side of the next cornfield, ready to nab him for speeding. Next to him, Goliath stared at the closed passenger window, a patch of coffee-colored fur disturbed by the air conditioner blower. The dog—a mammoth, butt-ugly husky and shepherd mix—whined and turned mournful eyes on him.

“I know what you mean, sport. I know what you mean.”

And he did know. In the past few months he’d come to know exactly what wanting an unnamed something meant. Waking up in the morning in a cold sweat, reaching for something—or someone—that wasn’t there. Speaking thoughts and ideas aloud only to discover there was no one around to hear. Living with an intangible hole in the vicinity of his chest—a hole that wasn’t going to be filled tonight by going home to an empty house.

The entire McCoy clan was still in Bedford, Maryland, celebrating his brother Marc’s marriage to Melanie Weber, even though the miserably happy couple had already left for their honeymoon cruise to the U.S. Virgin Islands. The Virgin Islands. Marc had said something about it being romantic. Maybe it was Marc and Mel’s idea of romance. A ship would be the last place he’d find romantic. All that…water. Garish tropical-print shirts. Food-laden buffet tables. Sunshine. Sex—

Mitch’s foot slipped from the gas pedal. Where had that thought come from?

It wasn’t that he begrudged his brother his happiness. It was a miracle Marc and Mel had finally sorted everything out, despite the drastic way in which they had. It was just that, of the five McCoy siblings, clueless Marc seemed like the last person who would stand at an altar, much less be the first.

Well, he hadn’t exactly been the first. But he had been the first to actually make it to the nuptials part.

That was it—the reason he was so agitated. All this talk of weddings…of the L word…of making promises and sticking to them. It should have occurred to him when he’d had to squirm in that uncomfortable pew for an hour, forced to watch Marc and Melanie complete what he had never had. Forced to remember the day he’d been left at the altar as if it were yesterday.

But it hadn’t been yesterday. He tugged at his tie again. It was seven years ago last month Liz Braden had left the town, and him, behind.

At any rate, his…restlessness hadn’t developed overnight. No, it had been months—if not years—in the making. He’d grown listless in his role as P.I., just as years before he’d grown frustrated at the rigmarole as an FBI agent. While he still shared an office in D.C. with his two partners, Mike Schaffer and Renee Delancy, he’d passed most of his clients over to them, keeping only those to whom he felt personally obligated. Then he’d returned home to Manchester to pursue a dusty old dream—a dream he’d secretly harbored since his mother had told him about the Connor tradition of horse-breeding. He’d readily abandoned the fantasy at eighteen when he’d followed in the footsteps of every other McCoy male for the past four generations and entered the military, then later, law enforcement.

But rather than his frustration abating as a result of the recent changes in his life, it had quadrupled. The crappy thing was he knew exactly when that had happened: the night Marc had asked him about Liz Braden.

What was it his brother had asked? He couldn’t remember the exact words, but he all too clearly remembered their meaning: Had he ever regretted not going after Liz?

If only Marc knew that he had gone after her. In a sense, anyway.

Goliath whined again, louder this time. Mitch frowned at him in the darkness. “What is it, G? Do you have to water the weeds?”

The mutt lumbered to an alert position, a line of slobber dropping from the side of his meaty mouth to his elephantine front paws, indented on the edge of the seat.

Mitch glanced in the rearview mirror to find the road behind him empty. He downshifted again and flicked on his high beams, illuminating the dark stretch of Route 28 in front of him.

Aw, who was he kidding? He was the last person to be applying armchair psychology to his life. In all likelihood, his agitated state was due to something far simpler. Say, lack of sex? It had been a long time since he’d buried himself in some prime, sleek, female flesh. Too long. He told himself that right now any female would do. But he knew that wasn’t true. He simply figured that’s how most men who hadn’t had any in awhile feel.

Fifty feet ahead on the opposite side of the two-lane road, a stopped car with its yellow hazard lights flashing stood out against the otherwise black June night.

Still, someone with a great smile and a fine pair of thighs would be nice. He squinted at the woman standing next to the car. Anyone but—

Liz.

Mitch tightly hauled the steering wheel to the left to stop the truck from catapulting over the embankment and into the ditch. He cursed, his heart rate leaping. Marc and his damn questions. He’d never have thought of Liz if it wasn’t for his brother. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but he’d certainly never hallucinated seeing her before.

He was worse off than he thought.

A deep breath whistled from between his teeth as he stared at the brand-spanking-new Lexus gleaming in the twin beams of his headlights. In a town filled with pickups, a pricey automobile pulled off the side of the road at twelve-thirty in the morning was sure to raise some speculation. Goliath nudged his shoulder. Mitch ignored him as the bright beam of his headlights reflected off the woman kneeling next to the left rear tire.

His brakes quietly squealed as he stopped his truck even with the car. “Need some help, lady?”

The woman wrenched a crowbar up and down. Mitch’s gaze followed the way her sweetly shaped bottom within her white dress swayed with each movement. Hmmm….

“Thanks, but no,” she said. “I’ve changed tires before. One more isn’t going to make much of a difference.”

Mitch glanced at the digital clock on his dash, then back to her tempting backside. To hell with wanting someone with a great smile. He’d settle for a grade-A bottom like this one had.

It’s a wedding dress.

He stared at the silky white material skimming the woman’s lavish curves and nearly choked. Okay, that was it. He’d had enough of weddings, and anything associated with them, to last a lifetime.

Goliath pawed his denim-clad legs. Mitch held the dog back from where he strained toward the open window.

“What’s up, G?” He hadn’t seen him this animated in years. The tinny sound of music reached his ears. It wafted from the open door of the Lexus. Country, he guessed, grimacing. He scanned the lighted interior, finding the car empty. No air freshener hanging from the mirror, no purse on the seat, no sign of a suitcase or overnight bag. He glanced over the roof toward the dark ditch he knew paralleled the road. He found no sign of a shadowy figure waiting to ambush him.

“You’re getting cynical in your old age,” he muttered, then said to her, “Suit yourself.”

He shifted the truck back into gear.

He’d moved thirty feet before he stepped on the brakes again. He tapped his side-view mirror until the woman in white was back in sight. Damn. He couldn’t just leave her there. Despite his natural caution and the fact that the county crime rate was basically nil, Pops had taught him and his brothers better than to leave anyone—much less a woman—stranded on the road in the middle of the night.

Sighing, Mitch hooked a U-turn, bringing his truck back behind the Lexus and its Massachusetts license plate. Nothing to indicate it was a rental. Then again, most states had done away with marking rentals. He ground to a stop directly behind the car. He rolled up the window enough to prevent Goliath from jumping out, then climbed from the truck cab.

“Indulge me,” he said, before she could protest. He hoisted the spare from the Lexus’s trunk, then nudged her out of the way. “Neither of us is going to rest until you’re safely back on the road.” He jacked the car up a little higher, his muscles bunching under his shirt at the familiar scent of wild cherries. The music battled with the cadence of crickets in a nearby cornfield.

“Mitch?” the woman said over the sound of a twangy guitar. “Mitch McCoy, is that you?”

He stood up so quickly, he nearly tripped over the spare lying on the road behind him.

Holy… It was Liz.

WELL I’LL BE….

Liz dragged her gaze over the long, delicious length of man standing before her, from his shiny boots, to his tight, new jeans, then up to where a tie hung haphazardly around the collar of his crisp white shirt. She didn’t know who was more shocked by the midnight encounter, her or Mitch. And she was definitely sure the fine specimen before her was Mitch. Years may have passed since she’d last seen him, but she’d recognize the tantalizing man anywhere. No one could fill out a pair of jeans quite the way Mitch could.

Liz ran the tip of her tongue along her suddenly dry lips.

Amazing.

She finally looked up to his face and gave a short, impulsive laugh. No, she’d have to say he was the more surprised of the two by far. He looked like someone had just whacked him in the head with a two-by-four. She smiled. Imagine that. She had rendered Mitch McCoy speechless.

“You changed your hair color,” he finally blurted, more than said.

She tucked a dark strand behind her ear, a small part of her flattered he’d noticed—which was majorly stupid. The last thing she should have been doing was blushing at a man’s attentions. Even if that man was Mitch McCoy. “Yeah. I, um, didn’t always have more fun as a blonde.” Of course, she wasn’t having that much fun as a brunette either, if her current predicament was any indication.

His gaze flicked rather than slid over her attire, lingering in certain places and causing a curious, sizzling warmth to meander through her bloodstream. Well, that certainly hadn’t changed, had it? It had taken Richard Beschloss five dates to get to first base with her. One look from Mitch and…

Well, she didn’t think it prudent to take that thought any further.

His gaze reached her breasts. The meandering heat quickened to a scamper and she found it suddenly impossible to breathe.

His gaze quickly lifted to her face. “Liz, is that blood on your dress? What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

If anything was capable of reminding her of the mess she was currently in, that was. She glanced down at the dark stain on the bright white of her dress. Trust Mitch to immediately identify it correctly. Back in Jersey she’d gotten away with telling a gas station attendant she’d spilled chocolate syrup on herself.

She looked back at Mitch, whose gaze was riveted to her breasts.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No…no, I’m fine,” she said, feeling the ridiculous urge to laugh again. Now her ex-groom, on the other hand…. “Don’t, um, worry, it’s not mine. I’m as fit as the day I last saw you.”

Mitch reached up and tugged almost violently on his tie, drawing her gaze to the base of his neck. All at once, her mind filled with the image of the two of them standing in the front room of Gran’s house, him in his new suit, her standing in her bare feet staring at him proudly. It had been his first official day as an agent of the FBI. “Why, Mitch McCoy, you clean up real nice.” She’d laid on her best southern drawl, forgetting how torn she was between wanting him to succeed in what he’d chosen to do, and needing him to be there for her.

How long had it taken her to break him of the habit of fussing with his tie? Two months? Three? How many times had she smoothed his collar, only to be sidetracked by the clean-smelling expanse of his skin there, just under his jaw?

She dragged her gaze up to his, watching her guardedly. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Somehow I knew you’d still be in Manchester,” she said, her voice a little too breathless, a little too revealing. She reached for the crowbar and continued jacking up the car. “Small-town boy Mitch McCoy, who’ll die in the same spot he was born.”

She slid a glance over her shoulder, relieved to find him grimacing at the jibe. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged.

Oh, yeah, she’d known odds were she’d run into Mitch when she came back to Manchester. And she’d even admit to feeling a tingle of excitement at the prospect of coming face-to-face with him. The only problem was, she hadn’t counted on running into him the instant she rolled over the county line. Hadn’t expected to be reminded of how much she had missed him.

That was just one of those things about life: when it rained, it bloody well stormed.

She cleared her throat. “How’s, um, your father?” she asked, acutely aware that he was watching her backside.

He jostled her out of the way then knelt in front of the tire. “Fine. He’s fine.”

“And your brothers?”

“They’re fine, too.” He sat back on his heels. “Look, Liz, I’m really not in the mood for a game of catch-up. It’s been a really long day. I’d like nothing more than to get you on your way, then go home and crawl into bed.” She watched him stiffen, then close his eyes and mutter a curse. He finished hoisting the car up and methodically removed the lug nuts from the flat. Her mind turned over all the possible reasons for his reaction, then she homed in on the most likely: the mention of bed and her in the same sentence.

The warmth that had spread through her veins earlier edged up a degree or two. She rode out a delicious shiver, and tried to remind herself of the long list of reasons she had not to play with the fire flickering in front of her in the shape of Mitch McCoy. First and foremost, the fact that she had been minutes away from marrying another man, oh, not twelve hours ago.

Still, not even that impetus was enough to stop her from wanting Mitch in much the same way she’d always wanted him, despite the number of years that separated then from now.

He glanced at her over a broad shoulder. “So what brings you back to Manchester, Liz? Last I heard, you were in Chicago.”

She smiled. He might not want to play catch-up when it came to himself, but it appeared she was a whole different matter. “So you kept tabs on me. I’m impressed.” She watched his frown deepen. “I do have to say I’m a little disappointed, though. I left Chicago a few years back.”

“Let me guess. You left for Massachusetts.”

“Um, actually no,” she said quietly. “There were a couple of cities in between.” She felt inexplicably uncomfortable. “But they don’t matter. Not now.”

The crowbar slipped from a lug nut and he nearly pierced the flat tire with the pointed end.

“What is it with the dress, Liz? Is your groom stashed in the trunk, or is this style one you’ve taken a liking to?”

She inwardly winced at the below-the-belt jab. “I don’t know, Mitch. Did you see anyone in the trunk when you got the tire out?”

“Damn. Stepped right into that one, didn’t I?” He continued working on the flat tire. “You never answered my question.”

She stared at him blankly.

“What are you doing back in Manchester?”

Now that was a question. What was she doing back in Manchester? It was something she’d been asking herself ever since she realized a few hours ago that was where she was heading.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was feeling a little nostalgic for the past, maybe?” She turned away from where he watched her a little too closely and drew in a deep breath of the damp, summer night air. “I’ll be on my way as soon as some things settle down in Boston.”

She hadn’t realized he’d moved until he stood right next to her. “These things that need to settle down—they don’t have anything to do with the blood on your dress, do they?”

She glanced at Mitch’s profile in the darkness. For just an instant, she remembered that her favorite pastime had once been staring at him. Tracing the outline of his nose with her finger…running her tongue along the fine ridge of his jaw….

She cleared her throat. “No. Well, not exactly anyway.” She wiped at a smudge on her long skirt then turned her best smile on him. “This stain really has you worked up, doesn’t it?”

He rubbed his long, slender fingers against his chin, making her fingers ache to do the same. “Yeah, well, you always did have this way of getting under my skin.”

“Yeah. Ditto,” she said, eyeing his mouth. His wide, generous mouth she had once kissed for hours at a stretch. Dipping her tongue in and out of its hot wetness. Sucking on his bottom lip then catching it between her teeth. “Guess some things never change, no matter how much you want them to.”

“Yeah.”

Her gaze slammed into his. What seemed like an eternity of unanswered questions and unacknowledged truths seemed to pass between them. Then Mitch drew away and moved stiffly back to the car, a line of quiet oaths filling his wake.

Liz straightened the strap of her dress and sighed. Truth be told, she didn’t know what she was doing back in Manchester. One minute she was punching Richard in the nose at the Beschloss estate, the next she was on her way to Virginia with no clothes, no resources, and every reason to think she wouldn’t have access to either for awhile. At least not until Rich regained his cool. Of course, if she’d known what was going to happen, she never would have sold her apartment and moved all her things to Rich’s place. Or rushed out with little more than her car keys and the clothes on her back, her plans not stretching beyond getting out of the house now. Good thing she always kept her driver’s license and a gas card in the car’s glove compartment or she’d never have made it out of Massachusetts. She’d also found a few dollars’ worth of change in the car, but that was it.

She had suspected there was something inherently wrong with getting engaged to a spoiled bank vice president whose family just happened to own the financial institution he worked at and where she had all her accounts. And here she thought her misgivings had to do with all that blue blood that ran through his veins.

Then there was Mitch….

She watched him lower the car and tighten the lug nuts. He got up and held out the crowbar and jack.

“Here. Since you didn’t want my help to begin with, I’m sure you won’t mind cleaning up.”

She accepted the items, then flicked a glance down the road. Mitch followed her line of vision.

“What’s the matter? You expecting company?”

She laughed her response, then abruptly stopped. Was it naive to think that Rich wouldn’t follow her?

The sound of a barking dog made her jump. Then she recognized the over-zealous, roaring bark of this particular dog. She stared at the truck behind the Lexus.

“That’s not…” She met Mitch’s exasperated gaze. “You still have Goliath?”

His silence was all the answer she needed. She thrust the jack and crowbar back at him, then lifted her skirts and hurried in the direction of the truck.

Mitch stood planted to the spot on the asphalt, clutching the tools. He felt as if someone had grabbed the edges of the invisible rug that constituted his life and given it a good yank, throwing everything into chaos. Funny, it was the same way he had always felt when around Liz Braden. Actually, it depended on the day. Years ago he’d described her as the sunlight that had chased the shadows from the dark side of his soul. Tonight, she was definitely a rug-yanker.

He watched her open the truck door as enthusiastically as if she wore jeans and a T-shirt rather than a wedding dress. The aging brown-white-and-black dappled dog leapt out. If he didn’t know better, he would think the mutt recognized the woman who had rescued him from life as a mangy farm dog. He lapped repeatedly at her face and ran around her with more energy than he’d shown for years. Remembering Goliath’s whining in the truck before he’d even spotted the disabled car, he idly wondered if the dog had known what was coming all along.

Or maybe he was as much of a sucker for a pretty face as he was.

Mitch leaned against the bed of the truck, watching the two get reacquainted, Liz murmuring endearments and roughhousing with a dog he would have thought she’d forgotten by now. Forgotten much as she had forgotten him.

“God, how old is he?” she asked.

“Twelve.” Mitch cast a glance down the dark road. What had she been looking for?

“Don’t worry,” she said, stepping beside him, a puppy-like Goliath at her heels. “I lost the car following me a couple hundred miles back.”