The P.I.

She studied him for a moment. Objectively speaking, he was very handsome. His face had the lean, strong features that ancient artists had liked to capture in marble and bronze. His nearly jet-black hair was on the long side and untamed. Standing there barefoot in threadbare jeans and a T-shirt, the man looked a bit untamed, too. And large. She felt something begin to pulse right in her center. He had broad shoulders, a narrow waist, long legs. And narrow feet. For some reason, she found his bare feet…sexy.

The pulsing in her center deepened. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t merely shock. She was a bit attracted to him. It was a natural reaction on her part. The man would speed up the pulse of any woman who had one.

But it was definitely not jealousy she was feeling—just because he’d asked another woman out to dinner. That was ridiculous. She was in trouble. He was going to help her. The cop on the other end of the line could have dinner with him anytime she wanted. She wished both of them well.

Kit hung up the phone and shifted his gaze back to the Magnum. “You know, this is definitely not a lady’s gun.”

She couldn’t have said why his comment had her lifting her chin. “Maybe I’m not a lady.”

His grin was quick and charming. “Sugar, you’re a lady right down to the tips of your toes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you would know that because?”

His smile widened. “I’m a crack-shot investigator. I make a good part of my living noticing and cataloging the details. Look at your feet.”

She glanced warily down at the open-toed shoes and blinked. Her toes were painted red.

“Those shoes, if I don’t miss my guess, have a designer name on them. I’d say Italian. My kid sister, Philly, would give up lunches for a month to own a pair. I’m guessing the suit you’re wearing has a designer label, too. Plus, you’ve got a pedicure. And a manicure.”

She unclasped her hands and studied her nails. They were clean, neatly filed, painted with a clear polish except for the white tips.

“It’s a special kind of manicure—with some kind of name. Philly told me once.” Kit paused, narrowed his eyes and snapped his fingers. “French. It’s a French manicure. And according to my sister, it costs extra. So you’re certainly not trailer trash. You either come from money or you work hard to earn it. And you use some of it to take good care of yourself.”

Was she the kind of woman who had nothing to do but shop and go to beauty salons? Was getting a manicure and a pedicure the highlight of her week? She sincerely hoped not. She thought of the money in her tote. Maybe it belonged to her. Maybe she’d earned it. She much preferred the latter. But how had she earned that much money and all of it in cash? A thought popped into her mind. “Maybe, I’m a professional hit woman.”

This time he didn’t flash her that killer grin. Instead, he looked at her as if he were considering the possibility. Not good.

“That’s one possibility. Let’s test it.” He opened another drawer, took out a gun and placed it on his desk. It wasn’t the same kind as the one he’d taken from the tote, but it was large and just as deadly looking. “Pick it up.”

She hesitated for only a moment. Then she lifted it with her right hand. It was heavier than she’d expected and she nearly dropped it.

“You’re not holding it like a professional,” he commented.

She shot him a narrow-eyed look. “I’m suffering from amnesia, remember?”

“If I asked you to boot up my laptop and search the Web for information on amnesia or memory loss, would you know what to do?”

She glanced at his computer and considered. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

He smiled at her. “There you go. The gun isn’t as familiar to you—therefore, you’re probably not a professional hit woman. Why don’t you try pulling the trigger? Aim it at the wall over there. It’s not loaded.”

More than anything she wanted to set the gun down on the desk, but she didn’t. Instead, she clasped it with both hands, raised it and pointed it at the outer wall of the office.

Even as she tightened her finger, her hands began to shake. A chill moved through her and, in spite of the heat in the room, she very nearly shivered.

She wanted to drop the gun and run. Biting her lower lip, she steadied her grip on the gun and squeezed the trigger. In the quiet room, the click sounded like a gunshot. Immediately, an image flashed into her mind—quick and bright as lightning. She was in a room filled with shadows. She was breathing hard as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs and there was a musty smell that was somehow familiar. Beneath that, she caught the scent of something else. Roses? A shadow shifted and a door in front of her opened slowly. Fear—an icy ball of it—lodged in her throat. Her hands shook. She couldn’t steady them, but she was going to shoot—she had to—

When the dark figure slipped into the room, she pulled the trigger. And saw the figure stumble back into the wall. Deafened by the sound, blinded by the bright flash of fire, she stumbled backward herself and hit something hard. Hands gripped her upper arms.

“Easy, sugar. I’m right here.”

Her head spun once, and then she remembered. Kit Angelis, the P.I. She’d hired him to help her.

“It’s all right. Just take a deep breath and lean on me for a minute.”

She did. But even as her vision cleared, she felt her whole body begin to throb. He continued to talk to her in that calm, steady tone, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her senses were so filled with him—his body was rock hard at her back and so were his hands. She could feel the press of each one of his fingers through the fabric of the suit on her upper arms. Her mind suddenly filled with the sensations of what those fingers would feel like moving over her bare skin—over her throat, her breasts, her waist, and lower…lower. Oh, she knew exactly where she wanted those fingers to press.

“Take another breath.”

She breathed in, trying desperately to rein in her unruly thoughts.

“You remembered something.”

His words brought the memory back clear as crystal. How could it have slipped away—even for a moment? “I shot someone.”

He turned her then and, after settling her in a chair, knelt down in front of her.

“Who?”

He wasn’t touching her now. Instead of feeling…bereft, she should be grateful. The man was trying to help her and she wanted to just…jump him. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t blame this on shock. It had to be something else.

“Close your eyes. Try to picture it like a video.”

He was trying to do his job, trying to help her. The least she could do was help him. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and tried to recapture the image of the shadowy figure opening the door and slipping into the room. “I can’t make out his features. The room was so dark.”

“Him?”

She thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yes. The figure was large. Tall and broad. I’m positive it was a man.”

“Did you see him fall?”

She shook her head. “He stumbled backward into a wall, and I can’t remember what happened next.”

“What do you recall about the room?”

She frowned. “Nothing—no wait—there was a musty smell…the scent of old books. And—” her heart skipped a beat “—I smelled flowers, too. The bridal bouquet?”

Panic sprinted through her. She wasn’t sure how, but her fingers were laced with Kit’s when she opened her eyes. “What if I’m not the bride or the sister or the maid of honor or even the wedding planner? What if I’m a jealous ex-lover of the groom and I shot him for revenge? Maybe I shot the bride, too.”

“Whoa! As a writer, I’d like to steal that idea for a plot. But as a P.I., I prefer to stick to the facts. The jealous, revenge-seeking ex-lover scenario doesn’t explain why you’d run off with the wedding dress. Nor does it account for the loot you’re carrying around. Plus, all you remember so far is that you shot someone.”

“Maybe I killed him.”

“And maybe not. You saw him stumble backward. You didn’t see him fall. Let’s stick with that until we know more.”

She stared at him. He was being kind, trying to reassure her. She wanted desperately to believe him, but her gut instinct was telling her that she’d shot and killed someone.

“Have you ever had to shoot anyone?” she asked.

Kit’s gaze was steady. “Not yet.”

But he could, she thought. She could see it in his eyes. If he had to, he could shoot someone. So could she. Did that make them alike? That strange feeling of recognition moved through her again. This was a man she wouldn’t have thought she’d have anything in common with, but it seemed she did. Right now she wanted nothing more than to just lean into him, to put her head on his shoulder and ask him to put his arms around her.

Even as she tried to clear the image out of her mind, she was suddenly aware of just how close they were, of how still the room had become. His face was only inches from hers and she could hear each individual breath he drew in and let out. She could smell him, too—a combination of soap and something else that was dark and male.

His mouth was so close, but it was his eyes she was most aware of—she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away from them. Something about the way he was looking at her had changed. As his fingers tensed on hers, heat streamed through her and she saw the reflection of that heat in his eyes.

Right now, she saw in them the same hunger she was feeling. She wanted to kiss him, and he wanted to kiss her, too. All either of them had to do was to lean just a bit closer…She’d barely moved when the memory of that dark shadowy room once more flashed through her mind, and she jerked back. “I need to…we need to…”

He released her hands, but his eyes remained on hers. “Yes, we do.”

There was a promise in his tone that had a little thrill moving through her. But as he rose and helped her to her feet, his voice became businesslike.

“It’s a very good sign that you’re having flashes of memory,” he said as he moved behind his desk. “It probably won’t be long until you remember everything.”

She drew in a breath and let it out. Her skin felt cold now that he’d moved away. It shocked her that she still wanted to kiss him. A total stranger. A man who could make her blood turn into hot lava with a look or the most casual touch.

What could he do when he really touched her the way she’d imagined only moments ago? When he touched her all over? When and not if? What was the matter with her? Was she sex-starved? She barely kept from dropping her head into her hands. She could not go on this way. She had problems here. Big ones. She didn’t know who she was or exactly what she’d done. Throwing herself at the man she’d hired to find out just how bad her situation was—well, that was a sure path to disaster. She had to get a grip, keep her mind on business.

Kit was certainly doing that. While she’d been fighting off a lust attack, he’d been emptying the tote. The packets of bills were neatly aligned along the edge of the desk, and he was carefully thumbing through one of them.

Obviously, what he’d felt a few moments ago hadn’t been as intense as what she’d felt. She drew in a deep breath and let it out. Maybe she’d hired the wrong man for the job. She didn’t think she’d be having this problem if he were short, fat and balding. Her eyes shifted to the twenty-dollar bill he’d laid on the desk. She could take the retainer back and just tell him that she’d changed her mind.

She considered that option as she watched him count the money. He certainly was focused. And thorough. And perceptive. So far, he’d told her things about herself that she might not have noticed—at least, not for a while. Not to mention the fact that Kit Angelis didn’t look at all shocked by the gun, the money or the bloodstains. He hadn’t batted an eye at the memory she’d shared with him, either. Plus, she needed someone’s help.

Just thinking about gathering up the wedding dress, the money and the gun and starting over with someone else was exhausting her. She glanced at the business card she’d set down on the desk when she’d picked up his gun. Someone had given her that card. Someone had sent her here. Fate? She didn’t know if she believed in fate or not, but she wanted very much to believe that she was the kind of woman who stayed the course.

Kit set the last bundle of bills on the desk, then sat down in his chair and smiled at her. “Have you decided whether or not to fire me, yet?”

5

S TARTLED, SHE SAID , “How did you—” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re some kind of psychic?”

Kit managed not to wince when she said the word as if it were some kind of disease. But the way she was looking at him now was a great deal safer than the way she’d looked at him a few moments ago. Safer for him. She’d been pale as a ghost and, for a moment, all he could think of was kissing her. She was a client, but reminding himself of that wasn’t doing a bit of good.

“Well, are you?” she asked.

“No. My aunt Cass would argue that my brothers and I have some latent psychic abilities that we’ve inherited from my mother’s side of the family, but my sister, Philly, is the only one who really has a true gift.”

Now she was staring at him as if he was a smear some lab tech was about to shove under a microscope. In pure self-defense, he summoned up the dimples. “Sugar, I don’t have to be a psychic to read what you’re thinking. You have the most expressive face and eyes I’ve ever seen.”

At her skeptical glance, he continued. “For example, a few minutes ago you wanted me to kiss you. Then you started to worry about that. You glanced more than once at that twenty-dollar bill.” He raised his hands, palms out. “My conclusion—you’re having second thoughts about hiring me. No psychic powers required.”

He saw the flash of temper in her eyes. “Well, if I’m so transparent, then you already know whether I’ve decided to fire you or not.”

“Touché.” As he threw back his head and laughed, Kit had the satisfaction of seeing the corners of her mouth twitch. He hadn’t seen her smile yet, and he wanted to. Very much. He wanted other things from her, too. If she hadn’t pulled back from him, he would have kissed her a few minutes ago. He’d very nearly kissed her even after she’d pulled away, but he wasn’t sure he could have stopped with just a taste of her.

Truth be told, the strength of his attraction to her made him nervous. And cautious. Women had made him cautious before. But nervous? Never. A smart man would keep their relationship strictly business for the time being. Kit had always thought of himself as a smart man.

“Since you haven’t taken your retainer back, I’ll give you my first report. Usually, I type them up, but under the circumstances, I’ll deliver it verbally—if that’s all right?”

“That will be fine.”

She was sitting there with her hands folded on her lap, as prim as a nun. But there were passions simmering beneath that cool exterior. Kit reined his thoughts in and focused on what he’d deduced so far.

“Counting the twenty you gave me for a retainer, there’s a cool twenty thousand here.” He gestured toward the stacks of bills.

Her already straight spine stiffened. “Not a bad payoff for a hit of some kind.”

“Based on the way you handled my gun, I still don’t think you’re a professional killer.”

“I did shoot someone.”

He met her eyes steadily. “You might have acted in self-defense. And there are other possible scenarios. Perhaps you interrupted a hit.”

She blinked. “I never thought about that.”

He watched her consider that possibility, and he knew the minute that the headache hit her. Opening a drawer, he grabbed aspirin and a bottle of water and pushed them across the desk.

She shot him an accusing look as she reached for both.

Kit raised both hands, palms out. “Hey, you winced and your knuckles turned white. I’m a P.I. I make my living observing the details. And for what it’s worth—I don’t think you can force the memories. They’ll come when you’re ready.”

“You know something about memory loss, then?” she asked.

“I had to do some research for the last book I wrote.” Enough to know that it probably wasn’t merely the bump on her head that had triggered her amnesia. “But I’m no expert.” His glance dropped to the stains on her suit. Something had happened, something of a traumatic nature and she’d shot someone. That was what her mind was blocking. At least, that was the way he would have written it.

“Could I see your research?”

“Sure.” Then he shot a rueful glance around the office. “It might take me a while to locate it. In the meantime, why don’t you let me do my job? What we know for sure is that you’ve got a gun, no purse, a wedding dress, my business card and twenty thousand in cash. The serial number on the gun is being traced. You remember shooting at someone, you think it was a man. As a theory, we’ll assume you hit him because of the bloodstains on your suit.” He spread his hands on the desk. “That’s what we know for sure. Agreed?”

“Yes. So what do we do now?”

He pulled a notebook out of a drawer and opened it to a fresh page. “I want you to start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember, everything that’s happened since you regained consciousness in the taxi.”

She’d gone tense on him again, he noted. “Try closing your eyes and picturing what happened.”

“There isn’t much to tell.”

“Replay it in your mind like a video and don’t leave anything out.”

She did what he asked, and he jotted down notes in his own personal shorthand. For a while the sounds of traffic outside were muted by her voice and the movement of his pencil across the paper. When she finally finished, he set the pencil down and met her eyes.

“See?” she said. “There’s nothing.”

“On the contrary, I’ve learned a lot.”

“What?” She leaned forward a bit.

“Number one, you’re smart. In spite of everything that happened—the accident, the discovery that you couldn’t remember anything and that you had bloodstains on your suit—you acted in a calm and logical way. You searched for clues. You asked the taxi driver the right questions. Number two, you told me the story in a clear, straightforward way, revealing that your mind works logically. Three, you’re meticulous. If you recalled something, you went back and filled it in. And the way you described examining the dress bag and tote looking for clues tells me that you’d make a pretty good P.I.”

For the first time since she’d walked into the office, her lips curved in a full smile, and Kit felt his heart stutter. Swallowing hard, he continued, “Four, you have a very good eye for detail.” The way she described her short, belligerent taxi driver and the tall, skinny man who’d crashed into them had made the two men come vividly alive in his head—the gypsy and the scarecrow. “I’d say you’re some kind of an artist. A writer perhaps, or maybe a painter.”

She considered that, then said, “You’re being very kind. You’ve left out number five—I’m a coward. When I heard the siren, my first instinct was to run from the cops.”

“You’re not a coward. You’re cautious. You didn’t merely run away. You came here and hired me to find out what happened. I call that smart and brave.”

On impulse, he rose, circled the desk and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“You said you trusted me, remember?”

She put her hand in his and he drew her to the door that opened into a small bathroom. Gripping her shoulders, he turned her toward the mirror over the sink.

“What do you see?”

She looked intently at the image of herself. He saw hope bloom and then fade in her eyes. “I see a stranger.”

“Look harder.”

Her chin lifted. “Okay. I see a woman—blond hair, green eyes. Short, about five…”

“I’d say five foot two.”

“She has pale skin, and she looks…scared and…fragile.”

“At first glance. But look at that chin.”

A tiny line appeared on her forehead as she studied her reflection. Then he saw a smile flicker at the corners of her mouth. “Okay. Maybe not so fragile.”

“Does the woman in the mirror look like a cold-blooded murderer to you?” Kit asked.

“No. But…”

“But there could be circumstances under which she might fire a gun. I promise you two things—we’ll find out those circumstances and we’ll find out who you are. Okay?”

“Okay.” Her eyes met his in the mirror then, and Kit felt as if he’d been punched right in the gut. Too late, the warning bells rang in his mind, telling him it was a mistake to have brought her in here—an even bigger mistake to have touched her again. But even as those thoughts appeared, they vanished from his mind in favor of more tempting ones.

He pictured the two of them, limbs tangled, in a dark room on a narrow bed. He pictured them right here in the bathroom, her skirt pushed up, her legs wrapped around him. Desire—that he could understand and accept. But in the past, it had always been simple, never this urgent. And the pressure, the tiny ache around his heart—he’d never experienced anything like it before.

Her eyes had darkened, her lips had parted. He could see the pulse beating frantically at her throat. If he turned her around and kissed her, she wouldn’t resist. Perhaps if he had a taste of her, maybe if he felt that slender body pressed against his, just once, it would quench the fierce hunger growing in him.

And pigs fly, said a little voice at the back of his mind. But his body paid no attention to that voice. His hand was already sliding over her shoulder to her throat, where he’d imagined touching her earlier. Her skin was warmer than porcelain, soft as sin and so delicate that he could feel her pulse against his fingers. Desire sharpened into an ache. One taste. He had to have one.

Her eyes were still on his in the mirror when he said, “One kiss.”

“Yes.”

Kit turned her around and, before another thought could intrude, he pulled her up on her tiptoes and covered her mouth with his. The moment he did, he felt as if he’d ignited an explosive fuse. Sensations poured through him. He’d known she’d taste sweet—but her flavor reminded him of melting ice cream on a hot summer day. The kind you have to lick fast and hard. He’d thought he knew what that slender body would feel like pressed against his. But she was stronger and even more responsive than he’d imagined. He’d sensed the simmering passion beneath that cool, rather prim exterior. But actually experiencing it was undermining his already thin grip on his self-control.

He’d never been so aware of a woman before—the press of her nails through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, the quick catch of her breath when he nipped on her bottom lip, the soft press of her breasts against his chest. He wanted more.

It would be so easy to drop his hands down to her waist—to lift her onto the narrow counter and shove her skirt up. Whatever she was wearing beneath the suit, it wouldn’t prove much of a barrier. Before either of them could think, he could be inside of her. And that’s where he wanted to be. Inside of her. That’s where he needed to be.

As need clawed through him, Kit dragged himself free and took a quick step back. They were both breathing hard, and it wouldn’t have surprised him a bit if the expression on his face was as dazed as the one on hers. No one had ever made him feel like this. So desperate, so unsure of his control. So absolutely wonderful.

“What are we going to do about this?” she asked.

If grinning hadn’t been beyond his present capabilities, he was sure he would have. “I think we both know the answer to that. But unless you want it to happen right now, right here, we’re getting out of the bathroom.” Since he didn’t trust himself to touch her anywhere else, he placed his hand on the small of her back and urged her toward the client chairs. Then he circled behind his desk, putting it between them.

“We can’t—” she glanced back at the bathroom, then at him “—we can’t do that again.”