The P.I.

Kit grimaced. He could picture his brother all too clearly in his mind, and it was just like Theo to mention the lure. Kit had been looking forward to using it. Theo knew that, just as Kit knew that Theo probably wouldn’t even get his line wet. He’d just sit there on the porch and commune with the sea gods while he plotted strategy for his next case in court.

“Drive safely. No need to rush.”

Kit stifled a sigh as he glanced at his watch. Theo must have clocked out at 5:00 p.m. on the dot. His only consolation was that his oldest brother Nik would be getting the same gloating message on his cell.

Ever since they were kids, they’d had an ongoing competition. Whoever made it through the cabin door first got their choice of poles and lures—and their father had quite a collection. When they were little, the race to the cabin had started the moment they’d rocketed out of the car. In the early days, Nik and Theo had had an advantage because they were older. As the youngest, he’d had to rely on wit and cunning. When he was six, he’d managed to tie their shoelaces together once. He could still recall the unadulterated joy he’d felt as he’d left them face down in the grass and sprinted for the cabin door.

Their dad still told that story in the restaurant he ran in the Fisherman’s Wharf area—The Poseidon. In the Angelis family, fishing had always been something the men of the family did together—much to the annoyance of Philly, their kid sister. Kit’s lips curved at the memory of the time that Philly had stowed away in the trunk of their father’s car so that she could be a part of a fishing trip. She’d gotten her way—but only after she’d promised Spiro that she’d never do anything that dangerous again. His father told that story in the restaurant, too.

Usually, their father joined them. But ever since Spiro had lured the beautiful Helena Lambis from Greece and convinced her to open an upscale dining room on the upper level of The Poseidon, he seemed to find it very difficult to get away from work.

Philly was sure the relationship between his father and Helena was a romantic one. Helena had been a five-star chef at a hotel in Athens. When Spiro had visited Greece six months ago, he’d stayed at that very hotel. To hear Philly tell it, the story had overtones of Paris snatching Helen and carrying her off to Troy.

Spiro’s version was less romantic. According to his father, his relationship with Helena was business. He’d been thinking for some time of opening a fine-dining restaurant on the upper level of The Poseidon and he’d convinced Helena to join him in that venture. But in the five months since Helena had established her restaurant, even their business relationship had become a bit rocky. The two had become competitors, each trying to outdo the other.

Whatever the true story was, Spiro seldom had time for fishing anymore. So Kit would be spending time with Nik and Theo, something that was becoming rarer since they all had very active careers.

Nik was a detective in the SFPD and on the fast track to becoming a captain. Theo had established a reputation as a top-notch criminal defense attorney in the area and, more recently, he’d been proclaimed one of the top ten most eligible bachelors by the San Francisco Examiner, something that had garnered him quite a bit of razzing from his brothers.

The article had also resulted in some “groupies,” who’d followed Theo around for a time. When one of them had turned into a stalker, Theo had handled the situation with his usual unruffled aplomb, but he’d taken a bullet for his troubles and Kit had a hunch that there was a lot about the experience that he hadn’t shared with them.

Kit glanced down at his laptop. His own career had taken off recently, too. For the past several months, he’d been juggling two jobs—his P.I. business, which paid the bills, and his new job as a published author. He’d signed a contract for two mystery novels just over a year ago. The first, which featured a Hitchcock-type hero with amnesia, had hit the bookshelves in the spring. The proposal and chapters for his second book were due in three weeks.

Nothing was going to keep him from achieving his goal. Not the images of his brothers arriving ahead of him at the cabin, not the soulful, pleading looks that Ari was giving him, not even the Fates, who’d thrown one obstacle after another in his path today.

First, there’d been a case that had dragged on late into the afternoon. He’d been typing up his report when a violent little summer storm had rolled through and driven his already ailing air conditioner into cardiac arrest. He’d jimmied open the window in the hopes that the storm had cooled the air, but it hadn’t. Now, thanks to the heat wave that had been holding San Francisco in a tight fist for the past five days, the temperature in his office resembled a steam bath.

To top it off, he couldn’t get the window to shut, so not only did he have to put up with the distracting sounds of traffic, but he was also being plagued by an occasional rogue breeze gusting in and scattering his once carefully stacked notes hither and yon.

Kit gave the mess of papers littering the floor of his office a considering look. Cleaning it up was probably a good idea. And he’d be more comfortable if he shed his blazer. With a sigh, he rose and stripped down to his T-shirt and jeans. As he toed his shoes off and peeled out of damp socks, he doggedly ignored the trickles of sweat rolling down his back. Moving to the center of his office, Kit squatted down and began to pick up papers and sort them into piles.

He could endure the heat. After all, the temperature hadn’t been much better before the air conditioner had given up its ghost. The good news was that now his miserly landlord would be forced to replace the unit.

The phone rang again, and the tingling at the back of his neck once more claimed his attention. He stifled the urge to reach for the receiver as he listened to his voice inviting the caller to leave a message. It was probably Nik calling to gloat, too.

“Kit?”

The female voice was breathless. And frightened, Kit thought as he tried to place it.

“This is Sadie Oliver. You may not remember me. I’m Roman’s—” A burst of static cut the last word off.

Though he’d only met her once, Kit remembered Sadie, all right. His friend Roman Oliver had two sisters. The younger one, Juliana, was about to start college. A year ago Sadie had graduated from Harvard Law School and come back home to work in her family’s business. She was an attractive brunette, nearly as tall as Roman, and if she hadn’t been his best friend’s sister, he might have called her for a date. But his bond with Roman dated back to their freshman year in college when they’d shared a room.

He’d even dedicated his novel to him. Who better, since his friend had provided a wealth of information on the inner workings of organized-crime families. Not that the Oliver family had any connection to crime anymore. Their business holdings in real estate up and down the California coast had been legitimate ever since Roman’s great-grandfather had moved to San Francisco and built his first hotel forty years ago.

But it had been the Oliver family’s long-established feud with the Carlucci family, dating back to a time in Chicago when both families had been involved in shadier business practices, that had sparked the idea for Kit’s first novel. The Montagues and the Capulets had nothing on the Olivers and the Carluccis. And although both San Francisco families were legitimate now, they were still bitter rivals when it came to business.

There was another burst of static. “…To talk to you. My cell is 546-2122.”

Even as he filed the number away in his mind, Kit rose and moved toward the phone. But the line had already gone dead when he picked it up. He stared thoughtfully at the receiver for a minute. Why would Sadie Oliver need to talk to him?

He was punching in her number when another voice grabbed his attention.

“Excuse me.”

The hoarse sound had him whirling, and as he did, he stubbed his bare toe on the leg of a chair. Swearing softly, he grabbed his throbbing foot and stumbled against his desk. The phone and the answering machine crashed to the floor.

In the midst of the chaos, all Kit could do was stare. Straddling the threshold between his office and his secretary’s was a beautiful waif who could have graced the pages of any P.I. novel, including his own.

Here she is. That was the only clear thought he had as the tingling at the back of his neck morphed into an electric current. The tingling he understood. He’d been expecting something all day and she was it. He also understood the tightening in his gut. He’d experienced it before—that instant sexual awareness of a woman. The sensation of the ground shifting under his feet? Now, that was tougher to explain. But, hey, this was San Francisco. It could be a tremor.

And then it finally registered. The suit she was wearing was stained with blood.

3

“I… MAYBE , I SHOULD …”

She was going to turn and run. Pure panic shot through him and brought Kit out of his daze. He didn’t trust himself to take a step yet, but he managed to speak. “Don’t go.”

She glanced down at a card she was clutching in one hand, then at Ari. “That’s a very big dog.”

“He won’t move unless he smells food on you.” In which case, Ari would definitely leap on her and she was such a bit of a thing that he figured the dog might just topple her over. Worrying about that brought the rest of his thoughts into focus. “You don’t have any on you, do you? Food, I mean?”

“No…but…” She glanced uncertainly down at the card again. “I think I might be in the wrong place. I’m looking for…”

“Me.” She was what he’d been waiting for all day. He was absolutely sure about that. And he was pretty sure the blood on her suit wasn’t hers since she’d evidently gotten here under her own steam. So the tiny blonde with the bottle-green eyes was a damsel in distress of the first order. Her heart-shaped face and that perfect mouth might have been carved on one of the cameos his aunt Cass kept in her jewel box.

She was poised for flight. And no wonder. His office looked as though it had just been attacked by the same tornado that had carried Dorothy off to Oz. There was a dog the size of a small bear cub lounging on the floor, and he…well, he just wasn’t presenting his best professional image.

“Why don’t you come in?”

She took one step and then paused again as if to gauge the response of the dog. In one quick glance Kit cataloged details, taking in the bruise that darkened the otherwise perfect skin near her left temple and the silky-looking hair that fell in tousled layers to just beneath a stubborn-looking chin. Last, but not least, he noted the first-rate legs and the designer open-toed shoes. Her other features remained hidden behind the dress bag and tote she was holding on to for dear life.

Kit had an overpowering urge to go to her, to press his hand to the small of her back and guide her carefully to one of his two client chairs, but he sensed that the slightest move on his or Ari’s part would make her bolt.

“How can I help you?” he asked in a calm voice as he settled his hip firmly on the edge of his desk.

“I’m not sure you can.” Her voice was stronger now. While he’d been studying her, she’d glanced warily around the room, her gaze settling on Ari twice. She met his eyes, then frowned down at the card in her hand. “I’m looking for Mr. Kristophe Angelis.”

“You’ve found him.” Kit sent her what he hoped was his most charming smile. Of the three Angelis brothers, he’d inherited the dimples. Most of the time he could have done without them, but every so often, especially when women were involved, they served him well. “I go by Kit. Kit Angelis.”

She transferred her frown from the card to him, and this time when he looked into those green eyes, he felt a little punch right in his solar plexus.

“Have we ever met before?” she asked.

“No.” Kit was absolutely certain of that—in spite of the fact that what he was feeling bordered on recognition.

“It says on this card that you’re a private investigator.” Her tone held a note of accusation—as if the card were lying.

“I am,” he explained, “during the days. On my free nights, I write crime fiction.” As he gestured around the room, a breeze sent more papers scattering to the floor. “You’ve caught me in my writing mode.”

“I’m interrupting, then.” She didn’t appear to be at all reassured by his explanation. If their positions had been reversed, Kit wasn’t sure he would have been, either.

“Not at all.” It wasn’t a lie, really. She hadn’t interrupted. He hadn’t even gotten one word down. Something she saw on his face must have reassured her—perhaps the dimples had finally kicked in—because she took a few steps forward. Good, he thought as he willed her to take a few more. He sat perfectly still while she did. Experience had taught him that luring a woman wasn’t a lot different than reeling in a fish. Patience and persistence usually paid off.

She was close enough now that he could reach out and touch her. Kit had to suppress a powerful urge to do just that. He wanted very much to trace his finger along her jawline, to find out if that porcelain-delicate skin was as cool as it looked. He thought not, but a good investigator always tested his theories.

“You do investigate crimes, then?”

“Hmm?” Kit reined his thoughts in from the little detour they’d taken.

“You investigate crimes, right?” She was studying his face very closely.

He finessed his wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open and handed it to her. “I’ve been licensed by the state of California to do just that. I’m even allowed to charge for my services.”

She glanced down at the wallet, then back at him. “Could you find out if I’ve committed a crime?”

He noted that her knuckles had turned white on the strap of the tote. He wanted very much to take that hand in his, but he kept himself very still.

“Probably.”

“How?” she asked.

“My brother Nik is a cop. If a crime has been committed and the police are involved, he would know. I also have friends at the newspaper and TV stations. What kind of a crime are we talking about?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a robbery. Maybe worse. That’s what I need you to find out.”

He said nothing, but he noted the way her grip tightened on the dress bag and the tote.

She held out his wallet to him, and when he took it, his fingers brushed accidentally against hers. Well, perhaps not accidentally.

The effect of that casual touch shocked both of them. She snatched her hand back as if it had been burned. And he knew exactly how she felt. The brief contact had sent a little current of electricity zinging along his nerve endings, and the knowledge that she’d been affected, too, had desire twisting his stomach into a hot, hard knot.

“I—” She faltered as if she’d lost her train of thought. He’d better damn well gather his own or he was going to lose her. He could read it in her eyes. She was still thinking of bolting.

Suppressing panic, he summoned up a businesslike tone. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me who you are and what happened?”

She pressed her lips together firmly, drew in a deep breath and met his eyes. Beneath that fragile-looking exterior was an inner strength that he couldn’t help but admire. “Are you any good at what you do?”

Considering the first impression he must have made, Kit couldn’t fault the skepticism in her tone. He sent her another smile, again putting his faith in the dimples. “I’m the best.”

She studied him for one more moment, then nodded. “I want to hire you, then.”

Relief streamed through him. “Fine.” He’d made the decision to take her case the moment he’d set eyes on her. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she spelled trouble. But he was Greek enough, curious enough, not to turn his back on what fate dropped smack in his path. The twenty pages would have to wait. So would his fishing trip with Theo and Nik, if necessary.

“To make it official, I’ll need a retainer. Do you have a dollar?” he asked.

“You’ll help me, then?”

“Yes.” Kit tried to ignore the feeling that he was agreeing to a lot more than a case.

She let out the breath she was holding and, for one brief moment, he thought she might lose that iron grip she seemed to have on her control. His admiration for her shot up a few more notches when she didn’t. Finally, she set the leather tote on a chair, opened it and dug out a twenty. “I don’t have anything smaller.”

Kit took the bill she offered and placed it next to his closed laptop. “Neither do I so I’ll have to owe you nineteen.” He met her eyes steadily. “Will you trust me?”

There was an instant of hesitation before she nodded. “Yes.”

A careful lady, he thought as he smiled at her. This was a woman who preferred to test the waters before she jumped in. That wasn’t his particular style, but he could admire it in others. “Good. Now, you said, “maybe worse.” Can you be more specific?”

Drawing in another deep breath, she finally let go of the death grip she had on the dress bag and draped it carefully over the back of the chair.

Then she stepped to the side and pointed to the stains on her skirt. “It’s blood, I think. I don’t believe it’s mine. I checked, and I’m not bleeding anywhere. But I don’t know how it got there. I can’t remember what happened.”

“You can’t remember?”

“I don’t remember anything before the accident. I was in a taxi that was in a collision just a few blocks from here.” She gestured at the bruise on her temple. “I must have bumped my head during the impact, and I don’t remember anything before I came to in the backseat. I don’t know my name, what I do or what may have happened before I got in that taxi.”

Kit glanced at the tote. “What about a wallet? Do you have some ID in that bag?”

She shook her head. “I checked. And I couldn’t find my purse in the taxi. Everything’s a blank. And…there’s a wedding gown in the dress bag. I don’t know why I’m carrying it around. I could be on my way to my wedding or running away from it. I don’t remember.”

There’d been a thread of panic building steadily in her voice, and Kit felt some of it move through him. In sympathy? He might have accepted that explanation if he hadn’t tasted something bitter when she’d mentioned she might be on her way to her wedding.

“If I was getting married today, if I loved someone enough to…make that kind of commitment, wouldn’t I remember that?”

He sure as hell hoped so, just as he hoped that particular scenario had no basis in reality. “Perhaps you couldn’t make the commitment. Brides and grooms get the jitters. A lot of them have second thoughts.” A scenario he much preferred in this case.

He reached for her left hand. The little current of electricity zinged through him again, but this time he didn’t allow her to snatch her hand away. “You aren’t wearing an engagement ring, and there’s no sign that you’ve been wearing one. No indentation, no telltale white mark even though you have a slight tan. I’d say you’re probably not the bride.”

“Why would I have the wedding gown?”

“Could be you’re a relative. A sister—or a member of the wedding party.”

She curled her fingers around his. “Right. I hadn’t thought…or maybe I’m a wedding planner. That might explain why I have the dress?”

“There you go.” The relief Kit heard in her tone was all the more recognizable because it matched exactly what he was feeling. Which was ridiculous. He had to get a grip. He’d met this woman…what? Five minutes ago? Even setting his physical attraction to her aside, he’d never before met a female who’d drawn so many emotions out of him in so little time.

He’d taken her on as a client, Kit reminded himself. She was in trouble, and the least she deserved from him was some professionalism.

That was what his mind was telling him. Still, he didn’t let go of her hand. He wanted to hold on to it. On to her.

She frowned suddenly. “That still doesn’t explain the blood. Or the rest of it.”

“The rest of it?”

Squaring her shoulders, she pulled her hand out of his and drew in a deep breath. “There’s a gun and a lot of money in the leather tote. Maybe…” She paused to moisten her lips. “I can’t help thinking that maybe I stole the money at gunpoint and shot someone. I could be more than a thief. I could be a killer.”

4

“T HAT’S A POSSIBILITY ,” he said.

The matter-of-fact way Kit Angelis made the statement surprised her. He didn’t look shocked or even the least bit disturbed that he might have taken on a killer as a client. For some reason, his calm acceptance of that possibility eased her nerves. Just a bit.

There was no denying the fact that the man was having the strangest effect on her senses. When he’d first whirled around to face her, he’d looked so dangerous and beautiful at the same time. He’d reminded her of an angel—one of the dark ones who’d been booted out of paradise.

What he didn’t look like was a P.I. In fact, her first thought had been that she’d interrupted him in the act of burglarizing the office. But he’d been barefoot. A thief would be wearing shoes, right? Still, she might have run for her life if she hadn’t also felt something like recognition ripple through her. And a definite…pull.

When his fingers had brushed against hers, she’d felt the intensity of that touch right down to her toes. She’d blamed it on the fact that she must still be in shock…and told herself to get a grip. But a few seconds ago, when he’d taken her hand to examine her fingers, she hadn’t been able to pull away. She hadn’t wanted to.

“Have you touched the gun?”

She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Pardon?”

“Have you touched the gun since you regained consciousness in the taxi?”

She suppressed a shudder. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” She paused to consider the question. “Well, it might have prints on it. Or it might accidentally go off.”

“Or you might have an instinctive fear of firearms. A lot of people do.” He extended his hand. “Why don’t you let me take a look at the gun?”

She picked up the tote and handed it to him, careful not to bring her hand in contact with his.

“See. You’re not even touching it now. You’re going to let me take it out of the bag.”

After setting the tote on his desk, he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to extract the gun. Then he lifted the barrel to his nose and gave it a sniff. “It’s a Magnum,” he said. “And it’s been recently fired.”

She pressed a hand to the sudden queasiness in her stomach. She was not going to faint.

“That doesn’t mean you fired it.”

She met his eyes, and the steady way he was looking at her helped her keep control.

“There’s a serial number to trace. If it’s yours and you have a license, then we’ll know your name.” Kit rescued the phone from where he had knocked it to the floor earlier and punched in some numbers. “My brother, Nik, will probably be gone, but his partner will be there. Running the serial number will take some time, but it will give us something to go on.”

Once again, the calm, steady way he spoke soothed her nerves. Instead of allowing her imagination to run wild because the gun had been fired, she tried to focus on the conversation Kit was having on the phone.

He laughed at something the person on the other end of the line said, and she had the distinct impression that the cop he was talking to was a woman.

“Dinah, if you can put a rush on that, I’ll buy you a drink at The Poseidon.”

Definitely a woman.

He laughed again, and the sound of it tingled along her nerve endings.

“Okay, okay. A dinner in the new dining room.”

Something hot tightened in her belly, and her eyes widened. She could not be feeling jealous because Kit Angelis had invited a cop to dinner, could she? That would mean she was attracted to him and she’d only just met him. What she was feeling had to be shock. Didn’t it?