Private Investigations

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.”