Private Investigations Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Hmm. The bath.”

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

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

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

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

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

  Her full lips quirked. “And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Police? Why would I call the police?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Married?” He all but croaked the word.

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

  “Jealous?”

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

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

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

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

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

  She closed the door.

  Huh.

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

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

  Making that phone call to the police was looking more and more appealing. />
  “Oh, no, you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

  Get a grip, guy.

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

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

  Without sex being a factor? Yeah, right.

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

  3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Joe?”

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

  “Where are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “How would you know that?”

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

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

  A soft laugh. Joe found himself smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Is that all?”

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

  “Okay. Well, bye then.”

  “Yes, bye—wait.”

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

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

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

  “I didn’t say I was a monk.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

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

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

  “Well, then, quit calling me.”

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

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

  She settled her head more comfortably against the pillows. How long had it been since she’d dated someone with a sense of humor? A while. Maybe never, even. At least not a guy with the same wicked, invent
ive 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.”