by Avery Flynn
Before she could even form a response, he wrapped his arms around her, the bag and case bumping against her hips, and pulled her closer until her breasts pressed into his unyielding chest. He lowered his mouth toward her hungry lips, swerving at the last nanosecond to that spot right below her ear that had some kind of express-line nerve to her clit. Her nipples rose to full attention and other parts farther south started to buzz. Her brain, meanwhile, went into full blackout mode.
“Sorry about this. Just play along until I can sweep the place for bugs and cameras,” he whispered against her electrified skin.
And that was all it took to yank her right back into the real world so fast she could smell fried wires.
The boyfriend cover story had been her own it-sounded-brilliant-at-the-time idea. Stepping back, she put enough air between their bodies that his warm, musky scent had plenty of room to dance between them, tempting her to rub up against his hard body and find out if his skin tasted as good as he smelled.
Mentally slapping herself, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to breathe. Means to an end. When she cracked her eyelids, a blush rushed up from her toes.
He’d cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow.
Refusing to give in to the embarrassment, she plunged ahead. “Come on, let me give you the penny tour. Again.”
Tony could still taste Sylvie on his lips and it was driving him crazy. It made him hot, horny, and more than a little cranky, knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Following her through her apartment as she kept up a running commentary of fashion trivia, funny anecdotes about where she’d picked up this purse or that scarf, and the latest shoe trends, Tony kept his ears tuned for a tell-tale beep from the TV-remote-sized radio frequency detection device tucked away in his jacket pocket. It would alert him to the presence of a bug or camera surveillance. His gaze traveled over the fashion magazines stacked like skyscrapers on brightly colored furniture, the books lining nearly every wall, and the shoes that were…everywhere. But his attention always returned to the swath of bare skin exposed by the deep V in the back of her shirt. It wasn’t big, at most maybe the size of his palm, but as she gestured with her arms the opening showed off her muscles as they undulated.
Some guys were butt men. Others became mesmerized by the weight and curve of a woman’s breasts. For Tony, the play of a woman’s muscles across her back—especially as she rode him—captured his attention like nothing else.
Sylvie Bissette could make every man happy, which completely pissed him off.
Every time his brain screamed client and daughter of murder suspects, his cock hollered hot woman who wants you. Going in for a fake kiss hadn’t been part of his plan when he rang the doorbell. He’d just meant to pull her in close enough to whisper, in case her stalker had listening devices or cameras hidden in the third-floor walk-up. Then he’d touched her and she’d shivered in his arms. The next thing he knew, his lips were pressing against her warm skin. Of all the stupid moves he could have made, that topped it.
Her life and Keith’s justice were on the line, here. Anyway, rich girls who spent their days writing about shoes didn’t date guys from his side of the harbor. Not that he wanted to date her. He was experiencing a normal reaction to a woman with more curves than a mountain road.
Sense of purpose renewed, he followed her into the cream-and-green kitchen that measured bigger than a galley but small enough that anything larger than a table for two would never fit. Needing to check the visual screen on the radio frequency detector, he plopped his duffel and equipment case on the island. Ignoring the reason behind his clammy palms, he slid the detector out of his jacket. Nothing showed up on the screen. Finally, good news.
“What’s that?” She leaned over the island, angling for a better look.
The movement brought her close enough that the lavender scent of her honey-brown hair taunted him. The devil on his shoulder winked at him, tempting him to feel her soft hair against his cheek. Only his white-knuckled grip on the device stopped him from reaching out.
“It’s a radio frequency detector,” he answered. “It picks up signals from listening devices and hidden cameras.”
Her olive skin lost its healthy tone and her gaze flicked around the room. “You really think I’ve been bugged?”
“Not any more. This would have picked up their signal, more than likely even if they’re sent out in timed bursts. Your laptop is another story. If I’ve been able to monitor your e-mail and computer usage, so can your stalker.”
She targeted him with a glare that would make his Italian mama proud. “Monitoring, huh? Is that what you call seriously violating someone’s privacy and breaking oodles of laws in the process?”
At least the man had the common decency to look uncomfortable. Sylvie didn’t even bother trying to hide her smirk. Served him right.
“I’ll need to have our computer expert check out your laptop. We can drop it off at the office on the way back to my place.” He glanced at his watch. “How long will it take you to pack a bag?”
“Why would I pack a bag?” Between the Internet troll, her fathers, and Daniel, she’d had more than enough of men pushing and pulling her in the direction of their choosing, never bothering to ask if that’s where she wanted to go. Hackles raised, she dug in for a fight.
“Because this place is not safe.” He shrugged out of his biker jacket and pushed his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscled forearms. Banding his arms over his chest made his biceps bulge under the gray, ribbed material.
Oh mama, that was so not fighting fair.
“You already said there aren’t any bugs.”
“Two of your neighbors offered to let me in while I waited at the security door. A five-year-old with a broken leg could climb the fire escape outside your living room window. You don’t even have a security system installed.”
“That’s why I have three badass dead bolts on the door, double-paned windows with pin locks”—she smiled—“and you.” She crossed her arms, knowing full well how that would emphasize her own endowments. Two could play at the distracting game.
Tony’s eyes dilated, and he choked out, “Your dads—”
“Are not paying the bills. I am.” She whipped out her checkbook from among the flotsam in the junk drawer. “And I say we stay here, with you being my rebound boyfriend. Trust me, the fashion world isn’t going to say anything of value to a private investigator. However, if they think a little gossip with my boy toy will get them extra dirt about my breakup with Daniel, they’ll leak like a sieve.”
A vein throbbed on his temple.
“You know I’m right.”
He tipped his face up to her ceiling as if praying for guidance. The only helpful information he’d get from that direction was how to clean grout with a deadly smelling mix of bleach and lemon juice, from Mrs. Razinsky upstairs in 4A.
“Fine. We’ll stay here for tonight.”
Damn, she loved winning. “Glad you’re seeing reason.”
“It sure looks like crazy from this side of the room.” He shoved his fingers through his black hair. “Okay, so tell me about the threats. All of them.”
And there went her happy buzz. This situation wasn’t a game of Scrabble. It was her life and her livelihood. Fear, frustration, and more than a dash of anger crashed against her like a tidal wave.
“I wouldn’t really call them threats. More like nasty e-mails.” She paced the kitchen, the tile cool under her bare feet. “It’s not really that unusual. But a few months ago I noticed they were becoming more intense. Until then they were all the regular stuff about me not knowing a peep toe from a kitten heel, and that I was just a coward hiding behind the High-Heeled Wonder persona.”
“Regular stuff? You get those a lot?” He fidgeted with the strap of his duffel.
She shrugged. “Five or ten a week. People can be very passionate about fashion. Usually they’re from fans who feel I’ve attacked their favorite actor when I poi
nt out his outfit is a mess. That sort of thing. Occasionally, I get a passive aggressive note from a publicist. Then, there are the weirdos who want to date me and sometimes plead their case with photos that I do not need or want to see.”
The number of cock shots a female blogger could get in a week would keep Playgirl busy for years. Something about the anonymity of the Internet along with the perceived intimacy of a blog really brought out the loony in some people.
“Why don’t you go by your real name? Most people would want to play up those kinds of insider connections.”
“Anton and Henry have already done so much for my sister and me. They got us out of foster care, raised us as their own, and would give us the world if we asked. But, as I said, fashion is insular. I knew I’d be ruffling feathers and I didn’t want my fathers to take flack for that. Plus, I don’t want to trade on their name. Building the site, getting it to half a million unique visitors a day, that’s something I wanted to do on my own.”
Tony drummed his fingers on the granite counter. “We should get some information from your hard drive, but until I can get my computer guy to take a look, can you think of anyone you’ve ticked off recently?”
Damn it, she was beginning to wonder who she hadn’t pissed off.
“There’s Daniel, for obvious reasons, but I can’t imagine why he’d be sending me nasty e-mails before I found him giving a waiter head. Then we’d have to look at Anders Bloom.”
“Who?”
“He’s the latest incarnation of Alexander McQueen—or at least he thinks he is. The truth is he just pushes buttons for the sake of gaining attention. I wrote about his pre-fall collection being a hot mess, and just found out today that somehow he knows my real identity.”
She needed to warn her fathers. God knew what stories Anders was spreading about their involvement in her blog.
“Anyone else?”
Reaching into the fridge, she bought time by grabbing a soda and downing half the can. Sure, she’d ticked off a few people with the blog, but enough to make them run her down in the middle of a crowded street? It was all too bizarre.
She touched a drop of condensation on the can. “I have a couple of regular readers who are less than stable, a former blogger friend, Ivy Rhodes, who’s refused to answer my e-mails for about four months, and I just broke the story of the decade about Pippa Worthington.”
“The editor of Chantal?” He leaned back against the counter.
Damn, the man looked good in a kitchen.
“Two points for the detective. Yes, she’s Chantal’s editor-in-chief, but only for the next few months if she can’t boost subscriptions and ad revenues. Her assistant hates her with a passion unknown to mortal man and, in a case of righteous vengeance, is going out with a glorious bang by leaking me all sorts of juicy information.”
“I feel all warm and fuzzy,” he drawled.
She toasted him before downing the rest of her drink. “Welcome to the wonderful world of fashion.”
Chapter Five
“I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch.”
—Gilda Radner
The one-bedroom apartment’s walls threatened to close in on Tony. While not a disaster zone, there was stuff everywhere—shoes, scarves, and candles with names like Peapod Pleasure and Devine Deviant. He took a deep whiff of the last one. Cherries. Of course. Weaving around the fashion magazines forming chin-high towers, he came face to snout with a weird bronze fox that made up a lamp base.
Most disconcerting of all, he couldn’t escape Sylvie’s lavender scent. It clung to her deep purple curtains and the caramel-colored leather couch, following him everywhere as he prowled the open space for the past few hours.
Acidic energy ate its way through his bones, burning through his patience and tolerance for being inside the same four walls for any length of time. He hated spinning his wheels. But it was too late in the day to bust in on Anders Bloom or Sylvie’s estranged blogger friend Ivy Rhodes without looking desperate and setting off alarm bells. On a case like this, sticking to the plan often meant the difference between success and failure.
His pacing took him into the kitchen. A glass jar filled with spaghetti caught his eye and offered the possibility of tomato-flavored salvation. Some good gravy would cover up her teasing scent. Without the lavender distraction, he could focus on beefing up the suspect dossiers. Immediately, he set to work scrounging for ingredients.
Tony’s mom would have a heart attack if she ever opened one of Sylvie’s cupboards. Not that they were bare, but they weren’t filled to overflowing with cans of tomato paste, jars of spices, and gallons of olive oil. He dug past a mound of energy bars into the darkest recesses to pull out two cans of diced tomatoes and some dried basil. Right on cue, his stomach growled.
“Do you have any garlic?” he called.
Sylvie glanced up from her laptop and leveled her slightly bleary green eyes on him. She’d been sitting there in her own world, trying to get the rest of the week’s posts uploaded before she had to give up her laptop to his computer guy, Carlos. For the past two hours she’d been typing away and muttering that gray being the new black was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. He’d always figured black was the only black, so he’d stayed quiet.
“Garlic?” Her breathy voice twisted something inside him.
“Yeah, you know, it’s a white bulb thing. You use it for cooking.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m laughing so hard here you’re making my sides hurt.” She tilted her head back and rolled her shoulders before arching her back in a long stretch that lengthened specific parts of Tony’s anatomy.
Peeling his gaze away, he forced his gaze back to the can of tomatoes in his white-knuckled grip. But his ears, attuned to her every move, caught the scrape of her chair on the tile floor, the soft patter of her feet, and the creak of the refrigerator opening. The mental image of her ass bending over in those second-skin-like yoga pants as she searched the fridge was almost worse than seeing it in real life.
A soft giggle brought him out of his fantasy. That sliver of difference between his imagination and the even-better reality hit him smack in the jaw.
She stood with one hip cocked and a smirk on her face. “Careful there, Iron Man, or you’ll dent the can.” She tossed the garlic bulb to him like a pop fly.
He stifled a groan and caught the garlic before it hit him between the eyes. “Thanks.”
She hopped up onto the island and swung her legs over the edge. “You’re cooking?” She swept up her thick hair into one hand and then looped it around until it formed a complicated knot, which she locked into place with a pencil.
His fingers itched to pluck it out and watch the honey strands fall past her shoulders. The lip of the tomato can bit into his palm. “Making gravy.”
“Turkey or meatloaf?”
“Pasta.”
“You mean pasta sauce?”
“Yeah. Gravy.”
She jumped down from the island and tugged a yellow apron from a drawer, pulling it over her head. “I just uploaded my last post. What can I do to help?”
The apron strings circled her waist, drawing his attention to her curves. He had to get the woman out of the room or he was going to go all Hulk on the defenseless tomato can. “I got it.”
“No doubt about that, but I need something to do that doesn’t involve stalkers, murderous drivers, or the trend of empire waists in the latest collections.” She yanked a stockpot from a cupboard. “Come on, throw a girl a bone.”
So tempting. If she only knew…
“You can start tearing up two slices of bread for the meatballs.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” She fetched a loaf of bread from the pantry, hit the MP3 player’s on button, and turned her back to him while she tore the bread into little bits.
A dance beat filled the kitchen. Definitely not his music of choice, but he developed a new appreciation for the quick beat while watching Sylvie twitch her hips in time with
the bass thumps. Tearing his gaze away, he grabbed the stockpot off the island and went to work making the gravy.
The kitchen wasn’t his normal domain, but he could make a few things pretty well, thanks to Nonni. His grandmother had one unbreakable rule: If you wanted to eat in the dining room as a kid, you helped in the kitchen. He’d started stirring the sauce when he was tall enough to see over the top of the pot without a stool, and had moved on to meatballs when his younger sister hit a growth spurt and took over with the wooden spoon. Sylvie’s kitchen didn’t have all the ingredients he needed for Nonni’s recipe, but there was enough there for a simple sauce.
They worked together in silence while it simmered on the stove, the oregano scent thankfully drowning out the lavender. However, his hypothesis tanked because he still couldn’t snuff out his extrasensory awareness of her. His body stood as primed as a fourteen-year-old boy’s during his first slow dance with the hottest girl in school.
She grooved around the kitchen chopping parsley and gathering ingredients. “I wouldn’t have pictured you as someone who liked to cook.”
He shrugged. “Since I like to eat, it seemed smart to learn the basics.”
She wiped her hands on the apron. “Great minds think alike.”
Steam rose from the bowl of pasta, filling the air around Sylvie with the mouth-watering aroma of oregano and tomatoes. They’d finished cooking and settled on opposite sides of her tiny table to enjoy the fruits of their shared labor. She sneaked a peek at Tony twirling the long strands of spaghetti around his fork. Ignoring her earlier advice, her girls sat up and took ardent notice of the way he sucked the thin noodles into his mouth.
The sunset’s last soft amber rays filtered in through the west-facing window that overlooked Harbor City’s crowded skyline. How often had she gazed out at that scene from the other side of the harbor, resigned to the fact that people only wanted to adopt the youngest or the cutest? Too often. More depressing still, her existence had severely limited any interest potential parents had in her baby sister, Anya.
