Joe shifted uncomfortably. He was reasonably sure that the account reps he’d been schmoozing hadn’t noticed his distraction. Then again, why should they have? They’d been doing all the things normal men did when a naked woman was shaking her wares in their faces. Namely hooting, hollering and stuffing sweaty bills into barely there bikini bottoms.
Maybe he’d just been to one too many strip joints, he reasoned. There was nothing wrong with him. It was normal to encounter the odd rough patch, wasn’t it? Times when things didn’t make much sense? When a guy stopped cold in his tracks and asked himself just what it was all about, anyway?
Yeah? Well, then, why had he never experienced one before?
He’d always been happy with his bachelor status. Very happy. A jock of all sports throughout high school, he hadn’t allowed his physical capabilities to get in the way of his education and he’d graduated in the top ten percent of his class. An injury while playing college basketball had left him facing a long recovery period. But rather than wallowing in self-pity, he’d traced his injury back to the shoes he’d been wearing and had designed the first of what would be many pairs. He’d graduated, was featured in Forbes at age twenty-five and for all intents and purposes was one of the most successful bachelors on either side of the Mississippi. He’d even finally managed to earn his father’s stamp of approval a couple years back when he’d finagled a sponsorship deal with a top player with the Minnesota Timberwolves. A basketball fan from way back, his retired Army colonel father had grinned from the courtside seat the entire season. It was the first time Joe had ever seen tears in his father’s eyes, the day when the entire team had posed for a picture with the old man in center court.
Joe found himself grinning. Yes, that had definitely been a highlight. And his actions had earned him an ally against his mother whenever she launched one of her “I want grandchildren” attacks.
Joe figured he’d had it pretty good. An only child. A successful entrepreneur. A relatively problem-free existence.
Then why in hell did he suddenly feel like he was missing the point? That there was something he just wasn’t getting?
A shadow fell across his bed from the direction of the open balcony doors. Probably a cloud. He rolled over, away from the balcony, and folded the pillow under his head. He had a full day on tap for tomorrow. Another tour through the target company’s inventory warehouse. A look at charts and graphs of how their other products were doing. Another night spent playing the good old boy.
The sheet around his midsection stirred. He grimaced and looked at it. What the hell?
His thoughts stopped completely when a slender female hand circled his waist from behind. Simultaneously, he felt a hot, wet body slide against his back. A very naked, hot, damp body.
Had he fallen asleep? Was this a wet dream, like the ones he used to have when he was seventeen?
The hand rested against his abs between his ribs and his navel. His stomach automatically tightened. The smell of peaches teased his nose. The details seemed very real to him. And if he was asleep, he wanted to get a glimpse of this dream girl.
He moved to turn around.
“No, don’t!” a female voice whispered, the arm tightening around his waist, the hand slipping a little lower.
Joe swallowed hard. Definitely not a dream.
Sounds of footsteps on the balcony, and more shadows fell across his bed. Then suddenly, where he’d been pinned in place moments ago, the same arm was flattening him on his back and the woman was straddling him.
Breasts. Bare breasts. That’s the first thing Joe saw as firm thighs squeezed his hips. The same type of breasts that hadn’t moved him one iota at the strip joint earlier but now made his mouth water, the stiff, peaked tips swaying a mere inch or so away.
The woman bent forward. “Stay still,” she quietly ordered.
What did she mean? He was still.
Oh. Well, maybe there was one part of him that wasn’t completely obeying.
The sound of the balcony doors being slid open, then the woman was kissing him.
No, she wasn’t kissing him. She was on the brink of devouring him. The instant her lips pressed against his, her tongue darted shamelessly inside his mouth, along the length of his, then around the interior like it was a hot, dark cave she was determined to map out.
Joe stared at her, bug-eyed in the dim yellow light. Lots of dark curly hair, wide, dark eyes—her tongue dipped again, flicking against his—and a hotly decadent mouth.
He groaned against the mattress and lifted his hands, burying his fingers in the mass of damp fragrant curls tickling his face.
Sweet Jesus, but this was better than any dream. Forgotten were the strangers on his balcony, the identity of the woman straddling him, the bizarre notion that he didn’t have any idea what was happening. All he could think about was the rush of heat to his groin, the thunk thunk of his heartbeat in his chest, the taste of the mouth even now plundering his, the feel of soft curls clasped in his fingers.
Then she moved.
Oh, God, she moved.
Joe had to break contact with that incredible mouth and groan as his erection pressed into the V of her thighs. He grasped her bare hips and held her still, his hips jutting upward against her.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized the shadows were no longer at the balcony doors.
The dream nymph on top of him moved again. But this time it was away.
Joe reached for the shadowy silhouette but missed as she padded toward the balcony. A dull click, a rasp of fabric, then the light next to his bedside table was switched on.
Joe blinked at the woman standing in front of the backdrop of the closed balcony doors and heavy maroon curtains, finding her visually every inch as delectable as she had felt. Wild, curly auburn hair framed her oval face, contrasting against her pale skin, the length brushing her shoulders. Breasts full and pouty stood high on her chest, shadowing the slender waist below. The triangle of fleecy curls between her toned thighs was just a shade darker than her hair and seemed to point toward her legs—wondrously long, shapely legs that ended in a pair of sexy feet.
But it was her eyes, almond shaped, brown and large as chestnuts, that told him what had just happened was an aberration.
“I need your help,” she said, her voice void of the sexy whisper of moments ago and filled with what he could only equate with panic.
2
WELL, THIS WAS NEW.
Ripley stared through the peephole in the door. Two of the three gunmen left her room then strode down the hall, obviously minus one of their buddies. Had he stayed behind in her room in case she returned? She jumped when the gruesome twosome seemed to look directly at her before stepping into the elevator. But that was ridiculous—they couldn’t see her through the peephole. She drew her head back. Could they?
She turned, her hands flat against the thick metal door. The only problem was that the new view offered another unfamiliar man who also made her want to jump. But for altogether different reasons.
Peering at him through the open door to the bedroom, she saw him lying on his side against the crisp white bed linens, one elbow propping him up, the top sheet draped across his bare waist. Ripley’s heart felt like it might beat straight out of her chest. When she’d formulated her plan in her bathtub, she hadn’t thought beyond getting out of her hotel room—stat. She lay under cover of the bubbles for as long as she could, avoided a probing with what she thought looked suspiciously like a silencer, but the instant the men left the bathroom and were in the sitting area, she’d hightailed it out of the bath and straight through the open balcony doors. Of course she hadn’t stopped to consider that she was as naked as the day she was born or that her room was two floors from the ground. She’d merely clutched her 9mm for dear life, eyed her neighbor’s balcony some two feet away and acted.
She swallowed hard. She supposed she should be glad her neighbor wasn’t some middle-aged, pudgy salesman. But she wasn’t convinced th
at this guy was better. She stared at the Playgirl poster material staring back at her. He had tousled deep blond hair with the slightest of coppery tints, a handsome cowlick over his forehead making him look even more devastating. Blue, blue eyes that tempted every last clichéd comparison to the sea, with a fringe of dark lashes. She knew from visual confirmation as well as touch that he was one hundred percent lean, hard muscle. And he was…long. When she’d straddled him, it had taken a bit of a stretch to reach his mouth, a kiss the best she could do at the time to keep him from reacting as the gunmen appeared at the balcony doors. Well, at least she had prevented him from reacting to them. To her…well, he’d been a more than welcoming host.
Ripley realized her breath still came in rapid, shallow gasps and fought to control it. The problem wasn’t that the guy was handsome. It was that, despite her predicament, for a minute there she’d actually enjoyed the kiss. Enjoyed it? She’d damn near inhaled him when a simple closed-mouth peck would have done.
In fact it had taken the shock of feeling just how thorough his reaction to her had been through his knit boxers to snap her out of it.
She’d never been so fiendishly unabashed in her life. It didn’t matter that three ugly guys toting guns had been the motivation. They didn’t explain the genuine hunger that had filled her lying on top of a hot, anonymous guy in a dark hotel room.
“I’m, uh, what I mean is…” She faltered, not quite sure what to say to him now that the immediate danger had passed. She rolled her eyes to stare at the ceiling. You’re a P.I., for God’s sake. An independent woman in charge of your own destiny. She blew out a breath. Yeah, right.
“Thanks,” she finally, lamely offered, waving her hand in his general direction.
The rasp of sheets. She blinked to see that he had thrown back the top sheet to reveal the other half of the mattress. “Well, don’t you think you should give me a chance to give you something to thank me for?”
Ripley stared at him as if he’d gone insane. Then his suggestive, heat-filled perusal of her person left her mind resonating with one undeniable fact—she was still naked.
“Oh, my God.” She slapped one arm across her breasts and her other hand over her…oh, my God. It wasn’t that she was overly modest by any means. Her mother had always had to remind her to keep her legs crossed when she wore a skirt, or put her robe on over her pj’s. But this definitely didn’t fall into the same category. She looked first this way, then the other, visually searching the room for something to put on. Against her better judgment, she stepped into the bedroom. The closet door was ajar.
“Wow, the rear view is just as amazing as the front.”
Ripley started, then turned slightly, giving him a side view. Awkwardly positioning her leg so nothing showed, she reached in and grabbed a blue oxford shirt from a hanger, pulling the hanger with it. It took some doing but, with her back still to him, she finally managed to shrug into the soft cotton with what she hoped was a modicum of dignity. At least until she realized that the mirror on the sliding closet door allowed the man behind her a full view of the open front of the shirt. And judging by the grin on his face, he was enjoying every moment of it.
She made a face at him. Just what kind of man didn’t blink at a strange, naked woman climbing into his hotel bed in the middle of the night? She shakily buttoned the shirt. Scratch that. She didn’t want to know. The truth was, she’d come across one too many just like him. Well, okay, maybe not as drop-dead gorgeous, but externals didn’t matter in this case. What did is that he was probably just like every other guy she’d ever dated. “Forget the small talk, babe, and let’s get down to business.”
Hadn’t guys figured out yet that a woman needed more?
Then again, she couldn’t blame him. Hey, when a naked woman sneaks into your bed in the middle of the night, what do you do? Kick her out? No. You make the best of the situation, right?
She crossed to the bed, noticing his grin grow wider. She grabbed the sheet and gave it a yank. He moved over to make room for her. She smiled and reached toward his crotch.
“Now that’s more like it,” he said, patting the spot beside him.
She withdrew her 9mm revolver from under the sheet and weighed it in her hand. She was gratified by the vanishing of all amusement from his face.
“Whoa,” he said, holding his hands up almost comically. “You climbed into my bed, remember?”
Ripley smiled and sat on the edge of the mattress. “Yes. And it’s a good thing you’re used to such events, isn’t it? Or else neither one of us might be here now.”
She didn’t think she’d ever seen a person move quite so fast. One minute he was in a reclining position, looking like temptation incarnate, the next he was standing next to the bed, clutching the sheet to his chest like he’d been violated. Which, she decided, was how he should have looked when she crawled into bed with him. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re not a…gift from one of my colleagues.”
Ripley’s brows moved up on her forehead. She polished the nickel-plated gun with the corner of the sheet. “Do you often get gifts of that nature?”
“Never.”
“No, I’m not a gift from one of your colleagues. And I’m not housekeeping looking to make your bed while you’re still in it. Or room service, wanting to redefine the meaning of the term.” She waved the revolver. “Don’t worry, I pushed the wrong button and the clip fell out in the bathtub anyway.” She put the handgun on the bedside table closest to her, then leaned across the bed, her hand extended. “Hi. I’m Ripley Logan, P.I.”
Oh, how she’d always longed to say that. Some of the patina had worn off during her daylong search for answers, since not one person had seemed impressed by the badge she’d ordered from a magazine. But this guy’s reaction made all those blank, unimpressed stares worth it. Even if his expression was probably due more to the gun he kept staring at. While the people she’d encountered all day had gone out of their way to see that she didn’t get what she was looking for, this one had wanted to give her everything she was looking for. Er, everything she wasn’t looking for.
A surprising shiver shimmied along her arms then down her back as she remembered the texture of his tongue against hers and the hot, hair-peppered skin of his chest whispering against her hardened nipples. God, but the guy could kiss. She’d give him that. It had been a good long while since someone had made her toes curl.
She watched him, waiting for him to snap to. Only when he did, she immediately wanted the other guy back. This one…well, the amused glint in his blue eyes warned her to prepare herself. “P.I., huh?”
Just as she thought. She finished buttoning the borrowed shirt, her damp hair falling over her face. “Do you have a name?”
“Uh-huh.”
She slid a glance at him. “Are you going to share it with me?”
“Depends,” he said, looking to where he still grasped the sheet. He dropped the linen then widened his stance, planting his fists on his hips. For a guy in nothing more than clingy cotton knit boxers he managed to look sexier than all get out.
“On what?”
“On whether or not there’s a camera crew ready to spring through the door and tell me this is a practical joke.”
“Don’t I wish,” Ripley said quietly, then added while stabbing a thumb toward the hall, “be my guest.”
He stood still for half a heartbeat, then strode to the door in the other room.
Oh, boy. Talk about the back looking just as great as the front. He had a pair of buns a girl could dig her fingers into. And thighs that hinted at an endurance level beyond anything she was used to. He peeked through the peephole then turned, catching the direction of her attention. She quickly looked away and reached toward the bedside table where a wallet lay. She flipped it open. “Joseph Albert Pruitt.” She closed the fragrant, faded leather and put it back where she found it. “Nice to meet you, Joseph.”
“Joe.”
She smiled. Joe. She liked that. Wh
ere he could have easily pulled off a name like Fabio, Adonis or Romeo, he had a simple, everyday name. But he was far from your everyday average Joe.
She watched as he took a pair of jeans from a chair and easily stepped into them. She swallowed. Of course he was the type to leave the top button open, revealing where the dark V of hair trailing from his navel disappeared into the waistband.
“So,” he said. “The way I see it, we have two options.” His suggestive grin should have sent her packing. Instead it made her stomach dip to somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles. “Either we both climb back into that bed…together.”
Ripley couldn’t believe she found the idea very, very tempting. For crying out loud, she didn’t know the guy from…well, from Joe. “And the second option?”
Joe ran his right hand over his tousled hair and shrugged. “You tell me what’s going on.”
AN HOUR LATER Joe sat across the sitting room table from one very hungry Ripley Logan, P.I., trying not to think that under the shirt she wore, his shirt, was nothing but a precious expanse of flawless skin and shadowy crevices. She had one knee pulled up to her chest, leaving him to wonder what the view looked like under the table as she popped another French fry into her mouth and chewed. Part of the deal she’d made with him included ordering up room service. Only after the meal arrived would she tell him what he wanted to hear.
Well, not exactly what he wanted to hear, he amended. If he had it his way, she’d be making those quiet little throaty sounds she was making as she ate, but she’d be making them in the bed in the other room.
“I can’t believe how hungry I am,” she said, digging into a burger the size of a plate, then licking ketchup from the corner of her mouth. “When I got back to my room earlier I couldn’t even think of food. Amazing what a little action can do, huh?”
Joe sat up straighter. He wished she were referring to the type of action he was interested in. The sight of her pink little tongue sweeping her lips just about undid him. “Yes, I suppose running from armed men will do that to a person.”
Private Investigations Page 2
