24 Hours Bundle

by Jo Leigh

  He’d even flown to Chicago and done some investigating into her past as a Pendleton. On the surface, it would seem she’d lived in the lap of luxury for twenty-four years. But there’d been a down side. Pepper’s grandmother, Eleanor Pendleton, was one cold fish, and according to what he’d discovered, she ran her house with the sternness and discipline of a five-star general. Despite that Pepper had graduated first in her class in both high school and college, Eleanor Pendleton had seldom been pleased with her granddaughter.

  But the most interesting thing he’d learned about her was that she didn’t have much self-confidence, and she often coped with a difficult situation by pretending in her mind that she was someone else. She’d admitted as much to him the day she’d rescued a pet parakeet and then been afraid to climb down from the roof. When she’d finally screwed up the courage to drop into his arms, she confessed that she’d been imagining herself as a trapeze artist.

  That was the day that it had finally clicked for him. She’d coped with her move to San Francisco by playing different roles—the good daughter, the perfect sister, the top-notch investigator. That realization had made him even more curious about discovering the real Pepper Rossi.

  Cole shoved his hands into his pockets, and once more studied the door to the suite. He had no doubt that she’d spotted him through the peephole by now. If he’d been in there babysitting that Monet, he’d have checked the peephole regularly. She probably thought that Luke or Matt had sent him to back her up. But they hadn’t. And he hadn’t come back to play guardian angel either. Far from it. The one and only reason he’d come back to the suite was because he wanted Pepper Rossi, and good idea or not, he’d decided to act on his desire.

  For six long months, he’d bided his time and it had been pure torture. Just seeing her, being in the same room with her, had been like taking a slow walk over hot, burning coals. He could do nothing to put out the fire, but neither could he escape it.

  One kiss. That’s what he’d promised himself all during the first part of the symphony. One kiss and at least he’d know if what he’d been fantasizing about for months would be as potent in reality. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to check and see if the Monet was secure. But he wasn’t a man who lied to himself. The main reason he’d come back was that he wanted Pepper Rossi. Now.

  PEPPER DREW IN A DEEP breath and let it out. Scraping up what strength she had left, she pushed herself away from the wall and moved back into the living room of the suite. This was not the time to indulge in the fantasies that had been plaguing her for six months. She had to concentrate. She had a Monet to guard and a somewhat eccentric aunt who might arrive at any moment to steal it.

  Pepper drew in a deep breath and let it out. If her aunt tried to steal the painting, she would handle it the way she’d handled every other challenge in her life. She’d just pretend she was someone else, someone much more competent than Pepper Rossi.

  In the six months since she’d joined her brothers’ security firm, she’d researched as many fictional female detectives as she could find—Nancy Drew, Kinsey Millhone, V.I. Warshawski.

  Her personal favorite detective was Nora Charles, the better half of the Thin Man couple. But for tonight, she thought that she’d better opt for Veronica Mars, a TV teen super sleuth, who was always so smart and unflappable—even when family matters intruded.

  The one person she couldn’t be was herself. Her track record on being Pepper Rossi was not good. At the top of the list was her absolute failure as a daughter; otherwise, her father wouldn’t have let her mother and grandmother have her as part of a divorce settlement.

  Chin up, Pepper drew in a deep breath and strode once more toward the bedroom. The moment she stepped through the doorway, her premonition of imminent disaster was confirmed in spades. The soft scrape of metal against metal was the first clue, and a moment later, the French doors opened and Irene Rossi strolled into the room.

  No alarm sounded.

  Pepper stepped directly into her aunt’s path and tried to remember who she’d decided to be. Mrs. Thin Man would be pouring a martini right now.

  “Aunt Irene.” Pepper tried a smile. “How nice to see you. How about a drink?”

  Irene shot her a straight, no-nonsense look. “You’re a smart girl. You know I didn’t come for a drink. I came for the Monet.”

  Okay, Mrs. Thin Man was out. Raising both hands, palms out, Pepper tried to channel the always reasonable Veronica Mars. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “It’s the best one I can come up with. I’ve waited forty years for Butch Castellano to get out of the slammer.” Irene fisted both hands on her hips and tapped one foot. “And now he’s decided to live the rest of his life on some isolated island without me? Ha! Not going to happen!”

  Pepper searched for the right words, but all she came up with was, “No man is worth committing a felony for.”

  Irene laughed and patted Pepper’s arm. “You haven’t met the right man yet. I knew the first time I looked at Butch that he was the only man for me. But I let my own fears and other people’s good intentions talk me out of it. I intend to remedy that mistake. Besides, I’m not stealing the painting. I’m only borrowing it for a few days so that I can make my point. I’m going to give it to Butch for Valentine’s Day. Deep down he has a romantic streak. That’s probably why he’s still hung up on some foolish idea that he’s not good enough for me. But don’t worry. He’d never keep the Monet.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “He hasn’t done anything illegal in over thirty-five years. He made all his money in the stock market. He’s a genius.”

  Pepper’s heart swelled a little at the pride in her aunt’s voice. Every time Irene talked about Butch, her face glowed, her voice softened. But there was a part of Pepper that worried her aunt was headed for disappointment. What if Butch had told her the simple truth—that he just didn’t want her anymore?

  “I don’t want you to worry about the painting,” Irene said. “In forty-eight hours, you can recover the Monet and return it to its owner. You’ll be a hero, your brothers will thank you, and I’ll be living happily ever after in paradise.”

  Pepper thought frantically. Her aunt’s scenario would probably make a good movie—if Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts starred in it. But things rarely worked out that neatly in real life. “What if Butch doesn’t get your point?”

  Irene’s eyes narrowed. “He’ll get it. Believe me.”

  “You could end up in jail.”

  “Nah. I’ve got a backup plan.”

  Pepper wished that she had one. Pulling her gun would be a waste of time. Her aunt would laugh. Pepper had lamented to her aunt on more than one occasion about what a ninny she was when it came to the idea of actually shooting her firearm at a real person. Desperate, she tried a bluff. “I’m not here alone. Cole is here.”

  “No, he isn’t. I checked all the rooms through the French doors. There are way too many of them, by the way. Your brothers never should have allowed the Atwells to hold their preview party here. They’re practically begging to have the painting stolen.”

  “I’m serious, Aunt Irene. Cole is outside in the hallway. He could come in at any minute.”

  “I’ll just have to hurry, won’t I?” Irene scooted around her and lifted the painting off the easel.

  Before Pepper could think of another tack to take with her aunt, the doorbell of the suite chimed. Her stomach took a lurch deep into the queasy zone. “That’s Cole.”

  “Go out there and distract him.”

  “And just how do you expect me to do that? He’s here to check up on me. Nobody trusts me to be able to safeguard this painting, and Cole will be in here like a shot.”

  Irene sent her an exasperated look. “There’s an age-old way for a woman to distract a man. And it works every time. Just kiss him. I only need five minutes.”

  “Five minutes? Aunt Irene—”

  “You want to kiss him, don’t you?”

  She ope
ned her mouth to answer—to argue, to agree, she wasn’t quite sure—but her aunt was already at the French doors.

  The doorbell chimed again.

  “Go,” Irene turned back. “Time is crucial here. I’m not the only one who’s trying to steal this Monet. I ran into another guy on the roof. At least if I take the painting, the Atwells will get it back.”

  “Another guy? Who?” Pepper asked.

  “I didn’t ask. I shot him with a tranquilizer.”

  “A tranquilizer?”

  “I carry them with me when I do my show—in case I run into unfriendly dogs.”

  The doorbell chimed for the third time, and Pepper knew she had to make a decision. Short of shooting her aunt, Pepper didn’t see any way of stopping her.

  “Hurry,” Irene said. “I need time to climb back up to the roof.”

  Turning, Pepper hurried out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, and raced for the double doors. One quick glance through the peephole told her that Cole was indeed the person ringing the doorbell. The moment that she let him into the suite, he would want to check on the Monet. And Irene’s advice was repeating itself in her mind over and over and over. Just kiss him. Just kiss him. Just kiss him.

  Releasing the bolt, she opened the door.

  Cole let his gaze take in the suite. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine.” To her horror, she didn’t sound fine. Her voice had come out in a squeak. She sounded like Minnie Mouse.

  Cole frowned. “What is it?”

  When he moved past her in the direction of the bedroom, Pepper tried her best to block out the chant in her head and said the first thing that came into her head. “It’s you.”

  He kept walking.

  Later, she would try to analyze what made her do it. It wasn’t just desperation to save her aunt. It was something more.

  She shot after him and grabbed his arm, pulling until he turned to face her. “You’re what’s wrong with me. I’m tired of the way you make me feel when you walk into a room.”

  Cole gave her an intent look. “And just how do I make you feel?”

  Pepper’s heart pounded. Her mind raced. She was almost sure she was going to hyperventilate. “It all started in Peter’s kitchen. Now every time you walk into a room, I can’t think of anything but kissing you. I want it to stop. So maybe we ought to just kiss and get it over with.”

  She saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it couldn’t hold a candle to her own. She’d had no idea those words were going to come out of her mouth. Now she had no idea how to take them back.

  IF PEPPER ROSSI had slapped him across the face, Cole Buchanan would not have been more surprised. He’d known she was smart. Was she intuitive too? Had she spotted him through the peephole and read his mind?

  The more rational side of his mind told him, no, she was up to something. But his body paid no attention to his brain. He was already stepping closer so that their bodies were nearly touching.

  A shiver moved through her, but it wasn’t fear he saw in her eyes. It was a mix of desire and nerves, almost exactly what he was feeling. But still he hesitated. This was what he’d come for, but the rational side of his brain reminded him that nothing that came this easily could be trusted.

  “Don’t you want to kiss me?” Pepper didn’t wait for his answer. Instead, she closed the little distance that was left between them, placed her hands on his shoulders and rose onto her tiptoes. It was her scent that hit him first, something that reminded him of hot tropical nights. Her wide, amber-colored eyes were the next thing that registered in the rational part of his mind. When he dropped his gaze to her mouth, his rational mind began to shut down. Her lips were parted, moist, waiting…

  But what little was left of his brain was still suspicious. The Pepper he’d come to know in the last few months was wary of him. This woman was…Suddenly it clicked. She was playing a role.

  “Who are you pretending to be?” he asked.

  “What?” Her eyes widened and became wary.

  Bingo. “You’re pretending to be someone else, and I want to know who I’m kissing.”

  She met his eyes steadily. “I was going for Angelina Jolie. I figured she might be your type.”

  The corners of his mouth curved. He reached out and gently rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. So lush. “Not even close. I’ve never had a fantasy about kissing her. What if I told you I came back here just to kiss you? That I’ve been dreaming of kissing you since you dropped that bowl of pasta?”

  Her breath hitched and surprise now mixed with the desire he saw in her eyes. Satisfied, he framed her face with his hands. In some part of his mind, he registered that her skin was even softer and her hair even silkier than he’d dreamed. But all of his attention was on her mouth.

  Leaning down, he brushed his lips against hers. It wasn’t a kiss, just the barest pressure of his mouth to hers, yet his blood began to pound in his head.

  When he drew back, she moistened her lips with her tongue as if she hadn’t gotten enough of his taste. Heat shot through him. He wanted more of her too. Unable to resist, he sampled her lower lip with his tongue, then drew it into his mouth and nipped it. Pleasure clouded her eyes and her pulse quickened beneath his thumb at her temple.

  Hunger for her rose with a speed that shocked him. He was just going to kiss her, he reminded himself. They were here on a job. But he only had to press his mouth to hers again for his intention to change. One more taste was all it took, and without another thought, he plunged them both deeper.

  He wasn’t a man who particularly liked surprises, but this seemed to be his night for them. He’d thought he’d known what she would taste like, but her flavor was more sinfully sweet than he’d anticipated. The deeper he probed, the darker and richer it grew. Her response was unexpected too. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and her mouth was as greedy, as avid, as his. He’d sensed the passion held in check beneath that pressed and polished exterior, but this was more. She was more than he’d anticipated. He only had to cup her bottom with his hands and she scooted up, wrapping her arms and legs around him.

  What astonished him most was his response to her. He’d never been so aware of a woman before—the press of that small, strong body against his and the husky sound of her voice when she said his name triggered explosions of pleasure that went far beyond any fantasy he’d been able to conjure up. His blood had burned before but never quite like this. And control—he never lost it—never. But he could feel it slipping as surely as he could feel the synapses disconnecting in his brain. When she arched against him and began to rub against his hardness, something inside him snapped.

  One thought streamed through him. He wanted her and he could have her. Now. The certainty of that, the power of it, shot through him and he moved toward the bedroom. Once he had her pressed against the door, his hands began to move of their own accord, unfastening her slacks and his own. When he’d finally dragged hers off, some dim corner of his mind cleared enough to remember the Monet, the job.

  “The painting,” he murmured as he lifted her again. “We’ll finish this in the bedroom where the Monet is.”

  He lifted her again and opened the door. But he didn’t step over the threshold. Even in the darkness of the room’s interior, he could see that the easel was empty and the door to the balcony stood open.

  As his blood cooled and his mind cleared, Cole was pretty sure of one thing. He was holding the thief’s accomplice in his arms.

  1

  Friday, February 13—12 p.m.

  PEPPER SCANNED Escapade Island’s small airport, but the miracle she’d been praying for didn’t occur. There was no sign of Irene or the Monet. As per usual, her plan to become Pepper Rossi, super sleuth, was not going well.

  This time she couldn’t in all conscience lay the blame at Cole Buchanan’s feet. If she’d been distracted during the past few days because she couldn’t pry him loose from her thoughts, she had no one to blame but herself. She’d started what had
happened in the penthouse suite. She’d acted, as usual, on impulse and gotten in way over her head. Acting without thinking things through was a flaw that her grandmother Pendleton had initially pointed out to her when she was about four. And Pepper knew the accompanying lecture by heart. Trouble was, she mostly ignored it, so she’d been a constant disappointment to her grandmother. The end result was that she’d left Chicago. Moving to San Francisco was a golden opportunity to start fresh and to finally fit in with a family. But now the same thing was threatening to happen with the Rossis. She was screwing up, and she couldn’t seem to fit in with them either.

  And kissing Cole Buchanan hadn’t been her only impulsive act two nights ago. She’d also helped her aunt steal a priceless Monet. And now she’d lost track of both.

  “Please, God.” She repeated the prayer that she’d been sending up on a regular basis during the commuter flight to Escapade Island. “I promise, if you’ll just let me find Irene and recover the Monet, I’ll never do another impulsive thing in my life. Really.”

  Quickening her pace, she threaded her way through her fellow deplaning passengers, trying to ignore the headache that pounded at full throttle behind her eyes. Tailing people had been one of her strengths in the PI course she’d taken. Still, she’d lost Irene in the crowd at the Miami airport. She hadn’t panicked because she figured that her aunt would eventually board the connecting flight to Escapade Island. But it was a tall man, speaking with a French accent, wearing a beret and sporting a goatee, who’d taken the final empty seat just before takeoff.

  Pepper skidded to a stop and barely missed crashing into the couple in front of her. They’d stopped to embrace. She wasn’t sure if it was the clinch or the fact that they were wearing long trench coats, but several other people had slowed down or stopped to watch them. This close, she could see that they were older than they’d seemed at a distance—in their seventies, she figured. Well, more power to them, she thought as she dodged to her left and sped around the small crowd that was gathering.