Prince Charming Doesn’t Live Here

by Christine Warren

  In fact, disturbed offered a very good description of how she felt just at that moment.

  Something wasn’t right here.

  Danice grimaced and congratulated herself on her keen powers of perception. There was definitely something strange going on. The longer she spent in this house, the more she decided that Rosemary Addison’s absence was not the result of a spoiled girl throwing a temper tantrum, or even an empty-headed socialite paying so little attention to her obligations that an appointment made only fourteen hours before had completely slipped her mind.

  No, Danice decided grimly, there was more to this than that. She just had no idea what it could be.

  Crossing her arms, she chafed her hands up and down the bare skin, hoping to chase away a bit of the chill. It didn’t have much effect, but the defensive posture at least expressed her internal conflict a little bit better. What exactly was she supposed to do now?

  She had already decided that Rosemary Addison was nowhere inside this house, and after following her ridiculous impulse up the stairs and into this bedroom, she had begun to conclude that neither were any maids. And furthermore, she had also decided that if there had been anything up here to cause the thumping sound she’d thought she heard back in the entry hall, she probably did not want to know what it was.

  So, what next?

  Did she leave a note and drive back to Manhattan to face the wrath of Matthew Yorke IV? Did she use her cell phone to call Rosemary and ask to reschedule their appointment? Did she tear her hair out, give up her ambitions to practice law at the elite level, and move to an ashram in Tibet?

  Was that something moving behind her?

  Sucking in a panicked breath, Danice whirled to face the doorway, only to find it filled by a tall, lean man with long golden hair, bright gray-blue eyes, and a menacing expression.

  She had an instant to process the reality of his presence and another to realize that by blocking the door, he effectively had her trapped in a room with no exit, no obvious weapons, and a big soft bed that appeared to be the perfect canvas for a little bit of rape, murder, and mayhem.

  She also had half an instant to wonder what Matthew Yorke IV’s reaction would be when he learned the news that one of his employees had been found dead in the bed of the granddaughter he’d sent her to talk to, before she threw her head back and screamed at the absolute top of her lungs.

  Then she had no more instants left, because the man in the door flashed forward faster than humanly possible and tackled her, clamping one hand tightly over her mouth and using the other to pin her wrists to the mattress above her head.

  Oh, dear.

  Five

  She felt just as amazing beneath him as he’d imagined she would.

  Mac allowed himself about seven nanoseconds to savor the sensation before he forced his attention back to business and glared down at her.

  “Looking for something?” he growled.

  She muttered a few words against his palm, but judging by the expression in her dark eyes, he decided it probably wasn’t something he wanted to hear anyway. Somehow, he doubted it was complimentary.

  Still, it wouldn’t do him much good to ask her questions if he wouldn’t be able to hear the answers.

  “If I take my hand away, are you going to scream?”

  She glared at him as if he were an ax murderer.

  A very unintelligent ax murderer.

  He sighed. “Right. While I understand your feelings, given the situation, I’m not sure that’s really the wisest answer. It doesn’t offer me all that much incentive to turn you loose.”

  Especially not since he’d heard two voices outside after the car had pulled up. Someone else might still be around to hear her scream, and while one quickly stifled cry might be explained away, two would be pushing it.

  She offered another muffled reply, but he had a feeling it didn’t differ significantly in content from the first. They appeared to have reached some sort of impasse.

  “Look, I have absolutely no intention of hurting you,” he assured her, though the expression of distrust and anger in her eyes didn’t much change. “I’m not a rapist, and I’m not a killer. I’m a private investigator, and at the moment what I really need to investigate is who you are and what you’re doing here. So will you promise not to scream so that I can lift up my hand and ask you a few questions?”

  She did a great deal of rather disgruntled muttering, but after a minute or two he felt her wind down and spit out one last word that sounded (felt? gave him the vague feeling?) like it might have been, “License?”

  “My license?” he tested and got a crisp jerk of a nod in response. “In my wallet. But I have my hands just a little too full at the moment to show it to you. As soon as you promise not to scream, I’ll let you take a good hard look. Deal?”

  “Nadkmgnnsnhsalg, llbmssnddskmmm.”

  He paused, frowning in concentration. “As soon as you see my license, you’ll promise not to scream?”

  Another reluctant nod.

  Mac thought that one through and came up with only one feasible solution. He swore on his father’s grave he had absolutely no ulterior motive in deciding on the single logical course of action. Not a single prurient thought in his head.

  No, siree.

  “Are you right-or left-handed?” he asked, assuring himself he was not at all looking forward inappropriately to what he was about to suggest.

  She managed to glare and frown up at him at the same time. She also managed to flex her right shoulder forward. He nodded.

  “My wallet is in my back pocket, on the right. My right. I’m going to let go of your left wrist, and you’re going to use that hand to reach into my pocket and take out the wallet. If you flip it open, you’ll see the license. But if you use the opportunity to take a swing at me instead, I’m not going to be very happy about it. Understood?”

  He watched her think that through for a second before she nodded one more time.

  “All right. Don’t move too fast, though. It might make me nervous.”

  Carefully, he loosened his grip on her slender wrists just long enough to let the left one slip free. His fingers tightened immediately on the right, pinning it in place. She didn’t attempt to break free, though, and he wondered if it was because she already believed he was who he said he was, or because she was too wary of him to test his patience.

  Or maybe she was just smart enough to realize that he was half again as big as her and any attempt to overpower him would be ultimately futile.

  Any way he looked at it, she behaved herself with admirable restraint, moving her arm down slowly and fumbling for a minute at his hip before she oriented herself and reached warily into his back pocket to pull out his billfold.

  He noticed the care she took not to touch him any more than necessary, and felt a twinge of regret for that. He would happily give her permission to grope him from now until doomsday if she needed to, but apparently she didn’t yet share his sense of strong physical attraction.

  Too bad.

  Her hand moved faster as she raised the leather wallet into her view and let the sides fall open to reveal two plastic-covered ID compartments, one containing his New York driver’s license, the other his state-issued pocket card, identifying him as a duly licensed and authorized private investigator, pursuant to the laws of the State of New York.

  He watched her eyes scan the card, saw her file away his name, the name of his firm, and the fact that the photo matched the face she had been glaring at for the past five minutes, before her gaze slid back to his. The expression in her eyes remained angry, but the tint of fear had faded.

  She muttered something grumpy.

  “I know we’re in Connecticut. Fortunately, right behind the New York card you’ll find one from the Nutmeg State. Trust me, I’m covered. Now since we’ve established who I am, can I take my hand away so you can tell me who the hell you are?”

  She nodded, reluctantly but definitely, so Mac began to lift his han
d, ready to slap it right back into place if she so much as drew too deep a breath.

  All she did was curse at him.

  “I am not telling you a goddamned thing until you get the hell off me, you jackass.”

  Mac sighed. “You know I can’t do that. Look at it from my perspective. Would you trust you not to make a break for it the minute I let you go?”

  “Absolutely, because I’d need at least two minutes to take really good aim and kick you in the balls the hundred times that you frickin’ deserve!”

  “Well, that doesn’t particularly set me at ease.”

  “And setting you at ease is so my primary concern right now.”

  “Considering that I’m the one in control at the moment, you might want to make it your primary concern.”

  “And you might want to start wearing a cup, just in case I ever have to see you again.”

  Instead of being angry, Mac found himself laughing, and at that point, it seemed rude to keep her pinned to the bed.

  Entertaining, but rude.

  He released her and stepped to the side, out of immediate groin-injury range. Folding his arms across his chest—mostly to keep his hands from going anywhere they shouldn’t—he gazed down at her and lifted an eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Pushing herself into a sitting position, she continued to eye him warily.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

  She rubbed her hands around her wrists, as if erasing the feel of him holding her down. The idea made him frown, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

  “This has got to be the weirdest meet-and-greet I’ve ever done,” she grumbled, “but I’m Danice Carter, and I’m looking for Rosemary Addison. I have an appointment with her at ten. Now, how about you tell me what you’re doing here, McIntyre Callahan, PI.”

  Now, that was interesting. If Rosemary had made an appointment with someone for ten o’clock this morning, that meant she must have intended to be here at that time. So where was she?

  “The same thing you are, apparently,” he answered. “Except I didn’t have an appointment. What was yours supposed to be about?”

  She looked way too satisfied when she informed him, “I’m afraid that I can’t disclose that sort of information. It’s privileged.”

  “I didn’t know that shrinks made house calls.”

  “I’m not a psychiatrist. I’m an attorney.”

  “An attorney? What does Rosemary Addison need an attorney for?” She opened her mouth, but he held up his hand and stopped her. “I know, I know. It’s privileged.”

  “Quite. But I’m aware of no laws stating that there’s any such protection afforded to a private investigator.” Her eyes narrowed. “So what, exactly, is your business with Ms. Addison?”

  He flashed her a grin. He admired her drive.

  “Just because there’s no expectation of privilege regarding my business doesn’t mean I have to reveal it to you, Counselor. As it turns out, you’re not a police officer, are you?”

  Danice pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side, looking more cunning than innocent. “No, but I am the person who can file a complaint against you for breaking and entering, harassment, and assault, at the very least, if you keep pissing me off. Aren’t I?”

  “That suit wouldn’t make it past the file clerk. Since I came in the same way you did, you would have noticed that there was no breaking involved in my entering. And I’d hate to have to tell the court that you committed exactly the same act of trespass I did. It probably wouldn’t look very good for you.”

  “I might decide to take my chances.”

  “So might I.”

  They stood there for several minutes, blue eyes clashing with brown, until Mac realized that the only way to get this woman to give in would be to knock her unconscious with a swift blow to the head. Somehow he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that, so instead he sighed and reached out a hand for his wallet.

  She handed it back immediately, which oddly reassured him. She could have tried to use it as a bargaining chip and refused to hand it over until he answered her questions. It would have taken him all of two seconds to overpower her and regain it by force, but he wouldn’t have enjoyed having to do that.

  “I may not enjoy attorney–client privilege,” he said, tucking the billfold back into his pocket, “but I do have an obligation to my clients to maintain a certain level of discretion, which means that I can’t tell you everything you want to know.” He raised a hand before she could voice the objections he saw forming on her lips. “But I will tell you that my client hired me to locate a woman named Rosemary Addison. Obviously, I located her address, but the woman herself seems to have eluded us both.”

  He watched her weigh his answer and wasn’t really surprised when she decided it felt a bit light.

  “And why did your client need a PI to find Ms. Addison? She’s a prominent member of a prominent family. She’s not exactly living a life of anonymity.”

  And here, Mac thought, was where things got tricky.

  “As wonderful a job as our national media might do in reporting the whereabouts of bored American socialites,” he drawled, trying for a note of dismissive cynicism, “not everyone in the world watches E!”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Your client is foreign?”

  The word hit close enough to the mark to qualify as the truth—albeit loosely—so Mac nodded.

  “And what does this international client of mystery want with Ms. Addison?”

  “You know very well I’m not going to tell you that. That would absolutely violate my client’s expectations of discretion and privacy.”

  Not to mention the fact that Mac had begun to realize he didn’t quite know the answer to that himself. It made him frown.

  Danice reacted to the change of expression with a shrug. “You know I had to ask. Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  Mac dragged himself back to the matter at hand and caught the tail end of her comment. He smiled. “Frankly, Ms. Carter, the last thing I’m inclined to call you is a ‘girl.’”

  He let his gaze trail over her, from the top of her glossy dark head to the bottoms of her petite, polished toes. And if a spark—or raging inferno—of appreciation happened to reach his eyes as he did so? Well, he was only a man, after all.

  He watched her shift slightly then straighten her spine into regal alignment. “Don’t try to get around me with charm, Mr. Callahan. I’m immune.”

  Mac saw the instant she realized her mistake, but by then, it was too late. Much, much too late.

  He stepped forward, backing her up the single, monumental step between her knees and the bed. He saw it in her eyes the moment the rear of her legs touched the mattress, saw the flare of unease.

  The tiny, buried kernel of excitement.

  “Are you?” he murmured, leaning close, letting his breath brush the silken skin of her cheek. Letting her scent of amber and honey fill his senses. “Are you really, pretty, pretty Danice?”

  Six

  Danice thought she had learned this lesson years ago. After all, a good attorney never spoke without thinking. It would be suicidal. There were far too many pitfalls, too many traps to be sprung in a negotiation or a deposition or a sworn testimony for anyone to say the first thing that popped into her head, and Danice knew it. Hadn’t she spent enough time learning to pounce on that kind of mistake the minute her opponent made it?

  Yet just then, Danice experienced the shift of the ground beneath her feet as she suddenly ceased to be the hunter and instead became the prey.

  And judging by the glint of intent in McIntyre Callahan’s eyes, this predator was feeling more than a little peckish.

  She really should have known better than to call into question the charm of a man who looked like this. He stood at least six feet tall, with the kind of whipcord-lean frame that left no one in doubt of his strength. Certainly not Danice, against whom he’d already used it once.

  Used it impressiv
ely, a voice inside her taunted. Used it until she’d had to fight not to appreciate the erotic feeling of his body pressed against hers, even in circumstances that she had not considered the least bit sexy. But that was beside the point.

  The point was that the man was gorgeous. He wore his golden-blond hair long, which normally Danice would have found a complete turnoff, but on him it somehow managed to call attention to the sharply masculine edges of his features. He had a long, narrow face with high, slashing cheekbones and a jawline sharper than a Ginsu carving knife. He also had deep blue-gray eyes the color of the sky before a storm, with such long, thick, lush eyelashes he could have starred in a mascara commercial.

  Except that no one on earth could ever mistake him for anything but a man. Certainly not Danice. And certainly not when he stared at her with that hot, hungry look in his eyes.

  The one currently making her stomach roll over and beg.

  She cleared her throat with a touch of desperation. “What I meant is that I’m trying to maintain a professional outlook here,” she qualified hastily. “And I’d think you would be, too, since you’re also here for…professional reasons. I meant that we should both try to be. Professional, that is.”

  “I’ve a confession for you, Danice,” he murmured, stepping closer and somehow drawing out the long E sound so that the sound of his voice made her shiver.

  “What kind of confession?”

  He pressed closer and raised a lean, long-fingered hand to brush aside a strand of hair that had escaped the clip at the nape of her neck. “I confess that at the moment”—his finger trailed up the side of her neck to trace the shell of her ear, making her shiver—“I’m not feeling very professional at all.”

  Her eyes widened and his glinted as his head began a slow, deliberate descent toward hers. He blocked out the light—or maybe that was just her vision going dark—and she stopped breathing. Which could explain the whole vision thing. And for one numb moment, Danice could swear she tasted him on her lips.