High-Heeler Wonder (Killer Style 1)

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.