When She Was Bad...

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 opened 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?