The P.I.

She studied him for a moment. Objectively speaking, he was very handsome. His face had the lean, strong features that ancient artists had liked to capture in marble and bronze. His nearly jet-black hair was on the long side and untamed. Standing there barefoot in threadbare jeans and a T-shirt, the man looked a bit untamed, too. And large. She felt something begin to pulse right in her center. He had broad shoulders, a narrow waist, long legs. And narrow feet. For some reason, she found his bare feet…sexy.

The pulsing in her center deepened. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t merely shock. She was a bit attracted to him. It was a natural reaction on her part. The man would speed up the pulse of any woman who had one.

But it was definitely not jealousy she was feeling—just because he’d asked another woman out to dinner. That was ridiculous. She was in trouble. He was going to help her. The cop on the other end of the line could have dinner with him anytime she wanted. She wished both of them well.

Kit hung up the phone and shifted his gaze back to the Magnum. “You know, this is definitely not a lady’s gun.”

She couldn’t have said why his comment had her lifting her chin. “Maybe I’m not a lady.”

His grin was quick and charming. “Sugar, you’re a lady right down to the tips of your toes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you would know that because?”

His smile widened. “I’m a crack-shot investigator. I make a good part of my living noticing and cataloging the details. Look at your feet.”

She glanced warily down at the open-toed shoes and blinked. Her toes were painted red.

“Those shoes, if I don’t miss my guess, have a designer name on them. I’d say Italian. My kid sister, Philly, would give up lunches for a month to own a pair. I’m guessing the suit you’re wearing has a designer label, too. Plus, you’ve got a pedicure. And a manicure.”

She unclasped her hands and studied her nails. They were clean, neatly filed, painted with a clear polish except for the white tips.

“It’s a special kind of manicure—with some kind of name. Philly told me once.” Kit paused, narrowed his eyes and snapped his fingers. “French. It’s a French manicure. And according to my sister, it costs extra. So you’re certainly not trailer trash. You either come from money or you work hard to earn it. And you use some of it to take good care of yourself.”

Was she the kind of woman who had nothing to do but shop and go to beauty salons? Was getting a manicure and a pedicure the highlight of her week? She sincerely hoped not. She thought of the money in her tote. Maybe it belonged to her. Maybe she’d earned it. She much preferred the latter. But how had she earned that much money and all of it in cash? A thought popped into her mind. “Maybe, I’m a professional hit woman.”

This time he didn’t flash her that killer grin. Instead, he looked at her as if he were considering the possibility. Not good.

“That’s one possibility. Let’s test it.” He opened another drawer, took out a gun and placed it on his desk. It wasn’t the same kind as the one he’d taken from the tote, but it was large and just as deadly looking. “Pick it up.”

She hesitated for only a moment. Then she lifted it with her right hand. It was heavier than she’d expected and she nearly dropped it.

“You’re not holding it like a professional,” he commented.

She shot him a narrow-eyed look. “I’m suffering from amnesia, remember?”

“If I asked you to boot up my laptop and search the Web for information on amnesia or memory loss, would you know what to do?”

She glanced at his computer and considered. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

He smiled at her. “There you go. The gun isn’t as familiar to you—therefore, you’re probably not a professional hit woman. Why don’t you try pulling the trigger? Aim it at the wall over there. It’s not loaded.”

More than anything she wanted to set the gun down on the desk, but she didn’t. Instead, she clasped it with both hands, raised it and pointed it at the outer wall of the office.

Even as she tightened her finger, her hands began to shake. A chill moved through her and, in spite of the heat in the room, she very nearly shivered.

She wanted to drop the gun and run. Biting her lower lip, she steadied her grip on the gun and squeezed the trigger. In the quiet room, the click sounded like a gunshot. Immediately, an image flashed into her mind—quick and bright as lightning. She was in a room filled with shadows. She was breathing hard as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs and there was a musty smell that was somehow familiar. Beneath that, she caught the scent of something else. Roses? A shadow shifted and a door in front of her opened slowly. Fear—an icy ball of it—lodged in her throat. Her hands shook. She couldn’t steady them, but she was going to shoot—she had to—

When the dark figure slipped into the room, she pulled the trigger. And saw the figure stumble back into the wall. Deafened by the sound, blinded by the bright flash of fire, she stumbled backward herself and hit something hard. Hands gripped her upper arms.

“Easy, sugar. I’m right here.”

Her head spun once, and then she remembered. Kit Angelis, the P.I. She’d hired him to help her.

“It’s all right. Just take a deep breath and lean on me for a minute.”

She did. But even as her vision cleared, she felt her whole body begin to throb. He continued to talk to her in that calm, steady tone, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her senses were so filled with him—his body was rock hard at her back and so were his hands. She could feel the press of each one of his fingers through the fabric of the suit on her upper arms. Her mind suddenly filled with the sensations of what those fingers would feel like moving over her bare skin—over her throat, her breasts, her waist, and lower…lower. Oh, she knew exactly where she wanted those fingers to press.

“Take another breath.”

She breathed in, trying desperately to rein in her unruly thoughts.

“You remembered something.”

His words brought the memory back clear as crystal. How could it have slipped away—even for a moment? “I shot someone.”

He turned her then and, after settling her in a chair, knelt down in front of her.

“Who?”

He wasn’t touching her now. Instead of feeling…bereft, she should be grateful. The man was trying to help her and she wanted to just…jump him. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t blame this on shock. It had to be something else.

“Close your eyes. Try to picture it like a video.”

He was trying to do his job, trying to help her. The least she could do was help him. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and tried to recapture the image of the shadowy figure opening the door and slipping into the room. “I can’t make out his features. The room was so dark.”

“Him?”

She thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yes. The figure was large. Tall and broad. I’m positive it was a man.”

“Did you see him fall?”

She shook her head. “He stumbled backward into a wall, and I can’t remember what happened next.”

“What do you recall about the room?”

She frowned. “Nothing—no wait—there was a musty smell…the scent of old books. And—” her heart skipped a beat “—I smelled flowers, too. The bridal bouquet?”

Panic sprinted through her. She wasn’t sure how, but her fingers were laced with Kit’s when she opened her eyes. “What if I’m not the bride or the sister or the maid of honor or even the wedding planner? What if I’m a jealous ex-lover of the groom and I shot him for revenge? Maybe I shot the bride, too.”

“Whoa! As a writer, I’d like to steal that idea for a plot. But as a P.I., I prefer to stick to the facts. The jealous, revenge-seeking ex-lover scenario doesn’t explain why you’d run off with the wedding dress. Nor does it account for the loot you’re carrying around. Plus, all you remember so far is that you shot someone.”

“Maybe I killed him.”

“And maybe not. You saw him stumble backward. You didn’t see him fall. Let’s stick with that until we know more.”

She stared at him. He was being kind, trying to reassure her. She wanted desperately to believe him, but her gut instinct was telling her that she’d shot and killed someone.

“Have you ever had to shoot anyone?” she asked.

Kit’s gaze was steady. “Not yet.”

But he could, she thought. She could see it in his eyes. If he had to, he could shoot someone. So could she. Did that make them alike? That strange feeling of recognition moved through her again. This was a man she wouldn’t have thought she’d have anything in common with, but it seemed she did. Right now she wanted nothing more than to just lean into him, to put her head on his shoulder and ask him to put his arms around her.

Even as she tried to clear the image out of her mind, she was suddenly aware of just how close they were, of how still the room had become. His face was only inches from hers and she could hear each individual breath he drew in and let out. She could smell him, too—a combination of soap and something else that was dark and male.