The P.I.

His mouth was so close, but it was his eyes she was most aware of—she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away from them. Something about the way he was looking at her had changed. As his fingers tensed on hers, heat streamed through her and she saw the reflection of that heat in his eyes.

Right now, she saw in them the same hunger she was feeling. She wanted to kiss him, and he wanted to kiss her, too. All either of them had to do was to lean just a bit closer…She’d barely moved when the memory of that dark shadowy room once more flashed through her mind, and she jerked back. “I need to…we need to…”

He released her hands, but his eyes remained on hers. “Yes, we do.”

There was a promise in his tone that had a little thrill moving through her. But as he rose and helped her to her feet, his voice became businesslike.

“It’s a very good sign that you’re having flashes of memory,” he said as he moved behind his desk. “It probably won’t be long until you remember everything.”

She drew in a breath and let it out. Her skin felt cold now that he’d moved away. It shocked her that she still wanted to kiss him. A total stranger. A man who could make her blood turn into hot lava with a look or the most casual touch.

What could he do when he really touched her the way she’d imagined only moments ago? When he touched her all over? When and not if? What was the matter with her? Was she sex-starved? She barely kept from dropping her head into her hands. She could not go on this way. She had problems here. Big ones. She didn’t know who she was or exactly what she’d done. Throwing herself at the man she’d hired to find out just how bad her situation was—well, that was a sure path to disaster. She had to get a grip, keep her mind on business.

Kit was certainly doing that. While she’d been fighting off a lust attack, he’d been emptying the tote. The packets of bills were neatly aligned along the edge of the desk, and he was carefully thumbing through one of them.

Obviously, what he’d felt a few moments ago hadn’t been as intense as what she’d felt. She drew in a deep breath and let it out. Maybe she’d hired the wrong man for the job. She didn’t think she’d be having this problem if he were short, fat and balding. Her eyes shifted to the twenty-dollar bill he’d laid on the desk. She could take the retainer back and just tell him that she’d changed her mind.

She considered that option as she watched him count the money. He certainly was focused. And thorough. And perceptive. So far, he’d told her things about herself that she might not have noticed—at least, not for a while. Not to mention the fact that Kit Angelis didn’t look at all shocked by the gun, the money or the bloodstains. He hadn’t batted an eye at the memory she’d shared with him, either. Plus, she needed someone’s help.

Just thinking about gathering up the wedding dress, the money and the gun and starting over with someone else was exhausting her. She glanced at the business card she’d set down on the desk when she’d picked up his gun. Someone had given her that card. Someone had sent her here. Fate? She didn’t know if she believed in fate or not, but she wanted very much to believe that she was the kind of woman who stayed the course.

Kit set the last bundle of bills on the desk, then sat down in his chair and smiled at her. “Have you decided whether or not to fire me, yet?”

5

STARTLED, SHE SAID, “How did you—” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re some kind of psychic?”

Kit managed not to wince when she said the word as if it were some kind of disease. But the way she was looking at him now was a great deal safer than the way she’d looked at him a few moments ago. Safer for him. She’d been pale as a ghost and, for a moment, all he could think of was kissing her. She was a client, but reminding himself of that wasn’t doing a bit of good.

“Well, are you?” she asked.

“No. My aunt Cass would argue that my brothers and I have some latent psychic abilities that we’ve inherited from my mother’s side of the family, but my sister, Philly, is the only one who really has a true gift.”

Now she was staring at him as if he was a smear some lab tech was about to shove under a microscope. In pure self-defense, he summoned up the dimples. “Sugar, I don’t have to be a psychic to read what you’re thinking. You have the most expressive face and eyes I’ve ever seen.”

At her skeptical glance, he continued. “For example, a few minutes ago you wanted me to kiss you. Then you started to worry about that. You glanced more than once at that twenty-dollar bill.” He raised his hands, palms out. “My conclusion—you’re having second thoughts about hiring me. No psychic powers required.”

He saw the flash of temper in her eyes. “Well, if I’m so transparent, then you already know whether I’ve decided to fire you or not.”

“Touché.” As he threw back his head and laughed, Kit had the satisfaction of seeing the corners of her mouth twitch. He hadn’t seen her smile yet, and he wanted to. Very much. He wanted other things from her, too. If she hadn’t pulled back from him, he would have kissed her a few minutes ago. He’d very nearly kissed her even after she’d pulled away, but he wasn’t sure he could have stopped with just a taste of her.

Truth be told, the strength of his attraction to her made him nervous. And cautious. Women had made him cautious before. But nervous? Never. A smart man would keep their relationship strictly business for the time being. Kit had always thought of himself as a smart man.

“Since you haven’t taken your retainer back, I’ll give you my first report. Usually, I type them up, but under the circumstances, I’ll deliver it verbally—if that’s all right?”

“That will be fine.”

She was sitting there with her hands folded on her lap, as prim as a nun. But there were passions simmering beneath that cool exterior. Kit reined his thoughts in and focused on what he’d deduced so far.

“Counting the twenty you gave me for a retainer, there’s a cool twenty thousand here.” He gestured toward the stacks of bills.

Her already straight spine stiffened. “Not a bad payoff for a hit of some kind.”

“Based on the way you handled my gun, I still don’t think you’re a professional killer.”

“I did shoot someone.”

He met her eyes steadily. “You might have acted in self-defense. And there are other possible scenarios. Perhaps you interrupted a hit.”

She blinked. “I never thought about that.”

He watched her consider that possibility, and he knew the minute that the headache hit her. Opening a drawer, he grabbed aspirin and a bottle of water and pushed them across the desk.

She shot him an accusing look as she reached for both.

Kit raised both hands, palms out. “Hey, you winced and your knuckles turned white. I’m a P.I. I make my living observing the details. And for what it’s worth—I don’t think you can force the memories. They’ll come when you’re ready.”

“You know something about memory loss, then?” she asked.

“I had to do some research for the last book I wrote.” Enough to know that it probably wasn’t merely the bump on her head that had triggered her amnesia. “But I’m no expert.” His glance dropped to the stains on her suit. Something had happened, something of a traumatic nature and she’d shot someone. That was what her mind was blocking. At least, that was the way he would have written it.

“Could I see your research?”

“Sure.” Then he shot a rueful glance around the office. “It might take me a while to locate it. In the meantime, why don’t you let me do my job? What we know for sure is that you’ve got a gun, no purse, a wedding dress, my business card and twenty thousand in cash. The serial number on the gun is being traced. You remember shooting at someone, you think it was a man. As a theory, we’ll assume you hit him because of the bloodstains on your suit.” He spread his hands on the desk. “That’s what we know for sure. Agreed?”

“Yes. So what do we do now?”

He pulled a notebook out of a drawer and opened it to a fresh page. “I want you to start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember, everything that’s happened since you regained consciousness in the taxi.”

She’d gone tense on him again, he noted. “Try closing your eyes and picturing what happened.”

“There isn’t much to tell.”

“Replay it in your mind like a video and don’t leave anything out.”

She did what he asked, and he jotted down notes in his own personal shorthand. For a while the sounds of traffic outside were muted by her voice and the movement of his pencil across the paper. When she finally finished, he set the pencil down and met her eyes.

“See?” she said. “There’s nothing.”

“On the contrary, I’ve learned a lot.”

“What?” She leaned forward a bit.

“Number one, you’re smart. In spite of everything that happened—the accident, the discovery that you couldn’t remember anything and that you had bloodstains on your suit—you acted in a calm and logical way. You searched for clues. You asked the taxi driver the right questions. Number two, you told me the story in a clear, straightforward way, revealing that your mind works logically. Three, you’re meticulous. If you recalled something, you went back and filled it in. And the way you described examining the dress bag and tote looking for clues tells me that you’d make a pretty good P.I.”