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“Yeah, um, crazy.” Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. “What do you mean by staying? What—here?”
She frowned. “Why, yes. Where else would I stay so long as one of those mean, nasty men is still in my room?”
Mean? Nasty? Joe scratched his head. Did those words come straight from the P.I. academy?
He didn’t get a chance to ask. Ripley waggled her fingers at him, then disappeared into the bedroom, not even the view she’d offered enough to take his mind from the situation at hand. “Good night, Joe. Oh, and thanks again.”
She closed the door.
Huh.
Joe sat there for long, silent moments staring at the white enamel of the door, trying to convince himself that what had just happened had, in fact, happened. Had she really locked him out of his own bedroom? He slowly shook his head. This was nuts. In fact, not much of what had happened tonight made much sense. First a naked woman smelling of peaches climbs into his bed buck naked and plants a wet one on him, awakening all sorts of reactions he had just been wondering if he’d grown immune to. Then she virtually takes over his hotel room, wearing his clothes and ordering room service on his tab. Now she’d just told him she was taking over his bed…without him in it.
The same woman who claimed to be a P.I. but struck him as anything but.
Making that phone call to the police was looking more and more appealing.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
He got to his feet, made it to the closed bedroom door in five strides and opened it. “I think you and I need to have a…”
His words drifted off along with his thoughts. Lying flat on her back, her mouth slightly open, one certain sexy, mystifying Ripley Logan was fast asleep in the exact spot he’d been lying in when they’d, um, first met. Slowly he neared the bed. Although why he was being quiet he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to wake her up. Didn’t he? He grimaced. Okay, maybe he didn’t. Well, not to kick her out of bed, anyway.
The top sheet was bunched around her knees. He reached for it to pull it up then caught himself. Since when had he developed protective instincts? If she was cold, let her cover her own damn self up. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood stoically for a whole two seconds then sighed and reached for the sheet again. Only something else caught his attention. Namely the soft cotton of her—his—shirt. She must have moved around a bit trying to find a comfortable spot. Her squirming had caused the sheet to come off and the shirt to ride up. The hem brushed her upper thighs, mere inches from the area that had driven him crazy ever since she’d covered it. He could imagine the springy curls just under the soft material. Joe swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room.
There was something decidedly decadent about standing there like that, watching her without her knowledge. Imagining her slick, swollen flesh just under the soft cotton.
Get a grip, guy.
Joe shook his head and turned toward the door to head for the couch in the other room. Suddenly, he stopped. Ripley lay on the far side of the bed. That still left three quarters of the king-size mattress free. He ran a hand through his hair. They were both adults, weren’t they? Certainly they were capable of sharing a bed without sex being a factor. There was plenty of room. They wouldn’t even have to touch. Unless, of course, they wanted to.
Ripley shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her side and bending her leg at the knee. The movement caused the shirt to pull tight across her shapely little bottom.
Without sex being a factor? Yeah, right.
He left the room and softly closed the door behind him.
3
“THIS IS THE CHART showing our fiscal growth over the past three years during our contract with your competitor.”
Joe sat in the cramped Shoes Plus conference room with the great view of the Mississippi that no one was looking at, trying like hell to concentrate on what the company sales rep was saying. If only the peaks and valleys on the graph didn’t remind him of a certain someone’s peaks and valleys, he’d probably be having an easier time of it. Unfortunately, the distractedness he’d noticed yesterday, even before one certifiably insane Ripley Logan had thought about climbing into his bed, was doubly worse today. He pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced at his expensively produced graph showing his projections for the next two years if Shoes Plus decided to contract with his company. But he couldn’t seem to summon up the energy to do as he planned, which was to use his graph to cover the one the rep was droning on about.
No, he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Call him an idiot, but he hadn’t called the police. He hadn’t been able to do anything more than lie on that uncomfortable, scratchy couch not even trusting himself to go into the bedroom to get the spare linens from the closet. Instead he’d tossed and turned on the narrow sofa, fallen off the sucker no fewer than two times and spent a perfectly miserable night fantasizing what would have happened had he been able to convince the delectable Miss Logan to finish what she had so skillfully started earlier in the night.
Finally, the sales rep put down his pointer and wrapped up his spiel. Ten sets of eyes turned in Joe’s direction in unison. He blinked at them, having completely forgotten where he was.
He discreetly cleared his throat, then smiled. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute…”
He pushed from his chair and stepped from the room, closing the door against the open mouths that followed his progress. He pulled out his cell phone and moved toward the farthest corner of the waiting area, nodding at a woman waiting there. He punched a number, asked to be put through to someone, then waited. And waited. He waited for a full eight rings before a decidedly sleepy, infinitely sexy voice answered.
“What are you doing answering the phone?” he asked in a fake chastising voice.
He heard a soft gasp, then sheets rustle. “Who is this?” Ripley finally responded.
“Who do you think it is?” Joe turned away from the woman watching him curiously. “The guy you threw out of his own bed this morning.”
“Joe?”
“Unless there’s someone else you evicted from their room.”
“Where are you?”
He glanced toward the closed door to the conference room. He was supposed to be working. “In a meeting.”
A long, protracted yawn. “I didn’t even hear you leave.”
Which was a wonder, because he’d gone out of his way to make as much noise as possible two hours ago, slamming doors, opening and closing drawers, after the sounds he’d made showering and getting ready hadn’t broken the rhythm of her soft snoring. He’d come out of the bathroom with her smack dab in the same position he’d left her in the night before.
“Isn’t sleeping so soundly a job hazard?” he asked. “Especially after what happened last night?”
A pause. “I wasn’t in any danger after I got to your room.”
“How would you know that?”
“Because…because, well, I have a sixth sense about these things, that’s why.”
“Ah, something else you learned from the private investigator’s handbook?”
A soft laugh. Joe found himself smiling.
“Is there something in particular you wanted, Mr. Pruitt, or did you just call to annoy me?”
Joe realized that there really hadn’t been a reason for his call beyond seeing if she was still there. And his relief that she was proved a little off-putting. He thought of the display case on the conference table in the other room and asked if Ripley saw it around the hotel room anywhere. She told him to hang on and he waited while she looked.
He supposed he should tell her that he’d spotted the guy left behind in her room leaving at the same time he did. In fact, he’d shared an elevator with him. But that might mean she’d leave the minute they hung up.
Joe glanced at his watch and called himself a moron. A moment later she was back on the line. “Nope. Nothing of that description around here.”
“Damn. I must have left it in the car,” he said.
“Is that all?”
He grimaced, drawing a blank for other reasons to keep her on the line. Well, aside from the guy. “Yep. That’s it.”
“Okay. Well, bye then.”
“Yes, bye—wait.”
He was afraid she’d hung up, then she sighed and mumbled a distracted, “What?”
“Don’t answer the phone again. You, um, never know who might be calling.”
“I thought you said you weren’t married.”
“I didn’t say I was a monk.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Joe disconnected the line, waited a heartbeat, then pressed redial. As expected, Ripley picked up on the first ring.
“I thought I asked you not to pick up the phone.”
“Well, then, quit calling me.”
Joe disconnected again and chuckled as he headed to the conference room, ready to face the suits in there.
RIPLEY REACHED OVER to replace the receiver on the nightstand, then collapsed against the pillows, smiling. And he thought she was weird. What kind of person called to tell her not to answer the phone, then called back and checked to see if she would? She stretched. The kind of guy with a sense of humor, that’s what.
She settled her head more comfortably against the pillows. How long had it been since she’d dated someone with a sense of humor? A while. Maybe never, even. At least not a guy with the same wicked, inventive sense of humor Joe had. Of course, she and Joe weren’t dating. They’d just slept together. In the same hotel room.
She pushed up to her elbows. A hotel room she should be at least thinking about getting out of.
She caught a glimpse of a note next to the phone and reached over to pluck it up.
“Call the police,” was written in large block letters. It was signed, “Joe.”
She put the paper down and glanced at the clock then leaped off the bed. Was it really nine-thirty already? She’d meant to get up early and try to follow the third guy when he left her room. Assuming, of course, that he had left her room.
She crossed to the wall and pressed her ear against it, although common sense told her one person waiting for another to return probably wouldn’t make all that much noise. She sighed then eyed the phone. A person waiting for another probably wouldn’t answer the phone in that room, either.
She placed an order for room service to deliver to her room. As soon as she broke the connection, she rushed into the bathroom for a quick shower, only after toweling off realizing she didn’t have anything to wear. She stood in the doorway to the bedroom and eyed the drawers. Well, she’d already borrowed the guy’s bed. A pair of underwear wouldn’t be completely out of line, would it? She put Joe’s shirt on, fished a pair of those clingy cotton boxers out of the top drawer, then a pair of socks from the next. Not exactly the epitome of fashion, but it would do. Then she hurried to the door to stand watch for room service, wishing she had thought to have something sent to Joe’s room when her stomach growled.
Five minutes later she watched the elevator open and a white uniformed guy roll a cart in the direction of her room. She followed it as far as the peephole would allow, then with the security block securely in place, cracked the door open so she could listen.
A brief, determined knock next door. “Room service.”
Ripley smiled. She couldn’t help thinking that Nelson Polk would be proud of her little ruse. She resisted the urge to open the door the rest of the way and peek her head out, deciding that wouldn’t be very smart. The way her luck was running, the guy would spot her when she was trying to determine if he was still there.
Another knock and a more strident call.
Ripley gave in to temptation and her screaming stomach and opened the door. The room service guy was just beginning to turn away from the door to her room when she waved at him, hurrying down the hall.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I locked myself out of my room.”
He eyed her skeptically. “Ma’am?”
“I’m Ripley Logan. This is my room.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You don’t believe me. Okay. I’ll tell you exactly what I ordered then.” As she told him, he silently read the order. “Convinced?”
He grimaced while she cautiously eyed the door to her room. Was the guy in there even now, watching her? Attaching a silencer to his gun? She shuddered and stepped a little closer to the wall where she couldn’t be seen from the peephole. She’d seen a movie once where someone was shot through the peephole. Even if the logistics didn’t make much sense, a little caution never hurt anybody.
The delivery guy called to a maid cleaning a room down the hall. Within minutes she was unlocking the door. Ripley hung back, trying to see beyond the small crack.
“Ma’am?” the delivery guy asked.
“What? Oh, of course.”
She swallowed the wad of wool in her throat and tentatively pushed the door open, smiling her nervous thanks to the maid. If the guy was in there, she wanted to be sure she could make a clean run for it. Besides, the room service guy was pretty hefty. He would jump in to protect a damsel in distress, wouldn’t he? She eyed him more closely. More likely he’d be running down the hall right after her.
Nothing in the living area.
Ripley tiptoed into the room, craning her neck to make out the bedroom. Remembering the mirrors, she glanced behind her. From the living room, into the bedroom, into the bathroom, she saw no scary shadows. She stepped into the bedroom and closed the balcony doors. Whew. He was gone.
THE WOMAN was an ego booster.
Joe grinned at the conference room full of sales reps and company bigwigs, confident that after a sluggish start, he’d made a successful comeback and had just given one of his strongest finishes ever. Jackpot. This contract was as good as in the bag.
“Gotta tell you, Joe, you had me worried there for a while,” VP John Gerard said, pumping Joe’s hand after he took down his chart and slid it into its carrying case.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I had myself worried there, too.”
John chuckled and moved away. Joe straightened to shake hands with the remainder of his colleagues, easily moving from speaker to greeter. His secretary, Gloria Malden, once told him she loved to watch him work. That no one could work a room the way he could. It was a good thing Gloria was fifty and a grandmother or else he might have thought she was coming on to him. Instead, he’d taken her words as a rare compliment. Lord knew he’d had so few of them growing up. And while he’d like to think he’d grown beyond the shallow desire for praise, he reasoned that it wasn’t hurting anyone to acknowledge it when the occasional bit did come his way.
“Dinner tonight, right?” Percy said quietly, leaning closer to him in a conspiratorial way.
Percy had been the biggest tipper at the strip joint last night. Joe was surprised he had money left to slip in any more G-strings.
Joe thought of the sexily provocative Ripley Logan and wondered if she was still in his room and whether or not she’d still be requiring his…services when he finished here. He grimaced. Even if she was and did, he had too much riding on this deal to chuck it all in exchange for some amateur sleuthing with someone who was so wet behind the ears she squeaked.
“Mr. Pruitt?”
Joe told Percy they were on, then glanced toward the door through which most of occupants of the room had already exited. His smile froze on his face when he saw the guy he had shared the elevator with that morning, the one who had chased Ripley from her room and into his bed, standing squarely in the doorway. His body—as wide as it was tall—effectively blocked the exit, and two guys with the exact same build and height stood behind him.
Damn.
RIPLEY REACHED across the table and plucked a strawberry from the nearly empty service tray in her room, then turned over the picture she was staring at. Dressed in dark blue jeans and a purple T-shirt, she felt much better now that she had regained possession of her room and there were no armed gunmen hiding in the shadows. Her chewing slowed as she eyed the security lock on her door. Of course, it probably wasn’t a good idea to stick around too long, lest they figure everything out and make a return appearance.
She brushed her fingers on her jeans then turned the photograph right side up again. The black-and-white shot was of a dark-haired woman of about her age who could have been a double for Angelina Jolie, except that her hairstyle was different. But it wasn’t so much the woman in the picture that caused questions. Rather it was the picture itself.
Ripley ran her thumb along the length of the photo. It wasn’t on traditional stock paper. Rather it appeared to have been run off a printer. And the grainy quality and downward angle of the shot made it look like something from one of those low-end security cameras. Which really didn’t make any sense considering she’d gotten the picture from Nicole Bennett’s sister, Clarise.
She glanced over the information again. Nicole Bennett. Twenty-eight years of age. Dark brown hair, gray eyes. No noted employment. She’d been visiting her sister one day when she just up and disappeared with the family silver. The pieces, bearing the recognizable initials ZRD, had popped up at a Memphis pawnshop two days ago.
“She does it all the time,” Clarise Bennett had said in response to Ripley’s questioning stare. “One Christmas she took antique ornaments from the tree.”
