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She held out his wallet to him, and when he took it, his fingers brushed accidentally against hers. Well, perhaps not accidentally.
The effect of that casual touch shocked both of them. She snatched her hand back as if it had been burned. And he knew exactly how she felt. The brief contact had sent a little current of electricity zinging along his nerve endings, and the knowledge that she’d been affected, too, had desire twisting his stomach into a hot, hard knot.
“I—” She faltered as if she’d lost her train of thought. He’d better damn well gather his own or he was going to lose her. He could read it in her eyes. She was still thinking of bolting.
Suppressing panic, he summoned up a businesslike tone. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me who you are and what happened?”
She pressed her lips together firmly, drew in a deep breath and met his eyes. Beneath that fragile-looking exterior was an inner strength that he couldn’t help but admire. “Are you any good at what you do?”
Considering the first impression he must have made, Kit couldn’t fault the skepticism in her tone. He sent her another smile, again putting his faith in the dimples. “I’m the best.”
She studied him for one more moment, then nodded. “I want to hire you, then.”
Relief streamed through him. “Fine.” He’d made the decision to take her case the moment he’d set eyes on her. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she spelled trouble. But he was Greek enough, curious enough, not to turn his back on what fate dropped smack in his path. The twenty pages would have to wait. So would his fishing trip with Theo and Nik, if necessary.
“To make it official, I’ll need a retainer. Do you have a dollar?” he asked.
“You’ll help me, then?”
“Yes.” Kit tried to ignore the feeling that he was agreeing to a lot more than a case.
She let out the breath she was holding and, for one brief moment, he thought she might lose that iron grip she seemed to have on her control. His admiration for her shot up a few more notches when she didn’t. Finally, she set the leather tote on a chair, opened it and dug out a twenty. “I don’t have anything smaller.”
Kit took the bill she offered and placed it next to his closed laptop. “Neither do I so I’ll have to owe you nineteen.” He met her eyes steadily. “Will you trust me?”
There was an instant of hesitation before she nodded. “Yes.”
A careful lady, he thought as he smiled at her. This was a woman who preferred to test the waters before she jumped in. That wasn’t his particular style, but he could admire it in others. “Good. Now, you said, “maybe worse.” Can you be more specific?”
Drawing in another deep breath, she finally let go of the death grip she had on the dress bag and draped it carefully over the back of the chair.
Then she stepped to the side and pointed to the stains on her skirt. “It’s blood, I think. I don’t believe it’s mine. I checked, and I’m not bleeding anywhere. But I don’t know how it got there. I can’t remember what happened.”
“You can’t remember?”
“I don’t remember anything before the accident. I was in a taxi that was in a collision just a few blocks from here.” She gestured at the bruise on her temple. “I must have bumped my head during the impact, and I don’t remember anything before I came to in the backseat. I don’t know my name, what I do or what may have happened before I got in that taxi.”
Kit glanced at the tote. “What about a wallet? Do you have some ID in that bag?”
She shook her head. “I checked. And I couldn’t find my purse in the taxi. Everything’s a blank. And…there’s a wedding gown in the dress bag. I don’t know why I’m carrying it around. I could be on my way to my wedding or running away from it. I don’t remember.”
There’d been a thread of panic building steadily in her voice, and Kit felt some of it move through him. In sympathy? He might have accepted that explanation if he hadn’t tasted something bitter when she’d mentioned she might be on her way to her wedding.
“If I was getting married today, if I loved someone enough to…make that kind of commitment, wouldn’t I remember that?”
He sure as hell hoped so, just as he hoped that particular scenario had no basis in reality. “Perhaps you couldn’t make the commitment. Brides and grooms get the jitters. A lot of them have second thoughts.” A scenario he much preferred in this case.
He reached for her left hand. The little current of electricity zinged through him again, but this time he didn’t allow her to snatch her hand away. “You aren’t wearing an engagement ring, and there’s no sign that you’ve been wearing one. No indentation, no telltale white mark even though you have a slight tan. I’d say you’re probably not the bride.”
“Why would I have the wedding gown?”
“Could be you’re a relative. A sister—or a member of the wedding party.”
She curled her fingers around his. “Right. I hadn’t thought…or maybe I’m a wedding planner. That might explain why I have the dress?”
“There you go.” The relief Kit heard in her tone was all the more recognizable because it matched exactly what he was feeling. Which was ridiculous. He had to get a grip. He’d met this woman…what? Five minutes ago? Even setting his physical attraction to her aside, he’d never before met a female who’d drawn so many emotions out of him in so little time.
He’d taken her on as a client, Kit reminded himself. She was in trouble, and the least she deserved from him was some professionalism.
That was what his mind was telling him. Still, he didn’t let go of her hand. He wanted to hold on to it. On to her.
She frowned suddenly. “That still doesn’t explain the blood. Or the rest of it.”
“The rest of it?”
Squaring her shoulders, she pulled her hand out of his and drew in a deep breath. “There’s a gun and a lot of money in the leather tote. Maybe…” She paused to moisten her lips. “I can’t help thinking that maybe I stole the money at gunpoint and shot someone. I could be more than a thief. I could be a killer.”
4
“T HAT’S A POSSIBILITY ,” he said.
The matter-of-fact way Kit Angelis made the statement surprised her. He didn’t look shocked or even the least bit disturbed that he might have taken on a killer as a client. For some reason, his calm acceptance of that possibility eased her nerves. Just a bit.
There was no denying the fact that the man was having the strangest effect on her senses. When he’d first whirled around to face her, he’d looked so dangerous and beautiful at the same time. He’d reminded her of an angel—one of the dark ones who’d been booted out of paradise.
What he didn’t look like was a P.I. In fact, her first thought had been that she’d interrupted him in the act of burglarizing the office. But he’d been barefoot. A thief would be wearing shoes, right? Still, she might have run for her life if she hadn’t also felt something like recognition ripple through her. And a definite…pull.
When his fingers had brushed against hers, she’d felt the intensity of that touch right down to her toes. She’d blamed it on the fact that she must still be in shock…and told herself to get a grip. But a few seconds ago, when he’d taken her hand to examine her fingers, she hadn’t been able to pull away. She hadn’t wanted to.
“Have you touched the gun?”
She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Pardon?”
“Have you touched the gun since you regained consciousness in the taxi?”
She suppressed a shudder. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” She paused to consider the question. “Well, it might have prints on it. Or it might accidentally go off.”
“Or you might have an instinctive fear of firearms. A lot of people do.” He extended his hand. “Why don’t you let me take a look at the gun?”
She picked up the tote and handed it to him, careful not to bring her hand in contact with his.
“See. You’re not even touching it now. You’re going to let me take it out of the bag.”
After setting the tote on his desk, he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to extract the gun. Then he lifted the barrel to his nose and gave it a sniff. “It’s a Magnum,” he said. “And it’s been recently fired.”
She pressed a hand to the sudden queasiness in her stomach. She was not going to faint.
“That doesn’t mean you fired it.”
She met his eyes, and the steady way he was looking at her helped her keep control.
“There’s a serial number to trace. If it’s yours and you have a license, then we’ll know your name.” Kit rescued the phone from where he had knocked it to the floor earlier and punched in some numbers. “My brother, Nik, will probably be gone, but his partner will be there. Running the serial number will take some time, but it will give us something to go on.”
Once again, the calm, steady way he spoke soothed her nerves. Instead of allowing her imagination to run wild because the gun had been fired, she tried to focus on the conversation Kit was having on the phone.
He laughed at something the person on the other end of the line said, and she had the distinct impression that the cop he was talking to was a woman.
“Dinah, if you can put a rush on that, I’ll buy you a drink at The Poseidon.”
Definitely a woman.
He laughed again, and the sound of it tingled along her nerve endings.
“Okay, okay. A dinner in the new dining room.”
Something hot tightened in her belly, and her eyes widened. She could not be feeling jealous because Kit Angelis had invited a cop to dinner, could she? That would mean she was attracted to him and she’d only just met him. What she was feeling had to be shock. Didn’t it?
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?”
