Читать книгу Private Investigations - Tori Carrington, Tori Carrington - Страница 8

WELL, THIS WAS NEW.

Ripley stared through the peephole in the door. Two of the three gunmen left her room then strode down the hall, obviously minus one of their buddies. Had he stayed behind in her room in case she returned? She jumped when the gruesome twosome seemed to look directly at her before stepping into the elevator. But that was ridiculous—they couldn’t see her through the peephole. She drew her head back. Could they?

She turned, her hands flat against the thick metal door. The only problem was that the new view offered another unfamiliar man who also made her want to jump. But for altogether different reasons.

Peering at him through the open door to the bedroom, she saw him lying on his side against the crisp white bed linens, one elbow propping him up, the top sheet draped across his bare waist. Ripley’s heart felt like it might beat straight out of her chest. When she’d formulated her plan in her bathtub, she hadn’t thought beyond getting out of her hotel room—stat. She lay under cover of the bubbles for as long as she could, avoided a probing with what she thought looked suspiciously like a silencer, but the instant the men left the bathroom and were in the sitting area, she’d hightailed it out of the bath and straight through the open balcony doors. Of course she hadn’t stopped to consider that she was as naked as the day she was born or that her room was two floors from the ground. She’d merely clutched her 9mm for dear life, eyed her neighbor’s balcony some two feet away and acted.

She swallowed hard. She supposed she should be glad her neighbor wasn’t some middle-aged, pudgy salesman. But she wasn’t convinced that this guy was better. She stared at the Playgirl poster material staring back at her. He had tousled deep blond hair with the slightest of coppery tints, a handsome cowlick over his forehead making him look even more devastating. Blue, blue eyes that tempted every last clichéd comparison to the sea, with a fringe of dark lashes. She knew from visual confirmation as well as touch that he was one hundred percent lean, hard muscle. And he was…long. When she’d straddled him, it had taken a bit of a stretch to reach his mouth, a kiss the best she could do at the time to keep him from reacting as the gunmen appeared at the balcony doors. Well, at least she had prevented him from reacting to them. To her…well, he’d been a more than welcoming host.

Ripley realized her breath still came in rapid, shallow gasps and fought to control it. The problem wasn’t that the guy was handsome. It was that, despite her predicament, for a minute there she’d actually enjoyed the kiss. Enjoyed it? She’d damn near inhaled him when a simple closed-mouth peck would have done.

In fact it had taken the shock of feeling just how thorough his reaction to her had been through his knit boxers to snap her out of it.

She’d never been so fiendishly unabashed in her life. It didn’t matter that three ugly guys toting guns had been the motivation. They didn’t explain the genuine hunger that had filled her lying on top of a hot, anonymous guy in a dark hotel room.

“I’m, uh, what I mean is…” She faltered, not quite sure what to say to him now that the immediate danger had passed. She rolled her eyes to stare at the ceiling. You’re a P.I., for God’s sake. An independent woman in charge of your own destiny. She blew out a breath. Yeah, right.

“Thanks,” she finally, lamely offered, waving her hand in his general direction.

The rasp of sheets. She blinked to see that he had thrown back the top sheet to reveal the other half of the mattress. “Well, don’t you think you should give me a chance to give you something to thank me for?”

Ripley stared at him as if he’d gone insane. Then his suggestive, heat-filled perusal of her person left her mind resonating with one undeniable fact—she was still naked.

“Oh, my God.” She slapped one arm across her breasts and her other hand over her…oh, my God. It wasn’t that she was overly modest by any means. Her mother had always had to remind her to keep her legs crossed when she wore a skirt, or put her robe on over her pj’s. But this definitely didn’t fall into the same category. She looked first this way, then the other, visually searching the room for something to put on. Against her better judgment, she stepped into the bedroom. The closet door was ajar.

“Wow, the rear view is just as amazing as the front.”

Ripley started, then turned slightly, giving him a side view. Awkwardly positioning her leg so nothing showed, she reached in and grabbed a blue oxford shirt from a hanger, pulling the hanger with it. It took some doing but, with her back still to him, she finally managed to shrug into the soft cotton with what she hoped was a modicum of dignity. At least until she realized that the mirror on the sliding closet door allowed the man behind her a full view of the open front of the shirt. And judging by the grin on his face, he was enjoying every moment of it.

She made a face at him. Just what kind of man didn’t blink at a strange, naked woman climbing into his hotel bed in the middle of the night? She shakily buttoned the shirt. Scratch that. She didn’t want to know. The truth was, she’d come across one too many just like him. Well, okay, maybe not as drop-dead gorgeous, but externals didn’t matter in this case. What did is that he was probably just like every other guy she’d ever dated. “Forget the small talk, babe, and let’s get down to business.”

Hadn’t guys figured out yet that a woman needed more?

Then again, she couldn’t blame him. Hey, when a naked woman sneaks into your bed in the middle of the night, what do you do? Kick her out? No. You make the best of the situation, right?

She crossed to the bed, noticing his grin grow wider. She grabbed the sheet and gave it a yank. He moved over to make room for her. She smiled and reached toward his crotch.

“Now that’s more like it,” he said, patting the spot beside him.

She withdrew her 9mm revolver from under the sheet and weighed it in her hand. She was gratified by the vanishing of all amusement from his face.

“Whoa,” he said, holding his hands up almost comically. “You climbed into my bed, remember?”

Ripley smiled and sat on the edge of the mattress. “Yes. And it’s a good thing you’re used to such events, isn’t it? Or else neither one of us might be here now.”

She didn’t think she’d ever seen a person move quite so fast. One minute he was in a reclining position, looking like temptation incarnate, the next he was standing next to the bed, clutching the sheet to his chest like he’d been violated. Which, she decided, was how he should have looked when she crawled into bed with him. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re not a…gift from one of my colleagues.”

Ripley’s brows moved up on her forehead. She polished the nickel-plated gun with the corner of the sheet. “Do you often get gifts of that nature?”

“Never.”

“No, I’m not a gift from one of your colleagues. And I’m not housekeeping looking to make your bed while you’re still in it. Or room service, wanting to redefine the meaning of the term.” She waved the revolver. “Don’t worry, I pushed the wrong button and the clip fell out in the bathtub anyway.” She put the handgun on the bedside table closest to her, then leaned across the bed, her hand extended. “Hi. I’m Ripley Logan, P.I.”

Oh, how she’d always longed to say that. Some of the patina had worn off during her daylong search for answers, since not one person had seemed impressed by the badge she’d ordered from a magazine. But this guy’s reaction made all those blank, unimpressed stares worth it. Even if his expression was probably due more to the gun he kept staring at. While the people she’d encountered all day had gone out of their way to see that she didn’t get what she was looking for, this one had wanted to give her everything she was looking for. Er, everything she wasn’t looking for.

A surprising shiver shimmied along her arms then down her back as she remembered the texture of his tongue against hers and the hot, hair-peppered skin of his chest whispering against her hardened nipples. God, but the guy could kiss. She’d give him that. It had been a good long while since someone had made her toes curl.

She watched him, waiting for him to snap to. Only when he did, she immediately wanted the other guy back. This one…well, the amused glint in his blue eyes warned her to prepare herself. “P.I., huh?”

Just as she thought. She finished buttoning the borrowed shirt, her damp hair falling over her face. “Do you have a name?”

“Uh-huh.”

She slid a glance at him. “Are you going to share it with me?”

“Depends,” he said, looking to where he still grasped the sheet. He dropped the linen then widened his stance, planting his fists on his hips. For a guy in nothing more than clingy cotton knit boxers he managed to look sexier than all get out.

“On what?”

“On whether or not there’s a camera crew ready to spring through the door and tell me this is a practical joke.”

“Don’t I wish,” Ripley said quietly, then added while stabbing a thumb toward the hall, “be my guest.”

He stood still for half a heartbeat, then strode to the door in the other room.

Oh, boy. Talk about the back looking just as great as the front. He had a pair of buns a girl could dig her fingers into. And thighs that hinted at an endurance level beyond anything she was used to. He peeked through the peephole then turned, catching the direction of her attention. She quickly looked away and reached toward the bedside table where a wallet lay. She flipped it open. “Joseph Albert Pruitt.” She closed the fragrant, faded leather and put it back where she found it. “Nice to meet you, Joseph.”

“Joe.”

She smiled. Joe. She liked that. Where he could have easily pulled off a name like Fabio, Adonis or Romeo, he had a simple, everyday name. But he was far from your everyday average Joe.

She watched as he took a pair of jeans from a chair and easily stepped into them. She swallowed. Of course he was the type to leave the top button open, revealing where the dark V of hair trailing from his navel disappeared into the waistband.

“So,” he said. “The way I see it, we have two options.” His suggestive grin should have sent her packing. Instead it made her stomach dip to somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles. “Either we both climb back into that bed…together.”

Ripley couldn’t believe she found the idea very, very tempting. For crying out loud, she didn’t know the guy from…well, from Joe. “And the second option?”

Joe ran his right hand over his tousled hair and shrugged. “You tell me what’s going on.”

AN HOUR LATER Joe sat across the sitting room table from one very hungry Ripley Logan, P.I., trying not to think that under the shirt she wore, his shirt, was nothing but a precious expanse of flawless skin and shadowy crevices. She had one knee pulled up to her chest, leaving him to wonder what the view looked like under the table as she popped another French fry into her mouth and chewed. Part of the deal she’d made with him included ordering up room service. Only after the meal arrived would she tell him what he wanted to hear.

Well, not exactly what he wanted to hear, he amended. If he had it his way, she’d be making those quiet little throaty sounds she was making as she ate, but she’d be making them in the bed in the other room.

“I can’t believe how hungry I am,” she said, digging into a burger the size of a plate, then licking ketchup from the corner of her mouth. “When I got back to my room earlier I couldn’t even think of food. Amazing what a little action can do, huh?”

Joe sat up straighter. He wished she were referring to the type of action he was interested in. The sight of her pink little tongue sweeping her lips just about undid him. “Yes, I suppose running from armed men will do that to a person.”

She stopped chewing and blinked at him. Then a twinkle entered her cognac-colored eyes. She was enjoying this, he realized. Not the meal. Not his company. Not what had happened between the two of them in that perfectly good, imperfectly empty bed in the other room. No, she had enjoyed being pursued by gunmen—one of whom could still be camped out in her room, if he bought what she was telling him.

“I guess,” she said, waving the burger.

“The funny thing is, I haven’t a clue who they are or what they’re after, even though I know they have to be involved in this missing persons case I’m working on, but considering all the dead ends I hit today, and I mean not one person would—”

Joe took that as his cue that no further participation was required by him for the time being and tuned out. The way she was going, he figured he had a good five minutes before she ran out of steam and expected a response from him. He sat back and crossed his arms, enjoying watching her. He’d never seen a woman eat and talk at the same time. His mother would have been absolutely horrified. His father would have probably made one of those sounds of disapproval deep in his military throat. But all Joe could think about was how damn sexy the action was. If she approached food and conversation with such vigor and passion, he could only imagine what she would really be like in bed. Ravenous. Insatiable.

Joe rubbed his chin with his index finger. He didn’t quite know what it was about Ripley Logan that captured his attention. Yes, she had Julia Roberts’s girl-next-door good looks, but compared to the women at the strip club earlier in the evening, she didn’t begin to scream bedroom material. But that’s exactly where he wanted to get her—in his bed. Take up right where they’d left off.

The top few buttons of the oxford she filched had been left undone, and as she leaned forward to take a French fry from his untouched plate, the shirt bowed open, revealing more than a healthy stretch of soft skin. He nearly groaned, remembering all too vividly how it had felt to have the rounded flesh of her breasts pressed against his chest.

He started coughing and reached for his water glass only to find she’d already drained it.

“Sorry,” she said. She wiped her hand on her napkin, then held out her cola. “I guess I was thirsty, too.”

So was he, but he wasn’t about to say for what. He gulped the rest of the cola then held out the glass. She narrowed her eyes and took it back.

Brushing her hands together, she said, still chewing, “So that’s it. What I know, you now know.”

Joe sat back. Well, that had ended quicker than he’d thought. He’d entirely missed all the cues women usually gave when they were reaching the end of their monologues. Which caught him off guard. “Well, that’s…interesting.”

“Exciting,” she said, and that twinkle entered her eyes, making him wonder all over again what put it there. “At least after the bath part.”

“Hmm. The bath.”

She laughed, and he had the distinct impression it was at him. “You didn’t hear a single word I said, did you?”

His brows rose high on his forehead. Women were usually offended when they figured out he wasn’t paying attention. She appeared amused. He scratched his head. Go figure.

“Sure I did. I heard every word,” he said, feeling required to make at least the token objection.

She pushed her plate away and rested her elbows on the table, then crossed her arms. “So tell me what I said.”

Now this he was used to. All he had to do was choose a few words he’d picked up during the past half hour and he’d convince her he had been listening. “There’s the missing person…the bath…the gunmen.”

Her full lips quirked. “And?”

“And…” He was surprised at his own laugh. “Okay, you’re right, I wasn’t listening.”

Now why had he gone and admitted it? He’d never done that before.

Ripley waved her hand. “That’s okay. I don’t think I made much sense even to myself. I probably won’t until I figure out who those guys are and what they wanted.” She looked to her left, then her right, then leaned forward to peer into the bedroom. “Is it nearly two already?”

She began to get up, and he caught her wrist. “What did you say?”

She blinked at him. “Is it two already?”

He shook his head. “No. The other part.”

“What? That I’m going to figure out what those guys wanted?”

Yes, that was it. Now that his mind was functioning at least seminormally, an obvious thought emerged. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea if you reported them to the police first?”

“Police? Why would I call the police?”

She glanced at where his hand rested against her slender wrist. He swore he could feel the thrum of her pulse there. He removed his hand. “Oh, I don’t know. Call me stupid, but if three armed men were pursuing me, and one was still possibly camping out in my room, the police would be the first people I’d call.”

She reached out and grasped his shoulder, bringing her face mere inches from his. He caught a brief whiff of peaches. “Don’t worry, Joe. I think I can handle a couple of armed men all by my lonesome. That’s part of what being a P.I. is all about.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re one scary woman?”

She was insane. It was as simple as that. And if he knew what was good for him, he would be picking up the phone right now and calling the police himself.

She smiled, then turned from him, allowing an unobstructed view of her from behind. Okay, maybe he’d call in a minute. The shirt she wore was creased at her waist on one side, revealing just a glimpse of a curved cheek. He cleared his throat.

“Besides, what do you think the police would say?” she offered along with the fantastic view. But he’d bet she didn’t have a clue what she was doing. “‘Do you know who the men were, Miss Logan?’ No. ‘Do you know why anyone would want to hurt you, Miss Logan?’ No. Then they’d flick their little notepads closed and tell me to call them if anything else happens.” She waved her right hand, hiking up the shirt even more as she walked away from him. It was all Joe could do not to slump in the chair and groan.

She tossed him a glance over her shoulder. “By the way, you’re not married, are you?”

“Married?” He all but croaked the word.

She smiled. “I’ll take that as a no. Good. I wouldn’t want anyone getting jealous over my staying here.”

“Jealous?”

“Yeah, you know. Wives tend to get a little crazy when they find other women staying in their husbands’ rooms.”

“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.