Private Investigations. Tori Carrington

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