Private Investigations. Tori Carrington

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