The P.I.. Cara Summers

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