The P.I.. Cara Summers

of bills.

      Her already straight spine stiffened. “Not a bad payoff for a hit of some kind.”

      “Based on the way you handled my gun, I still don’t think you’re a professional killer.”

      “I did shoot someone.”

      He met her eyes steadily. “You might have acted in self-defense. And there are other possible scenarios. Perhaps you interrupted a hit.”

      She blinked. “I never thought about that.”

      He watched her consider that possibility, and he knew the minute that the headache hit her. Opening a drawer, he grabbed aspirin and a bottle of water and pushed them across the desk.

      She shot him an accusing look as she reached for both.

      Kit raised both hands, palms out. “Hey, you winced and your knuckles turned white. I’m a P.I. I make my living observing the details. And for what it’s worth—I don’t think you can force the memories. They’ll come when you’re ready.”

      “You know something about memory loss, then?” she asked.

      “I had to do some research for the last book I wrote.” Enough to know that it probably wasn’t merely the bump on her head that had triggered her amnesia. “But I’m no expert.” His glance dropped to the stains on her suit. Something had happened, something of a traumatic nature and she’d shot someone. That was what her mind was blocking. At least, that was the way he would have written it.

      “Could I see your research?”

      “Sure.” Then he shot a rueful glance around the office. “It might take me a while to locate it. In the meantime, why don’t you let me do my job? What we know for sure is that you’ve got a gun, no purse, a wedding dress, my business card and twenty thousand in cash. The serial number on the gun is being traced. You remember shooting at someone, you think it was a man. As a theory, we’ll assume you hit him because of the bloodstains on your suit.” He spread his hands on the desk. “That’s what we know for sure. Agreed?”

      “Yes. So what do we do now?”

      He pulled a notebook out of a drawer and opened it to a fresh page. “I want you to start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember, everything that’s happened since you regained consciousness in the taxi.”

      She’d gone tense on him again, he noted. “Try closing your eyes and picturing what happened.”

      “There isn’t much to tell.”

      “Replay it in your mind like a video and don’t leave anything out.”

      She did what he asked, and he jotted down notes in his own personal shorthand. For a while the sounds of traffic outside were muted by her voice and the movement of his pencil across the paper. When she finally finished, he set the pencil down and met her eyes.

      “See?” she said. “There’s nothing.”

      “On the contrary, I’ve learned a lot.”

      “What?” She leaned forward a bit.

      “Number one, you’re smart. In spite of everything that happened—the accident, the discovery that you couldn’t remember anything and that you had bloodstains on your suit—you acted in a calm and logical way. You searched for clues. You asked the taxi driver the right questions. Number two, you told me the story in a clear, straightforward way, revealing that your mind works logically. Three, you’re meticulous. If you recalled something, you went back and filled it in. And the way you described examining the dress bag and tote looking for clues tells me that you’d make a pretty good P.I.”

      For the first time since she’d walked into the office, her lips curved in a full smile, and Kit felt his heart stutter. Swallowing hard, he continued, “Four, you have a very good eye for detail.” The way she described her short, belligerent taxi driver and the tall, skinny man who’d crashed into them had made the two men come vividly alive in his head—the gypsy and the scarecrow. “I’d say you’re some kind of an artist. A writer perhaps, or maybe a painter.”

      She considered that, then said, “You’re being very kind. You’ve left out number five—I’m a coward. When I heard the siren, my first instinct was to run from the cops.”

      “You’re not a coward. You’re cautious. You didn’t merely run away. You came here and hired me to find out what happened. I call that smart and brave.”

      On impulse, he rose, circled the desk and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

      “Where?”

      “You said you trusted me, remember?”

      She put her hand in his and he drew her to the door that opened into a small bathroom. Gripping her shoulders, he turned her toward the mirror over the sink.

      “What do you see?”

      She looked intently at the image of herself. He saw hope bloom and then fade in her eyes. “I see a stranger.”

      “Look harder.”

      Her chin lifted. “Okay. I see a woman—blond hair, green eyes. Short, about five…”

      “I’d say five foot two.”

      “She has pale skin, and she looks…scared and…fragile.”

      “At first glance. But look at that chin.”

      A tiny line appeared on her forehead as she studied her reflection. Then he saw a smile flicker at the corners of her mouth. “Okay. Maybe not so fragile.”

      “Does the woman in the mirror look like a cold-blooded murderer to you?” Kit asked.

      “No. But…”

      “But there could be circumstances under which she might fire a gun. I promise you two things—we’ll find out those circumstances and we’ll find out who you are. Okay?”

      “Okay.” Her eyes met his in the mirror then, and Kit felt as if he’d been punched right in the gut. Too late, the warning bells rang in his mind, telling him it was a mistake to have brought her in here—an even bigger mistake to have touched her again. But even as those thoughts appeared, they vanished from his mind in favor of more tempting ones.

      He pictured the two of them, limbs tangled, in a dark room on a narrow bed. He pictured them right here in the bathroom, her skirt pushed up, her legs wrapped around him. Desire—that he could understand and accept. But in the past, it had always been simple, never this urgent. And the pressure, the tiny ache around his heart—he’d never experienced anything like it before.

      Her eyes had darkened, her lips had parted. He could see the pulse beating frantically at her throat. If he turned her around and kissed her, she wouldn’t resist. Perhaps if he had a taste of her, maybe if he felt that slender body pressed against his, just once, it would quench the fierce hunger growing in him.

      And pigs fly, said a little voice at the back of his mind. But his body paid no attention to that voice. His hand was already sliding over her shoulder to her throat, where he’d imagined touching her earlier. Her skin was warmer than porcelain, soft as sin and so delicate that he could feel her pulse against his fingers. Desire sharpened into an ache. One taste. He had to have one.

      Her eyes were still on his in the mirror when he said, “One kiss.”

      “Yes.”

      Kit turned her around and, before another thought could intrude, he pulled her up on her tiptoes and covered her mouth with his. The moment he did, he felt as if he’d ignited an explosive fuse. Sensations poured through him. He’d known she’d taste sweet—but her flavor reminded him of melting ice cream on a hot summer day. The kind you have to lick fast and hard. He’d thought he knew what that slender body would feel like pressed against his. But she was stronger and even more responsive than he’d imagined. He’d sensed the simmering passion beneath that cool, rather prim exterior. But actually