Pulled Under. Kelli Ireland

ask once more. Open the door, please.”

      Levi cleared his throat. “Club opens at nine tonight. Come back then.”

      She laughed, the sound rich and throaty. “Right. Open the door. Now.”

      The authority that infused her voice made Levi’s brows draw down, pulling the skin over his temples and making his headache even more pronounced. “Shit.”

      “That’s closer to the response I expected. You know who I am?”

      “No clue. I’ve got a headache.”

      “Isn’t that usually my gender’s line?” she asked drolly.

      “Cute. Seriously, club’s not open.” He moved his foot just as she shoved. The door nailed him in the forehead, the impact splitting his skull. Stumbling away from the door, he bent forward at the waist and clutched his head. “Son of a bitch.”

      “Now that? That’s more the greeting I’m used to.”

      He slowly stood, his gaze traveling over the longest legs he’d ever seen, over the trim swell of hip and the tight nip of waist, over a pair of what had to be heaven-sanctioned breasts and up to stunning gray eyes. Ringed in sooty lashes, those eyes were cool, almost cold, and hidden behind benign, ’50s-style men’s glasses. She hadn’t played up the pixie cap of black hair that framed a face almost devoid of makeup. Her full lips curled down at the corners.

      “You got your fill yet?”

      “Huh?”

      “C’mon. I realize the door caught you on the head, but it wasn’t nearly hard enough to warrant me breaking out the hand puppets.” She blinked slow, smiled slower. “Unless, of course, your head is as thick as it seems, based on the sound it made on impact.”

      “Thick?”

      “Head, door, thickheaded.”

      Levi chuffed out a short breath. “You think I’m stupid?” The idea entertained him. It also made him want to prove her wrong. The longer he thought about it, the more her assertion pissed him off. “Rather juvenile assumption. You’ve spent less than three minutes in my presence.”

      She waved the comment off and glanced around the office. “I need to speak to a manager.”

      “I qualify.” He didn’t elaborate.

      “Are you the manager?”

      “I’m the only employee here, so it’s me or no one.”

      “Looks like today’s just not your day, handsome.”

      “Why?” he asked absently, massaging the knot forming on his forehead.

      One corner of her mouth curled up. “I really have to speak to someone with authority.”

      “And I told you I’m your only option at the moment.” Shrugging off the pain, he pulled his glasses off and arched one brow disdainfully. “You’ve become the bane of my existence in record time. Now, who are you, princess?”

      She grinned, the expression so feral Levi fought not to take a step back. “Princess? Not terribly original, are you.” A quick flip of the wrist and she’d unclipped a bifold ID holder at her waist and held it out for him to read. He slipped his glasses on again and immediately wished he hadn’t.

      “My name is Harper Banks. I’m a senior criminal investigator with the Internal Revenue Service.” She handed him a sealed envelope. “Beaux Hommes is under investigation for suspected tax evasion and fraud.”

       Shit.

       2

      HALF OF HARPER’S brain was mentally peeling this guy’s clothes off because, damn, he was gorgeous. The other half demanded she forgo the mental stripper scene and simply dress him down. No way was an attractive face going to derail her field investigation before it really began.

      She clipped her government ID on her hip and glanced around the office. The place was nice if you ignored the layer of dust on the fake plants and the general disorganization of what she presumed was the receptionist’s desk. Generic office furniture appeared relatively new, the visible technology more so. MacBooks and color laser printers sat idle on several desktops while somewhere deeper in the office suite, a telephone rang. But the file cabinets were out of sight, and that’s where she wanted to start.

      The weight of the man’s stare was both hot and cold, curious and furious when she shifted toward him. The way he considered her, so intense and controlled, dragged an involuntary shiver up her spine.

      “Uncomfortable?”

      “It’s eighty-three degrees outside. I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt because your weatherman forecasted early winter temperatures last night.”

      “So, not physically cold.” He crossed his arms. “What’s the problem, then?”

      Harper considered him, wondering how he could still be so inexplicably sexy in a simple pair of glasses and baggy sweats. And when he lost the glasses and donned the attitude? Things south of the belt went on alert. “I’m not the one with the problem...”

      “Levi.”

      “Levi what?”

      “Levi Walsh.”

      Her eyes snapped to his face before she could stop the reaction. Interesting. So she’d nabbed the newest owner right out of the box. Lucky her.

      She considered how to play this. She could tell him straight out that she knew he was the club’s newest co-owner. But he’d likely shut down and wait for the troops before talking to her. Not productive.

      The other option was to go along with his game, pretend ignorance and see how much he volunteered. He might play nice if he didn’t feel cornered. Yet not owning up to the fact that she recognized him was a lie of omission, and she didn’t know if she could accept that kind of near deceit.

      He watched her, widening his stance. Not quite combative but not friendly, either. “So what’s the protocol?”

      “What are you, ex-military? ‘Protocol,’” she said on a snort, mind racing to another option than the lie.

      He whipped off his glasses, pale blue eyes alight with irritation. “You can be as much of a smart-ass as you’d like, Ms. Banks, but don’t lord your authority over me like I’m some two-bit chump here to take your beating.”

      “Quite the speech.” She tugged at her sleeves, ensuring her wrists were covered. “Beaux Hommes is being investigated—”

      “Based on what? Anonymous tip? Filing discrepancies? What was the red flag that sent you haring across the country to make my life hell?”

      Drawing a deep breath, she forced the clenched muscles in her jaw to relax. “If you’ll let me finish?”

      He dipped his chin once.

      “Gracious of you. Thanks.” Even in her heels, this guy topped her by an easy two inches, making her have to stand up straighter and lift her chin in order to meet his gaze. “Everything is outlined in the letter I handed you, but I’ll summarize.”

      “Gracious of you,” he parroted, his sarcasm as thick as cold syrup and just as distasteful.

      “The IRS lives to serve.” Hands resting below her belly button, she gripped her opposite wrist. “Beaux Hommes had a variety of red flags—a radical drop in revenue, excessive expenses in relation to that annual revenue, a significant increase in employees disparate to the drop in revenue and tip reporting discrepancies on official documents.”

      She paused, gauging his reaction. The guy actually appeared surprised by her list, but she’d seen too much over the past few years to buy a ticket to that particular show. Still, the expression on his face wasn’t