by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
Or maybe it was because the woman seated opposite him had lips the color of his favorite shade in Gabrielle's new upcoming spring line of lipsticks.
Without fully understanding why, Tristan raised her chin with the crook of his finger, leaned over the table, and kissed her.
She saw it coming. She could have moved out of the way at the last moment.
Could have, if she hadn't willed the kiss into existence in the first place.
Chapter Four
By the time she drew her lips away, her head was spinning hopelessly. It felt as if it had been lost in action.
It took her a second to focus on his face. "Was that supposed to be a down payment?"
"Sorry, I'm not sure what came over me." Yes, he was. He had momentarily lost his bearings. The situation he found himself in was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. That included kissing a woman who tasted of excitement.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Her smile seemed to burrow itself under his skin, generating a heat all its own. He tried to remember that he was a man who'd been shot at less than an hour ago, and ridden in a car driven by a woman bent on breaking the sound barrier.
"So where do we go from here?" he asked.
"Your apartment," she replied.
Under any other circumstances, that would have definitely gotten his vote, too. "No, I meant in my case."
Her smile was wicked and created delicious sensations all through him.
"So did I," Chelsea assured him.
* * *
"You can tell a lot about a man by his home," Chelsea told him as he unlocked the door to his apartment 20 minutes later. She took a step inside, surveying the abject chaos in every corner of the room. "Like the fact that you don't believe in maid service."
Tristan closed the door behind him and turned around. "What?" His mouth dropped open before the word had completely emerged.
It was a typically ransacked apartment. Cushions, books, and overturned furniture vied for floor space. She picked her way over the debris. The man was obviously not imagining things.
"I take it you didn't leave the place looking like this when you left this morning."
Stunned, Tristan shook his head. Someone had run his apartment through a blender. "This feels like a bad dream."
"This isn't a dream, Tristan." Books that had lined his shelves had been systematically thrown on the floor one by one. Someone was looking for something. "And I don't think this is about any irate husband or boyfriend, either."
"I already told you there isn't one." He paused, needing reassurance about the woman he was entrusting with putting his life back on track. "But what makes you say that?"
Chelsea turned from the pile of books she was examining. "Because if it were, you'd be trashed instead of your apartment."
Maybe this was in retribution for an imagined transgression, Tristan thought. "He might be demented —" What was he saying? There was no "he." He had to get a grip. "If there was someone," he amended.
She'd already thought of that. "If this was someone out for revenge, he would have done something really awful." She thought of the first Godfather movie. "Like leave a dead animal in the middle of all this." Chelsea tried another angle, a theme and variation of the first. "How about a spurned girlfriend?"
They were going around in circles. He began picking up the books and replacing them on the shelves. "We've already covered that. There's nobody."
"It's a shame." Tristan stopped replacing books and looked at her. Chelsea shrugged, realizing that the words had come out before she'd had a chance to censor them. She had no choice but to finish her thought. "Someone's really missing out. Not many men kiss like you."
Frustrated, he resumed picking up books. "You've taken a poll?"
Chelsea began to automatically pick up several volumes, handing them to Tristan one at a time. "Polls don't tell you anything."
How many men had she kissed? Tristan shook off the thought. He needed to find a plausible explanation for all this. One that didn't unnerve him. "Maybe it was a burglary." So much for living in a high-rise, security building, he thought cynically.
Her gut told her no. Chelsea took a quick survey of the room. His home entertainment unit looked to be expensive. VCR, DVD, flat screen, all state of the art. All untouched. The painting that was thrown on the floor like a discarded Frisbee looked to be an original.
She turned to look at Tristan. "Anything taken?"
He set the books he was holding down on the coffee table and looked around.
"Hard to tell." And then he stopped as he looked at his desk. "My portable computer." Surprise was on his face as he looked at her. "It's gone."
Finally, they were getting somewhere. "What was on it?"
He was thinking of the actual value of the item. Her question stopped him in his tracks and had him reassessing. There wasn't anything on the computer that anyone would want. "Aside from one very bad Western novel, just notes from work."
Now there's something she wouldn't have associated with the man standing in front of her. You just never knew, did you? "You write Western novels?"
"Novel," he corrected, embarrassed. "One." He shrugged it off, looking away. "And it's not finished."
He was uncomfortable. She dropped the subject. "Well, I think we can safely rule out the novel as being what they were after." She centered on something hopefully more fruitful. "What kind of notes?"
"Notes." He lifted his shoulders and let them drop, frustrated. "Reports. Future products —"
She was instantly alert. "Were you working on future projects?"
Tristan blew out a breath. It wasn't what she was fishing for. "The color list for next summer's lipstick and eye shadow shades doesn't sound like a reason to come gunning for me."
Probably not. She came back to the personal angle. Maybe she'd missed something. "Do you have any photographs of yourself? Albums, a framed graduation portrait, anything like that?"
He wasn't very big on saving photographs, other than of his family and those were in a box somewhere in one of the closets. Which, he didn't recall.
Maybe this was in retribution for an imagined transgression, Tristan thought. "He might be demented —" What was he saying? There was no "he." He had to get a grip. "If there was someone," he amended.
She'd already thought of that. "If this was someone out for revenge, he would have done something really awful." She thought of the first Godfather movie. "Like leave a dead animal in the middle of all this." Chelsea tried another angle, a theme and variation of the first. "How about a spurned girlfriend?"
They were going around in circles. He began picking up the books and replacing them on the shelves. "We've already covered that. There's nobody."
"It's a shame." Tristan stopped replacing books and looked at her. Chelsea shrugged, realizing that the words had come out before she'd had a chance to censor them. She had no choice but to finish her thought. "Someone's really missing out. Not many men kiss like you."
Frustrated, he resumed picking up books. "You've taken a poll?"
Chelsea began to automatically pick up several volumes, handing them to Tristan one at a time. "Polls don't tell you anything."
How many men had she kissed? Tristan shook off the thought. He needed to find a plausible explanation for all this. One that didn't unnerve him. "Maybe it was a burglary." So much for living in a high-rise, security building, he thought cynically.
Her gut told her no. Chelsea took a quick survey of the room. His home entertainment unit looked to be expensive. VCR, DVD, flat screen, all state of the art. All untouched. The painting that was thrown on the floor like a discarded Frisbee looked to be an original.
She turned to look at Tristan. "Anything taken?"
He set the books he was holding down on the coffee table and looked around.
"Hard to tell." And then he stopped as he looked at his desk. "My portable computer." Surprise was on his face as he looked at her. "It's gone."
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br /> Finally, they were getting somewhere. "What was on it?"
He was thinking of the actual value of the item. Her question stopped him in his tracks and had him reassessing. There wasn't anything on the computer that anyone would want. "Aside from one very bad Western novel, just notes from work."
Now there's something she wouldn't have associated with the man standing in front of her. You just never knew, did you? "You write Western novels?"
"Novel," he corrected, embarrassed. "One." He shrugged it off, looking away. "And it's not finished."
He was uncomfortable. She dropped the subject. "Well, I think we can safely rule out the novel as being what they were after." She centered on something hopefully more fruitful. "What kind of notes?"
"Notes." He lifted his shoulders and let them drop, frustrated. "Reports. Future products —"
She was instantly alert. "Were you working on future projects?"
Tristan blew out a breath. It wasn't what she was fishing for. "The color list for next summer's lipstick and eye shadow shades doesn't sound like a reason to come gunning for me."
Probably not. She came back to the personal angle. Maybe she'd missed something. "Do you have any photographs of yourself? Albums, a framed graduation portrait, anything like that?"
He wasn't very big on saving photographs, other than of his family and those were in a box somewhere in one of the closets. Which, he didn't recall.
Tristan took her over to the baby grand. The bench was overturned, the sheet music beneath the cushioned seat had been strewn around, just like the books.
"There was one there." He pointed to the top of the piano.
Chelsea was already sifting through the papers. "I think I found it."
Rising, she examined her find. The glass was smashed and the frame taken apart, but his photograph had been thrown aside like so much litter.
He looked over her shoulder. The scent she wore infiltrated his space and his thought process. Aware of the nearness, Tristan took a step back. "What are you looking for?"
Turning, she bumped against him. Shock waves danced through her.
Think case, not male, she told herself.
Chelsea indicated the photograph. "Well, if it was a jealous girlfriend or someone with a fixation on you, this would either be missing or slashed, not thrown aside." She placed the photograph on top of the piano. "Just wanted to be sure we could rule that out. Whoever redecorated your place was obviously looking for something. And from the looks of the place, they didn't find it." Time to get blunt again, she thought. Chelsea turned to him. "Are you holding out on me?"
"If I was, why would I hire you?"
"Good point." He was about to say something in response when she heard a noise just outside the door. Chelsea held up her hand to silence him.
"Are you expecting anyone?" she whispered.
He shook his head. Were they — whoever "they" were — back? "No one."
"I'd definitely talk to the doorman about security if I were you," she muttered. The doorknob was being tried again. "Is there a back way out of here?" He shook his head. "Do you have a gun?"
There was no earthly reason for him to even want to own one — until last week. "No, don't you?"
She strained to hear what was going on outside the door. "No."
That didn't sound right. Weren't all detectives supposed to have firearms? "What kind of a private investigator are you?"
"An unarmed one." Her mind was going a mile a minute. "You play golf?"
"No, tennis." What did his choice of sports have to do with it. "But —"
She didn't have time for his questions, only answers. "Where's your racket?"
He opened the hall closet and took out a racket from the top shelf. Like everything else, the inside of the closet had been ransacked.
"Here, but —"
She grabbed it and hurried to position herself by the door. None too soon.
The next moment, a tall, broad-shouldered man pushed the front door open and stormed in, followed by another man, slightly shorter. Chelsea swung the racket into the first man's face. The gun he held went flying as he fell back into his cohort.
"Here we go again," Chelsea moaned as she grabbed Tristan's hand and ran into the corridor.
The elevator was standing open. Tristan came to a skidding halt, but rather than get in, he reached inside and pressed for the penthouse. Stunned, Chelsea looked at him.
"Saw that in a movie, once," he told her. "Stairs."
He didn't have to say it twice.
Chapter Five
The seatbelt dug into Tristan's hip as he turned around in Chelsea's car. "I don't see them."
The information only made her feel marginally better. "Just because you don't see them, doesn't mean they're not there."
Chelsea looked up into her rearview mirror, but other than the signs of normal traffic for this hour of the late afternoon, there didn't appear to be anyone following them. No car weaving in and out, trying to keep up. Nothing out of the ordinary.
With effort, she tried to keep her mind on her driving and not on what she was doing — willingly throwing herself in front of an oncoming train.
Chelsea glanced at the man beside her. She was in over her head. Pretending to be a P.I. for the sake of a new slant on a story was all well and good, but getting a Pulitzer posthumously had never been in her plans. Besides, if she got herself killed, she couldn't very well write this story, now could she?
She debated telling him the truth and just driving to her godfather's precinct to turn the matter over to professionals.
She bit her lower lip. Maybe one more try. "You know, for a man who hasn't done anything, you certainly have someone mad at you. Are you sure you're telling me everything?"
Exasperated, he repeated his earlier defense. "Why would I want to hire you and then lie?"
Stranger things had happened. She made a right onto a major thoroughfare. A little longer and then she'd feel better about losing the angry duo.
Chelsea spared her "client" a glance. "I don't know — why?"
He turned to face her. "I wouldn't."
There was something in his eyes, something that said he was telling her the truth. And that he trusted her. Her conscience chafed, urging her to tell him that she wasn't who he thought she was, that until she'd stumbled onto this story she hadn't investigated so much as a paper cut on her own without assistance. But the man needed help and if she told him who she really was, he probably wouldn't let her help. And she really wanted to.
Chelsea pressed her lips together, holding them shut.
He felt like a man in the middle of a '60s movie — except that the bullets were real. Tristan searched for order, something that had been the mainstay of his life until all this had exploded. "You know, my car is still in your parking lot."
She'd already thought of that. "For the time being, we'd better leave it there."
That made no sense to him. "Why?"
He wasn't going to like this, she thought. But there was no way around it. "If these people know where you live, they know the kind of car you drive. They might have wired it."
She had to be kidding. One look at her face told him she wasn't. "You mean like a bomb?"
"Yes."
In the past 24 hours, before he'd found her number in the Yellow Pages, he'd examined and reexamined his life, trying to figure out what he'd done to set off this chain of events. And come up empty. He still couldn't believe this was happening. "Why would they want to blow me up?"
"Why would they want to shoot you?" she countered.
The sobering question sank home. "Good point."
She made a sharp left. "I thought so."
Trying not to lean into her as they made the turn, he asked, "So where do we go to now?"
She glanced in her rearview mirror. Good, no police cars in sight. She pressed down on the accelerator. "Now we make sure no one's following us and then I take you to my place."
Tristan held on to t
he dashboard as she took a hairpin turn, stealing his breath away.
He felt as if he was in the front car of a roller coaster. "They followed me to your office. They know who you are. Can't they figure out where you live?"
Chelsea grinned. "Not likely."
Especially since she had no ties to the office, she thought, other than having walked through its doors 20 minutes ahead of Tristan.
Chelsea tossed her purse onto the side table as she walked into her loft apartment ahead of Tristan. "Make yourself at home."
Despite the offers of family and friends of loans, outright gifts, and secondhand furniture, Chelsea had been determined to furnish the place on her own. The apartment was fairly empty.
Tristan looked around. "Cozy."
He was being polite. She appreciated that. "Uncluttered." A whimsical smile flirted with her lips. "But it suits my purposes."
There was a sofa in the middle of the room, but he was too keyed up to sit. "You probably don't spend much time here, anyway."
"What makes you say that?"
Tristan wandered over to the bay window and looked out. There was nothing suspicious in the street four stories down. "Your cases probably keep you away from home a lot."
"Right, my cases." She shifted course, momentarily making a beeline for the truth. It was easier to keep track of than lies. "Actually, I fell in love with this place when I first saw it. It used to belong to a dot-com company that went belly up."
Tristan turned from the window and crossed back to her. As far as lofts went, it was rather small. "Not a very big company, I take it."
The company hadn't needed much. "All you need is a computer. Speaking of which, yours is still missing." She got back to the only tangible thing she had to work with so far. "Besides that novel, what else do you have on it that might make someone think it was valuable?"
"I already told you, nothing. I've been going over and over it in my head, but keep coming up with the same answer. There was no reason to take it, other than its street value."
She shook her head. If that had been the case, there were so many other things of worth in his apartment to steal. Desperate, she cast about. "Is there any reason someone might want, say, a stock option report, or the minutes of the last meeting?"