by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
"That's not on there."
"What is? Exactly," she pressed.
He ran a hand over his forehead, thinking. There was only one thing that might be even remotely interesting to anyone outside the company. "Mainly next year's plans for expansion. But even that's not worth getting shot over."
"Industrial espionage is a big deal, Tristan." It was possible he knew but didn't know he knew. She tried prodding. "Some secret projects in the works? Formulas that someone might think are worth risking your neck for if not theirs?"
He shook his head. "No." Tristan threw up his hands, pacing. "Damn it, this is frustrating." He swung back to look at Chelsea, realizing he'd raised his voice. He didn't want to take this out on her. "I want you to know that I'm not used to this sort of thing."
Humor filled her eyes, nudging its way beside empathy. "Getting shot at? That's comforting for your tailor."
"No, I mean I'm not used to not being able to handle things on my own." He looked at her pointedly, aware that there was something else going on here besides his frustration. A pull, a tension that had somehow gotten mixed-up in all this and was zipping along his body like an electrical current. "Coming to someone else for help is something new for me."
Her breath kept insisting on backing up in her lungs and hovering there. She had to keep reminding herself to breathe. "There's a lot to be said for new experiences — as long as they don't leave holes in vital parts of your body."
"Funny," he murmured, leaning into her, his eyes on her lips, "I was just coming to the same conclusion."
Still breathless, Chelsea felt her heart go into double time. Belatedly, she remembered to take a step back. Which was exactly one full step away from his lips.
What the hell was going on here? Tristan desperately tried to collect himself. "Why would someone like you want to be a detective?"
"We prefer the term private investigator." She'd heard that line in an old TV series once. More useless trivia, she thought.
Like the way she was always going to remember the look on his face right now. And the color of his eyes as they looked at her. Intense and blue. So blue they made the rest of the room fade. Heat began to nibble away at her extremities.
"My mistake," he murmured, fighting off the sudden desire to take her into his arms, to feel her, real and alive, against him. "Why would someone like you want to be a private investigator?"
She swallowed, mesmerized by what she saw in his eyes. "The excitement."
"You like excitement?"
The question whispered along her skin, teasing her. "In spades."
And right now, she was feeling it, Chelsea thought. In spades.
Chapter Six
The next moment, his lips were on hers.
Her body fused against his, Chelsea was utterly and blissfully losing her way within the multilayers of the kiss when the annoying humming noise finally penetrated her consciousness.
Tristan drew back, looking at her quizzically as he placed the sound. "Do the opening notes of the 1812 Overture always play when you kiss someone?"
"Not usually." It wasn't easy keeping the words from coming out on the tail end of a sigh. "Excuse me." Turning, Chelsea pulled her cell phone from her pocket, making a mental note to change the ringer. She fairly snapped, "Yes?"
"Where are you, Mack?" Her editor's curt voice filled her head. "In case you've forgotten, you said you were filing your notes on the story today."
"Oh, right, the story." She'd completely forgotten all about the story. She did her best to sound confident as she stalled. "Um, there's been a new development in that."
She could hear the older man snort. The sound had "I might have known" written all over it. "You were wrong. He's not the duke."
"No, I was right and I've got proof." Silence met her declaration, but she knew it wouldn't last long. Hurriedly, she pleaded her case. "But I'm going to need a little more time piecing it together. Please, I promise you, you won't be sorry."
"Too late, I'm already sorry. And probably soft in the head," he added before she could say anything in her own defense. "You've got 24 more hours — make that 21," the senior editor amended. "Got it?"
"Got it. It'll be there, I promise." She closed the phone and returned it to her pocket. She'd bought herself a reprieve.
Tristan couldn't help but overhear the conversation. "Who was that?"
"My boss." Too late, she realized her error. "I mean, another client."
He thought it was rather telling that she thought of a client as the boss, although she was definitely in control here. "You're working on another case?"
This called for some fast footwork, Chelsea thought. Reassurance was the key. "The only case I'm working on is yours. It's a matter of priorities. Gunshots always move up to the head of the line." He looked as though he believed her. Another reprieve. She was on a roll. "Now, where were we?"
The taste of her mouth was still on his. It did nothing to relieve the heat he felt. "About to get unprofessional."
"Yeah, we were, weren't we?" She bit her lower lip. She'd never been attracted this quickly, this intensely to anyone before. Maybe it was the gunfire. "Maybe I'd better ask you some more questions."
He didn't see what there was left to ask. "I've told you all I know."
She didn't doubt him. "All you think you know." He looked at her, confusion in his blue eyes. "Ever see Charade?"
"The game?" What did a party game have to do with any of this?
She shook her head. "The movie. What they were looking for turned out to be right in front of them all along. Hidden in plain sight."
There was nothing hiding in plain sight as far as he knew. "You're wasting your time."
Not as long as I'm hanging around with you.
The thought had come out of the blue and she banked it down. This was about her article, and keeping him alive. Not necessarily in that order. She couldn't afford to lose sight of that. For both their sakes.
"I'll be the judge of that." She needed to get him to relax, to get comfortable. "We'll talk while we eat. I can send out for pizza, or you can take a chance on my culinary abilities."
Her smile was infectious. He found himself returning it. "How big a chance?"
Chelsea shifted over to the kitchen portion of the loft. "Depends on whether or not you have your will in order."
He still couldn't tell if she was being serious or not. "You're kidding, right?"
"Right." She took out a pan and placed it on the small cooktop. "My boyfriend didn't leave me because he had complaints about my cooking."
He couldn't envision any man walking away from her. Not willingly. "What did he have complaints about?"
She thought of Shaun. It had been wrong from the start. They were better off going their separate ways. "My career."
"The fact that you were a private investigator?"
Saying yes would have been the easy way to go, but she found herself wanting to keep the lies down to a minimum with this man.
She winked. "The fact that I had one and he still hadn't made up his mind about what he wanted to be when he grew up — besides well fed."
He took a seat on a stool, content to watch her move around the abbreviated kitchen. "You know, you're kind of cute when you wink. Actually, you're kind of cute when you don't wink."
She turned, a spatula in her hand, a pleased smile on her face. "Are you flirting with me?"
"No." The denial had been too quick. "Maybe just a little." He felt compelled to explain. "It's been a long time since I was out with a beautiful woman. Or in with one." When she looked at him like that, she made him trip over his tongue. He wasn't accustomed to that.
Trying to remain in character, as well as in her clothes, Chelsea thought of what the duke's grandfather had said to her earlier. "Flattery won't reduce my fee."
Right now, money was no object when it came to that. "If you find out who's after me and why, I'll pay you anything you want."
She turned to face him, the
minuscule counter the only barrier between them. She felt it was safer that way. For him. For her. "I'd be careful the way I throw my words around if I were you. A less scrupulous woman would hold you to that."
A smile played on his lips. "And you're scrupulous."
"I have scruples to spare." Right now, that was a lie. The words tasted hot on her tongue, but she ignored that, clinging to the thought that it would all turn out in the long run — provided she ran long enough.
* * *
Tristan stretched out on the sofa, feeling more content than he had in a long, long while. "You really are a very good cook."
She deposited the last dish into the dishwasher and dropped down beside him on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand. She'd poured one for him, as well.
"And you may very well be the most straight and narrow man I've ever met. No jealous ex-girlfriends, no angry coworkers. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were George Bailey."
Leaving the wine where it was, he looked at her blankly. Was that a client? "George Bailey?"
"Or Jimmy Stewart." Obviously she wasn't ringing any bells. "It's a Wonderful Life," she added. "Frank Capra story played every year during the Christmas season. Snow, angels, happy ending." A light came into his eyes.
"So, far as I can see, the only ripple in your life in the past week has been a new office —" They kept coming back to that. "Where did you say the man who used to be in that office went?"
He hadn't said. He did now. "No one knows, really. Richard Elders just disappeared one day. Valuable company man, too, so I'd heard." He looked at her. "You're not suggesting that the office is jinxed, are you, because I don't believe in that kind of thing. I —"
She shook her head. They had that much in common. She'd never been superstitious. "No, but maybe there's something that the other man had, something that he might have left in the office. Or maybe the men who are after you think that you're him." She looked at him, running out of options. "Work with me, here. Do you look anything like this Elders?"
"I don't think so." It amazed him how, in the middle of a life and death situation, all he could think about at this very moment was kissing her again. He forced his mind back to her question. "I suppose we could pull up a company profile, if they haven't pulled it off the database yet."
On her feet, she put distance between them. Before she followed her instincts and threw herself at the man. Served her right for drinking wine, she thought, putting the glass down.
Her computer was on a small folding table, already turned on. A cable hookup was one of the luxuries she allowed herself. Sitting down, Chelsea pulled up his company on the Internet.
He crossed to her. "I'm not sure we can get into the database," he warned, looking over her shoulder. "You need a pass —" Tristan blinked, recognizing the familiar screen. "You're on." The woman was amazing.
"Piece of cake." Chelsea's fingers flew over the keyboard.
Richard Elders's profile had no accompanying photograph, only a thumbnail description. She scanned it quickly. Dark hair, blue eyes, 36 years old, 6'2". "From this, someone might mistake you for Elders."
He'd seen the man fleetingly. "That's reaching."
"Right now, since the rest of your life reads like a Disney fairy tale, it's the only thing we've got." She paused, thinking. "I think the key to whatever is going on is back in Elders's office — your office," she corrected. With that, she hit the keys to close the computer and rose.
By now he could read her body language. Especially since her body was heading toward the door. "Where are you going?"
"We're going to your office."
He crossed to her. "You can't get in. This time of night, you need clearance."
"You have clearance," she pointed out.
"What about you?"
She unlocked the door and walked out, waiting for him to join her. "All I need is a cleaning woman's uniform."
"And where —?"
He didn't finish. Locking the door, she was winking at him again. The wink that said everything was under control.
He was beginning to believe her.
Chapter Seven
Tristan looked up and down the corridor of the 15th floor. It appeared deserted. He was alone.
But just as he unlocked the door to his office, he heard a grating, rhythmic squeak that seemed to be getting louder with each beat.
Turning, he saw a cleaning woman pushing a cart before her heading in his direction. The cart was loaded with all the cleaning products necessary to keep the offices of Gabrielle Cosmetics in pristine condition.
Cocking his head, he peered closer.
"Chelsea?" In response, the woman with the cart removed the bandanna holding back her hair. He laughed, shaking his head. "Where did you get this?"
"There's a woman in the basement right now sitting in her slip, a hundred dollars richer and sipping a diet cola." She indicated the cart. "I promised to have this back in half an hour."
That still didn't explain everything. Tristan opened his door and held it for her. "How —?"
Chelsea pushed the cart into his office. "I told her my fiancé was working late and I wanted to make sure it wasn't on a secretary."
He could only shake his head in wonder. "Does the army know about you? You could be the country's new secret weapon."
Behind her, Tristan flipped on a switch, illuminating the office. It looked almost bigger than her loft, and a great deal better furnished. It was evident that the powers that be at Gabrielle thought well of Tristan. "My mother taught me to be resourceful."
"Obviously she was a good teacher." He glanced once up and down the corridor before closing the office door. Still no one. He relaxed a little. "Who taught you to hack into a computer?"
"I taught myself that. Comes in handy." Chelsea eyed the computer on his desk. "Is there anything on this one that might give us any new insight?"
He doubted it, but she'd already surprised him several times today. "There's an in-house program, but it's not anything that I'm privy to."
That sounded promising. She pushed up her sleeves. "Who is?"
"The chairman and five of the top senior officers on the board."
Sounding better and better. "Something to aspire to." Switching on the computer, she turned the monitor toward him. There were a number of icons on the desktop she was unfamiliar with. And time was of the essence. "Can you get me to the program?"
Tristan sat down in his chair. "To it, yes. Into it, no."
She winked at him, sending wicked ripples through his belly. "Just leave that to me."
He pulled up the program in a matter of seconds, then vacated his seat. Chelsea took over.
"I don't know what it's even doing on my computer, really. We're not supposed to have access to the password window, much less the program. I found it by accident."
But Elders apparently had access to the program. Perhaps for a reason. "Maybe this is where the trail starts, then."
He looked at his watch, remembering that she'd said she had half an hour. "Is this going to take long?"
Her eyes were on the screen, her fingers flying along the keyboard. "The difficult, I can do, the impossible takes a little longer." She spared him a quick glance. "Why, are you planning on being somewhere?"
"No, I thought you might like some coffee while you break into the mainframe. There's a snack area down the hall —"
Chelsea made a face and shuddered. "Vending machine coffee? I'd rather drink motor oil. But thanks for the thought." She drew closer to the screen, as if proximity could somehow verify what she was reading. "This is interesting."
"What?" He looked over her shoulder. "Did you find something?" And then it dawned on him. She was reading something within the program. "You got in."
"Of course I got in." She supposed it was vain, but she couldn't help feeling a little glimmer of pride. "Did you doubt me?"
"Not for a moment." And it occurred to him that he really hadn't. On some level, he'd just taken it for gra
nted that she could do whatever she said she could. "What did you find?"
"Something a lot more provocative than the latest shade of lipstick." She reread several lines just to be sure. "Seems that your company has a revolutionary formula in the offing that can actually tighten sagging skin on a level equal to that of laser surgery. That's something that could make a lot of other companies nervous, not to mention putting a crimp in the plastic surgery community's retirement fund."
It was all news to him and he was cleared for all but the very top level. "Let me see that." Tristan turned the monitor toward himself.
She raised an eyebrow, watching surprise spread over his features as he read the report. It was clear he hadn't known about this. "Skip a few meetings?"
"This wasn't covered in any meeting I ever attended —" He looked at her, moving the monitor back into place. "And I attend them all."
She pointed to the beginning of the last paragraph. "Notice who the chairman is thanking in advance for bringing this formula to the company's attention?"
He'd just been getting to that part. The woman was a speed reader on top of everything else. His eyes widened. "Elders."
"In advance," she repeated. "That means the formula wasn't in the chairman's hands at the time of the memo. It's dated two weeks ago — that means that as of two weeks ago, the formula still hadn't reached your company." She looked at Tristan. "Maybe whoever is after you thinks you have the formula, or at least access to it."
"That's ridiculous." Annoyance furrowed his brow. "I didn't even know there was a formula."
"They don't know that. Elders had the formula, or knew where it was and now he's missing and you have his office. This could all be just a terrible matter of mistaken identity. Remember, your description matches his in a cursory way."
She was right and he knew it. "So how do I convince them I don't have it?"
Chelsea turned, about to answer. Her eyes widened. "You talk — fast —" She pointed toward the door. The two burly men who had broken into Tristan's apartment filled the room. She could feel the pulse in her throat jumping, but did her best not to show any fear. "Drs. Livingston, I presume?"