License to Thrill

by Lori Wilde

  With both hands, she raised the thirty-eight over her head and slid her back flat against the outside wall of the trailer until she came to the door. Softly, she toed it open farther.

  She paused, listening.

  Rummaging noises came from somewhere in the back of the house. Much louder than any four-legged rat.

  Someone was definitely in there.

  And she seriously doubted it was Maybelline since the Tundra wasn’t in the driveway. Not knowing what she would find, Charlee extended the gun in front of her and bravely stepped over the threshold.

  The damage meeting her eyes jolted her. She eased the safety off the gun. Couch cushions were slit open, knickknacks broken, furniture overturned, pictures knocked askew on the walls.

  Swiftly she navigated the mess and moved into the kitchen. Upended flour and sugar canisters dusted the floor, and dishes lay shattered in jagged shards. The refrigerator hung open and condiments had been knocked from the door. Ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, and grape marmalade splattered out in a colorful Rorschach.

  Anxiety settled like a cast-iron submarine deep inside her belly.

  Whoever trashed the place was deadly serious. And from the sound of it, they were still in Maybelline’s bedroom.

  Tiptoeing through the silt of spilled baking products, Charlee eased down the hallway, careful not to trip over any scattered debris. The door to Maybelline’s bedroom stood wide open and the rummaging noises continued. Inch by inch she crept forward until she could peer into the room.

  She spotted a man delving through the closet, his back to her. He was very tall. Broad-shouldered and long-legged. For the first time since entering the house, her knees trembled.

  He wore crisply ironed chinos and a pristine white shirt. How in the hell had he managed to wreak such havoc and stay so clean? He was concentrating on Maybelline’s shoe boxes and he hadn’t heard her creep into the room.

  Striking cobra-quick, Charlee zipped across the floor and pressed the nose of her gun into his spine.

  “Hands on the wall over your head. Now!” She barked out the order, trying her best not to notice how he smelled of sandalwood soap and fancy cologne.

  He dropped the shoe box and a shower of old bills cascaded to the closet floor. Tentatively, he raised his arms.

  “Palms splayed on the wall.”

  Leaning forward, he obeyed.

  “Now spread your legs.”

  “What?”

  She nudged him with the gun. “This isn’t a toy pistol I’ve got leveled at your heart, buster. Spread your legs.”

  “Listen…” The intruder started to turn his head.

  “Face forward.”

  “There’s been a huge mistake.”

  “Yeah, like you trashing an old lady’s house.”

  She wrapped her free arm around his chest and patted down his lean hard muscles. Her hand traveled to his waistband.

  No weapon there.

  She skated her shaking fingers down one long leg of his pants to his socks and back up the other leg. Her breathing rasped.

  “Charlee?” he said. “Is that you?”

  She should have been relieved to discover the fanny she’d just frisked belonged to Mason Gentry and not a hardened criminal. But on the contrary, her knees almost gave way.

  “Gentry?” she squeaked.

  “Do you mind taking your gun out of my rib cage? It’s rather uncomfortable.”

  “Why did you ransack Maybelline’s place?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Look, I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me. I did not vandalize your granny’s house.”

  She eyed his tidy clothes again and realized he spoke the truth. Switching the safety back on, she then tucked her gun into her boot and stepped back.

  Slowly, Mason turned.

  He had shaved, she noticed, but instead of making him less attractive to her, she had the wildest desire to stroke his clean-shaven face, and then hold her fingers under her nose and inhale the scent of his shaving cream.

  God, the man was gorgeous and he scared the living hell out of her.

  Charlee bit her bottom lip to keep the terror from her expression. When she had finished her perusal and bravely lifted her gaze, she found him studying her as intently as she’d been scrutinizing him. He pinned her with deep chocolate brown eyes dangerous as quicksand.

  Watch out. Watch out.

  Help!

  Her face heated. She couldn’t be blushing. She never blushed.

  Oh, yeah? Then how come you could melt a Popsicle on your cheeks?

  Hating her weakness to the man, she hardened her jaw and bolstered her resolve not to let him know how much he turned her on.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded. She knew she sounded unnecessarily harsh, but hey, a girl had to do what a girl had to do to protect herself.

  “I came to see your grandmother.”

  “I told you she was at her cabin.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I thought she might have come home early. Your turn.”

  He shrugged, grinned wryly. “What can I say? You’re not the only one with a suspicious nature.”

  Dazed, Charlee sank down on the mattress the vandal had stripped bare of its covers.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  “You didn’t scare me,” she scoffed, more to convince herself than him. Her heart rate thumped at a good two hundred beats per minute.

  “Then why is your face as white as that mattress?”

  “How did you break in?” she demanded, refusing to focus on her weakness.

  “When I got here I found the door open and the place looking like it looks now. I simply walked in.”

  “Well, if you didn’t trash the house, who did?”

  They stared at each other.

  “I have no idea. You?”

  Charlee shrugged. “Could be connected with some case Maybelline was working on.”

  Mason waved a hand at the mess. “Stuff like this happens to you ladies often?”

  “Not too often, but once in a while. Comes with the territory.”

  “Tough job.”

  “I didn’t see a car in the driveway,” Charlee said, changing the subject. “How did you get over here?”

  “I took a taxi. The concierge at the hotel suggested Whiskey Flats wasn’t the best part of town in which to drive my vintage Bentley.”

  “You drove a vintage Bentley to Vegas?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “What can I say? I don’t care for flying.”

  “But a Bentley? Through the desert? From Houston?”

  “Hey, I love my car. She’s my refuge from the rat race.”

  “She?”

  “Her name’s Matilda and since I had to drive to Vegas, I figured I might as well travel in style.”

  “You named your car?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” he asked, his tone a tad cranky.

  “Excuse me for asking.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. My brother harasses me about the Bentley. Says Matilda is butt ugly, an old man’s car.”

  “No need to explain. I’ve got a ‘64 ‘Vette.”

  His smile returned and packed the added punch of respect for her taste in vehicles. “That was your car in the parking lot at your detective agency?”

  “Guilty.” She couldn’t help smiling back. Oh, she was sinking deep.

  “Isn’t a classic Corvette a rather conspicuous vehicle for a private detective?”

  “Not as conspicuous as a Bentley. Besides, I borrow Maybelline’s black Toyota pickup for stakeouts.”

  “Gramps gave me the Bentley for my eighteenth birthday. A 1955 model. He bought Matilda the same year he was up for an Oscar.”

  “Your grandfather was an actor?”

  “Only for a year. He bought the Bentley as a reminder of the time. Sentimental value I guess. And when he found out how much I l
oved her, he gave the car to me.”

  “No kidding? Maybelline used to be an assistant makeup artist for Twilight Studios back in the midfifties.”

  “Gramps made movies for Twilight.”

  Their gazes caught again.

  “That’s where they must have met each other,” Charlee mused. “Do you suppose they were once lovers?”

  “My grandfather and your grandmother?” He snorted.

  “Why did you say it like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “As if it were completely impossible for a rich man like your granddaddy to fall in love with my grandmother.”

  “Oh, so now they were in love?”

  “It could happen.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Why not?”

  A soured love affair would explain why Maybelline had always warned her against getting involved with rich, long-legged, brown-eyed, handsome men. Obviously, she’d been burned. Had Mason’s grandfather been the one doing the burning?

  “You’re carrying a chip on your shoulder about money,” Mason said.

  “Well, filthy lucre is the root of all evil,” she said teasingly, but some part of her did believe money caused more problems than it solved. Her father Elwood was a case in point.

  “No. Love of money is the root of all evil. Money itself is nothing but a tool.”

  “To use to buy off anybody you want.”

  He raised a palm. “Listen, I want to apologize for trying to bribe you. I was wrong.”

  Charlee analyzed him. He seemed genuine, but his attempt to buy her off had been instinctual. He was accustomed to using money to do his dirty work.

  “What were you looking for in the closet?” she asked, diverting her thoughts. Once she clambered on her soapbox about the self-indulgent lifestyles of the rich and famous, she had trouble curbing her tongue and now was not the time or place to declare war on the upper crust.

  “I was searching for correspondence between your grandmother and my grandfather.”

  “You came up empty-handed?”

  “No yellowed love letters if that’s what you’re asking, but I did find a clue.”

  He took three long-legged steps over to Maybelline’s ravaged desk sitting in front of a window and picked up a pocket date book. He tossed the calendar to Charlee.

  “Check out today’s date.”

  Inscribed in red ink with Maybelline’s scratchy handwriting read the message: Meet N @ K’s 4 P.M.

  “I’m thinking N is for Nolan.”

  Charlee blew out her breath. “Maybelline isn’t due home until the day after tomorrow.”

  “Guess she had a date she didn’t share with you.”

  “Looks like you might be right.” Poking her tongue against the inside of her cheek, she stared around Mason’s shoulder and out the window. Anything to keep from peering into his mesmerizing brown eyes again.

  “Any idea where K’s might be?”

  “I have an idea.”

  From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of something outside the window. A shadow silhouetted against the curtain.

  “So where is K’s?” he asked.

  Charlee frowned and came up off the bed. “Mason,” she said calmly. “Move.”

  “What?” He blinked at her.

  The shadow shifted. Someone was lurking outside the window.

  “I said move,” she commanded and grappled for the pistol in her boot.

  “What’s going on?”

  She waved a hand at him. “Hit the deck.”

  “I don’t…”

  Lordy but the man was stubborn.

  “Just do what I say,” she hissed. “Get down now!”

  “See here, Charlee, you can’t just order me around,” he lectured, but then all hell broke loose.

  A thick-necked man in mirrored sunglasses popped up in front of the window, a gun in his hand. Instantly, Charlee sprang forward, knocking Mason off his feet at precisely the same moment the gunman fired.

  CHAPTER 3

  She stole his breath away.

  Literally.

  Mason lay sprawled on the floor, struggling to suck in air. Charlee’s lean, hard body flung atop his, her firm round breasts squashed flat against his shoulder blades, her warm, sweet breath fanned his cheek.

  His ears rang and the silky strands of her long, jet-black hair, combined with the pungent odor of gunpowder, tickled his nose. Disoriented both by lack of oxygen and her compelling feminine scent, he simply gasped.

  What in the hell had just happened?

  Charlee had slammed into him like a defensive lineman sacking a quarterback at the very same instant he’d heard a car backfiring. Why in the hell had she head-butted him into next week?

  The muffled sound of a car engine—was it the same one that had backfired?—revved, followed by the high-pitched squeal of tires peeling out.

  “Mason? Are you all right?” Charlee sounded distant and far away, even though her head hovered just above his.

  He pried open the eye that wasn’t shoved into the carpet and blinked at the gentle slope of her nose.

  “Are you hit?”

  “Hee, hee, hee,” he wheezed.

  “You’ve just had the wind knocked out of you,” she diagnosed and scrambled off his back. She stood over him, one hand on her gun, the other on her hip. “You’ll be all right.”

  Mason finally caught his breath and looked up. Broken glass clung to her hair and clothes. He frowned, still trying to piece together what had just occurred.

  She held out a hand and hauled him to his feet, power-gripping like a captain of industry. His gaze shifted from the shattered window and the glass shards spilt across Maybelline’s desk, to the opposite wall where a bullet hole dug into the Sheetrock.

  The truth hit him like an anvil.

  That was no backfiring car.

  “Someone shot at me.”

  “’Fraid so.”

  She bent at the waist and flipped her hair to shake out the glass. The slow toss shouldn’t have been sensual, but the manner in which she raked her fingers through the glossy strands, tousling it first one way and then the next, captured his caveman instincts.

  And the way her shirt inched up, exposing a narrow expanse of her bare back and a glimpse of purple thong panties peeking just above the waistband of her jeans sent a sharp spike of pure physical longing straight through him.

  Mason blinked and shook his head. What in the hell was the matter with him?

  “That’s why you were hollering at me to move,” he said, turning to eye the window to keep his gaze off the provocative Charlee. “You spotted the gunman.”

  “Ding, ding, ding. Very good, Sherlock.”

  “I could have been killed.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “You saved my life.” Rattled and yet desperate to hide his creeping apprehension in the face of Charlee’s composure, Mason shoved a hand through his hair and determinedly ignored the nervous sweat plastering his shirt to his shoulder blades.

  “Don’t go all Hallmark greeting card on me, Gentry. I acted out of pure reflex. Besides, I don’t think he intended to kill you. If he had, we’d both be dead.”

  “So why shoot at all?”

  “Warning.”

  “What for?” Mason couldn’t believe they had just dodged a bullet and here was Charlee, cool as a summer salad, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

  “I dunno. Encourage us to lay off the case?”

  “What case?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you think the shot has anything to do with our missing grandparents?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Wow, you’re a fount of information.”

  “Hey, I don’t know, okay? I’m a detective, not a psychic.”

  “But why would someone shoot at me?”

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  How else was he supposed to regard a bullet aimed at his head? She expected him to sim
ply shrug off a murder attempt?

  “Probably has nothing to do with you at all.” Charlee stuck the pistol in her waistband.

  His eyes tracked her. He spied a tantalizing flash of flat, hard belly when she lifted her shirt. He licked his lips, dry from the arid desert air. “Who could have pulled the trigger?”

  “Maybe the same creep who ransacked the place. Maybe not.” She headed for the door. “You coming?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Kelly’s tavern.”

  “K’s?”

  “You got it.”

  “Aren’t we calling the police?”

  “If we do, we’ll be tied up with red tape for hours. You’re welcome to stay here and file a report if you wish, but daylight’s burning and I’m getting worried about my grandmother.”

  He looked from Charlee to the ruins around him and back again. She arched an eyebrow and shot him an are-you-coming-or-not look. His upbringing screamed at him to call the police. Someone had shot at them, for crying out loud, and he wanted an accounting.

  But she was right. His house had been burgled before. He knew the routine. Filing a police report involved hours of paperwork and in the meantime Maybelline Sikes and his grandfather were off doing who knew what with a half-million dollars and possibly being shadowed by some two-bit thug who thought nothing of ransacking an old lady’s trailer and then shooting at people through a bedroom window.

  The mental picture convinced him.

  “Let’s roll,” he said.

  Mason sat in the passenger seat. The hotels and casinos slipped past them in the gathering dusk as they drove down the Vegas Strip. The Luxor, Excalibur, MGM Grand, The Flamingo, Caesar’s Palace. Tourists packed the streets, many on spring break. But Mason didn’t watch the eclectic crowd or take in the bright lights. His attention was centered solely on Charlee.

  She drove as she did everything. With a gritty sense of purpose. She stared straight ahead, her eyes glued to the road as she zipped around slow-moving vehicles, frequently changing lanes. Her speed continually edged over the posted limits and she often did not come to a complete halt at stop signs.

  He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from telling her how to drive. It was her car. If she didn’t mind getting it whacked, what business of his was it? He was just glad he was wearing his seat belt and paid extravagant health insurance premiums.