Muscles pulled tight in the deepest reaches of Bev’s body. It was true, everything he said was true. Dear God in heaven, she could hardly believe she’d let things get so far out of control. She’d barely lifted a finger to stop him. He probably thought she was leading him on.
That was then, she told herself. This is now. She’d lost control in the heat of the moment. It could happen to anyone—and probably did, all the time. But it had never happened to her before. Bev Brewster didn’t beg men to make love to her on the floor. She didn’t even date!
“I’d like you to move,” she said abruptly.
“Why?”
So she could close her legs! He was still lodged between her thighs and she couldn’t bear the way it made her feel. “This position. It’s a little awkward for talking.”
“Who wants to talk?” He touched her face, trying to seduce her again, with his ex-smoker’s voice and his baby-blue eyes, but she wasn’t having any of it.
“I do!” She caught him off guard with a mighty shove to his midsection, and as he stumbled backward, she slid off the countertop and made a dash for it.
“Now, just get that private dancer stuff out of your mind,” she said, darting to the opposite side of the kitchen table from him. “Because you’ve got the wrong idea about me.”
“I don’t think so.” He approached the table, blue eyes flashing. The prospect of a game of kitchen-table tag obviously appealed to him.
“Stop right there, Sam!” She had to find a way to deter him. “This isn’t right. It’s ... wrong.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“All right, then, it ... it’s unethical.”
“Unethical?”
“Yes,” she said, realizing she’d hit on something. “Yes! It’s unethical! You represent Mrs. Greenaway and I represent her husband. They hired us to investigate their spouses, and now here we are, kissing and stuff. That’s a conflict of interest, don’t you see. It’s like ... consorting with the enemy!”
He looked skeptical.
“I’m serious, Sam. Think about it. If either one of them found out, they could report us, pull our licenses.”
He folded his arms, staring at her from under lowered brows. “Wasn’t it you who said the Greenaways didn’t need detectives?”
“Yes, but it isn’t official yet. We haven’t spoken to our clients, so we’re still representing them.” She pulled a deep breath, stood taller, and generously shouldered the blame. “I should never have brought you here, Sam. It was a serious error in judgment, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. Immediately.”
He shook his head, an I’ve-heard-everything-now expression on his handsome face. “You’ve made your point,” he conceded. “In fact, you’ve driven it through my heart like a stake, but don’t kid yourself that this has anything to do with ethics. Even if you’re right about the Greenaways, that isn’t why you want me out of here. “
Bev stared at him for a long time, her heart pounding. “I’ll call you a cab,” she said finally.
“Don’t bother. I’ll thumb.”
She quickly darted past him, not allowing herself to glance back as she walked to the front door and opened it. A moment later she waved him through the door, immensely relieved as he left without further struggle.
“I don’t think there’s any need for us to see each other again,” she said, shutting the screen behind him. “Our business is finished.”
He swung around and grinned at her, a tornado of sexy virility. “I have a need, babe.” His pale blue eyes held an even more explicit message. They told her that as soon as he had his client squared away, he was coming back for more.
A geyser of bubbles erupted in Harve’s water glass as he tried to smother a chuckle and drink through the straw at the same time. He set the glass down, his wiry eyebrows bristling. “So this guy you clobbered yesterday? He turned out to be a private eye?”
Bev nodded, relaxing a little in the molded plastic chair. She was relieved Harve was taking the mixup in the Greenaway case so well. She’d kept the details to a bare minimum, leaving out the part about what had happened at her house afterward.
“Was he local?” Harve asked. “I may be laid up, but I still know everybody in the business. What was his name?”
Bev was eager to put the matter behind her. She had a meeting with one of the agency’s most important clients the next morning, and she wanted to get some background information from Harve. Still, she knew he wasn’t going to be content until he’d hashed over the Greenaway case to his satisfaction.
“He carried about twenty different IDs, but he called himself Sam Nichols.”
Harve sat forward, his eyes lighting up. “Sam? Sam ‘The Wild Man’ Nichols? Hellfire! You’re kidding me, aren’t you, B.J.? I haven’t seen that son of a gun in five years!”
“You know him?” Bev asked cautiously.
“Know him? He was my contact on the L.A.P.D. Hell of a good cop.” Harve heaved a sigh and settled back on his pillow. “Shame he got shot up so bad. He left the force about six months after they released him from the hospital, just walked out one day and never came back. I heard the brass tried to clip his wings, make him a desk jockey. They never did like Sam’s style.”
He drifted off for a moment, smiling, obviously dwelling on better days. “Who’s Sam working for?” he asked finally, leveling a glance at Bev. “Did he say?”
Bev shook her head. She couldn’t imagine Sam Nichols working for anyone. “What did you mean when you said he got shot, Dad?”
“Cut down by machine-gun fire trying to stop a bank robbery. Now that I think about it, if it weren’t for me, that boy wouldn’t be alive today.”
Bev sat forward, unable to quell her interest. The jagged scar on his jaw came back to her vividly. “You saved his life?”
Harve shrugged as though to say it was nothing. “Applied a couple of tourniquets to keep him from bleeding to death until the ambulance got there. I even visited him in the hospital, but do you think he ever thanked me? Hell, no. He didn’t even bother to tell me he was quitting the force.”
For all Harve’s bluster, Bev could tell he was truly hurt by Sam’s actions. The men must have had a strong bond at one time. “Maybe something was troubling him,” she suggested.
“There was plenty troubling him,” Harve agreed. “It wasn’t a good time for Sam Nichols. He almost got himself killed, his wife walked out on him when he needed her most, and then there was that awful mess with his job—”
“Harve, let’s talk about the Covington case,” Bev cut in quickly. She had a hunch she was going to end up feeling sorry for Sam Nichols if she listened to any more, and she most emphatically did not want that.
Harve switched gears without protest, much to Bev’s relief.
“Lydia Covington’s got enough money to buy the U.S. Mint,” he explained. “But she’s a space case, ripe pickings for con men. She married some middle-aged Romeo a few months ago, and now he’s skipped out with a chunk of her dough. She wants our agency to find him.” He harrumphed disgustedly. “If she’d used our services before she married the hustler, we could have saved her the time and trouble.”
Bev had been pondering the situation even as Harve talked. With him laid up and their two senior investigators gone, there was no one with enough experience to handle a complicated “locates” case. There would undoubtedly be travel involved—
“You’re going to have to take this one, B.J.”
Bev’s head snapped up. He was going to trust her with something this important? “You think I can handle it? Alone?”
He stroked an eyebrow, deep in thought. “I think maybe Sam Nichols showed up at exactly the right time.”
“What do you mean?” Bev rose from the chair, her heart beginning to pound. “Dad?”
“We need a senior investigator, don’t we? Let’s hire him.”
“No!”
Harve squinted at her, surprised. “What’s the probl
em?”
Bev began to pace. How could she get out of this? She doubted Sam Nichols would accept the offer even if she made it, which she had no intention of doing. But how to convince Harve that it was a disastrous choice?
“He’s impossible, Harve,” she said, talking as she walked. “He’d never fit in at Brewster’s. He’s arrogant and aggressive and competitive. He’s not a team player. Dad.” And that’s not all, she thought. He’s a sex maniac.
Harve chuckled. “Good ol’ Sam. I’m glad to hear he hasn’t changed. Oh, you’ll get used to all that macho stuff, B.J. It’s Sam’s way. He was raised on the streets, and he’s got some rough edges, but he’s a damn fine detective. Trust me on this one, daughter, he’s the best.”
Bev stopped short, threw her hands up in the air, and groaned aloud. “Dad, read my lips,” she said, turning to him. “I said it won’t work. It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s the agency. He’d be a disruptive force. He’d have us all at each other’s throats. So, forget it, okay? I can handle the Covington case on my own!”
Harve shrugged. “Cool your jets, girl. It was just a suggestion. We’ll figure something out.”
Bev was so busy fuming, she didn’t hear her father’s concession. Nor did she notice the glint of interest in his eye as he observed her flushed agitation. A thoughtful smile furrowed Harve Brewster’s face, but Bev didn’t see that either. If she had, she would have known she was in deep, deep trouble.
Five
BEV SAT IN HER OFFICE listening to Lydia Covington’s muffled sobs. Her client, a lovely, soft-spoken woman in her mid-forties, had just described how her husband of six months had bilked her out of half a million dollars in an investment scam, and yet now she was weeping openly because he was such a wonderful man. Bev didn’t understand.
“But Mrs. Covington,” she said gently, “he ran off with your money, a great deal of your money.”
“Yes, I know,” Lydia whispered brokenly. “I know what Arthur’s done, but if you knew him, you’d understand.” A shudder moved through her delicate shoulders. “My husband was a saint, Ms. Brewster, I swear it. Sweet-natured and sensitive, not an unkind bone in his body. And so good with the dogs. They loved him, my golden retrievers did.”
She looked up, damp-eyed and forlorn. “Animals are a better judge of character than humans, don’t you think? I keep wondering if there’s been some mistake. Maybe Arthur’s been taken hostage?”
Bev sighed. Lydia Covington wasn’t being dramatic. She really loved Arthur Blankenship, the chiseler. What was worse, Bev had already done some checking, and it looked as though Lydia’s husband was a bonafide con man. She couldn’t tell her client that, however. Mrs. Covington was too fragile. She would fall apart.
Bev walked to Lydia’s chair and knelt beside her. “I’ll find him for you,” she promised, taking her client’s hand.
Lydia summoned what was left of her dignity. “Thank you,” she said as the buzzer on Bev’s telephone gave off several quick bursts.
Bev rose and pushed the intercom button. “What is it, Cory?” she asked the agency’s young male receptionist. Cory was actually a student intern who was paying his dues at the front desk, the way all Brewster’s investigators started.
“There’s a man here to see you, B.J. His name is Sam Nichols, and he says it’s urgent.”
Bev glanced heavenward, summoning strength. “Tell him I’m busy, Cory.” She smiled at Mrs. Covington over the receiver.
“He says you’ve got his sunglasses.”
“I do not.”
“He says you took them after you knocked him out yesterday. He wants them back.”
Bev’s heart sank. She’d set his glasses on an end table for safekeeping. Just her luck that she’d forgotten to give them back. She smiled at Mrs. Covington. “Take down his address, Cory. I’ll have them sent back to him.”
“Hey, what did you hit this guy with, B.J.? A sledgehammer? He’s growing an eggplant on his head.”
“His address, Cory.” Bev replaced the receiver and turned to Mrs. Covington. “I’ve already done some preliminary work on your case,” she said, stalling for time. She wanted to make sure Sam Nichols was gone before she walked her client out. “You met your husband on a Mediterranean cruise, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Covington smiled wistfully. “Yes, Arthur swept me off my feet on that cruise. I’ll never forget it.”
“Well, I think I can assure you that Arthur hasn’t been kidnapped. I ran a credit card check and it looks as though he’s booked passage on another cruise in the Caribbean. My plan is to find him and then lure him back to the States. Once I’ve got him here, you can take whatever action you choose.”
“I just want him to explain why he did it,” she said softly, tears welling. She fished a hanky from her purse and blotted her eyes.
Bev felt a wrench at her heart. How could anyone have taken advantage of such a gentle soul? Suddenly Bev wanted to find Arthur Blankenship badly. Find him and make him pay. “You have every right to press charges, you know.”
“Oh, no, please! I don’t want the police involved. Not until I’ve heard Arthur’s side of the story. I’m sure there’s some explanation.”
Like greed, Bev thought, watching the stricken woman tuck her hanky back into her purse. She could feel the bitterness rising in her throat. It was an emotion she’d never fully given vent to after Paul had left her. He hadn’t stolen her money, but he had robbed her of self-esteem, and he’d nearly devastated her sense of herself as a woman.
Men, she thought, crunching down on the word. Her jaw was tight, her smile grim as she met her client’s watery gaze. “You’ve got the right woman for the job, Mrs. Covington.”
Bev returned to her office full of purpose after escorting her client out. The cruise ship left Fort Lauderdale the following evening and Bev planned to be on it. She didn’t have a current photo of Arthur Blankenship. Understandably, he’d avoided having snapshots taken, but Lydia had given her an excellent description. Bev had also checked out the man’s investigative file through her law enforcement contacts. He’d never been convicted of a crime, but complaints had been filed by other heartbroken women whose money he’d invested in questionable deals. Like Lydia, they’d refused to prosecute.
She was sitting at her desk, jotting some last-minute notes, when she heard a rustling sound. As she looked up, the pencil she was using slipped through her fingers, rolled across the desk, and dropped to the floor. “How did you get in here?”
Sam Nichols was lounging on the couch where Lydia had been weeping only moments before, his booted foot propped on one knee, a toothpick dangling from his lips. “We’re working together on this one,” he said, the words little more than a husky whisper. “You’ve got a partner on the Covington case.”
Bev shot out of the chair. “What?”
“If you’re going to yell,” he said calmly, “yell at Harve. This was your dad’s idea. He saved my butt once. Now he wants me to return the favor”—he worked the toothpick expertly and flashed her a cheeky grin—“and save yours.”
The urge to stomp, yell, and throw things nearly overwhelmed Bev. Normally she was even-tempered, but this man made her wild. He knew where her buttons were, and he couldn’t keep his damn fingers off them!
“Harve shouldn’t have done that,” she said tightly. “I’m running the agency now. And your services are not needed.”
He dropped his foot to the floor and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “It won’t work, B.J. I owe your dad and I’m on the case whether you need my services or not. So let’s talk about Blankenship. The sooner we find him, the sooner you’ll be rid of me.”
Bev sent her chair spinning backward with a bump of her hip, turned, and walked to the window. Apparently her father had already filled him in on the details of the case. Blast Harve anyway! Blast both of them. She wasn’t obligated to work with Nichols if she didn’t want to, no matter what Harve had cooked up, but the question was how to get rid
of him. She was trying to think that through when his voice interrupted her train of thought.
“Harve’s worried about you, B.J. He asked me to keep you out of ‘harm’s way’—his own words. He doesn’t want you off globetrotting on your own, hunting down con men—”
Bev swung around. “So he’s sending you along to protect me? The man who tried to ravish me in my own kitchen? Does he know about that?”
Sam looked her over, sitting back and taking his time, as though he were replaying the kitchen scene in his mind in great and graphic detail. His eyes brushed over her like a warm, steamy caress, and then he drew the toothpick from his mouth and snapped it between his thumb and forefinger.
“You won’t have a problem with me, Lace,” he said. “Not unless you want one. I’m doing this because an old friend’s in trouble, not because I want to get into your undies.”
She wasn’t going to dignify his last remark with a comment, but her skepticism couldn’t be contained. “Even Ripley wouldn’t believe that one. You’re saying you don’t want to—” There didn’t seem to be any safe way to finish the sentence.
“I’m saying my preference in women runs more to low-cut dresses than beige polyester slacks.”
Bev’s cheeks went hot. Apparently he was just making do yesterday. Killing time until a low-cut dress came along. She wanted to challenge him, but she refused to be put in the position of defending her own sex appeal. Ironically, he was the first man in years who’d made her feel as though she had any, which was probably why she’d been so susceptible to him.
“About the Covington case,” she said, determined to get the matter settled.
“Here’s the plan.” He stretched his arms out in front of him and rose, much like a big cat awakening from a nap. “According to his M.O., Blankenship operates on cruise ships. We’ll start with a credit card check, and then if necessary we’ll check out passenger bookings on the luxury lines. Once he turns up, we’ve got him. You’ll be the bait—a wealthy divorcee, a widow, heiress, whatever blows your skirt up.”
“Bait?” Bev checked the zinger of a retort that came to mind. She stared at Sam, her disbelief fading as an idea glimmered and took hold. That was the oldest trick in the world, wasn’t it? A woman as bait? The perennial mantrap?
Private Dancer Page 6