Men at Work

by Karen Kendall, Cindi Myers

  A small tremor passed through her.

  “Can I help you?” asked the woman.

  The slight southern drawl confirmed her to be Samantha Delaney, the photographer-owner. Earlier, pretending to be a volunteer for Frameworks for the Future, Gina had called Samantha to verify Mr. Bonaparte’s—Mr. August’s—appointment time. Which was how she’d learned he’d be here at six.

  “Yeah, was told to check the place.” Should have thought through my pretext better before I slipped in here. Pretexts, or ruses to gain access or get information, were one of the more useful tricks in the investigator’s bag. Gina glanced around, debating which pretext might work. City inspector? Pest control?

  “Sorry,” drawled Sam, “but this is a private shoot.”

  “No problem. I’m, uh, here to…”

  A flash of white snagged her attention. She glanced over in time to see Hawk tug the edge of his T-shirt from the waistband of his jeans, flashing an impressive shot of ridged stomach muscles in the process.

  “To?” prompted Sam.

  “Huh?”

  “You said you were here to do something,” prompted Samantha.

  “Right.” Gina pretended to check something in her fanny pack while slipping another look at Hawk. He gave his head a shake, like a dog, and dragged a hand through his thick, jet hair. She’d mostly observed him from a distance before. Up close, the man was impressive. Larger than life and built for power.

  Another tremor, light and tingling, skittered over her skin.

  “I’m here to…” She’d been in these situations a hundred times, had dealt with all kinds of people, and mentally kicked herself for letting the sight of a man, even a supersized one, throw her. Pick a pretext, dummy. “Check for bugs.”

  Samantha’s eyebrows shot up. “What bugs?”

  Hawk leaned over and begin unlacing his work boots.

  “Termites.”

  “I wasn’t aware we had a termite problem.”

  Gina remembered the name she’d seen on the mailbox outside the dry cleaners downstairs. “Yeah, someone named Buenavides called, asked for an exterminator to get here ASAP. Some kind of termite emergency.” Explain why you don’t have any equipment with you. “I first do a check,” she quickly added, gesturing around the room, “then return to spray, which I’ll do after you finish your shoot, of course.”

  Hawk removed a boot and tossed it aside. It landed with a solid thunk.

  “Buenavides is my landlord.” Samantha frowned. “I wish Mr. B. had said something to me about this.”

  “Yeah, well, landlords are like that,” Gina mumbled. Because of the security system she’d installed, her landlady, Mrs. Famosa, would need a stick of dynamite to get in unannounced. “Mr. Buenavides said he’d seen cockroaches downstairs, wanted to make sure they hadn’t migrated up here, as well.”

  “I thought he saw termites.”

  Gina nodded. “That’s right, he did. Cockroaches, too.”

  “I’ve never seen either around here,” Samantha murmured, glancing around.

  The thunk of the second boot dropping diverted Gina’s attention again. Hawk straightened to his full height, rolled back his shoulders and stretched. His muscled arms extended to forever, their brown skin reminding her of burnt sugar. Sweet to the taste, rough on the tongue.

  Samantha obviously caught her look, because she was suddenly all business. “I’m sorry, but this is a private shoot. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  Gina gave a weary, put-out sigh as she glanced at her sports watch. “If I’d known this time slot wasn’t gonna work for you, I’d have saved myself the drive across town in rush-hour traffic. Now I’m stuck here until the commuters clear out.”

  “Sorry.” Samantha’s tone softened. “It’s just my landlord sometimes makes these arrangements without telling me and for this particular shoot, well, if we could reschedule…”

  “Gotta call it in, check with the boss.” Gina flipped open her cell phone. “We’re booked three weeks out. Mr. Buenavides got lucky ’cause we had a cancellation, otherwise, it’s gonna be almost a month before one of us can get back.” She started punching in her home number.

  “A month?”

  “August is our busiest bug season. Those termites are mutliplyin’ like there’s no tomorrow.” She raised the phone to her ear, wondering if termites actually had a season. “And the cockroaches—” she rolled her eyes “—at the rate they’re breeding, they’ll take over Miami by October.”

  Samantha made a frantic hold-on gesture. “Don’t ask yet,” she whispered. “Let me check something first.”

  Gina nodded as she listened to her voice on the answering machine. “This is G K Investigations. I’m out of the office right now, but leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you within twenty-four hours.” Beep.

  Since her fall from grace at the D.A.’s office a year ago, after which she’d opened her one-woman P.I. shop, calls had been few and far between. Then, a week ago, thanks to a referral from a former client—the socialite, Marina Reston—Gina finally landed her first big case. A hotshot Miami developer, Roger Bowen, who was currently overseeing the construction of a twenty-floor luxury condominium in downtown Miami, claimed he was being ripped off to the tune of several hundred grand. Inside job. Expensive equipment. And he had a hunch who it was—just needed the evidence to back it up.

  And, because he’d paid her a hefty retainer, with more promised when she nailed the thief, Gina was determined to get the evidence he needed. She made a mental note to write a thank-you card to Marina.

  In the background, Samantha was talking in low tones to Hawk. When he looked over at Gina, she pretended to be engrossed in a phone conversation.

  “Hey, Margie, put Bob on the line, will ya?” Good ol’Margie and Bob. Gina had created these fictional characters years ago, resurrecting them whenever she worked a pretext. A lot easier than trying to remember manufactured on-the-fly people.

  She glanced back at Hawk, whose dark, impenetrable eyes were still staring at her.

  “Hey, Bob,” she continued, pretending Hawk’s he-man self didn’t impress her one iota, “my six o’clock might wanna reschedule. How far we booked out?”

  Hawk was still staring at her. Had he recognized her?

  The closest they’d ever been to each other was two days ago when he’d walked past the bus bench where she’d been sitting, a spot that gave her a clear view of his pickup. She’d been dressed in jeans and a rock T-shirt, pretending to read a magazine. He might have noticed her spiky white-blond hair, the main thing—besides her tiny sapphire nose stud—that people remembered about her.

  But today a cap covered her hair, the sapphire was too small to be noticed, and she was wearing…Shit, was she wearing the same T-shirt? That low-cut one with a red silk screen of Deborah Harry in studs?

  She glanced down at her basic black tank top. Nondescript and forgettable. Perfect P.I. undercover wear.

  Get off the paranoid train. It was one of the first things she’d learned as a wet-behind-the-ears investigator at the Dade County D.A.’s office years ago—paranoia screwed up more jobs than dumb-ass mistakes.

  Samantha was walking back to her.

  “Hold on, Bob,” Gina said into her cell.

  “Mr. Bonaparte doesn’t mind your being here, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t…” Samantha glanced at the phone.

  Gina quickly lifted it to her ear. “Job’s on. Don’t reschedule.” She flipped the lid closed. “Didn’t, what?”

  “Didn’t stare at him.” Samantha dipped her head toward Hawk. “He’s going to be…”

  Oh, this was good. Gina put on her best innocent look. “Be, what?”

  “Naked. For a charity calendar,” Sam quickly added.

  Gina emitted a low whistle. “You don’t say,” she whispered.

  Samantha nodded. “So, if you’d not stare, he’d probably be more comfortable.”

  “Did he say that? For me not to stare?” He’s hiding so
mething.

  Samantha looked surprised. “No. That was my suggestion.”

  “No prob. I won’t stare.” Gina unzipped a pouch on her fanny pack and rummaged about her toolkit, consisting of everything from miniature cameras to screwdrivers to digital recorders—anything she might need on the go. She pulled out a small flashlight. “I’ll be looking elsewhere, anyway.” She switched on the light and pointed it at the floor, wondering if she’d recognize a termite if she saw one.

  “Thanks,” Samantha said before walking back to Hawk.

  Gina fought the urge to smile. Good. Hawk being open-minded about the exterminator remaining in the room made her job a heck of a lot easier.

  She stayed true to her word and didn’t look over at Hawk for a solid five minutes, during which time she pointed the light at spots on the floor, baseboard, even the base of a lamp. Sure, why not?

  Eventually, she slipped behind the rack of clothes at the far end of the room. Not ideal, but it provided an okay camouflage. The area behind the clothes was in shadow. The hanging tops, dresses, jackets were like a curtain—she could peer through them and remain unseen. She switched off her flashlight, slipped it back into her fanny pack and pulled out a small digital camera.

  Through a space in the clothes, she watched Hawk lean against a ladder as Samantha quietly directed him to bunch his T-shirt in such a way that exposed his torso. Damn, the man’s body rippled every time he moved. Gina had never seen a man with so many muscles, some in places she hadn’t even known muscles existed. More directions from Samantha. Without a word, Hawk complied—shifting, arching, propping that package of raw, bulging masculinity as told. The photographer cooed approval as she snapped photo after photo.

  Damn, that job was a lot more fun than being a P.I. The last time Gina had ordered a man around, it had been a scrawny drug dealer in Coconut Grove, although, she’d certainly cooed after finally slapping him with a subpoena.

  What was Samantha handing Hawk?

  A drill?

  Hawk listened intently to Samantha. Then, with a knowing look at the camera, he casually held the drill against his thigh, the long, hard bit held erect at a suggestive angle, mimicking his…

  How ridiculous.

  How cliché.

  Gina’s pulse sky-rocketed.

  How unbelievably, incredibly hot.

  Easing out a shaky breath, she turned her attention back to her own camera, her fingers suddenly all thumbs as she fumbled with its settings. Relax. Focus on the case.

  She thought back to Hawk’s file, filled with computer printouts, some blurry snapshots Bowen had taken, her scrawled notes.

  Hawk Shadow Bonaparte, thirty-two, had been born and raised in upstate New York. Third-generation ironworker. Full-blooded Mohawk. Many in his tribe were expert ironworkers who had worked on bridges and skyscrapers across North America. Known for their skill, agility and fearlessness working up high, they’d earned the name Skywalkers.

  They were also accustomed to “booming out”—leaving the reservation for distant construction jobs. On one of these remote jobs, he’d been working on a Manhattan skyscraper when, a few blocks away, the World Trade Center had fallen. Hawk had been one of the first rescuers at ground zero. There’d been a lapse in time after that, six months when his whereabouts hadn’t been documented. Then, he’d started booming out again, moving from one construction job to the next, his most recent gig being here in Miami for the past two months.

  And this recent job coincided with the time some high-priced items started disappearing from the construction site.

  She shoved the cap farther back on her head and peered through the viewfinder, zooming in on his face and those dark eyes, shiny like obsidian. She shuddered, thinking what those eyes had seen on nine-eleven. Roger Bowen had called Hawk “a tight-lipped loner.” Seemed a harsh judgment for a man who’d risked his life to help others. Had Hawk been that way before nine-eleven, or had that event shut him down, turned him inward?

  A heaviness filled her chest. She related to that choice. Her experience didn’t compare by any means to nine-eleven, but she knew how it felt to withdraw from what had once been your ordinary world.

  She gave herself a mental shake. Hell of a time to go soft. Gina had been in this business too long to fall too far on the side of empathy. Hawk might have rushed to aid his fellow man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a calculating thief.

  Her thoughts dispersed as Hawk slowly pulled off his T-shirt, unveiling the full expanse of his rock-hard chest.

  For a moment, her senses dulled, then sharpened exquisitely as she visually navigated those molded, hard indentations of muscle. A thin line of black hair trailed over his pecs and rode small waves of muscles on his diaphragm before disappearing into the snug waistband of his low-slung jeans.

  Snap.

  Never know when such a photo might come in handy.

  Snap.

  Might need to identify any scars, birthmarks, tattoos.

  Snap.

  After all, a good P.I. always documented her case.

  He set down the drill and began popping open the buttons on his fly.

  She wiped her suddenly sweaty palms down the sides of her jeans. Effing reaction. She’d once done an undercover job in a sex club, for Christ’s sake. Not that she’d had sex there, of course, but she’d witnessed people doing things she’d never seen before. Or even imagined, for that matter.

  She paused, watched as Hawk stepped out of his jeans.

  Although, she could sure imagine some of those things now.

  She’d have guessed him to be a boxers kinda guy, but no, he preferred briefs. Stretchy, body-molding briefs. White. Which set off the bronze of his surrounding skin, although, she sure as hell wasn’t looking there.

  Snap.

  Might need a photo of that to verify…

  Snap.

  Something.

  A sudden dizziness raced through her and she closed her eyes. She’d never been the type to go weak-kneed over a hunky guy, not even when she was actively dating, which had been a long time ago, back in her more carefree days before being publicly fired and humiliated.

  She lightly fanned her face, which felt hotter than after eating spicy ropa vieja, her favorite Cuban dish. At least for that, she could cool down with a sip of sugary guarapo.

  She glanced back at Hawk, who stood facing Samantha’s camera, his hands strategically crossed, wearing nothing but his briefs and unlaced work boots. Samantha must have asked him to slip his boots on again. That man looked hotter stripped down than most men did after preening for hours.

  She’d need a vat of guarapo to cool down after this.

  Back to business.

  Through the viewfinder, she scanned the studio floor, looking for a flashy watch, designer sunglasses, something expensive that indicated Hawk might be enjoying a recent influx of money. His jeans and T-shirt lay in a pile near the shooting area. Nothing unusual there. Nearby, some boxes of cables, lights—obviously Samantha’s stuff. A pink nylon bag. Definitely Samantha’s. Gina would certainly have noticed him carrying that into the studio.

  She scanned back across the floor, halted. What was that? She pressed the zoom button.

  There, on top of his clothes.

  She sucked in a sharp breath.

  Hawk’s briefs.

  She lowered the camera and stared down at her running shoes. Guess she’d been wrong about his wearing them a moment ago. The man’s forearms and hands were so large, he could obviously hide a lot behind them.

  She held her breath and counted to ten. A variation of a stress-reduction technique she’d learned from a grief counselor in high school. Although, to this day she still didn’t get what grief counseling had to do with her dad going to prison.

  Hawk’s naked.

  This was the state of undress she’d wanted thirty-or-so minutes ago, but now that he wasnaked, she was having trouble dealing with her reaction. Damn it. If there was anything Gina hated about others, but espe
cially about herself, it was to go soft.

  I’m in control. She lifted her gaze.

  During the last few moments, the ladder had been placed in the photographic setting. Hawk leaned against it, still wearing his unlaced work boots, otherwise one hundred percent in the buff, except for…

  He’s holding a hard hat over his privates.

  Samantha Delaney was moving in the foreground, holding her camera this way and that, crouching, leaning forward, oblivious to everything but getting the shot.

  That’s one disciplined, focused woman.

  Gina looked back at Hawk and froze.

  Even from across the room, she swore his dark gaze was boring into hers. She instinctively took a step back, even though a rational part of her brain knew he couldn’t possibly see her. She was in the shadows, hidden by this curtain of clothes.

  Damn paranoia.

  Holding herself very still, she continued peering through a gap between a tweed jacket and a black sweater, the mixed scents of stale cigar smoke and old perfume having the effect of bad smelling salts. She felt momentarily sobered, more centered.

  With her wits about her again, she could see he wasn’t staring at her, just looking off into the distance. Being a good model, that’s all. With all those lights in his eyes, he probably couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him anyway.

  He slowly lifted the hard hat away from his body.

  Even with all her rationalizations about where he was looking and why, it still felt as though his eyes were locked with hers, testing her, teasing her, tormenting her.

  She wondered when the air-conditioning unit had started malfunctioning. Then realized that rattly, wheezy sound was coming from her.

  Screw her reactions. Only a woman with a libido of granite wouldn’t react to a real-life calendar boy. Looking again through the viewfinder, she focused on his hands. Big and brown and masculine. Just like the rest of him. She zoomed down what was becoming familiar territory, the molded chest, the ridged abs…The man was so exceptionally well built, especially…