There.
A rush of heat flooded her body.
Her hands trembled.
Her inner thighs twitched.
She’d been in challenging situations before, but she’d never faltered, always stuck to the program, always taken care of business. And she’d do the same right now. Because it was the right thing to do.
It was what she had to do.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap.
After all, a good P.I. always documented her case.
2
TEN MINUTES LATER, Hawk lay naked—except for his work boots—on a sheet-draped table watching the rack of clothes at the back of the room.
A few minutes ago, Samantha had said the shoot was over. After politely thanking him, she’d told him to take his time getting dressed as she needed to find the model release forms. Then she’d exited through a side door of brightly colored hanging beads.
But he hadn’t gotten dressed.
Not yet.
He propped himself up on one elbow and wondered what the woman who’d called herself an exterminator was doing behind those clothes. She wasn’t using her flashlight anymore, nor had he heard any noises from back there. If he listened carefully, all he heard was the hum of the air conditioner and occasional rustling noises from the other room where Samantha had disappeared to.
Something about that exterminator was familiar, although, he couldn’t remember what. Familiar and disturbing. Ever since he was a child, he’d always had a gut instinct for whether person could be trusted or if they brought danger.
With her, he’d felt both.
The rack of clothes moved. A slender, jean-clad leg emerged, followed by the rest of her. She appeared to be putting something back into her fanny pack. Odd how dark her clothes were—jeans, black top, black baseball cap—for a summer day. Even for someone who worked indoors a lot, it didn’t make sense to wear clothes that absorbed heat. Exterminators wouldn’t know if a job location had great, lousy or no air-conditioning. Plus, she’d be going outside to get chemicals and applicators, then toting them back into the building.
It just didn’t fit.
When she walked, the soles of her shoes squeaked lightly on the tile floor. When she finally stopped a few feet from him, he noticed she wore black running shoes. No reflective designs or white laces, just solid black.
His gaze traveled up her slim legs, boyish hips, over the black T-shirt to her face. Although Samantha had turned off one large studio light, others had been left on. Their glow seemed to bleach the color from the woman’s skin, giving her a ghostly look. Except for those lips. Full and generous, she’d painted them a deep red like cranberries. In his tribe, that color had different meanings—sunset, wounds, earth or war. He wondered what meaning she’d chosen for herself because he believed nothing was insignificant or by chance.
“What are you staring at?” Her voice sounded different than when she’d first come in. Smarter. Tougher.
“I’d ask the same, but I know the answer.”
Her eyes were a disquieting blue. Like the core of a flame. Hot, untouchable.
“Not so difficult to guess—” she looked down his body, back up “—considering you’re naked. A woman would have to be six feet under not to react to a man like you.”
She was acting unfazed, a bit too nonchalant but, even under the lights, he saw a blush creeping up her neck.
He’d never used his size to intimidate others. Nevertheless, most people backed off in his presence, had done so most of his life, as though size made right. So her in-your-face retort surprised him. She might blush, but she also had a streak of fearlessness.
An old memory of someone like her rose in his mind, bringing with it the familiar ache of pain and regret. It came and went as it always did, like the flash of a firefly in the night.
He glanced at her shoes again, remembering where he’d seen her before. “I recognize you,” he murmured. When he looked up, he caught a flash of something in her eyes that confirmed his instincts. “You’re following me.”
In the long moment of silence that followed, he was acutely aware of the light rasp of her fingernails as she absently picked at a spot on her jean pocket. Then, with a weighty sigh, she dropped her hand.
“What gave me away?”
“You wore those same shoes the other day at a bus stop near my work. Black shoes in summer? Too hot. I also wondered why someone would wear running shoes if they were catching a bus.”
A small smile curved her lips. “Good catch, Sherlock.”
No wonder she colored those lips. They were beautiful, meant to be admired. Especially when she smiled. “Doesn’t take much to understand people. Animals had us figured out a long time ago.” He gestured to the logo on her cap. “You like the Miami Heat.”
“Like that was hard to guess.”
“True. You’re short, but I’d also guess you like shooting hoops.”
“Sometimes.”
“Figured.” He looked her down and up. “You have the body type of someone who plays ball.”
“Right. We short, petite types are killers on the court.”
“You have lean legs. Developed arms. You love the sport.” He shrugged. “I’d bet you’re a force to be reckoned with playing one-on-one.” He didn’t add she also had the smarts of a crafty point guard the way she’d worked this room. Worked the photographer.
Hadn’t worked him, though.
Not for long.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
From the other side of the hanging beads, a drawer slammed shut. From out of view, Samantha called out. “Hawk, I seemed to have misplaced those forms. It’ll be a few more minutes, okay?”
“No rush,” he responded. When his gaze met those blue eyes again, they looked surprised. “What?”
She glanced at the beaded doorway, back to Hawk. “You didn’t snitch me out.”
“I’m not afraid of you. Besides, a danger foreseen is half avoided.”
She studied him for a moment. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’m a private investigator, hired to—”
“Investigate the missing property.”
“So you know about it.”
“All the construction workers do. We’d have to be six feet under not to.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
She didn’t fool him anymore. She could squint, posture, even threaten, but he’d caught a glimpse underneath her mask. And he guessed she probably knew he’d glimpsed it because she suddenly ducked her head to avoid his eyes, got overly busy looking for something in her fanny pack. She was strong, but underneath that exterior, a part of her was also afraid.
She was, in a sense, more naked than he was.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” she said, holding up a small object. Light sparked on its silver surface.
“What is that?”
“Digital recorder.”
“No.”
She paused. “I’m interviewing your coworkers, too.”
“No one’s mentioned being interviewed.”
“You’re the first.”
“Are you going to such trouble to track them down, too?” Her silence gave him more answers than her words. So, he was her single prey.
He sat up, slowly, which brought their heads to an equitable level. “Here’s your interview—I didn’t do it.”
She fumbled with a button on the recorder. “Wait! I haven’t turned it on.”
“I don’t want to be recorded.”
She looked up, an expression somewhere between baffled and pissed-off on her face. “Saying you didn’t do it isn’t enough.” She smiled, although he didn’t buy it. “I have other questions.”
“I’m not answering them.” He frowned. “Doesn’t matter, anyway, because I have nothing to hide.” He glanced past her at his pile of clothes, realizing she’d placed herself strategically between them and him. She was indeed a crafty point guard.
“But your answers mig
ht help us find out who is the thief.”
“Even if I knew, I wouldn’t say.”
“Never a snitch, right?” She darted a look at the beaded curtain. “Look,” she said, moving closer, her body language taking on a this-is-just-between-you-and-me coziness. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“I’d like a union rep to be present.”
“Oh. Well. If you have nothing to hide, there’s nothing to worry about, right?”
The light scent of her perfume traced the air. Roses. Sweet, fragrant roses. A vise tightened around his heart. Nothing was by chance, but that didn’t mean he was ready for this. Life’s lessons were sometimes about sacrifice and suffering, but that didn’t mean he was prepared for her. He’d long believed that knowledge and information could come through a dream or a vision. Or sometimes they manifested right in front of you.
With great effort, he caught up with her stream of words.
“…statistics show that pretrial interviews significantly decrease the chance of being subpoenaed to testify in court.”
When he didn’t answer, her eyes widened. “I’m serious.”
“I can tell.” He looked at her lips as red as a sunset, her eyes as blue as heat lightning. He’d promised himself to never again be with someone who took risks, which is exactly what a P.I. did.
A ripple of anger passed through him. He’d thought the danger he’d felt was of a different nature—the hunter and the prey—but it could be something else. The danger of being close. No, he definitely wasn’t ready. Would never be ready.
She must have thought his silence meant he was vacillating because she gave him a funny little smile. “Just a few questions,” she urged.
He shifted, opening his legs slightly. Sexuality could be cold, distancing. The few times he’d indulged his need these past few years, he’d chosen to experience it that way. He’d do it now to keep her off guard. The prey was turning on the hunter.
Her gaze dipped, paused. A shiver crossed her pale skin, a tattletale pink filled her cheeks. Those red lips parted slightly. Her desire was as tangible as if he’d put his finger to a flame. But just as tangible was an ache that went deeper than lust. He knew it more certainly than anything he saw or heard. He sensed it. Her world was lonely.
He knew how that felt, unbearably so.
He leaned back slightly, instantly regretful for his boldness. He’d wanted to shame her, but he’d only shamed himself. When had he stopped abiding by the primary tribal law of the land, which was to respect all living things—the earth, universe, but most especially humankind? Bad wishes toward others reduced the law of respect, and being calculating or cruel, which he’d just been, was worse than a bad wish. It was evil.
Just as something evil was occurring at the work site, although, he’d chosen to ignore it, keep to himself, do his job. He’d never speak to this investigator, no matter what tactic she tried. He could explain to her that it was part of his upbringing to never speak about others in a negative way, whether they were present or not, but even he knew his reasons ran deeper than that.
There was darkness at the work site. There were workers whose energy was like the stealthy weasel. Then there was Bowen, who seemed to respect money more than people. But to explore suspicions was like blaming the wind. It did no one any good.
“Leave me,” he growled. “Now.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, Gina leaned her head against the steering wheel. The engine rumbled and the air-conditioning blasted as she debated whether to scream, bang her head or just remain this way for a small eternity and continue to berate herself for screwing up her best shot at an interview with Hawk.
Her best?
Ha.
Most likely, her only shot.
She’d done hundreds of interviews at the D.A.’s office. She’d trained dozens of junior investigators on interviewing techniques. Being direct and respectful landed more interviews than manipulating, cajoling or flirting, which were techniques of the amateur.
She’d done all three.
I should have just kept walking, straight out the door, and attempted a later interview through more conventional, saner means. Could have called and requested an interview at a meeting spot of his choice. Could have shown up at his work, invited him to talk over a cup of coffee.
She groaned out loud as she pressed her chin against the top of the wheel and stared glumly out the windshield. I blew it. She squeezed shut her eyes. I didn’t even leave my business card. Even if he had second thoughts and decided to grant her an interview, he wouldn’t know how to reach her. He could look up all the private investigators in Miami, and he’d have no idea which one might be her.
Bleeew it.
Gina dropped back her head, letting her heated, sorry face get the full blast of chilly air-conditioning.
Damn, her nipples were still hard, which had nothing to do with the cold air and everything to do with the hot man still inside that photography studio.
There was only one thing that could satisfy her now. Only one thing that could soothe the ache, fill the emptiness, gratify the urge.
Food.
She punched the radio knob—Nick Lachey was singing “What’s Left of Me.” Tell it, brother. After shoving the gear into first, she took off down the road.
AN HOUR LATER, Gina pulled into a cluttered strip mall in Little Havana, the inside of her car saturated with the mouth-watering scent of the best roast-pork-and-cheese sandwich in south Florida. As usual, locals were mingling in the parking lot, some smoking fat cigars purchased from the shop, Little Havana Cigars, located next to G K Investigations. On the other side of her office was a souvenir shop, crammed with everything from bags of Cuban coffee to straw hats. She grabbed her wrapped sandwich and cup of guarapo, the popular Cuban sugarcane juice that supposedly had healing properties. If anybody needed healing tonight, baby, it was Gina.
She started to get out and stopped.
Leaning against the security front door of G K Investigations was a face from her past she wished had stayed there. Ian Shaver. The egotistical, self-serving and unfortunately talented writer from the Miami Tribune.
Gina stared longingly at the paper bag holding her sandwich. “I refuse to let this ruin my appetite.”
As she approached, Ian straightened and flashed her a lopsided smile. Although it was dusky, the light above her door illuminated his receding hairline and the extra baggage in his face. Looked like he’d gained the twenty pounds she’d lost this past year.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she muttered.
“Nice to see you, too, Gina.”
A purple Pontiac cruised down the street, Cuban music pulsing through its open windows. It slowed next to a group of girls on the street corner.
He rubbed a knuckle along his jaw. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?”
“Your redemption.”
She snorted. “You sound like a reporter needing a story. Sorry, I’m fresh out of news.”
A boy leaned out of the Pontiac, said something in Spanish to the girls, who erupted into squeals and laughter.
“It’s a little busy out here,” Ian said. “May I come inside?”
“I’ve had a long day. All I want to do is eat my sandwich and go to bed.”
“I’ll keep it short.”
“Why should I want to talk to you, Ian? It’s not like we’re old friends.”
His lips twitched. “It was a story, Gina. I’m sorry. Really, I am, but it had to be written.”
A police car sped down the street, its siren wailing.
Another story for Ian. Another human tragedy. Vultures profited most when others stumbled. Bastards.
He waited for the siren to fade before speaking. “As I said, I’m sorry. Look, I need a favor, hoped you might help. I’ll keep it short.”
In Ian’s circles, everybody knew of her fall from grace. By meeting with him, she could drop a hint or two about the big case she was working, show him she was back
in the game. He was the kind of guy who could spread the good news, especially if she scratched his back first. Egotistical bastard.
“Come on in,” she mumbled.
Juggling her bag and drink, she inserted the key and clicked open the custom-made security door for which she’d personally coughed up fifteen-hundred dollars plus change. It wasn’t Little Havana that had had her concerned for her safety when she’d rented this space eight months ago, but the public outcry against her after she’d been accused of mishandling evidence that enabled a notorious rapist to be freed.
She hadn’t mishandled, but uncovered evidence that showed the alleged rapist hadn’t committed the crime, but somehow the facts got lost in the avalanche of sensationalism. Because of several death threats after that, she’d had to take extra safety precautions. A year later, she still couldn’t get over the fact how, after helping hundreds of female victims, she’d been threatened for doing her job.
Inside, a motion-detector light automatically went on, illuminating the waiting room. Unfortunately, with business so slow, few had waited in it. But that should be changing after she slam-dunked Roger Bowen’s case.
She glanced at the mail piled in the basket as she walked across the stained beige carpet. “Come on back to my office.”
Ian did a low whistle. “What kind of dog do you have?”
She looked over at the large dog crate against the far wall, one of her thrift-store specials. She didn’t have a dog, but never told anyone that. The top of the crate had evolved into a tabletop, where she set her coffeemaker, cups and a microwave.
“Doberman,” she lied. Sometimes she said Rottweiler or Great Pyrenees, depending on the client and her mood.
“Wh-where is it?”
“Out back. He comes and goes through a doggie door. A little moody, but I like him.”
Ian hustled to keep up with her as she continued back to the office.
“Still love the Miami Heat, I see,” he said, following her into the room.
She’d taped up posters of Shaquille O’Neal and Dwayne Wade, her heroes. A calendar from her insurance company and a photo of her mother were the only other wall decorations. Ian settled into one of the two green crushed velour chairs that faced her desk, a door with screw-on legs.
Men at Work Page 17