by Chant, Zoe
One was the big, high-end Lexus he’d been loaned as part of his Dan Moore persona, the other a low-end white Honda maybe ten years old. Maybe she couldn’t afford the PI licensing? He glanced again at her. He made no claim to being up on fashion, but those clothes of hers, even her shoes, had an expensive look that didn’t jive with an old car. Maybe the clothes were gifts from grateful clients.
How much did someone make, investigating for rich wives? And why them? Well, somebody had to look out for them. From what Dennis had seen from his childhood buddy JP’s life, having megabucks didn’t protect you from the broken marriages and all the other emotional crap that everybody else dealt with. And while money insulated you from a lot of shit, it wasn’t foolproof. Wealthy widows and older divorcees were prime targets for douche canoes like Haskell.
No wonder Sloane hadn’t told Dennis much about Mindy—not even her gender. Mrs. Haskell’s high-powered lawyers probably sat tight on revealing the sources of their data, except for the barest bones. Mindy Maurek might be paid crap, but she obviously believed in her work, and her clients were loyal. As a guy living from paycheck to paycheck because he was choosy about what jobs he’d accept, he could respect that.
And now everything Mindy had done at the resort made sense. Including—he winced inside—seducing Haskell’s douche canoe buddy, Dan Moore.
Dennis looked Mindy’s way with renewed appreciation, in time to meet that expressive brown gaze. In spite of all the fake names and faker situations, it was somehow an honest gaze, and it hit him like an invisible fist in the solar plexus.
Then she looked out over the garden, and he could breathe. In sunlight, she was even finer then he’d remembered, her cloud of short curls emphasizing the shape of her face, her rounded, shapely arms, her generous curves not quite subdued by that professional skirt and jacket. The way the demure hemline flirted and swayed below the subtle roll of her hips. Oh, those hips.
And it was out before he could think. “So . . . belly dancing?”
She stopped short on the gravel. Her cloud of brown hair hid her face as she looked down, then up. “I started when I was a teen,” she said. “I was terrible at sports. And, well, someone suggested it would be perfect for girls like me. Hippy.” She held her hands out wide, making it plain that the word didn’t mean love beads and patchouli.
“You’re really good at it,” he said.
She turned away, then turned back, her cheeks bright rose again. “Look, let’s forget what happened. It was—it was a mistake.”
It was about the best mistake Dennis had ever experienced, but he got it. It was part of her investigation. Meant nothing to her.
What stupid thing had he and JP and Mick agreed to when they were young turks just out of Signal Corps? “Hump ‘em and dump ‘em.” He’d been sticking to that motto ever since, so it wasn’t like he could go pointing any fingers. Still, the pang of regret surprised him with its strength—and there he was again, the tiger stirring somewhere in his chest. He tightened his control, slamming the tiger back down. “Okay,” he said.
Mindy let out a breath, tension easing slightly from her shoulders. He was surprised by an impulse to step close and rub them for her. Instead, he plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key to the Lexus, just to have something to do with his hands.
She said, “So what’s next? I have to admit up front that I’m kind of used to working alone.”
Dennis clicked the locks on the car a couple times as he said, “So am I, mostly. Occasionally I do teams. Like this gig. I guess we should report to my guys that you’re on board. If you’ll give me your number, I’ll call or text a meeting place, and we can go from there. That sound good to you?”
She nodded, arms crossed under that those beautiful breasts that even the plain linen suit couldn’t completely hide. She was obviously trying to be all business. He could do that, too. Easier, he told himself. She’s cool, I’m cool, we’re all cool.
“All right.” And she gave him her number. Then she said, “Later,” and climbed into the Honda.
He climbed into the Lexus, and tried not to think of flimsy excuses for contacting her. Self-disgust steadied him: even if she was his mate—and he didn’t believe in mates, so why was he even thinking the word?—even if she was whatever, he would contact her only for business. He would not be That Stalker Guy.
But he sat there until he heard her start up her car. So he started up his.
They drove off their separate ways. But he didn’t see the tree-lined Beverly Hills street, he saw Mindy ripping her dress over her head and flinging it across the hotel room, her hair wild, her gorgeous body all his. For one incredible hour.
Sorry, Mindy, I lied. That hour was too hard—for several meanings of hard—to forget.
Chapter Four
As Mindy drove away, she was giving herself a pep talk. She could do this. She’d been around attractive guys before—though none quite as hot as Dennis O’Keefe. He was even more amazing in the daylight, where she could see details, like the contours of his arms that the suit jacket didn’t quite hide, the sun streaks giving his hair a tigerish look. Those narrow hips, his cat-like, quiet walk. He hadn’t brought the cane, she noticed.
So he’d been faking as much as she had. She didn’t even know the guy. The only thing he had going for him (except for how amazing he was in bed—yip! Went her poodle—Sorry, I am NOT going there, and I am in charge of this body!) was that he turned out not to be Jerome Haskell’s friend or business partner.
We’ll start there, Mindy decided firmly. This is business.
But she still checked her phone 945,786 times before the next afternoon, when at last he texted to set up a meeting at a coffee place in Venice.
She changed her clothes five times before she finally had to walk out the door if she didn’t want to be late.
When she got to the coffee shop, she could not prevent her heart from banging against her ribs the moment she spotted his tall, broad-shouldered form. If anything, he looked even better today, dressed in jeans and a khaki work shirt that so molded his long, strong body he had probably been wearing them for years.
Lucky jeans, getting to mold those yummy buns . . .
Stop that!
Her embarrassment vanished like smoke when she dared to meet his smile, and his gaze gave her an appreciative once-over that made her feel like she was made of sunshine.
Then his expression smoothed to politeness as he rose. “Sorry, Agent Sloane got called away at the last moment. I’m supposed to hold down the fort until he can get here. What would you like to drink?”
He’d waited to order, so a few minutes were taken up with that, and then they sat across from one another, as she tried not to stare at the line of his jaw, or those long dimples on either side of his those shapely lips that could kiss with more heat than a solar flare at mid-summer.
She busied herself with licking whipped cream off the top of her mocha, and when she looked up, it was to meet those yellowish eyes.
Her heartbeat stuttered, and she said randomly as she jerked her attention to her drink, “So tell me about stings.”
He cradled his hand around his drink as he said, “This is my first, too. My usual beat is photojournalism. Investigative reporting.” He turned the cup around in his long fingers, and her nipples tightened as she remembered those hands caressing her.
She talked to her whipped cream. “Criminal?”
“Not usually. But sometimes, if I find a shitstorm someone is trying to cover up. My last gig was on the Amazon, until I had a close encounter with a lancehead pit viper. The snake won.” Once again those deep dimples flashed in his brief grin.
“The Amazon,” she breathed. “I’ve never had the courage to go there.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “But yeah, a pretty sizable portion of the real estate thinks humans make prime target practice.” He added, “You like to travel?”
“Love it.”
He grinned. “Me, too. I
went into the Signal Corps with my buddies, and I’ve got no complaints. But if I’d been on my own, it would have been the navy. I love ocean travel—in a plane, you’re locked in a cigar tube. If I could I’d spend my life sailing around the world . . .” Then he shrugged a little ruefully, as if he thought he’d been talking too much, and said, “Where have you been to?” he asked.
She sighed, wishing he’d keep talking. “Between all my various part-time parents’ marriages, I’ve been all over this country,” she said, hedging a little. “Probably my favorite summer by far was one we spent in Hawai’i. I loved everything about the islands, from the volcano to the amazing waves. I loved the culture.”
“Did you see any hula?” he asked in a low voice. And she knew he was thinking of her dancing in that damn bar.
“I studied it that entire summer,” she said, fighting against a tide of heat in her face. She couldn’t help the one down below. But her voice stayed steady, at least. “I love hula mele—you know something about hula?” She noticed he didn’t look confused. Or bored.
“I did a piece for History Channel on the revival of hula kahiko. One of the best gigs of my life.”
“Oh, yes, the ancient forms of hula! I was sorry when my mother dumped that step-father, and we had to come back to L.A. again. How about your travels?”
“How much do you want to hear?” he asked, opening his hands. “I got the travel itch early, I guess because I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, because of my dad.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a Marine lifer. Been doing tours since before I was born. I grew up knowing how to pack a go-bag, and have been living out of one off and on ever since.” He flashed that grin. “In fact I did my first pro job on a tiger cruise.” His grin broadened into a silent laugh.
“Tiger cruise,” she said. “Isn’t that where family members of people in the service get to go on board warships for a short time?”
“Exactly,” he said. “I did a several as a teen. That’s when I got addicted to sailing.” He tapped his shoulder. “But any kind of travel is okay: have camera, will go. This is not only my first sting, it’s the first gig I’ve ever had without my trusty camera. I keep reaching for it,” he said—then he lifted his head. “Ah. Here’s Agent Sloane.”
A mild-faced African-American man sat down in the empty chair. He had bushy gray eyebrows, and reminded Mindy of one of her professors at UCLA. “Miss Maurek,” he said with a nod. “O’Keefe.”
“What’s the word, sir?” Dennis asked quietly.
Mindy noticed how the agent seemed to take in the room without making a big deal of it, before he said, “I’d hoped we would have time to get to know one another in a congenial atmosphere.”
Agent Sloane sent a flick of a glance at the heedless customers talking, flirting, tweeting, or bent over laptops with earphones shutting out the world. “But something has got our friend riled, judging by the number of calls he’s been making.”
He gave a slight nod at Dennis, who held up four fingers. “I’m one of them. Since morning,” he murmured.
“Right,” Agent Sloane said. “So I think we need to move fast. What I want to propose, if you are agreeable, Miss Maurek, is that Dan Moore insist on taking his girlfriend for a tour of the film set, which Haskell has been keeping closed tighter than a drum. Between the two of you, we might be able to get what we need to lock this up.”
To Mindy’s surprise, Dennis glanced her way, and lowered his voice to a teasing purr. “Hey, Mork. Up for that?”
She’d always hated that nickname—until now. Those amazing feline eyes of his, the devil-may-care grin, those broad shoulders . . . his tone caressed the silly name, making it special. Making her feel special as that smile of his dared her to share one of his adventures.
What else could she say? “Why not?”
* * *
“Why not?” she said, her chin lifting, which sent her curly hair clouding around her face. The moment she’d walked in wearing another of those halter-top dresses, this one a cool blue print, Dennis knew he was going to have a tough time keeping his gaze above collarbone level.
Then he found himself mesmerized by her eyes, that brown closer to rich dark amber, their expression steady and . . . soulful. Weird, he didn’t think words like that were in his vocabulary, but there really was something so clear in that gaze, even when she’d been obviously skipping over a lot of her history. But with what sounded like Guinness Book of World Records-level multiple divorces in her background, who could blame her?
He discovered the strongest, strangest urge to find out everything about her, to hear her voice in all her moods. To see her eyes looking up at him again, twinkling full of fun and molten-amber with passion—
Dennis let his breath trickle out as he gripped himself inwardly. Why the hell was his tiger stirring now? It had to be the prospect of the hunt. Yeah, it always seemed to stir when Mindy was around but that was coincidence. He refused to believe it was anything more.
He shoved the tiger down below the surface—again—and sat back as Agent Sloane took over the conversation. You had to hand it to the expert, how he swiftly went over the paperwork for subcontracting then smoothly segued to giving Mindy most of the truth, without any mention of the possibility of shady shifters behind that sadsack Haskell—especially his connection to that sinister international snake, Torvaldsen.
In this case, literally. Dennis ordinarily didn’t mind snake shifters. One of his old buddies back in the small town where he’d grown up was a rattler shifter, absolutely deadly in her snake form, but a mellow, easy-going friend when she was human. She loved lying about in the sun, and only moved fast if she sensed rats.
But Torvaldsen and his kind, the shifters who hunted humans . . . something bad happened to them when they got a taste for human blood. Not only did they hunt and kill humans for sport, they tended to put their minds to gaining enough wherewithal to pursue their obsession at serial killer level.
And that’s what Agent Sloane, Greg Ling, and Amanda Peretti, the departmental tech expert, had dedicated their lives to flushing out and putting away. The world wasn’t ready for shifters as it was. If ever word got out about the evil ones, no shifter would be safe ever again.
“So, any questions?” Agent Sloane sat back, and Dennis returned his attention to the conversation.
“I think I got it. Fill this stuff out, you set things up, Dennis and I investigate under our cover as a pair of clueless newbies to the film world. Any questions, I can ask you guys, right?” Mindy asked, with that open look again from those big amber-colored eyes.
“Any time. Any place,” Dennis said.
Blink. Agent Sloane sent him a narrow glance, and Mindy’s lips parted.
Shit. Dennis forced a smile, trying to inject some ease into the situation, because that had come out way too intense.
Mindy flicked a look at him, midway between puzzled and wary, then nodded. “All right. Call me when you’ve set it up. I’ll be ready.” She rose. “Thanks for the mocha.”
Agent Sloane rose to go with her, and held the door. Dennis brought up the rear so he could watch her unconscious prancy walk, and the sheer poetry of her hips under the swinging skirt.
A thought struck like lightning: Was she going commando right now?
He nearly walked into the door.
Chapter Five
Mindy was used to being nervous before a job.
She compulsively checked everything over and over—her cell charged with all its handy apps loaded, her recorder ditto, packed inside her soft curved purse with the handle that turned inside out in case she had to nose it over her back as a dog. She’d bought a new slithery halter dress that she could slip out of in ten seconds flat, this one a loud tropical print that plunged low in front. She put on another pair of stylish flat sandals that wrapped up into a tight sausage with the dress.
She had carefully put on evening makeup, which looked overdone in the light of day, and skinned ba
ck her hair into a little puff at the top of her head, tied by a Hermes scarf. She finished the look with bright crimson lipstick that matched her tropical print dress. Then she pulled a crimson scarf around her shoulders, and looked at herself in the mirror.
She shuddered. She looked like a total ho.
At least I have decent cleavage, she thought. She was used to dressing in neutral colors to avoid notice, and most of her work halter dresses were picked for blandness as well as ease of removal. But her role as Dan Moore’s girlfriend called for loud and brassy—especially if Haskell recognized her.
Her heartbeat pattered when she pulled up at the meet point, the parking lot of a library on the border of Venice in West L.A. Her heart quickened when she spotted Dennis, wearing a black shirt and slacks, and carrying his cane. He looked handsome and sinister.
His eyes crinkled when she approached, and he said with that sincere note in his low, rough voice, “You look great.”
“I look like a skank,” she said.
“But Dan Moore likes ’em skanky, the skankier the better.” He licked his lips in a sleazy manner, wiggling his eyebrows, and she had to laugh.
He went on, “Ah, I was to ask, if you have that paperwork done, to leave it in your car.”
“I didn’t finish it,” she said, her heart thumping against her ribs. And she didn’t intend to—and with luck the job would end before it became an issue.
Dennis shrugged, clearly not a by-the-book kind of guy. “Then we don’t have to worry about the stuff falling into the wrong hands. Do you have ID for Payton in case the studio guards ask?”
She nodded, patting her purse. “Oh yes, Payton Lee has a long history of being lost in the wrong buildings. One of my first clients has a brother in law enforcement who helped me get it.”
“Awesome. Ready?”
“Let’s do it,” she said, glad her voice at least sounded cool.
He opened the door to the Lexus for her, and when she glanced up over her shoulder, she caught the curve of a smile. Feeling self-conscious, she busied herself putting on a pair of huge Italian sunglasses as he got into the car.