scramble over the console onto the passenger seat. “Hey. Get out!”
For a split second, her backward crab crawl exposed a smooth tanned thigh all the way up to a line of black silk panty. Sheesh. Hormones lurched in a base male response to all that bare skin and he slapped his hands around the steering wheel before he reached for something he shouldn’t. Rebecca Page was the enemy here. She fired his temper, not his lust.
She threatened his mission, not his conscience.
Tender feelings like guilt or concern had no place in the world of power and intimidation in which he’d immersed himself.
And he was too smart to forget that.
He wisely averted his gaze while she hastily sat up in her seat and righted her skirt and the apron she wore. He went on the attack before he did something foolish, like ask if he’d been too rough with her. “Why are you here? What story are you working on?”
She tucked the heavy charm at the end of her necklace back inside the front of her dress. “I’m here to make friends and earn some extra money with a part-time job.”
“Liar.”
“Ass.”
With a noisy huff, she folded her arms and stared out the windshield into the fog off the river.
Seth breathed deeply, right along with her, waiting for a response. The carefully preserved interior of the small vintage car was tinged with the scents of leather polish and Rebecca’s own spicy perfume. Frustrated with her stubborn silence, he raked his fingers through the careless spikes of his short blond hair. His focus should be back on the Riverboat and proving that Teddy Wolfe was just as deviant and dangerous as Interpol and KCPD suspected him to be. He shouldn’t be sitting here, noticing the Mustang’s fine details. And he damn well shouldn’t be noticing anything about the car’s owner.
“Well?” he prodded.
“You said you weren’t a cop anymore. I don’t have to talk.”
Enough of this battle of wills. He needed to win this argument more than she could ever understand.
Seth fitted into Teddy Wolfe’s world all too well. He released the steering wheel and leaned over the center console, bracing one hand on the dashboard and the other on the seat behind her head. “You’ll talk to me.”
Chapter Three
Whatever advantage Rebecca had over Seth Cartwright when they were standing vanished when they sat side by side. Now he loomed over her, and those massive shoulders and beefy chest filled up the tight space inside her car.
She smelled the dampness from the air outside that clung to his suit and golden hair. She heard his deep, even breathing over the alarming staccato of her own pulse in her ears.
He wore a classic suit over a tight charcoal-gray T-shirt. But no amount of tailored wool or self-restraint could completely civilize the hard edge that lined his square jaw, or temper the danger that lurked in the depths of his gray-green eyes.
It couldn’t hide the black shoulder holster that peeked out from inside his jacket, either. Right next to the pocket with her confiscated tape. Okay, so she hadn’t recorded anything on it yet, but still, he’d taken it from her. Just like that, he’d put her at a disadvantage. All that muscle intruding into her personal space made her rethink the shrimp-size memory she’d mistakenly had of the man. His sharp eye and suspicious mind made him more of a formidable opponent than the pesky annoyance she remembered. And the gun…? Oh, hell. She knew she’d be taking a risk by going undercover at the Riverboat. But she hadn’t really known.
She’d expected close calls and the need to think on her feet. She’d reviewed her arsenal of fast talk and coy come-ons. She’d even been prepared for threats if her true purpose was found out. She’d made note of where the nearest exit in each room was located, and had her can of pepper spray within reach on her keychain. But she hadn’t expected this palpable sense of mistrust, this antagonism, this isolation.
She hadn’t expected to feel like the enemy herself.
The fuse on Seth Cartwright’s temper, however, was every bit as short as she remembered, his inability to listen to reason just as frustrating. No wonder she didn’t like cops. Or ex-cops. Or whatever kind of man rated a dubious title like Chief of Security at the place where her father had been murdered.
She’d been willing enough to leave the Riverboat with him to keep him from blabbing to everyone on board that she was a reporter for the Journal. But she had no intention of giving up on her quest.
She wasn’t the bad guy here.
If finding Reuben Page’s killer meant finding a way to deal with Seth Cartwright, then she’d swallow her pride and frustration—and ignore that little frisson of nervous awareness that made her heart beat faster. Give me strength, Dad. And then she asked for the practically impossible. Give me patience.
“You want to talk?” She bit down on a sarcastic desire to remind him how close-mouthed he’d been with her. “How about this? I am looking for a story.”
“And?”
If he could be a smug know-it-all, then she could tell a little white lie. “I’m writing an article on the history of the Commodore. From its days as a cruise ship and dance-hall club on the Missouri River through its rusty demise as a floating eyesore to its reincarnation as a casino. I’m talking to owners, staff and passengers who’ve known the Commodore in all its stages, from the time it was built in the late thirties to the present.”
He settled back behind the wheel. But his heat and scent—and mistrust—remained. “History? That’s not your usual beat.”
“I’ve always loved research. Between jazz and baseball and the westward expansion of our country there’s so much history in Kansas City that there’s always something more to learn.” Those statements were completely true. The first story she’d written for her high-school paper had been a piece on the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro Baseball League. She’d only turned to crime investigation after her father’s death. “Who knows? If I can piece together enough facts and firsthand accounts, I could write a series of articles—or put together a book.”
“I don’t care if you’re writing haiku poetry. I don’t need you asking questions and stirring up trouble at the Riverboat.”
“Afraid I’m a security risk you can’t handle?”
His eyes darkened like storm clouds in the shadows of the car. The bastard didn’t even blink. “I can handle you just fine, Miss Page.”
Easing any smart remark aside on a soft, drawn-out breath, she tried to keep the rare line of communication open. “You should probably call me Rebecca. I didn’t tell anyone my full name tonight. I don’t want them to know who I am and what I do. It could taint their responses to me.” She added the latter as a plausible explanation of her need for anonymity. “It’s not like I’m a television reporter with my face plastered all over the news. The Journal doesn’t even publish a picture with my byline. I was going to use my mother’s maiden name if I needed to.”
He shook his head. “A decent background check would point out that deception in an instant.”
“Good
