it was more than what he saw. He felt her. A restlessness that swept over him like winds off the Mojave, as warm as they were unsettling. At the same time he sensed her vulnerability, which clashed with her business-power packaging, but fit right in with her flowery scent.
Distant yet close. Seductive yet standoffish.
He didn’t think he’d ever met a woman who gave off more conflicting signals.
“Because,” she finally said, “I have something for him.”
He forgot what he’d asked her. Or why he was here, the day of the week, the current president of the United States. Oh, right, he’d asked why she wanted to see Braxton. Whoever that was.
A corner of her mouth lifted slightly, as though amused by his caginess. Although he preferred to think it was inspired by his overwhelming manliness. Anyway, it was a nice mouth. Soft, curvy lips. Their color so light and ripe, he could almost taste their raspberry sweetness.
He realized he was smiling back.
“So,” she said, her voice turning husky, “do you know where I can find Braxton?”
Oh, now she’d done it.
He’d always been a sucker for women’s smoky, raspy voices, and she’d just given it to him twofold. She was a young Lauren Bacall. Cool, unflappable, smooth. And he was Sam Spade, private eye, ready and willing to help the damsel in distress.
Ka-boom.
He straightened, laughing as he realized what he’d just fallen for.
“Oh, you’re good,” he said, giving his head a shake. “The hot blonde strolling in here, bringing trouble into my life. That pantsuit fooled me at first. Who’s your stylist? Hillary Clinton? That uptight schoolmarm bun, whoa, we’re talking foxy...like Frau Farbissina in the Austin Powers movies. But I have a thing for blondes, which they probably told you. And that husky, smoky voice. Wow. Tie me up and make me write bad checks all night long, baby.”
He laughed. She didn’t.
“So,” he said, turning down the dial on his frivolity, “who put you up to this? Drake?”
A sly half smile played on her lips. “Right, it was Drake. He told me Braxton would be sitting at this desk at nine.”
“Yeah, I open up most mornings.”
She placed a manila envelope on the desk. “Then this is for you, Braxton Morgan. Have a nice day.”
Neatly printed on the envelope were the words To Braxton Morgan, personal and confidential and Dmitri Romanov in the top left corner. The papers from Dmitri. And the check. Smoky-husky was his associate?
When he looked up, the blonde was walking away. No goodbye. Just a silky-smooth exit, like a trail of smoke from Lauren Bacall’s cigarette.
Was that how the clichéd private-eye story ended? After the hot blonde walked into the detective agency and exchanged a few words with the P.I., who of course fell hard for her, she walked back out? Just like that?
Not in this movie.
Braxton grabbed his phone and headed after her.
* * *
HEADING TO HER CAR in the Morgan-LeRoy Investigations lot, Frances shivered as a chilly breeze flittered past. Two hours ago, the skies had been deceptively blue and the sun so bright she’d tossed her sunglasses into her purse. Now clouds were moving in, obliterating the sun, casting the world in a surreal, hazy light.
Footsteps slapped behind her.
“Hey, Babe!”
She looked around. The only other person nearby was a guy in a cap with earflaps and pom-poms ambling down the sidewalk, so “Babe” had to mean her.
She turned back to Braxton, who was walking briskly toward her. Hadn’t bothered to put on a jacket or coat, so he had to feel the cold, but he seemed oblivious to it. Flashed her a smile and waved as though out for a stroll on a balmy spring day.
He was tall, a little over six feet, she guessed. That tucked-in fitted shirt emphasized his V shape—from the width of his shoulders down to his toned chest that tapered to a flat, lean waist. Although he wore his trousers stylishly loose, the material seemed to skim his muscled thighs as he walked.
A sensual awareness prickled over her skin.
Back in the Morgan-LeRoy office, she’d found him to be cute in a goofy kind of way, but he’d also been sitting down, so she didn’t get an overall impression. Plus she’d been juggling other thoughts—trying to get a fix if this was Braxton, as she wanted to hand over the envelope to the right person, thinking about her brunch meeting today with her boss.
Her thoughts scattered as Braxton stopped in front of her. He blew out a breath and grinned—an infectious, sheepish smile that filled his whole face. Standing this close, inches apart really, she got the full force of his gray eyes, really more of a light gray-blue that reminded her of early-morning skies.
“I said some dumb stuff back there.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry.”
His flustered boyishness—like a teenage boy worried about what to say to the girl—took her by surprise. Where’d the cocky, in-your-face guy go? The one who blurted that line about tying him up and making him write bad checks all night?
Sudden heat crawled up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. Shouldn’t have thought about that.
“Must say,” she said casually, willing the heat to subside as she looked over at an old pickup, its suspension squeaking, lumber along Graces Avenue, “I’ve never been compared to Frau Farbissina before.”
“I thought someone was punking me—didn’t know you were really here on business.”
As she turned to face him, a gust of wind blew his soapy, masculine scent toward her. She held back a shiver, not from the cold this time.
“Don’t worry about it.” She meant it. Whatever had been going on back there in the office didn’t make sense, but it was a small issue in a world of big ones.
“I don’t deserve to get off the hook so easily,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble she felt all the way down to her toes.
“No, you don’t,” she agreed, trying not to smile.
They’d only met a few minutes ago, but she felt the rhythm, the current between them, as though they’d done this dozens of times. Playing, teasing each other. Doubted any woman could resist his charm.
Braxton had what her mom would have called “matinee-idol good looks.” Illegally handsome and exuberantly male. Plus he exuded an unlabored, playful sexiness that if left unbridled could gallop into full-on killer charisma. She imagined he had to hold the reins tight, practice some self-imposed restraint, try to wheel it out on special occasions only.
She glanced at the old Volvo, the only other car in the small lot. Had to be his. Why did a charismatic, good-looking guy with a sharp sense of style drive a rusting, bald-tired
