Advance praise for
MIA ZACHARY’s
Another Side of Midnight

“Mia Zachary has a winner with Another Side of Midnight! With a wonderfully defined heroine, snappy dialogue and an intricate plot, what’s not to love?”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Kenner

“Mia Zachary takes chances that pay off in this edgy, compelling read!”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Leto

“Sparks fly when Steele and Stone clash in this dynamite, double-blind mystery.”

—New York Times bestselling author Rebecca York

“Steele is…sassy and strong, beautiful and smart but she also has [a] hint of vulnerability underneath that smart mouth attitude. Put Steele and Stone together and you get explosive chemistry… the pages fairly sizzle…. Another Side of Midnight grabs you right from the very beginning and keeps you until the end.”

—CataRomance

“Mystery, hard-balled suspense and a sizzle that won’t quit are a combination that I crave when I read a romantic suspense. Mia Zachary delivers my cravings to the max!

This book is definitely a keeper!”

—The Best Reviews

MIA ZACHARY

Over the years, award-winning author Mia Zachary has penned really bad poetry, even worse song lyrics, adolescent short stories and overly descriptive class papers. Her first completed contemporary manuscript placed second in Harlequin Books’ 2000 Summer Blaze contest.

She’s written four Blaze novels since then, including the bestseller Afternoon Delight; “Spirit Dance” in the paranormal anthology Witchy Business; and Another Side of Midnight, her first romantic mystery. Go behind the scenes of the Midnight agency at www.SteeleMidnight.com.

Mia lives in Maryland with her husband of seventeen years and their beautiful little boy. Visit Mia online at www.miazachary.com for excerpts, reviews, articles and more!

Another Side of Midnight

Mia Zachary

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

A funny thing happened while driving home from lunch with girlfriends one day. A kick-ass heroine and a complex premise attacked me and didn’t let go of my imagination until the story had unfolded onto the manuscript pages…. Now here it is three years later and I could not be prouder to introduce you to the hero and heroine of my first mystery novel.

Steele Mezzanotte has a new P.I. agency, a showgirl’s body and a sharp-edged attitude. Born and raised in Vegas, street smarts and a smart mouth have always kept her in control of any situation. That is, until Cameron Stone walks into her life. Drop-dead gorgeous, with a lot of Scots charm, the enigmatic “problem solver” has a habit of disappearing, but he’ll always return to Sin City. And to Steele. Because the only thing that comes between a rock and a hard case is love…the greatest mystery of all.

Let me know if you enjoy the story as much as I loved writing it. I love to hear from my readers!

Mia

As a writer I know how important words are. And yet I can’t seem to find the right ones to express the breadth and depth of my gratitude to those friends who have kept the faith when my own wavered. This story is dedicated to Mom and Lisa, who believed from the beginning and to Rachel and John who loved it to the end. Thank you from my heart. I’m also very grateful to Marsha Zinberg, Birgit Davis-Todd, and Kathryn Lye for standing by this project from the first premise and pitch. Thank you, ladies!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER ONE

Lady Luck Strikes Again

LAS VEGAS, BABY. My kind of town.

Home to five different Cirque du Soleil shows, about 197,000 slot machines, over thirty-six million annual visitors, who knows how many Elvis impersonators and, of course, one Lady Luck.

However, as luck would have it, I’d spent the past half hour in a hot car, my digital camera poised near the small opening at the top of the tinted window. One of my best friends had let me borrow the Toyota from her used car dealership. My beloved Harley Davidson Softail motorcycle isn’t exactly conducive to surveillance.

Downtown, the casinos are smaller than on the Strip, the hotels cheaper and the atmosphere more nostalgic than glamorous. “Glitter Gulch” is where you’ll find the Golden Gate’s ninety-nine-cent shrimp cocktails, the annual World Series of Poker at Binion’s Horseshoe and VegasVic, the forty-foot neon cowboy. However, once you move past the four main blocks of interest, downtown feels meaner, gritty and weather-beaten.

The February temperature was a balmy eighty degrees, which meant it was over one hundred in the Toyota’s driver seat. And I wasn’t exactly sitting here for the fun of it. Waiting across from a run-down bar like a paparazzo anxious to snap photos of a clandestine meeting wasn’t my idea of a good time, but it is part of my job.

My name is Stella Mezzanotte—midnight star in Italian— and I’m a private eye.

Damn, I like saying that.

Which was why I was roasting my ass outside of the Polar Lounge. At the moment I was following a client’s girlfriend of two months because he thought she was messing around on him. Well, duh. With clown-red hair, capped teeth, collagen-filled lips and saline-filled boobs, did he honestly think she’d be genuine about her feelings?

People lie about anything and everything, especially when it comes to relationships. I hate these cases. I usually end up finding out things my clients don’t really want to know and then nobody wants to pay for bad news. But, until I get full ownership of the agency, I’ll take almost any case that comes in my door.

My mind was drifting toward a heat-induced nap when something—or rather someone—caught my attention.

The man walking out of the Polar Lounge was all kinds of gorgeous, but there was something else about him… An aura of quiet violence. This guy wasn’t bulging with muscles under his dark T-shirt, but he had strength.

My instincts told me he wasn’t afraid to use it. And yet beneath his military-short, dark blond hair was one of the most sensual faces I’d ever seen. Fascinated by the powerful, confident way he moved, my finger instinctively triggered the camera shutter. When he glanced over at me, I noted the intensity of his light blue eyes.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

Oops. I’d been so focused on the golden god I hadn’t seen Scarlet’s boyfriend cross the street. Rat yanked open my car door and made a grab for the camera.

“Hands off, pal. I’m just getting some exterior shots for a story I’m doing on the bar.” Lame, I know, but it was all I could come up with since I’d been taken off guard.

“Sure you are, honey.” This time he tried to grab me.

Big freakin’ mistake.

My real name is Stella, but everyone, except my parents, has called me Steele since I was nine years old. After I bluffed him out of his pocket change playing stud poker, my Uncle Vin used to shake his head and mutter, “That girl’s got nerves of steel.”

I need them in my line of work. In the end we all agreed to part ways: Scarlet with a torn handbag and an ex-lover; Rat with a bloody nose and sore balls; me with a headache and a broken camera lens. I did manage to save the image storage card, though. So, even though it was an affair to forget, my client would get proof and I would get paid.

Good thing since now I was out a three-hundred-dollar Sony Cybershot.

Mission accomplished, I slid into the Toyota and cranked the air conditioner to “arctic.” Then I looked down, cursing when I saw Rat’s blood on the hem of my favorite T-shirt, the powder-blue one that read Spoil Me and We’ll Get Along Just Fine.

Some days I love my job. This was not one of them.

I’D JUST LEFT one bar and was headed for another, this time in my father’s restaurant across from the University of Las Vegas campus. Mezzanotte’s offers authentic Tuscan recipes straight out of my Nonna Angela’s trattoria in Siena. The pappardelle primavera and the bistecca alla fiorentina are to die for. It’s a family business. My father, Paolo, and my brother Raffaele run the kitchen while my mother, Vivian, acts as hostess.

Since I have no life outside of work—much to my mother’s disappointment—I help out at the bar a couple nights a week.

Thursday nights are pretty slow, especially since Papa refuses to do gimmicks like karaoke or wet T-shirt contests. It took a lot of convincing to get him to put a TV above the bar for the sports channels. Tonight there was a decent crowd, though, enough to have me pouring drafts and shaking drinks at a regular pace.

I’m good at tending bar. I flirt a little so the guys keep thinking and keep drinking. I make the cocktails strong enough to earn a reputation without depleting the inventory. And I’m normally a good listener, even when I’m really keeping an eye on the liquor levels for a row of customers.

But not tonight. Oh, I was getting the job done but my mind wasn’t engaged. Tonight I felt… Itchy. Like my skin was too tight and my nerves were exposed. None of my customers needed refills, so I was absentmindedly watching the NFL Pro Bowl game when I heard a voice behind me.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a McEwan’s Ale about?” A hot shiver danced down my spine. The Scottish accent was pure just-out-of-bed Sean Connery. Hearing it, I started thinking about getting into bed. When I turned around, though, I looked straight into the face of the golden god. Stifling my sexual reaction I studied him, trying to figure out what he was doing here.

I don’t believe in coincidence and I never get this lucky when it comes to men in bars.

The guy had broad shoulders and a massive chest beneath a forest green shirt open just enough to reveal a navy T-shirt. His forearms looked as if they’d been sculpted from Carrara marble and his large, blunt-fingered hands… I was getting all kinds of ideas about his hands.

His face had wide planes and interesting angles, with heavy brows that accentuated a coldly compelling blue gaze. The only soft things about him were the slight curl of his dark-blond hair and a deliciously sensual mouth. He was watching me with the barest hint of a smirk.

His eyes hinted that he’d seen the dark side of life and had laughed in its face, that he had secrets and no intention of sharing them. He had the air of a hunter, both patient and persistent. And like any prey, I felt the thrill of danger. All the way down my body.

“Sorry, no McEwan’s. See anything else you might like?” I cocked my head and gave him a playful look.

“Aye, something’s caught my interest.”

I leaned my forearms on the bar, briefly drawing his attention to the lettering over my breasts. “Well, catching is one thing, keeping is another.”

He resolutely kept his gaze on my face. A real gentleman, this guy. “It’s a bit soon to play for keeps.”

But apparently he did want to play. So did I. If the game got out of hand, I had a borrowed car and one hell of a right hook. What I didn’t have was a date for Valentine’s, as Mom had been reminding me all evening.

“You mean it wasn’t love at first sight that made you trail me all the way from downtown?”

His mouth lifted a fraction of an inch and he nodded to admit he’d been busted, but there was no hint of apology. “Why were you taking my photo?”

“I wasn’t. You just got in the frame.” I grinned and gave him the once-over. “You’re kind of distracting.”

“As are you.” His lips curved a little more and I found myself anxiously awaiting his smile. “What was a sweet lass such as yourself doing there anyway, eh?”

“A job. Why were you there?”

“A job.” He returned my deadpan expression in kind then reached across the bar to offer his hand. “Cameron Stone.”

“I’m Steele Mezzanotte.”

“You don’t look like ‘steel.’” He smirked, as most guys do. I’ve got my Papa’s bone structure, my Mom’s curvaceous figure and, so I’m told, an innate sex appeal all my own. No matter how smart or how tough she is, nobody takes a pretty girl seriously.

“Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving.”

As his large, calloused hand closed over mine, energy— unexpected and potentially lethal—shot through my palm. It reminded me of when I was five and stuck a knife into a wall socket. Every nerve in my arm vibrated with sensory overload and I caught my breath. A little shaken, I dropped his hand and stepped back. I felt myself blush as I cleared my throat.

“What can I get you instead of the McEwan’s?”

“Surprise me, why don’t you.”

“I just might.” Letting a slow grin spread across my face, I was suddenly feeling very lucky, indeed….

However, I woke up the next morning alone in a hotel suite, unsure of which was worse, my hangover, my heartache or the trouble I had gotten into this time.

CHAPTER TWO

The Waiting Game

THE PORCH LIGHT was on. A sign of invitation, welcoming him for his efforts these past couple months. He smiled in the darkness.

He’d been careful to park around the corner, but still close enough to get a clear view down the street to her house. The sun was stealing over the mountains in the distance. He had to leave soon. Some early-bird neighbor might notice a strange car and it was almost time for her morning run.

A dog barked nearby, startling him. But he continued to watch the house, wondering which room she slept in. Wondering if she slept naked. He pictured her long dark hair fanned across the pillow, her blow job-worthy lips parted slightly as she breathed.

He shifted in the driver’s seat. The thought of her mouth always got him hard.

Letting his mind stretch further, he imagined she did sleep naked, her bare skin slick with sweat, the bed sheets twisted around her long athletic body. One hand would part her thighs while the fingers of his other tangled in her hair…

He wanted to hear her voice, if only a single word. Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed the number from memory. Anticipation had his heart racing, his body tense. He ought to speak this time—

“Huhlo?”

He closed his eyes, savoring the sleep-roughened rumble of her greeting…then disconnected the call. The time wasn’t right.

Soon.

But not yet.

CHAPTER THREE

Through a Glass Darkly

BLINKING AGAINST the late spring daylight, I checked the bedside clock. Christ, did that thing really say five-fifty? I reached for the phone to stop the damned ringing.

“Huhlo?” My voice sounded as raw as it felt. I must have been screaming in my sleep again.

Silence greeted me in return. The heavy menacing kind that made the fine hairs on my skin stand on end. I sat up, wide awake now. I couldn’t hear so much as an inhaled breath, let alone any identifiable background noise. But I knew someone was on the line. Waiting. Intimidating.

Just like the other calls.

And, again like the others, my caller ID didn’t register a number. The line disconnected abruptly, leaving me to hang up with an ineffectual bang. Shafts of early May sunlight streamed across the bed but I was shivering, the sheet twisted beneath me damp with sweat. The sun had barely risen, but going back to sleep wasn’t an option.

I swung my legs off the bed and padded down the hallway to the kitchen in nothing but my panties. Twinges of pain had me glancing down. The bruises on my ribs were as muddy as day-old coffee and the one on my face probably didn’t look much better. Both of my jobs seem to make me a regular target.

The freezer yielded a half-empty bottle of Armadale vodka. I hate taking any kind of medicine. A double shot in my orange juice would hold off the worst of the pain and wash away the aftertaste of uneasy sleep. I’d been dreaming, the kind of dark, restless nightmares that leave a metallic taste in the mouth.

A few minutes later, I had three slugs in me—one from an old bullet and the other two from the vodka. I stood there in my gradually lightening kitchen, feeling the alcohol begin to warm my blood. One of these days I needed to quit drinking. Not today.

Back in the bedroom I threw on a T-shirt and bike shorts, sunglasses and a baseball cap. I used to run track in high school. There are probably still some ribbons and trophies in my parents’ attic. I usually do between three and five miles, depending on my route. But my heart wasn’t in it—I’d barely covered a mile—so I turned around.

After a quick shower, several ounces of hair goop and a half hour with my professional-grade ionic blow dryer, I started on my face. Normally I just wear moisturizer. But I was going to need some of Mom’s stage makeup tricks to disguise the black eye I got last night.

My dad’s place is not a dive, I swear. But with the restaurant being right across from UNLV, on weekends the bar clientele includes a lot of students blowing off steam… Sometimes in my direction.

Getting dressed only took me about five minutes. I hate having to think about clothes, so for everyday I just pick from my fifty pair of jeans and a hundred T-shirts. I slipped on the one that read, Have A Nice Day Elsewhere, grabbed my backpack and helmet and headed for work.

Traffic along Las Vegas Boulevard—otherwise known as the Strip—sucked, as usual. Caught by one of the city’s many lethargic traffic signals, I braced my feet on either side of my Harley. The sun beat down on me from out of a pale blue cloudless sky, piercing the dark glasses shielding my eyes. The temperature already felt like eighty-plus degrees.

Sitting next to a diesel-belching tour bus didn’t help.

Still, as I glanced around me, a chill slipped down my spine. I’d been feeling all too exposed for the last two months. The caller, my telephone whisperer, might be in the next lane. Behind the wheel of the Nissan with the tinted windows? Or maybe he was the bald guy in the Chevy staring at me funny….

Or maybe all of these people were normal human beings just trying to get to work on time.

As I drove past the glory that is the Venetian Resort Casino, with its Doges Palace entrance and replica of the Grand Canal, my thoughts turned wistfully to the old Sands Hotel that it had replaced. The Sands was “A Place in the Sun” in the days when Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack played here. And I do mean played.

The Sands is also where my parents met. Papa tended bar while my mother hoofed across the stage in a twenty-pound headdress. Mom was a Copa Girl. They had drinks with Sinatra once. But that’s another story, one my father never gets tired of telling. And somehow I never get tired of hearing it.

My folks are still happily married, but the Sands was leveled in a controlled implosion. It was a hell of a final show. Ground broke for the Venetian less than a year later. Who knows how long that will stand before it makes way for something new?

The city is constantly demolishing and rebuilding itself bigger, better and brighter. I was born and raised here—what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, as the advertising goes. Depending on who you ask, this is either the most incredible or the tackiest place they’ve ever seen.

What Las Vegas really is, is glitz and glamour for its own sake. If you take it too seriously, you miss the whole damn point.

I navigated past another bus and hung a left onto Paradise Road. After circling a couple of times, I found an open parking space. I took off my helmet and scratched my fingers through my hair to mitigate the heat, adjusted my black leather backpack and casually strode across the parking lot.

You name it; this strip mall has it. There’s a bank, a travel agency, a pawnshop, an attorney and a business services franchise. Midnight Investigation Services is on the corner, the name etched in gold script letters on the window. I get a flutter of both pride and anxiety when I see the place. It’s only been mine for about six months.

Although I’d been licensed for just under a year, I’d worked as the secretary in my Aunt Gloria’s investigation agency for three years before that. Not long after my life disintegrated because of a cowardly, self-centered decision…

Gloria Diamond, a blackjack dealer turned private investigator, had divorced Uncle Vinnie years ago, but I’d still considered her family. Nobody understood me the way she had, being a hard-assed, soft-hearted Italian girl herself. When I’d dropped out of UNLV my sophomore year, Aunt Gloria had talked me into helping around the office.

I’d mostly answered phones, typed reports, made coffee and paid attention. Then her two-pack a day habit caught up with her and suddenly I was taking over the casework. Gloria taught me what she knew, cut corners where she could and sent me to community college for the rest. But I still had a lot to learn, and now I have to do it without her.

When she died last year, Aunt Gloria left me the agency. She also left me the strip mall and the associated rental income in trust. According to her philosophy, a gal needs “fuck-you” money in a man’s world. Smart woman, that Gloria. She’d believed in empowerment and independence. But she’d also believed in earning it.

As long as I keep the place running in the black for a year, I’m set. As long as no one ever finds out how far Gloria went to get me licensed… Otherwise, it all goes to my cousin Rick, who won’t hesitate to sell everything and lay the money on the nearest craps table.

Opening the front door to the agency, I gratefully stepped into the air-conditioning. The large reception area is decorated in “soothing but elegant tones of cobalt, maroon and cream.” Whatever. It gives clients a place to sit.

My secretary, Jon Chase, was typing furiously and staring at his computer screen. He’s about six feet tall with a lean build, sleepy brown eyes, thick hair and a great smile. In a word? Hot. In another word? Gay. This, of course, was a heartbreaking shame to every heterosexual woman who met him.

He looked up and raised one perfectly arched brow. Then he added a glance at his watch. “Whoa. Are you aware that it’s not even nine o’clock yet?”

“Just get me some coffee, will you.” I have to remind him on a regular basis who employs whom around here.

“Well, aren’t you just a delight this morning.” He handed me a stack of envelopes and some message slips. Then he did that tsking thing when I peeled off my sunglasses. “I hate to tell you, Steele, but black and blue is so not this season.”

Guess I needed more makeup. “Dad needed help at the restaurant last night.”

“And to think bartending doesn’t come with hazardous duty pay.”

“Were there any calls besides these?” I kept my gaze on the phone slips and made my voice as casual as possible.

“Two hang-ups on the machine and a woman who didn’t want to leave a message.”

The aborted calls shouldn’t have bothered me. But they did. “Has anybody stopped by?”

Jon looked at me, his expression curious. “Nobody outside the usual suspects—the mailman, that cute UPS guy. Why? Are you hoping for someone in particular?”

“Nobody outside the usual suspects.”

I trudged down the hallway, past the kitchen and bathroom, to my office. When we redecorated, I’d let Jon have his way with the paisley love seats, glass coffee tables, potted bamboo and Impressionist art out front, but my office was off limits.

Framed posters of exotic beaches hung between the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The armchairs and couch were leather and my walnut partner’s desk takes up the far corner. I’d only agreed to the bright blue carpeting for the sake of Jon’s “visual continuity.”

My helmet and backpack landed on the couch with a dull thump. Pulling the window shades kept the bright daylight from drilling a hole into my brain. I visited each of the electrical outlets in the room, recharging the pieces of my portable office. Then I collapsed onto my suede desk chair. The best place for my head seemed to be in between my open palms.

But, I had work to do. I picked up the mail and sorted through it. Credit card applications went into the trash along with dating service invitations. My mother thinks I don’t know she secretly signs me up for that crap. I separated the bills from the few payment checks and thank-you notes then started a letter of my own.

The last time I was face-to-face with my oldest brother— five years almost to the day—I was only nineteen. Stupid, scared and selfish as only a nineteen-year-old can be. I’ve had to grow up since then. Vince still won’t see me or take my phone calls. I understand, and so respect his wishes.

If you keep picking at an old wound, it never heals. But I hate the idea of having no contact with him at all. I write once a week without fail and haven’t missed a week in all the time he’s been gone. It’s the very least I owe him. And, no matter what it costs, I’ve always kept my promises.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sombody’s Got to Do It

A FEW MINUTES LATER, Jon slid my favorite mug—the one that read I’m Only Here To Annoy You—across the desk.

“Coffee-coffee-coffee.” I took a sip and moaned out loud. “I made you espresso instead of latte. You look like you could use the extrastrength caffeine.” Tilting his head, he crossed his arms. “Soo, what’s the story with that eye?”

I swallowed another mouthful before answering him. “One of the customers didn’t take too kindly to her boyfriend gluing his eyes to my chest every time I delivered their drinks. When she said something, he took a poke at her. I swung on him. After that it got a little ugly.”

“Ugly is not the word for it.” Jon sighed dramatically. “With your looks, you could be a showgirl—”

“I tried that. Then they asked me to sing.”

“Or a model—”

“I thought about that, too. For maybe a minute.”

“But, no. You have to go around beating up drunks and spying through bedroom windows.”

“Lucky for you and your sense of job security, huh?”

He rested a hip on the edge of her desk. “Oh, please. You’ve been lucky to have me these past three months. How many people did you fire before I came to your rescue?”

“About a dozen,” I mumbled into my coffee mug. “But don’t let it go to your head. You’re the only secretary—”

“Administrative assistant.”

“Whatever. You’re the only one who didn’t complain about the part-time hours, the salary or the amount of work. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be typing something?”

He made an exaggerated snap with his fingers and stood up. “Thanks for the reminder. I have to finish writing chapter twelve.”

Scowling, I waved my hand at the files on my desk. “I meant something business-related.”

“Oh, right. Because we have so many cases right now. On the other hand, Savannah and Brick are at a critical turning point in their relationship.”

“The trials and tribulations of a Southern belle and her Yankee lover.” He smiled as I affected a drawl with practiced ease. I even managed the Georgia mountain dialect he tries so hard to repress. “How’s the book coming along?”

“They were undressed and fixin’ to fall into bed when you walked in. Let me tell you—”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” I stabbed my index finger in his direction. “I keep you out of my love life. You leave me out of yours.”

“Sweetcakes, you don’t have a love life.”

There’s nothing like the truth to end a conversation. And, besides, I hate it when he calls me “sweetcakes.” I scowled at Jon’s back as he swept out, then propped my boot heels on the desktop. I hadn’t had a serious relationship in over five years, not since Bobby died… I didn’t want to think about him.

And I hadn’t gotten laid in exactly two months, two weeks and four days. But I didn’t want to think about him, either.

Instead, I turned my attention to the files clogging my inbox. Private investigation is the business of information. Your client needs to know something and your job is to find the facts. People love the idea of Sam Spade, Mike Hammer, Thomas Magnum and Charlie’s Angels.

Reality is nowhere near that glamorous.

It’s hours of sheer boredom while you wait and watch and wait some more. It’s days of tedious fact checking and double-checking. And it’s paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork. I

have a system for it, though you’d swear otherwise. It involves nearly illegible notes on yellow legal pads or scraps of paper shoved into my pockets.

When I’m ready to type up a report, I shuffle the paper around on my desk like an abstract collage until I make some sense of it. Conventional? No. Organized? Hell, no. But I’m not a linear thinker and it’s not pretty when I try to be.

After dropping my feet to the floor, I drained the last of my espresso and grabbed the first folder to draft a status report. Insert client’s name into document template. Briefly recap case. Inform of progress. Advise how to proceed. Save to hard drive. Repeat as necessary.

I’d reduced the stack by half when the intercom buzzed. Jon was on the phone, using his business voice. “A Mrs. Cavanaugh is here to see you.”

Who? I frowned and capped my fountain pen before flipping the page of my calendar. There weren’t any appointments scheduled this morning and I would have been happy to leave it that way. Then I glanced over at the pile of bills. Not enough to bury us, but enough to make me sigh.

Due to the steady increase of infidelity, bad parenting and civil litigation, there’s a greater than ever demand for private investigators. Just not this one. Jon says it’s because we need a Web site.

“Okay, Jon, give me a minute to get professional, then send her back.”

I rummaged through my backpack for a compact. Dab-bing pressed powder onto my eye didn’t help much. Screw it. I pulled my arms out of my T-shirt and turned it around so that the slogan was on the back. Then I yanked the spare navy blazer off the door hook and combed my fingers through my hair. Picking up my legal pad, I tried to project an air of expertise.

Because of my looks, most people think I only have enough brainpower to keep me breathing. While I have no qualms about using their assumptions against them on a case, it works against me when meeting new clients. But as my visitor walked in, I knew my appearance didn’t matter.

Her shoulder-length brown hair had expensive-looking gold highlights. She wore a lavender business suit and matching heels. Diamonds flashed at her ears, neck and wrists. She actually wasn’t much smarter than she looked, but I liked her anyway. Always had.

“Maria DiMarco.” I came from behind the desk to take her hand. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“It’s Cavanaugh now. Mrs. Gray Cavanaugh.” Her breathy, childlike voice rushed from between pale pink lips, but her tone had an undercurrent. Something flickered in the back of her eyes. Then she smiled, looking like the girl I remembered, and indicated my shiner. “Still raising hell, huh, Steele?”

I grinned back at her and shrugged. “Somebody’s got to.” At St. John the Evangelist High School, Maria had been the princess of the popular crowd while I’d been in trouble more often than I’d stayed out of it. Our second year, I’d chosen peer tutoring over detention when the principal caught me smoking in the girls’ bathroom.

At first Maria and I had nothing in common except our Italian heritage and American History class. But over time we had become good friends. That lasted until I’d started at UNLV and we lost touch, as people do when they leave childhood behind.

“I didn’t realize your aunt wouldn’t be here when I called. I’m sorry, Steele. I know you two were close.”

Like that, I remembered the last time I’d seen Gloria. She’d needed a hospice, but she’d opted to stay home and go out on her own terms. We’d been sitting on the patio, toasting the sunset with twelve-year-old scotch and a twenty-five-year-old male nurse… That was Gloria. A bad girl to the end.

“Thanks. I miss her.”

Maria looked around, a slight frown pulling her brows together. “So…you’re doing this stuff now? I mean, do you think you’ll be able to help me?”

“I’ll do my best. Why don’t we sit down.”

Maria seemed nervous, in no rush to get started. She was twisting the rings on her left hand. I didn’t have to take a wild guess at the problem. This town provides plenty of work in the marital discord department.

I settled against the couch, wanting to put her at ease. “It’s been a long time. What have you been up to?”

“Daddy finally let me be part of the family business.” Her lips curved, but the feigned emotion didn’t get close to her eyes. “I put in a couple of days a week at the Palazzo Napoli. I’m the events planner for the hotel.”

“That’s great. How is Big Frank?”

“Good. He’s, uh, okay.” She dropped her gaze for a second. “How’s your family, Stella? I hear your brothers are working at Mezzanotte’s now.”

I shifted in my seat. “Just Rafe and his wife. You remember Laura Caporetto? She was a year ahead of us. Anyway, they help run the restaurant side. Joey’s still a cop. He’s doing good.”

Neither of us mentioned Vince.

“And your folks. Are they as cute as I remember them?”

“Yeah, they still can’t keep their hands off each other.”

Maria nodded and kept twisting the big-ass solitaire and matching band. With most investigations, you find out a lot more by shutting up than by asking a lot of questions. So, I nodded too and waited for her to tell me why she was here.

She sat and fiddled for another minute or so, then cleared her throat. “You know, my father didn’t want me to marry Gray the first time he asked. Daddy didn’t think he was good enough for me. Of course, nobody I chose ever was.” Maria gave a humorless laugh. “I really loved Gray, though.”

I leaned back against the couch, having picked up on that past tense verb, but not wanting to comment.

“The wedding was beautiful. We had a five-tier silver foil cake, a chamber orchestra and dinner with three hundred of our closest friends. Then we spent two weeks in Hawaii for our honeymoon. Daddy gave Gray a job managing the Palazzo’s casino. I thought we were happy….”

Listening to the slight catch in her voice, I watched her face. I had a pretty good idea what was coming. I didn’t have to wait long.

“I think…maybe…Gray’s been, um, unfaithful.”

Maria looked at me, her expression bewildered, gauging my reaction. I guess she expected me to be as shocked as she was. Nine times out of ten, if you think your man is cheating, he is. So I made a sympathetic humming noise and didn’t try to dismiss her fears.

“At first it was just a feeling, you know? He’s constantly on his cell phone and doesn’t say who he’s talking to. He started dressing differently.” Maria shifted her gaze and focused on the carpet. “For a while he was really affectionate, almost too much, but now he’s completely disinterested in… You know.”

I hummed again. “What made you decide to hire an investigator?”

“Well, Gray’s been going up to Reno on business. Daddy’s thinking of buying a place up there. I called the hotel one time.” Maria took a deep breath. “The front desk told me Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh had already checked out.”

I winced. I couldn’t help it. Guys can be so damned dumb. “Yeah. I guess I should have seen it coming, considering… But I guess the wife really is the last to know.”

Did I mention that I hate domestic cases? Despite the amount of business they’ve brought the agency. The first one I ever took without Gloria was a freaking disaster. I wasn’t too sure of myself so I kept in close contact with the client as I followed the husband. First he met his lover for lunch. Then he took her to look at rocks and I don’t mean the geological kind.

My client was pissed; the husband never took her to expensive restaurants or bought her jewelry. She showed up at the motel I’d followed them to. The client ran into the room, the girlfriend ran out and, to make a long, stupid story short, I got shot in the ass trying to break up the fight.

Since then, I set off metal detectors at the airport and I keep my mouth shut until after I write up my case files.

“What would you like me to do, Maria?”

Her eyes and voice hardened unexpectedly, erasing her vacant appearance. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“I’ll find out for you one way or another. But if Gray really is cheating, you’ve got to promise not to pull any of those movie-of-the-week theatrics, okay?” The look she gave me was totally uncomprehending. “No taking matters into your own hands.”

She agreed and asked me to get hard evidence for any future legal action. After jotting her contact information onto the standard contract, I had to decide how to handle the financials. Gloria had used a sliding scale that depended on how much she thought a potential client could afford. With the shades drawn, there was still enough light in my office to illuminate the facets of Maria’s diamond jewelry.

I named a figure that included my time, mileage, expenditures and front-row tickets to Cirque du Soleil at the MGM Grand.

She accepted the terms without blinking. “Whatever it takes, Stella.”

Damn. I should have added enough for dinner and drinks before the show. “Tell me about Gray.”

Maria’s lips curved and I could hear the wistfulness in her little girl voice. “The first time I saw him, I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Not handsome. Beautiful. Gray has incredibly expressive amber eyes and a face that should be on magazine covers.”

That was nice, but it wouldn’t help me pick him out of a crowd. “Maybe you could bring me a picture?”

“I should have a recent one.” She reached for her wallet and removed several pictures from one of the pockets.

As she sorted them, a rectangle fell onto the sofa between us. It was one of those four-pose strips you get from a photo booth. I had a quick glimpse of a much younger Maria kissing a guy with long blond hair. I noticed his Spirits Dancing concert T-shirt before she slipped the pictures back into her wallet.

“Here.” She handed me a snapshot taken on the gangway of a cruise ship. “This is from our vacation last year.”

I studied her husband’s image, trying to commit it to memory. He was tall with sandy hair and a goatee, a lean build and an angular face that I wouldn’t have called either handsome or beautiful. Gray Cavanaugh looked…slick. He was too attractive, too stylish, too everything.

I handed the picture back and went over to my desk. I rifled the bottom drawer for one of Gloria’s checklists. She’d called the one for domestic cases the Cheat Sheet. After grabbing a clipboard, I returned to the couch.

“Okay, so tell me. What kind of car does Gray drive?” Maria tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I bought him a white Mercedes, but I don’t know the license number.”

“No problem. I can get that myself. Is there any property other than your main residence?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

Because if he kept an apartment, he didn’t have to pay for hotels. Out loud I said, “So I know where I’m most likely to find him.”

“Oh. Well, we’d talked about buying a vacation place but I didn’t get around to it.”

I made a note to do an asset search anyway and look for rental properties. “What about his work schedule?”

“He usually takes the noon-to-eight. But one of the other managers has been sick recently, so Gray’s working some graveyard shifts. I’m not sure of his schedule this week, but I’ll find out for you.”

“That would be great.” I scribbled more notes as she told me about his routine and habits. “Okay, tell me about any hobbies.”

She shifted, recrossing her legs. “Gray’s been spending a lot more time on his golf game lately. He plays eighteen holes on his days off. We’ve got several memberships. Aliante Golf Club, of course, but also Spanish Trail and Red Rock.”

Uh-huh. The Canyon Gate Country Club property, where the Cavanaughs lived, was home to a championship private course. I was back to thinking how much I hate domestic cases.

Then Maria pulled a thick envelope out of her purse. “This should cover the first week of your time.”

I ran a thumb over the bundle of fifty-dollar bills before shaking hands with my newest client.

It’s like Gloria always used to say—as long as there are sins and cynics, I’ll have a job.

CHAPTER FIVE

No Easy Answers

ONCE MARIA LEFT, I stripped off my blazer and turned my shirt back around. Then I walked out to the reception area and handed Jon the contract and a copy of Maria’s cash receipt. “Start a new file, please.”

He sets up manila folders with hard copies as well as entering data into the case management program. If I can look something up for myself, it leaves him more time to write his romance novel. Jon glanced at the receipt.

“She paid in advance?”

“That’s just the retainer.” I grinned as I handed him the envelope. “Drop this at the bank before you go to lunch.”

He rifled the thousand dollars the same way I had. Then he cocked his head to one side and wiggled his brows. “I’m taking ninety minutes for lunch. And I’m ordering the lobster salad from El Pescador.”

As many times as we’ve played it, neither of us seems to tire of this routine. “You’re taking an hour for lunch, pal. And you’re paying for your own lobster.”

“It’s only thirty minutes, Steele. You can unshackle me from my desk for that long.”

“Nope. We’ve got bills to send out.”

He gave me a sly look from under his dark lashes. “I’ll bring you back some Tandoori chicken from Shalimar.”

Ooh. He was playing hardball. Growing up in a restaurant made me pickier than most when it comes to quality, well-prepared food, and Shalimar was named best ethnic food in the Las Vegas Review-Journal. I relented on the ninety-minute lunch, just like he knew I would. Say what you will, but the man knows how to stay on my good side.

Alone again, I called up a blank document on my laptop and started typing up my impressions for the Gray Cavanaugh file.

Kept husband? Got his house, his car and his cash from the wife, got his job from the father-in-law. Maybe he married for love, maybe not. Probably cheating just to prove he’s a real man.

Follow-up for work and golf schedules. Check background (basics should be enough), credit statements (past three months) and cell phone bill (frequent numbers and times of calls).

A few minutes later, I got up and wandered into the kitchen. Yawning, I waited impatiently for the water to gurgle and blurp out of the ten-gallon jug and into my oversized plastic cup. I’m not trying to be trendy. Las Vegas is the fastest growing city in North America, which puts a lot of demand on the desert environment.

All the golf courses around here don’t help.

I do my part by only drinking the bottled stuff. It’s imported from some natural spring in Pennsylvania. I guess you’d say I’m a closet environmentalist, saving the world one cup at a time. Then again, I never remember to separate the trash on recycling day.

As I walked back toward my office, the hairs rose on the nape of my neck. The air seemed oddly still. I was no longer alone. Remembering this morning’s dream and the subsequent phone call, my heart hiccupped in my chest. There was a phone in my office. My nine-millimeter was stashed in my desk drawer. The emergency exit was through the storeroom. Which would be quicker?

My fight-or-flight instinct froze with indecision. Shit. All three choices were too slow and it was too late to hide my reaction. Nothing to do now but fight. Whipping around, I saw a hulking silhouette. His features were hidden by the glare through the front windows. I tensed as he came closer, bracing for whatever happened.

His presence was somehow primal, unnerving. And familiar. It ought to be, as often as I’d studied his digital photo.

I released the breath I’d been holding. Flinging out my left arm, I aimed the full cup of water at his face.

“Hey! It’s—”

I put everything I had into the punch that followed. When my right fist connected with his chin, I felt equal parts satisfaction and pain.

“It’s me, damn it!”

I bent over to grab my cup with a shaking hand as the adrenaline slowly filtered out of my system. “I knew who it was.”

It’s not like I could have forgotten him. A guy doesn’t walk into your life, turn it upside down and then disappear without leaving an impression. I thought I’d gotten past it. If not forgotten, at least moved on. I was wrong.

Okay, maybe it hadn’t been the first time I’d gone to bed with a guy and woken up by myself. But it had been the first time I’d cared.

After the nuclear meltdown that had been Bobby Mattingly, I hadn’t dated much. Two years passed before I accepted a dinner invitation. Another year before I had sex again. I’d slept with a couple of guys since but hadn’t let it get serious. Then I’d met Cameron and lightning struck.

So I figured I could be forgiven for expecting more than his morning-after note. S, You’re amazing. I’m sorry for this. Something’s come up and I have to leave immediately. I’ll call when I can. C. He hadn’t bothered to come up with an original kiss-off line. Obviously, I hadn’t been that amazing.

After wiping a hand over his face, Cameron raked back his wet hair. “I guess you’re surprised to see me, eh, love?”

I flinched. “Don’t call me that. I’d be more than happy to hit you again.”

Not exactly true. He had a cast-iron jaw and my hand already hurt like hell. It had been worth it. I hadn’t heard a word from him in two months, two weeks and four days. But who the hell was counting, right? Why be “surprised” about that?

What really ticked me off was my other reaction, which was purely physical. His damp black T-shirt stretched tightly across his shoulders and chest. Faded blue jeans skimmed over what I knew to be long, muscular legs. And I’m a sucker for long, muscular legs. He moved toward me and I had to fight my natural reaction—internal combustion in the face of an alpha male.

Cameron Stone is a lion of a man—six foot three or four, golden and gorgeous. In a word? Dangerous.

“Are you having a go at me because you lost the last fight?” He reached toward the tender skin beneath my eye.

I ducked his hand and crossed my arms, tapping a finger against the cup. “No, I’m picking a fight with you because your note wasn’t exactly the Valentine I’d hoped for. While I appreciated breakfast, Stone, I would have appreciated an explanation more.”

“Stella, love—”

“Don’t call me that.” He’d used the L word twice now. Even out of context, it was awkward, unsettling, and so very wrong.

Unable to avoid it any longer, I looked directly at his face. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing, his features now had edges hard enough to suit his name. He’d let his hair grow and his Celtic skin was deeply tanned. His light blue eyes still had the power to both captivate me and put me on my guard.

He looked really good, damn it.

I tried to forget how often he’d made me smile that night, the way my heart had raced when our fingers touched, or how eager I’d been for him as midnight became morning.

His eyes warmed considerably as he’d looked at me and asked, “Where have you been?”

“Right here, waiting,” I’d answered.

The intense sunlight hurt my eyes. That’s why they were tearing up. I swallowed hard, struggling for control. The level of my anger would reveal the depth of my feelings, and damned if I was going to allow that. I had questions, lots of them, but I also had some pride. So I kept things as simple as possible.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“As I said in the note—”

“Something came up. That was the best you could do?” I let my tone slide down into the sarcastic range.

His mouth flattened. “Aye, something came up. It was rather urgent and I had to take the first available flight.”

“Where to?” I tipped my head, intrigued. Stone didn’t strike me as the kind of man who ran from trouble. But, then again, what did I really know about him?

He continued to look me right in the eye, not an apology in sight. “I can’t give you any details.”

“Can’t? Don’t you mean ‘won’t’?”

“Can’t. Client confidentiality and all that.”

He shrugged, one of the cockiest gestures I’d ever seen. Either he was using confidentiality as an excuse, or he was adhering to it out of expediency. Professionally I understood, but personally it set my temper off.

“Fine, no details. How about a broad overview? It’s been almost three months, Stone. What kept you from calling once this something was finished?”

His hesitation only lasted a nanosecond, long enough for me to realize he’d already decided how much not to tell me. “This is the soonest I was able to contact you.”

Asshole lying jerk bastard. “Nice to see you, Stone. Feel free to drop out of my life again.” I turned my back on him, heading into my office.

“Not so fast.”

Before I could take more than a step, his arm banded around my waist. He leaned back against the door frame, turning me in the space between his thighs. The thrill of being so near him again struck me like lightning. I felt the sizzle in every nerve of my body as repressed desire added to the heat of my anger.

I could have knocked him on his ass, had him flat on his back in less than a heartbeat. That’s what I told myself, anyway. But I didn’t because, knowing Stone, he’d have thought it was foreplay.

“Let me go.”

“I did that once and didn’t much care for it.”

I laughed harshly, not about to fall under the spell of that sexy brogue. “You’ve got it backwards, Stone. You’re the one who left.”

“I know. Believe me, I didn’t want to.” When I pushed away he didn’t stop me. I moved toward the opposite wall, putting distance between us so my body would stop humming. “But I’m back, Stella. I’m here now.And I’m wanting to work things out.”

Crossing the space between us, he cupped my shoulders, sliding his calloused hands up and down my bare arms. He held my gaze calmly, his pale eyes clear and candid. I knew better. There’s nothing open about Stone except his blazing sensuality. Seriously, he’s a natural-born charmer.

But I was in no goddamned mood to be charmed and feeling emotionally unprotected did nothing to improve things. So I ignored his oh-so-sincere assurances. “The only thing we need to work out is when to file—”

The little bell over the front door chimed. I frowned, startled to realize that it hadn’t made a sound when Stone came in. Jon started down the hall, then stopped dead in his tracks. His expression hardened as he looked at us—Stone still loomed over me, grasping my elbow.

Jon drew himself up to his full height and struck a menacing pose, muscles flexed, eyes watchful. “Who’s this?”

I’ll be damned. A knight in flaming armor.

But, instead of an Uzi, Jon had a takeout container under his arm. It ruined the effect. Right now, I needed to defuse the situation or I’d be picking carpet fibers out of my lunch.

“This is Cameron Stone.” I slipped from his grasp and took a step back. “He’s—”

“I’m her—”

“—leaving now.”

Stone shot me a look, but thankfully didn’t finish his sentence. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

I squared my shoulders, irritated by his unspoken censure. “This is Jon Chase, my secretary.”

“Administrative assistant,” Jon cut in, glancing from me to Stone and back again. He had yet to move, apparently still gauging the threat.

Stone nodded in greeting, though his focus stayed on me. “We’ve some things to discuss, you and I. A proposition.”

I snorted inelegantly. “I’m still trying to recover from your last one.”

That brought Jon closer to my side. He stood just in front of me, making himself an obstacle. When I tapped his shoulder, he turned his head but didn’t take his eyes off Stone.

“I thought you were taking a long lunch.”

“It can wait.” Jon didn’t seem ready to shift out of action-hero mode. “Should I ask why he’s wet?”

Stone spoke up. “He is wet because I gave her a bit of a start when I came in.”

I looked over and caught his faintly amused expression. Damn it, couldn’t he at least pretend? Jon was acting more jealous than Stone was.

“I’m fine. Really. I just wasn’t expecting the ghost of mistakes past.” I darted my eyes in Stone’s direction, then held my hand out to Jon. “Can I have my food now?”

He handed over my chicken and a small plastic bag. “I got yours first. Try to remember this when I’m up for a raise.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” I replied in my least sincere voice. “Go get that lobster.”

“I’m not hungry.” Jon eyed Stone some more even though he was talking to me. “If you need anything at all, I’ll be right at my desk.”

“Nice to’ve met you.” Stone held out his hand.

Jon ignored the gesture.

Stone let his hand fall to his side. “I’m sure we’ll cross paths again.”

That did not make me happy. It sounded like a threat to my mental health as well as a casual promise to my secretary. Jon walked away, but not before giving me a look that warned he’d be asking a lot of questions later. Let him ask.

There was no easy way to explain Stone.

CHAPTER SIX

A Matter of Trust

“YOU CAN GO, TOO.”

Stella pierced Stone with a green-brown glare, angling her head toward the front door. Then she turned on her heel so swiftly that her braided hair swung in an arc. Cameron admired the sway of her bum before following her down the passageway. With little effort, he recalled the satin feel of her bare skin and the sinuous muscle beneath it.

He glanced about, registering the agency’s layout and exits from habit. He walked into the last office just as she went round the desk, set her meal down and flung herself into the chair. He studied her, replacing memory with reality. Hair as dark as a raven’s wing with wide hazel eyes beneath straight brows, a classic nose and a full mouth that begged a man to kiss it.

And that bloody shiner. The anger had hit him out of nowhere, as if he could feel the impact of that fist against her cheek… He’d seen quite a few people die over the years, some of them by his own hand. And yet the sight of her barely concealed bruising made him ill.

He forced his gaze away, schooling his expression to mask the sudden rush of feeling. Looking around, he made note of the motorbike helmet, technical books and utilitarian blinds along with the watercolor canvasses, delicate glass paperweights and flowering plants.

“You’re just as intriguing as I recalled.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Stone. Why are you still here?”

He hated having his back to the door, but he took the visitor seat, gingerly crossing his left ankle over his damaged knee. “As I said before, we need to talk.”

“So talk.” She flung up her arms in resignation before opening the polystyrene container. The room filled with the scent of grilled chicken, garam masala and lemon.

He nodded toward her food. “I don’t suppose you’re sharing that?”

“No.” She took an exaggerated bite, closing her eyes and humming with gusto. “Why did you come back?”

He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t possibly explain how he’d left the Bellagio with the oddest sensation of the light going out of the room. He hadn’t much experience with light. A relationship was something he never thought he’d have. In his line of work truth and true emotions weren’t to be allowed. No ties to hold him back, no assets to compromise him.

Yet there was something about Stella. For the first time in years, he’d felt…

He’d begun making arrangements while waiting in the Vegas airport’s international terminal for his flight to Bogotá. He hadn’t wanted to leave in the first place. But Nick Anson, head of the Nighthawks, had needed him and the job had been one he couldn’t refuse. A matter of a life or painful death.

Unfortunately it had taken longer to come to the final end of things than anticipated. He, Ice, Loco Vaquero and Blueman had spent miserable weeks in the jungle dealing with the Liberation Front rebels. The ordeal had only strengthened his resolve to return to Stella. He’d begun several times to ring her up, but even so he’d known an impersonal call wouldn’t do.

He’d wanted—no, he’d needed—to see her again. “I’m here for a job… Among other things.”

“Uh-huh. Obviously I missed something before. What exactly is it you do?”

“I…” Cameron smiled briefly. “Eliminate problems.” She laughed at his careful phrasing. “What, you’re some kind of enforcer for the Scotch mafia?”

“Scottish, actually. Scotch is something you drink. But, no.” He dropped his foot back to the floor. “I’m a risk management specialist, mostly negotiations and recoveries.”

She set her fork down with a snap. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for an insurance agent. They usually don’t disappear in the middle of the night.”

Cameron knew what she wanted and he resisted giving it. He was very much his own man, had been since having to leave the Special Air Service behind. There had been other women, of course, but he’d made the rules clear from the start. He’d come and gone as he damned well pleased. Until now.

Until her.

His natural aptitude for unconventional warfare was discovered during his Army training. Each time he’d put his dark gift to use, it had cut away a bit of his core and it showed. Given the life he led, he looked like ten kilometers of bad road and well he knew it.

Yet somehow she’d recognized him, as he had her. The instant they’d touched, he felt it. Like that split second before impact when you knew the bullet was coming, but couldn’t do sweet fuck-all about it. Souls colliding as bodies merged.

Anyone outside of his best mate would think he’d gone barmy, but he was sure about himself and Stella. He’d seen that same certainty in the eyes of his parents when they looked at each other, right up until they were killed. Therefore now that he’d returned, he had every intention of staying on. Whether his wife liked it or not.

“Well?” Stella crossed her arms and glared at him. “I’m what you might call a conflict consultant.”

“Consulting could mean anything or nothing.”

Clever girl, his Stella. That was precisely why he’d set up his company in that manner. The less known about what he did, the better for all involved.

“When one person’s agenda conflicts with someone else’s, they call me. That’s why I’m here. Frank DiMarco called me.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Money Changes Everything

NOW, I HAVE TO ADMIT, that stopped me. On several levels. Frank DiMarco is Maria Cavanaugh’s father. And, like I said before, I don’t believe in coincidences. Stone was here because Big Frank had called him, not because he wanted to see me.

Son of a bitch.

Fearing my look actually would kill him, I stared down at my lunch. The Tandoori chicken, jasmine rice and spinach paneer were neatly separated on lettuce leaves. Little tomato rosettes and parsley sprigs garnished the meal. It’s the details that count, both on my plate and in my job.

When Stone reached over to steal a piece of chicken, I shoved the container toward him. My appetite was gone, but my interest was aroused. “Big Frank called you. Is he the ‘conflictor’ or the ‘conflictee’?”

Stone took a bite before answering. “DiMarco would be the conflictee. He’s out a good sum of money.”

“From which business?” Maria’s father owns a couple of small hotel casinos and some adult entertainment clubs on the Strip.

“The Palazzo. About four hundred thousand dollars was stolen over several months. An inside job.”

Normally people tiptoe around a man whose nickname is “Demon” DiMarco. Stealing four hundred grand is more like stomping. I shook my head in disbelief. “Why not go to the cops or the Gaming Board?”

He swallowed a mouthful of rice and spinach. “DiMarco doesn’t want the publicity. More importantly, he wants the money back. Which leads to my proposition. We’ll work together, sharing information—”

I interrupted with a bark of laughter. “Oh, like you’ve been such a wealth of knowledge in the past. Forget it.”

“As I recall, Stella, we’re damned good together.”

I recalled, too. In vivid, true-to-life color with high-definition surround sound. Then I remembered the elegant and expensive silence in the hotel suite the next morning. And the silence ever since.

My anger hummed so close to the surface I felt sure he could hear it. I picked up one of the mouth-blown paperweights I keep on my desk, rolling the crystal globe between my hands. Judging its weight to be about three pounds, I wondered how hard I could throw it.

“I work alone.”

“Let’s see if this sparks your interest, then.” He wriggled an eyebrow. “The thief is Gray Cavanaugh.”

I thought back to the picture of Maria’s husband, not surprised somehow. Then I thought about the timing of Stone’s arrival. “Big Frank hired you to trail his daughter?”

“No, but he did recommend a local investigator—that would be you—who might be a good resource. Following Maria provided a convenient excuse to see you again.”

I ignored that as best I could. “Does Frank think she knew about the embezzlement?”

“He believes she would protect her husband.”

She might. But I remembered Maria’s tone when she mentioned finally being in the family business, her suppressed outrage over the affair. “I’m not too sure about that.”

“Why? What did she discuss with you?”

“I can’t tell you. Client confidentiality and all that.” I focused on the paperweight, paying exaggerated attention to the swirling ribbons of colored glass inside. Then I sent Stone a smile, big on sarcasm and low on sincerity.

He wiped his fingers on a napkin. He leaned back in his chair and gave me a considering look. “If you don’t think Maria would cover up for Cavanaugh, I’ll hazard a guess she came to you about Gray’s bit on the side.”

I shrugged, answering without answering.

He went on. “I’ve a notion this woman is not only his mistress, but his accomplice. Together, we’ll find her that much faster.”

Although I was dying to know how Cavanaugh had grown the balls to rip off Big Frank’s casino, that wasn’t what I’d been hired for. I didn’t know nearly enough about Cameron Stone, but I seriously doubted he needed my professional help. And it was just too unlikely to think this could be personal.

“I can find the mistress on my own without wasting time and money solving your case, too.”

His cool gaze mocked me. “I shouldn’t think money is an issue, considering your assistant can afford lobster for lunch.”

Good. I’d been wondering if he’d picked up on that. The agency may not look like much, but he didn’t need to know we were struggling.

“What do you get out of our partnership?”

He responded with a cool smile. “I’ll have the pleasure of your company and ten percent of the recovery. As my ‘local resource,’ twenty percent of that could be yours.”

Twenty percent of ten percent of four hundred grand. A nice round eight K figure.

He smirked at me. “Ah, now you’re wondering if you’d be better off with or without me, Nevada being a community property state.”

“Without, Stone. No doubt about it.”

He dropped his gaze and his voice took on a husky quality. “I didn’t really ask before. How’ve you been, Stella?”

“How have I been?” The sudden show of interest had me parroting his question.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

I set the paperweight on the desk before I threw it at him after all. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, you’re not exactly in a position to ask.”

“Am I not?” When he finally looked up, the color had shifted in his eyes again. “You’re certain of that, are you?”

I leaned back in my chair, clenching my jaw and trying to clamp down on my feelings. Did he actually think he had any kind of claim to my life? After the callous way he’d treated me? My hurt, resentment and confusion warred with my anger. As usual, I let anger win.

I remembered that night—the champagne, the flowers and the Bellagio’s dancing fountains lit up below our window. I’d believed in magic that night. The way he’d looked at me, the unspoken message in his touch, had made me think we were on the verge of…something.

Then I’d reached out for a man and stroked a vacant sheet instead. The pillow under my head had still smelled of citrus shampoo and male sweat. But I’d known even before I saw his note that he hadn’t run out for coffee and a paper. I felt my blood pressure rise and changed the subject.

“Let’s get back on track.”

A professional mask replaced his expression. “Right, then. DiMarco hired an independent auditor to go over the finances. As the casino manager, Cavanaugh has authority to sign markers or IOUs. There were a few questionable transactions.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“He signed off several markers as paid. However, they don’t have corresponding bank deposits.”

I rested my chin on my fist. “So, when his girlfriend didn’t pay her debts, he ‘forgot’ to take the money from her account, huh?”

He shook his head slowly. “She didn’t have an account to take from. Apparently the application for casino credit was approved without ever being verified.”

“Gray okayed the marker on both ends while his girlfriend cashed out the chips. All under his wife and father-in-law’s noses. Dumb ass. If Big Frank is sure that Cavanaugh’s been embezzling, why hasn’t he confronted him?”

“As I said, this must be kept quiet. Casinos never want to let on about losses, especially from employee theft. However, DiMarco is adamant that this be managed as swiftly as possible. Find the tart and we should find the money.”

“There is no ‘we.’” Not when I wasn’t sure of what was really going on and he’d given me no reason to trust him. “If you figured that since I’d be following Cavanaugh, you could tag along, think again.”

His lips curved into a confident grin. “Come now, love. We’ll be bumping into each other, constantly getting on top of things. Better to share what we’re doing and get comfortably into position, I’d say.”

Could he put any more innuendo into that line of reasoning? I swear, everything was sexual with him. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“Happy to hear it. When I take you back to bed, I fully intend to keep you awake.”

I let that pass, though it wasn’t easy. Stone was one hell of a lover. But I didn’t want the complication right now. At least, that’s what I told myself. Then his gaze raked my chest and he winked. I looked down to see my nipples standing at attention. Dammit. Damn him.

He stood up and reached for his wallet, then handed me a business card. It was bright white with only his name on the front. On the reverse were three telephone numbers. “My mobile phone, my pager and my answering service.”

Tossing the card onto the desk, I dismissed him with a look. “I’ve got work to do. You can find the door.”

The glacial blue look he shot me was heavy with unspoken words. I’m a gambling woman, so I was willing to bet I didn’t want to hear them.

“Ring me once you have Cavanaugh’s schedule. We’ll coordinate from there.” Stone walked out.

It wasn’t until a couple minutes later that I realized I hadn’t actually agreed to work with him. We both should have known better. Impulsiveness had gotten us into trouble in the first place. But I love a good mystery and the agency could use an injection of cash….

So, here I was, headed for trouble once more.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Business of Information

JON WAS BACK in my office so fast you’d think he teleported. He’d probably been lurking in the foyer, waiting for Stone to leave. I was already waiting for him to leave again, too.

“So, who was our unexpected visitor?”

I must have reacted to his odd tone because Jon smiled and plopped down on the chair Stone had occupied. “Start talking, girlfriend, and don’t skimp on the details.”

“I’m not your girlfriend and there’s nothing to tell.”

“Puh-lease. I have eyes. I saw him and I saw the sparks.” He leaned his elbows on my desk, his brown eyes intent. “Now, who was that divine creature?”

“Stone is…”

My voice trailed off. I tapped my pen on the blotter, struggling for a description. He wasn’t my lover or my friend. He was an impulse I’d quickly regretted, a mistake I wouldn’t mind repeating, but also a problem I needed to resolve.

“Stone is none of your business.”

Jon pouted, an expression that managed to look adorable on him instead of infantile. “You’re no fun. At least give me a vicarious thrill and tell me he’s as good as he looks.”

I pictured Stone naked and sweaty and smiled. “Better.”

“So you are involved.” His voice sounded flat for a second, but then he camped it up as usual. “Here I’ve been teasing about your nonexistent love life, and all the while you’ve had this big, sexy secret.”

Yeah, but sexy or not, our relationship was staying a secret. I arched my left brow. “Are you done?”

“Not even close. When did you meet him? Where did you meet him? What did—”

“Skip traces,” I blurted.

“Excuse me?”

To stop Jon from pursuing the subject of Stone, I’d get him to search the proprietary information databases. Locating people is time-consuming, often frustrating but also a large part of the job.

I handed Jon a couple of manila folders from my Do Something pile. One client was looking for child support from her scumbag ex-husband; another was searching for his birth mother; and the third wanted to find a former boyfriend from the class of 1952.

“See if you can at least find current addresses. Anything else you come up with would be great.”

“You want me to find them? Me, a mere secretary?”

“Administrative assistant,” I retorted.

Jon gave me a look. “You’re not completely off the hook, Steele. I’ll just bide my time until you confess all the sordid details about Cameron Stone.”

“Skip traces.”

I opened the top drawer of my desk to put away Vince’s letter. I’d finish it later. Catching sight of a particular court petition, I hesitated. Now was as good a time as any to take care of that. But after less than a second’s hesitation, I decided to wait and see what happened. I locked the drawer on the letter, the petition, my gun and my past.

Moving around the office, I unplugged my gadgets and chucked them into my backpack. I never leave without making sure I have supplies for any situation. Cell phone, pens, notepads and new digital camera landed among the detritus. Bandages, GPS locator, lip gloss, high-powered binoculars, condoms, protein bars, electronic data organizer—that kind of thing.

Bag ladies haul less stuff around than I do. “Where do you want me to start?” Jon was still skimming through the files.

“The deadbeat dad. Ryan’s mother is working two jobs, so keep the cost down, please.”

He looked up with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I never would have guessed you had a soft heart.”

That’s why I surround it with the toughest armor possible. The damned thing keeps getting me into trouble. I sent him a cool glare. “It’s better to milk a client with repeat business than to hit them with one big bill that they won’t pay.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

I picked up my backpack and helmet. “Quit lounging around and get back to work.”

Jon casually got to his feet like it was his own idea. “Where are you off to?”

I filled him in on my schedule as we walked down the hall. “I’m stopping at Dreyer’s office to pick up some papers he needs filed. Then I’m going to run by a claimant’s house to see if he’s up to anything his doctor says he can’t do. I doubt I’ll be back.”

“Okay, I’ll lock up. Call in for messages before I leave.” He slid behind his desk and logged onto the Internet. He opened the first file, apparently eager to get started.

“Oh, and Jon?” I turned, halfway out the front door, not looking at him directly. “About earlier. Um, thanks.”

I think he knew I wasn’t talking about my lunch. He kept his expression neutral, though. “Don’t get all mushy on me now, Steele. I won’t know how to handle it.”

Moment over. I sneered at him and left.

I WALKED PAST the Ticket to Paradise travel agency next door and waved to Lisa and Isabelle. They discount my trips on the rare occasions I leave the state. In exchange, I run background checks on their new boyfriends.

I have the same sort of barter arrangement with Barry Dreyer, the attorney on the other side of the travel agency. He’s helping me with a velocity issue. One more speeding ticket and I max out the number of points on my license. In return, I listen to the endless stories about his kids.

His eyes lit up behind wire-rimmed glasses, deepening his laugh lines. “Stella! I’m glad you could drop by. I’ve got new pictures.”

Sometimes I think Barry and his family live at the Sears portrait studio. He married later in life and never expected to have kids, let alone twins. I wasn’t sure how it was possible, but the boys already had their father’s overbite and receding hairline. Combine this with their mother’s narrow chin and close-set eyes and you had two less than attractive toddlers.

“Here. Look at these.”

Barry proudly handed me a couple of five-by-sevens. I shuffled through images of the boys in various poses and forced a smile.

“Great pictures. I like the composition and the lighting.” If you can’t say something nice, compliment the skill of the photographer.

“Yeah, I’ve got good-looking sons, don’t I?” He accepted the pictures back, beaming as he put them away. “Let me tell you what those two did yesterday—”

“Gee, Barry, I’d love to hear about it, but I’ve got to get going. I just came to pick up the Complaint you want filed.”

“Oh, sure. Let me see where Elaine put them.” He went to the credenza and rifled through some stacks of paper.

Barry doesn’t have a paralegal anymore. He kept dating them and then he married the last one. He hasn’t hired another. I guess Kim doesn’t want history repeating itself. Instead, Barry keeps a secretary and pays me to file suit papers and serve subpoenas for him. My monthly bill is cheaper than a full-time employee or a divorce.

“Listen, Stella, I’ve got something else for you. A little more interesting than filing.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Estate stuff. I need you to do an asset search. The widow is very merry and wants everything she married the old guy for.” He watched me closely as I scanned the documents.

It took me a minute, but then I jerked my head up. “Uh, it looks like there’s a few things missing.”

“Yeah,” Barry scoffed. “Just a few. As the estate’s Personal Representative, I can engage experts to ascertain the value of the assets. I already got letters of administration for you. We just need to do a retainer agreement.”

After signing some forms and making copies of what Barry had in his file, I shoved the papers into my backpack and told him I’d get something for him as soon as I could.

“I appreciate this, Stella. Come back when you have more time. I’ll tell you my plan for the twins’ birthday party.”

Nodding politely, I decided I’d rather hear about dental surgery. “Sure, Barry.”

I left his office and walked across the parking lot, thinking about the other attorney I needed to visit soon. Although Douglas Holbrook was one of the most successful, well-respected lawyers in Nevada, my hopes for righting an old wrong faded with each passing year.

Or maybe it was my resolve that was weakening. The cost of my mistake had been higher than I could have imagined. Trying to correct it would cost me everything I had left.

With difficulty, I shook off that line of thought and started the Harley. Seeing a break in the traffic, I pulled out onto Paradise and headed north. When the road ended, I drove up the Strip for a mile or so before making a left on Lewis Avenue. I parked in the public garage and walked the block down to the Regional Justice Center.

As soon as I entered the building, two overweight and overly eager security guards went on high alert.

“Hold it!”

“Stop right there, miss!”

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “Do we have to do this every time, you guys?”

Not until the metal detector, handheld scanner and manual search of my backpack failed to reveal any incendiary devices was I allowed inside. One of these days I’ll start carrying a purse and briefcase and avoid the hassle.

After waiting in line for ten minutes, I filed Barry’s papers with the District Court on the third floor. I slipped the timestamped receipts into a folder in my backpack and headed back out into the heat. I think Walter and Ted were glad to see me go. Must have been the bitchy T-shirt and black eye that set them off.

As I bounded down the steps, the opening notes of Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” began to play. I dug out my cell phone.

“Midnight.”

I love saying that. Cool, succinct and kind of mysterious. But wasted on my secretary.

“It’s Jon. Mrs. Cavanaugh just called with the schedule she said you wanted. She also gave me the tag number for the Mercedes.”

“Great. Hang on while I get a pen.” I planted myself on one of the concrete benches and found a notepad. “Okay, just give me the next twenty-four hours.”

“She said he’s working from eight tonight until four in the morning, then he’s off the rest of the day. He’s supposed to play golf at the Red Rock course. Tee-off is at eleven. I’ll leave the rest of it on your desk.”

“Fax it to the house, too, will you?”

I scribbled down a few more messages and reminded Jon to turn off the espresso machine before he left. After we disconnected, I bounced the phone in my hand, procrastinating. I didn’t have to make the call. Cavanaugh was an average, everyday infidelity case….

Except for the missing four hundred grand. Nothing ordinary about that. Reaching into the zippered pocket of my backpack, I pulled out Stone’s business card. Three phone numbers, but no address.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I’m a private eye; I’m supposed to have access to all sorts of data. So why hadn’t I tracked him down before now? Why hadn’t I located him through vehicle registration, income or property tax records or something?

Because there hadn’t been any records to find. Stone’s not a U.S. citizen. Apparently he didn’t live, work or drive here. The guy was a ghost. So, not wanting to pass up an opportunity, instead of dialing Stone’s cell phone or paging him for a call back, I punched in the number for his answering service.

“Canongate Consultants.”

Hmm. This might be promising. I decided to pretend not to know where I was calling. “Can I talk to Cameron Stone, please?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not available. May I take a message?” The girl sounded young, with just enough of an accent to let me know she was originally from the East Coast.

“When will he back?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have that information.”

I leaned back on the bench, adjusted my sunglasses and pushed a little. “Well, maybe I can drop by. I have something for him. Where’s his office?”

“Like I said, he’s not in right now.” She was starting to get an attitude, but I gave her points for control.

“Will he be there tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Stone is not available. I’d be happy to take a message.” She didn’t sound either sorry or happy, and her East Coast roots were showing.

I wasn’t getting anywhere nor was I likely to. I stood up and grabbed my bag, ready to leave. “Fine, just tell him Steele called and—”

“Oh! Is this Ms. Mez-zuh-knot?”

I frowned and answered cautiously, not knowing what to expect. “It’s pronounced Met-suh-no-teh.”

“If you’ll give me your message, I’ll use the emergency access.”

She acted like Stone was some kind of government agent. I could just imagine her punching codes into a red hotline phone. “I just want to give him some information. You don’t have to—”

“Yes, Ms. Mezzanotte, my instructions are to contact Mr. Stone immediately anytime you call.”

What the hell was this about? I felt both flattered and pissed off. Did Stone really think he’d be forgiven just because he made a show of his current—and, I was certain, temporary—availability? I tried not to be impressed.

“The message is, ‘I have Cavanaugh’s schedule.’”

“Okay. You have Cavanaugh’s schedule. I’ve got it. Is there anything else, Ms. Mezzanotte?”

Yeah, there was a lot more. But nothing fit for even Bronx-born ears. “No, that’s it. Thanks, um…what’s your name?”

“I’m Jamie. If there’s anything else I can help you with, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, Jamie.”

I hung up and dialed information, asking for the reverse directory. After giving the operator Stone’s telephone number, I got an address in return. One more call to information got me a main switchboard. It was in an office building on Rainbow Boulevard—one of those anonymous, multicompany executive suites. Another dead end in my ghost hunt.

I stuffed the cell phone in my backpack and hiked back to the parking garage to get my bike. Knots had formed in my neck and shoulders and Stone was to blame. The man had been back in my life for less than three hours and already he was driving me crazy.

I didn’t need some secretive Scotsman messing with my head, or any other body parts. Holding in the clutch and twisting the throttle, I let the growl of the Harley’s 1450cc twin cam engine express my frustration. As I pulled out of the parking garage, I squealed the tires.

Just because I could.

CHAPTER NINE

Trouble in Paradise

AS I WAITED TO MAKE a turn on Freemont, I looked over at the Experience on my left. The Freemont Street Experience is a roofed pedestrian thoroughfare that runs four blocks to Main Street. By day, the ninety-foot canopy offers shade and background music to tourists going into the stores and casinos. Once the sun goes down, though, the Experience is, well, just that.

You have to be subjected to the two million lightbulbs and 540,000 watts of sound to believe it.

I made my turn and drove southeast for a while, thinking about the Cavanaugh case. It can be hard to tail somebody on a motorcycle, so I was going to need another set of wheels. About fifteen minutes later, I’d parked the bike and was wandering around the Vegas Metro Motors lot, waiting for Anna to finish with a customer.

She, Nikki Lopez and I met in French class our freshman year at University of Nevada. We’ve been best friends through nights out clubbing, nights in playing poker and days spent shopping. More importantly, we’ve been friends through Anna’s broken engagement, Nikki’s unexpected pregnancy and Bobby’s death.

Friendship has often been the key to our emotional survival. That and food.

Anna rushed over to me, bright red curls flying and a huge smile of welcome on her face. She grabbed me in the kind of hug I tolerate from very few people. I even hugged her back for a second. Her light brown eyes sparkled as she looked at my Have A Nice Day Elsewhere T-shirt.

“You’re wearing the one I gave you. I can’t believe I added to the collection, but the message is just so you. So, what have you been up to, Steele? You look a little pale. Are you sleeping okay? You should add some iron to your diet.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Take a breath, will you? I’m fine. No salt, no artificial color and I even bought some organic vegetables last week.”

“Oh, that’s great! Good for you.” She went on to tell me about the produce at a new whole foods shop over on West Charleston.

Anna is a naturopath, a holistic and organic Earth Mother type. Her hair falls to the middle of her back and the only makeup she wears is beeswax lip balm. She doesn’t need anything else. Her freckled skin glows from good health and a positive attitude. Basically, she’s my exact opposite in temperament and outlook.

Anna says we get along because of cosmic balance, karma and the fact that we’re reincarnated sisters from ancient Mesopotamia. I love her anyway.

“So, Steele, I’m guessing you need a car?” Anna slid me an exaggerated glance. “I’ve got the sweetest little Corvette around back.”

Interested, I cocked my head. “Oh, really?”

She wriggled an eyebrow. “400 horsepower V-8 engine, 6-speed transmission, leather sport bucket seats, speed-sensitive power steering and a seven-speaker sound system.”

I rubbed my chin, checking for drool, and started to ask what color it was before I caught myself. I’m a big fan of the Magnum, P.I. reruns, mostly for the episodes when Tom Selleck takes off his shirt. But real private investigators don’t drive Ferraris. Or Corvettes, damn it.

“I’m just keeping watch on a guy claiming disability and a cheating husband. Better stick with a nondescript, late model sedan.”

“Boring.” Anna grinned. “Beyond.”

After storing the Harley in the service garage, Anna helped me pick out a metallic gray Honda Accord that ought to blend in just about anywhere. Anna gave me another quick hug. “Don’t forget about the iron. You have to take it with lots of vitamin C and some chelated zinc.”

“Yes, dear.” Anna will make somebody a great wife someday. In the meantime she keeps trying to save me from myself. Whether I want to be saved or not.

I tossed my helmet and backpack on the passenger seat and left in air-conditioned splendor. I played with the radio, finally choosing 97.1 KXPT, a classic rock station. After turning left onto Eastern Avenue, I drove back toward NorthVegas to check on a guy who’d filed a dubious workers’ compensation claim.

A friend at a big insurance company sometimes throws work my way. Kenny Asher had filed for total temporary disability from an injury on his job at Rose Trucking. He’d used all the right buzz words—slip, fall and twist. However, the insurance company, Fidelity Reliance, still wanted him investigated.

There was a For Sale sign in front of one of the townhouses. I cruised past slowly, a prospective buyer checking out the neighborhood. Fortunately Asher’s house was an end unit, so the second time around I parked a little ways down the street where I had a partial view of the back as well as the front.

What a freaking mess. If I were looking to buy, it wouldn’t be any of the houses in sight of Asher’s place. The yard was a patch of burnt grass decorated with rusted tools and children’s toys. The paint had peeled and one of the upstairs shutters was hanging loose.

As I watched, there were no signs of life. Odd, since the kids should have been home from school by now. I took my digital camera out of my pack and snapped a couple of shots. Then I settled in to wait. I figured I was good for about two hours since I hadn’t had much to drink. Surveillance is much easier for guys, if you know what I mean.

After about ten minutes, an older woman came out of the house next door to water the flower boxes. I got out of the car. She had a slight figure, with hair and nails as well manicured as her lawn. Despite the statewide push toward xeriscaping— plants with low water requirements—her small patch of grass was green and perfectly trimmed.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Sorry to bother you, but I saw the sale sign…”

She eyed me up and down. I probably should have changed my shirt. Oh, well. “You’re thinking of buying the Jacksons’ house? It’s a good choice. They’ve kept it up nicely and the inside was recently updated. Heather did the wallpaper herself.”

I held back a smile. There’s nothing better in this business than a nosy—I mean, well informed—neighbor. I nodded toward Asher’s house. “Yeah, it looks a lot better than that place.”

Her lips pursed in disapproval. “Yes, well, he’s never been the neatest of home owners.”

“Have you lived here for long, Miss…”

“Mrs. Sharp. My husband and I moved in over twenty years ago.”

“Then you know the neighborhood pretty well?”

She gave me a look that matched her name. “Young woman, I suggest you tell me what this is about. Because you certainly aren’t buying anything and neither am I.”

Aunt Gloria used to say, “If you can’t dazzle them with bullshit, then give honesty a try.” I offered Mrs. Sharp my hand. “I’m from Midnight Investigation Services. I’m looking into Mr. Asher’s work injury.”

“Work injury, huh?” She took my hand in a weak grasp. “I thought perhaps he’d been laid off again. Mr. Asher seems to have a terrible time with supervisors who don’t like him.”

Her tone said more than her words. Apparently Kenny was the type to blame everybody else for his screw-ups. “Did his current supervisor like him?”

“I doubt it. There aren’t many people who do. I just don’t know how Beth puts up with him. She’s a lovely girl and so good with the children.”

Mrs. Sharp happily agreed to take my card and call me if she saw Kenny push, pull or lift anything heavier than a beer can. The lady really did not appreciate his weeds encroaching on her rosebushes. I got back in the car, pulled a steno pad from my backpack and jotted a few notes that I’d include in a later report.

This one might take a while. Asher is probably a chronic couch potato. Talk to people at the trucking company. Find out if he’s filed for workers’ comp before. Start thinking of heavy things to have delivered to the house.

By now it was getting close to rush hour. Since I’d tended bar until two this morning, it was time to call it a day.

One of my favorite songs came on the radio. I turned up the volume and sang along. Badly. I can high kick in four-inch heels but, despite my mother’s best intentions and a year of voice lessons, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.

I sing anyway.

I WORK IN Sin City, but I live in Paradise.

Not many people know this, but the unincorporated township of Paradise is separate from the city of Las Vegas. The Strip, the University of Nevada and McCarran International Airport are all located within the township’s confines.

I turned onto Skyland Drive and slowed down in case any of the kids were out playing. My neighbor, Dave Ginsberg, waved to me as I pulled into the driveway. He was walking a busty blonde to her car. Probably another cheerleader since that’s the only type he seemed to entertain. I hoped this one didn’t go to UNLV… Dave really needs to start carding his dates.

My house is a twenty-year-old single story with white stucco exterior and a gray tile roof. It’s got three bedrooms, a pool in back and desert landscaping in the front. Unlike Mrs. Sharp, I’ve got the xeriscape stuff. That means gravel, rocks, cacti and no grass to cut.

After making sure the doors were locked, I secured Anna’s Honda in the garage. Accords aren’t exactly high on the car thief Christmas list, but I wasn’t going to take my friend’s generosity for granted. I set my helmet on an empty shelf and walked in through the laundry/utility room door.

I love my house. The only problem is I don’t spend enough time here, so I haven’t done much with it. I’ve bought some things for my bedroom and the home office, but I eat in the kitchen and rarely entertain. Maybe, one day when I’ve got absolutely nothing better to do, I’ll ask Jon to help me decorate since he did a pretty good job with the agency.

I walked to the far end of the house to the spare bedroom that’s set up as a home office. I dumped my backpack by my desk and booted up the computer. While I waited for it, I grabbed the fax Jon sent and checked messages on the answering machine.

“You may have won a free vacation! Just call this number—” I hit the erase button.

The next message was from my mother. “Cara mia, don’t forget Wednesday night. We’re scheduled for seven o’clock, so don’t be late. Ti voglio bene, Stella.”

Ah, the mother/daughter bonding ritual. Mom decided a while ago that we don’t spend enough time together and that I need to get in better touch with my feminine side. So once a month we share a series of spa treatments. Last time I let her talk me into the Blush Pink Pedicure.

But I didn’t admit I liked it. “Hey, Steele, it’s Joey. I need you to go shopping with me. Tina’s birthday is coming up and I don’t have any idea what to get her.”

Neither did I, so I’d hint around when Mom and I went to the spa, Indulgences. Santina Otenyo owns the place. Tina was the best thing that ever happened to my brother so I’d make sure he got her something really…expensive.

There were no other messages, so after checking my e-mail and finding mostly spam, I went back down the hall to my bedroom. Peeling off my socks, jeans and T-shirt, I rooted around in the dresser for a clean swimsuit. I changed into the bikini, twisted my hair up and headed for the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, I checked to see if the steak I’d pulled from the freezer this morning had thawed. Then I grabbed a bottle of spring water and walked through the living room to open the French doors to the pool.

After baking in the Nevada sun all day, the concrete was hot under my feet. I tiptoed over to set my water down in the shade of the patio roof. Then I took a few steps and made a shallow dive into the crystalline water. The pool was warm but still cooler than the air. It felt wonderful.

I stroked down to the far end, rolled and swam back. After the first five laps, I hit my stride, pushing myself to cut through the water and beat the timer in my head. I’d just about completed my personal race when I noticed a dark blur at the edge of the pool. Startled, I almost swallowed a chlorinated mouthful.

Only a human being casts that large a shadow.

Had my creepy caller decided to show up in person? My heart tap-danced in my chest. My arms and legs began to tremble. Anxiety burned in my gut. Treading slowly beneath the surface, I felt like an idiot for staying underwater and I couldn’t stay under much longer—I was running out of air.

To hell with it. If I was going to die, it wouldn’t be from drowning. I leaped up, dragging breath into my lungs and loose hairs off my face. I swiped the water from my eyes so I could identify my assailant—

One totally aggravating Scotsman.

He squatted down, offering his hand to pull me out. I ignored it and headed for the ladder. Stone followed me to the top end of the pool and waited. I couldn’t believe this. I don’t see the guy for almost three months, then suddenly he shows up twice in one day. I climbed out and stood facing him, amazed that any water dripped onto the patio. It should have evaporated right off my skin.

“What the hell are you doing at my house?”

“Here’s a fine welcome, then.” His blue eyes slowly roamed my body with exacting attention to detail.

I fought the urge to squirm. My body remembered the way his hands had once followed the path his eyes now traveled. It took a lot of willpower for me not to put out signs saying, Thank You For Visiting. Please Come Again.

Then his mouth widened into a mischievous grin as he admired my chest. I glanced down. The transparent nature of my white cotton swimsuit was my undoing. Guess those signs were visible after all. I raised my chin and met Stone’s gaze head-on. Let him look; it wasn’t like he’d never seen my breasts before. But damned if he’d get to touch.

That’s what I told myself. Repeatedly. However, the soft light of evening emphasized his golden good looks and I could feel his innate sensuality drawing me like a lodestone. Standing half-naked and yearning before him, he had me at a disadvantage. But, as much as my mind protested, my body didn’t seem to mind at all.

CHAPTER TEN

Wet and Out of Breath

CAMERON SAW THE DESIRE beneath her anger and knew he had only to reach for her. If he drew his fingers along the slick-wet surface of her skin she would heat to his touch. He smiled. In half a moment he’d have her in his arms and out of that bit of a bikini. Stella knew it as well.

Which was precisely why he kept his hands at his sides. They’d come together so damned fast before, and though the red-hot impulses were obviously still present, he intended to proceed with caution this time.

“I asked what you’re doing here.” She swept past him, snatching up a towel from a pile on one of the chairs.

“You called me. I came.”

Stella sent him an odd look, a brief furrowing of her brow, then her mouth thinned in disbelief. “So, that’s how it works. Wish I’d known sooner.”

“From now on—”

“I left a message, Stone, not an invitation.” She turned her back to him and picked up the water bottle from the table.

“You left part of a message.” He tipped his head, correcting her. “I’ll need the rest of it, since we’re going to work together.”

“I never said I’d partner with you.” She set the water down with a bang.

“I don’t recall hearing you refuse, either.”

Her nostrils flared in a way that shouldn’t have been sexy, but was. She glared at him in silence. He could almost hear the synapses firing as she struggled between accepting his offer and throwing him out on his arse. He knew his backside was safe when she rolled her shoulders in a kind of shrug.

“Wait here while I change.”

“Don’t bother on my account. I rather prefer you wet and out of breath.”

He only just managed to keep a grin from his face as spots of color appeared on her cheeks. When he dropped his gaze, he noticed the very feminine, pale pink lacquer on her toes. He looked up to see Stella glaring at him, daring him to comment. She stalked toward him and he quite wisely stepped aside. The French door slammed behind her, rattling the glass.

Cameron bent over to rub the ache in his right knee. Hurtling the low brick wall into her back garden had set it to throbbing. Straightening, he helped himself to her water and glanced at the door. It would be much more pleasant inside. He stepped through to the living room.

Only it didn’t look as if she did much living in it. There was a single ratty armchair with a wee folding table beside it, near the fireplace. A few cheap bookcases filled with videos and DVDs stood next to a large-screen plasma telly that sat directly on the floor.

He took the four stairs past a decorative rail to the next level. Peering about, Cameron noted that while the open kitchen boasted professional-looking cookware hanging from a copper rack and an impressive display of food-prep gadgets on the counters, there was no table in the dining area.

Eating alone, was she? Or simply eating elsewhere?

As he set the empty water bottle on the counter, he frowned at the butcher’s block. It held an expensive-looking chef’s knife set. He lifted one from its slot, hefting the weight of the professional carbon steel blade, then slid it back in place. All of the slots along the bottom row were empty. Odd, that.

He wandered into the bare foyer, listening for Stella, then moved along the hallway. The first room on the right was her bedroom, had to be. A queen-size mattress stood against one white wall with a plain wooden night table at the left-hand side; a single dresser sat near the closet. A quick glance into the lav revealed a lone toothbrush in the holder.

It would appear she slept alone as well. Cameron smiled briefly. Even as he acknowledged a sense of relief, he recognized that Stella’s life seemed to be as empty as his own. All the more reason they should give their relationship a try.

He moved toward the armoire, his curiosity piqued by the glass orbs and picture frames arranged on top. They were the only personal touches he’d seen in the house so far.

A black-and-white photo showed an attractive couple— must be her mum and dad—standing at a bar with Frank Sinatra. The second picture was of Stella with two other girls, a redhead and a brunette, on a beach somewhere. The third showed her standing in front of her office beside a brassy looking older woman, however the sign read Diamond Detective Agency.

The last photograph intrigued him enough that he picked it up for a closer look.

Stella posed up front, clutching an American football, with her three brothers standing round her. She looked quite disheveled, young and carefree and grinning like mad. The younger two lads looked annoyed and mischievous while the oldest’s eyes were focused on something other than the camera. His halfhearted smile failed to mask the aggressive intensity of his gaze. The photo must have been taken before.

“Give me that.”

Stella reached for the photo and tore it from his grasp. Her attitude up ‘til now had been prickly. At the moment she seemed genuinely furious…or was she merely defensive? As she set it back on the armoire, he caught a flash of sadness in her eyes before she turned on him.

“You don’t follow directions worth a damn.”

“Never have done, actually. It’s saved my life a time or two.” He wasn’t supposed to know about her brother and so kept his sympathy to himself.

She shoved at his upper back, pushing him toward the door. “It won’t save you from me if I catch you in here again.”

He swept his gaze over the snug jeans and damp cotton top she’d put on and grinned. “I promise not to go near your bed without a proper invite.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” As they approached the foyer, she thrust a sheet of paper at him. “Here. This is Cavanaugh’s work schedule for the next couple of days. He’s got the graveyard shift tonight, the same tomorrow and Wednesday.”

“Thanks.” He folded the note and tucked it into his hip pocket. “Nice place you’ve got. Bit sparse on furnishings, though, eh?”

“I don’t want you to feel welcome.”

The look on her face was dead serious. He hadn’t expected her to forgive and forget after the way they’d parted, but the fact of the matter was he’d come back for her. And if that meant a proper courtship, so be it. He sighed and slid his hands over her waist, gently tugging her toward him.

She tensed, resisting his touch, but didn’t struggle away. She challenged him with her gaze, rejection darkening her eyes. And yet he saw the flush of color on her cheeks, felt the sudden catch of her breath. Stella had a tough shell but underneath, he knew, was a molten core.

Not that she was soft, far from it. She’d like as not thump him for saying so. It wouldn’t be easy to win her over, but he’d have a go at it all the same. She was more than worth the having.

He reached up to free her hair and then stroked his fingers along the side of her neck. “I’m no damned good at this, Stella. But, I’m willing to try. Now that I’ve returned, I want to pick up where we left off.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Simply Irresistible

WE’D LEFT OFF IN BED, naked and insatiable for each other.

I didn’t want to pick up from there. I wanted to back up several steps, both figuratively and literally. Things were moving too fast again. But I stayed where I was, even grasped his biceps, enjoying the feel of hard muscle and hot skin under my hands.

When Stone dragged his right thumb across my lower lip, I gasped, barely resisting the urge to take it into my mouth. Faint lines of amusement bracketed his eyes, though his expression remained predatory. He looked like a man who wanted a woman and knew he could have her.

I bit his thumb.

He chuckled but wisely moved his hand. “You’re a fiery woman, Stella. Wicked sweet. And damned if I’ve not missed the feel of you.”

My pulse fluttered as his big hands slid down my hips to glide over my butt, pulling me closer to the erection testing the zipper of his jeans. As they flattened against his chest, my breasts ached with a need echoed in my womb. His heat seeped into me, warming me in too many places.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled the faint citrus smell of his hair and the purely male scent of his skin. My hands caressed the taut muscle beneath his shirt. I rubbed up against him like a cat in heat, while his hands seemed to touch me everywhere at once. It wasn’t enough.

Dark greedy desire permeated every fiber of my being. Yes, it was stupid, risky even, but I wanted him. It had been like this from the first moment we’d met. Something about him ignited my basest need for hot, wild sex. He slowly lowered his head and, eyes still shut to everything except the anticipation of the moment, I turned my face to meet his kiss.

Instead he nuzzled his soft lips against my temple and growled in my ear. “You’ve a way about you. Makes me want to strip you bare, to feel your heat and your passion. Remember how it was between us? Like capturing lightning in a bottle.”

I almost moaned aloud at the images replaying in my head. He’s got the kind of voice that lends itself to seduction, a blend of smoky resonance and rich brogue. It’s one of the reasons I’d fallen for him in the first place, one excuse for what happened…

“It will only be better this time, Stella.”

He lowered his head and I finally got that kiss. I’d braced myself for—hell, I’d counted on—a hot, urgent plundering that would fan the burning need inside of me and have us going at it on the foyer tiles. Instead, Cameron took me off guard, brushing his mouth slowly, oh-my slowly, over my lips.

The sweet thrill of his touch, combined with the spicy taste of him, seduced me. I could feel long unused parts gearing up for action but he resisted when I tried to take the lead. Although it’s so not my personality, I sat back to enjoy the ride.

Slanting his mouth over mine, he enjoyed my lips as though they were something precious, cradling the back of my head with unexpected and unwarranted tenderness. Which thoroughly confused me. I raised my palm to his chest and pulled back, then realized that placing my hand over his heart was a mistake. The strong, steady beat was a false promise of durability and commitment.

Stone didn’t relinquish his hold on me. “Let me have you, Stella. Let me make you my own.”

That did it. I broke free, staring at the floor while I tried to collect myself, and instantly missed the feel of him. If I were honest, I might admit that I’ve missed him all along. But I’d eat the engine out of my Harley before I told him so. The last man who’d attempted to possess me, make me his, hadn’t lived to regret it.

“I did that once, but didn’t care for it.” I’m a pretty good mimic, so I got the accent down cold, but my voice wasn’t bass enough for a perfect imitation. Stone recognized his own words anyhow.

“Is it over, then?” His tone was colored with as much defiance as disbelief.

Stone’s personality was magnetic, hypnotic, overwhelming. I didn’t want to be his, not at the risk of getting lost in his shadow. My gaze settled on his left arm. The short sleeve of his T-shirt revealed the tattoo on his triceps. The winged dagger with Who Dares Wins etched below it said a lot—and reminded me how little I really knew about him.

“Let’s be honest, Stone. It never really began.”

Finally I looked up at his face. I’ve seen photographs of glaciers in Alaska, formed by weight and weather and time until the core turns a bright, frozen blue. Stone’s eyes are that color. I wanted to look away but wouldn’t allow myself the cowardice. “We’re strangers who shared an incredible night once, who now have to work together temporarily, and that’s all.”

His gaze narrowed, hitting me like twin blue laser beams, cutting through the surface bullshit to the core I’m so damned careful to protect. His expression challenged me, dared me, invited me to open up and make something real of whatever game we were playing.

Suddenly I was almost overcome with the need to lean on him, to curl myself against his big body and take comfort from his warmth and strength. But I killed the thought as soon as it emerged. I’ve worked hard to shut myself off, to not need anyone and to take the hits alone so that no one ever paid for my mistakes again.

I looked away, reaching for the front door and yanking it wide to usher him out. He hesitated for a second then moved resolutely forward, brushing against me as he passed. Suddenly, he whipped around. His arm shot out and before I knew it he’d plastered me to his side. There was no tenderness in this kiss, just the silent insistence that it was a beginning, not the end.

He let go just as abruptly then turned away. He swaggered down the driveway without once looking back. I stood watching him go, dazed, until I realized my fingertips were tracing my mouth. Annoyed with both of us, I slammed the door and headed for the kitchen.

As I chose a shot glass from the cabinet and pulled the vodka out of the freezer, I wondered what the hell I was doing. I’d made a mistake with Stone. But which one had it been? Letting him get close, letting him matter or pushing him away?

Probably all of the above.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Damned Small World

WHO THE HELL was this guy?

From the new vantage point he’d found on the Paradise Park Community Center roof, he adjusted the focus of his binoculars. He had to get a better look at the son of a bitch kissing her. Civilian now, maybe, but hard-core military at some point, by the looks of him. Like some of those head cases back in the joint. Like he’d once been.

Oo-rah.

What was he doing at her house? Jealousy churned like acid in his gut and prickled along his skin.

He wanted to be the one kissing her…rubbing that fine ass, filling his hands with those pretty tits and squeezing… Not hard enough to hurt, though. That was part of the discipline, part of the control.

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