The P.I.
Cara Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the current men in my life—who all happen to be brothers! I love you all!

To my sons—Kevin, Brian and Brendan (You’re lucky because, like the Angelis brothers, you each have two brothers!)

To my grandson Andrew (You’re lucky, too, because you have a great sister!)

To my nephew Nick (You’re lucky enough to have two great sisters!)

To my nephews Ryan and Conor (I love you, too!)

And especially to my own brother, Andy (You have two sisters, but we’re the lucky ones!)

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Prologue

Thursday, August 27—near midnight

I N THE TOWER ROOM on the top floor of her house, Cass Angelis sat at her rosewood desk and prepared to see the future.

Laurel leaves burned in a glass bowl, candlelight flickered on the walls and the music of Yolanda Kondonassis, the Greek harpist, flowed around her. Her ability as a seer came as naturally to Cass as gardening or cooking came to other women. In her younger years, she’d used her abilities to help anyone who came to her. It was only after her husband Demetrius’s death that she’d begun to charge for her services, and over the last eighteen years, she’d built up enough of a reputation in the San Francisco area to make a comfortable living.

But tonight she had no client. Tonight her concern was for her family. Her son, Dino, who was serving his country in the Navy, her nephews, Nik, Theo and Kit, and her niece, Philly—she wasn’t sure which one or ones the Fates would offer choices to. All she was sure of was that choices would be offered this weekend. The small china clock on the mantel read two minutes to midnight—the witching hour. Not that Cass was a witch, not by a long shot. She couldn’t have whipped up a spell to save her life. But she did have insights into what the Fates might weave into a person’s future.

Might weave because it was always up to the individual to embrace or try to escape their destiny.

Her gift of sight had been inherited from her great-grandmother, Ariel Andropoulis, who’d claimed that her powers could be traced all the way back to Apollo’s Oracle at Delphi. Cass liked to believe that was true. On occasions like tonight she even burned laurel leaves the way Apollo’s priestesses had. But the only thing she was certain of was that psychic powers ran in her family, especially in the females.

Her sister had possessed the ability to “see,” too, and although Cass knew that Penelope had passed it on in some form to all four of her children, it was only Philly who acknowledged and used her gift.

Cass glanced at the latest family portrait that her nephews and niece had given her for her birthday last month. She was in the same chair she sat in now. Her brother-in-law Spiro stood to her left. Philly sat on the arm of the chair and Nik, Theo and Kit stood behind and to her right. Dino hadn’t been there for the photo. Currently, he was stationed in the Gulf. All of the Angelis men loved the sea, but Dino had been most susceptible to its lure. From when he was a little boy, she’d sensed that one day he would leave, so she hadn’t been surprised when he’d applied to Annapolis.

Cass continued to study the family photo. The Angelis men were all beautiful—tall, dark and handsome, just as her husband, Demetrius, had been and, for just a moment, she allowed herself to drift backward to the past.

When she and Penelope had graduated from high school, their father had taken them to Greece. He’d intended to put them in touch with their heritage, but she and Penelope had “known” that the visit to Greece would offer them much more.

Cass’s mind filled with images of Ionic columns, marble statues and theatres built into sloping hillsides. Although she and Penelope had been fascinated by the history, the culture and the literature of the country, it had been the sea that had drawn them the most. They’d dragged their father to just about every fishing village along the coast, and it had been in one of them that they’d met Spiro and Demetrius Angelis.

For both her sister and herself, it had been a case of love at first sight. Still, Cass wasn’t certain that she and Penelope would have had the courage to grab what the Fates had offered them. Luckily, the two Angelis brothers had taken the decision out of their hands by following them back to San Francisco. With her father’s help, they’d opened their own restaurant, The Poseidon. For a time, Cass had known what it was like to love and be truly loved in return.

With a sigh, she shifted her gaze to a picture of Demetrius. She knew all too well that the Fates were fickle. What they gave could be snatched away at any time, but even in the worst of times, they offered unexpected gifts.

Spiro, his children and Dino had been her family since that day nearly eighteen years ago when Demetrius and Penelope had lost their lives in a boating accident. Nik, her oldest nephew, had been twelve, the same age as Dino. Theo had been eleven, Kit ten and little Philly had been only four. Spiro had been left with the restaurant to run all on his own. So her father had invited them all to move into his house, and she’d taken over the job of raising Penelope’s and Spiro’s children along with her son.

Cass smiled. Her sadness had been followed by unexpected joy, as she’d come to look upon Penelope’s children as her own. At some point in the wink of time, the Angelis boys had become men. Her gaze returned to the photo of her husband Demetrius. And at least one of them was about to find the love of his life just as she had.

Maybe that was why she’d been thinking of Demetrius. It would happen this weekend—if they chose to take what the Fates offered them.

The first stroke of midnight brought Cass out of her reverie. Taking a deep breath, she put away the odd sense of loneliness that she’d been feeling lately and lifted her crystals. Light from a full moon streamed through tall, narrow windows and the milky mist in the faceted jewels began to swirl. She often saw things more clearly at that magic moment when one day gave way to the next. When the clock chimed again, the shadows in the stones broke into colors—a rainbow of them. They warmed her palms, and slowly, colors shifted, parted, then bled into one another until an image formed in her mind—a young woman, small and blonde with bottle-green eyes. And she was racing down a shadowed flight of stairs. In a holy place? Before Cass could get a real sense of the surroundings or the circumstances, the colors shifted again, and this time it was Kit, her youngest nephew, she saw. The young woman was at his side and they were both running through the darkness. This time she sensed danger.

Closing her eyes, Cass tried to see beyond the images to what they meant. A damsel in distress for Kit. The Fates had chosen wisely, she thought. Her youngest nephew, the dreamer, had always had an errant-knight streak in him.

Even as joy streamed through her, her heart squeezed a bit. Kit would be the first of her children to meet the woman he was fated for. From the time he was small, Kit had always been insatiably curious, and that characteristic had often gotten him into scrapes. It had also shaped him for his future careers as a P.I. and a crime-fiction writer. Her lips curved slightly. The boy just couldn’t resist solving puzzles. Yes, a damsel in distress would do very well.

Shifting her attention back to the swirling colors in the crystals, Cass moved them in her hands and watched the rainbows grow darker and darker until everything was gray. Suddenly, a flash of fire knifed through the darkness. Cass’s heart chilled and her stomach tightened with fear. What she saw was money, guns and blood. What she sensed was greed, envy and death.

The crystals burned now against her skin. But she kept her gaze steady. Colors flashed again, shattering the darkness. And she sensed the love—passionate and true.

Would it be enough to protect her Kit and the woman the Fates had chosen for him?

1

Friday, August 28—evening

S HE SURFACED SLOWLY , her senses awakening one by one. She felt the pain first—a hammering headache near her right temple. And heat. Humid air pressed in on her carrying the scent of exhaust fumes and the noise of traffic. Engines thrummed and a horn blasted in a staccato rhythm.

Close by, voices shouted. Angry male voices. She caught enough of what they were saying to wonder if their language was turning the surrounding air blue.

Where was she? What had happened? Panic bubbled up as the questions swirled through her mind. Opening her eyes, she managed to get a glimpse of her surroundings before a fresh wave of pain had her wincing and squeezing them shut again. She’d registered enough to know that it was dark out. Not pitch-black, but a sort of twilight-gray. She was in a car. The plastic divider that separated her from the front seat made her think it had to be a taxi.

Opening her eyes again, she gritted her teeth against the pain and took more careful stock of her surroundings. She was half lying on the backseat. The shattered window to her right gave her the first clue that she’d been in an accident. And the two men right outside that window were arguing about who’d caused it.

Okay, she knew where she was—in a taxi. And that there’d been an accident. In the initial impact she must have hit her head and been knocked out for a few minutes. But she was conscious now. How badly had she been hurt?

As she began to lever herself into a sitting position, the pounding at her temple increased and had her gritting her teeth again. But she made it. So far, so good. She wasn’t dizzy and she was almost getting used to the headache, which seemed to be the only source of pain.

“Bottom line. I had a green light. You ran a red,” growled a gravelly voice to her right. “And I got a witness—my fare. Hey, lady, you want to tell this guy what happened?”

She carefully turned to look at the man whose round and mustached face had appeared at the broken window. He jabbed a finger at her. “Tell him I had the green light.”

“I…can’t.” Panic did more than bubble this time. It shot through her in sharp arrows.

“What do you mean, you can’t? You saw it.”

“I don’t…remember.” When she searched her mind for the details that had led up to the accident, she came up empty. She raised her hands and pressed her fingers against her temples, hoping that might help.

It didn’t.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “You yelled at me to look out, that this creep was running the red. And then you screamed.” He jerked a thumb at the skinny man standing next to him. “He rammed right into us and caused a six-car pileup. Traffic is stopped in four directions.”

She shifted her gaze back to the man who’d evidently been driving her taxi, taking in more details now. He had thick dark hair, a stocky build and he wore a folded, red-print bandanna around his head that made him look like a pirate. If someone had thrust a Bible into her hand, she would have sworn that she’d never seen him before in her life.

She pressed a hand against her stomach. “Give me—” When her voice cracked, she swallowed hard. “I need a minute.”

“Lady, are you all right?” It was the other man who spoke. He was tall with the thin build of a scarecrow, and she could hear concern in his voice.

“I’m fine,” she said, stubbornly clinging to the hope that she was speaking the truth. But it wasn’t merely the accident she didn’t remember. She couldn’t even recall getting into the taxi…or where she was going…or where she’d been…or…

She dropped her hands into her lap and clenched them into fists as the pain in her head sharpened.

She couldn’t…she couldn’t remember who she was.

“Look,” the skinny man continued, “she’s hurt. She’s got blood on her. I’ll call an ambulance.”

Blood? As he punched numbers into his cell phone, she glanced down at herself. Sure enough, there were dark stains on the cuff of her jacket and on her skirt. She gingerly probed her right temple and located a goose egg just above it, but there was no sign of blood on her hand when she drew it away. Was she hurt somewhere else? She turned up her cuff, but there wasn’t a mark on her arm. Nor could she find any kind of wound when she checked beneath the stains on her skirt. The only pain she was experiencing was a headache—which was getting worse.

“We got an ambulance coming, lady.” It was her taxi driver who spoke, and his earlier anger seemed to have faded. “You just sit tight. You’re going to be all right.”

“You’re probably in shock,” the other man assured her. “You just take it easy until they get here.”

Shock. That had to be it. Relief streamed through her. Any minute now, her memory would come flooding back. And in the meantime…There had to be clues. She glanced around the backseat, looking for her purse. A white plastic dress bag was the first thing that caught her eye. It lay half on the seat to her left and half on the floor. She realized she’d been lying on it when she’d first regained consciousness. Instinctively, she lifted the bag, smoothing it as she hung it carefully on the hook over the door. Through a clear plastic panel on the front, she could make out a white lace gown embroidered with tiny seed pearls. A wedding dress?

Hers?

The momentary relief she’d felt was shoved out by a fresh wave of panic. Surely she’d remember if she were on the way to her wedding. But why would she be going to her own wedding in a taxi? Wouldn’t she be with family?

Something knotted in her stomach. Maybe she didn’t have a family.

She turned to the window. “Sir?” The word sounded like a squeak, and she swallowed hard when her taxi driver’s face once more appeared in the window.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she lied. “Where did you pick me up?”

He frowned at her. “You don’t remember that, either?”

“No.”

“She’s in shock, I tell you,” the skinny man said. “Don’t give her a hard time. Just tell her where you picked her up.”

Her taxi driver let out a disgusted sigh. “You flagged me down on Bellevue.”

“And where did I ask you to take me?”

His frown deepened, but he reached in through the passenger window and extracted a clipboard. “503 Lathrop. It’s just two blocks down on the right-hand side. We were almost there when this idiot ran the light.”

“Did not,” the skinny man muttered.

Ignoring him, her driver handed her a business card. “You gave me this when you got in the car.”

She glanced down and read the neatly printed name. Kristophe Angelis, Private Investigations. Beneath that in smaller font was an address—503 Lathrop. She read the phone number, too. Nothing on the card rang a bell. As far as she knew, she’d never seen the name before.

The sound of sirens in the distance had the two men turning away from the window, and she was grateful for their distraction. She had to think, to take stock of her situation.

She hadn’t called the taxi; she’d flagged it down. And she had a wedding dress. There were bloodstains on her suit. And she’d given the taxi driver the business card of a private investigator. The knot in her stomach tightened. No matter how you tried to add it up, it wasn’t good.

Maybe she wasn’t on the way to her wedding. She could be a runaway bride. That seemed a more plausible explanation for why she was alone in a taxi with her wedding dress. She’d had a case of bridal jitters.

But why was she running to a P.I.? Her gaze dropped to her suit again. A runaway bride with blood on her suit? That was not good. Her fingers tightened on the business card. Maybe this Kristophe Angelis would know who she was.

The sirens grew louder.

“It’s the ambulance,” the skinny man said.

“Naw,” her taxi driver corrected. “It’s the police. They’ll interview a few witnesses and find out you ran that red light.”

“I had the green.”

“ I had the green. My fare will tell the police that—as soon as she comes out of shock.”

Police. The word sent a chill through her, and she dropped her gaze once more to the bloodstains on her skirt. They’d want to know how the blood got there. How could she explain that to the police when she couldn’t remember?

Maybe she didn’t want to remember.

But she had to. Moving to the edge of the seat, she peered down at the floor of the taxi. She did have a purse, didn’t she? She’d glimpsed black leather when she’d moved the dress bag. Relief streamed through her. Surely, there’d be answers in there. It was heavy and it took some effort to drag it onto her lap. Opening it, she peered at the contents.

She hadn’t thought the knot in her stomach could twist any tighter, but she’d been wrong. Even in the dim light, she could recognize the gleam of metal and make out the shape of a gun. Beneath it lay bundles of bills. The ones she could see on top were twenties.

It was a lot of money. Doing her best to avoid touching the gun, she slipped her hand into the tote, sliding it down the sides of the stacked bills and trying to locate a wallet or anything else that might tell her who she was. But she came up empty.

“You remember anything yet?”

She started, clutching the tote closed before turning to see her taxi driver peering in the window. “No. Sorry.”

“Shit,” he muttered as he turned and walked away.

She could see beyond him to where two uniformed officers were talking to the tall, skinny man. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. Even as she watched, one of the policemen pulled a notebook out of his pocket and started to talk to the bystanders.

This was her chance, she thought. If she stayed here, she was going to have to explain the blood, the gun, the wedding dress and the small fortune in money in a tote bag. And she couldn’t. She slipped one twenty out of a bundle and set it on the seat. The money might not be hers, but she didn’t want to leave the taxi driver without his fare. Then keeping her eye on the two policemen, she very carefully opened the door that hadn’t suffered damage from the accident. She gathered up the tote and the wedding dress and slipped away into the crowd.

2

S ETTLING HIMSELF at his desk, Kit Angelis opened his laptop and tried to ignore the tingling sensation at the back of his neck that always warned him something was about to happen. According to his aunt Cass, the sensation was a sign of Kit’s innate psychic ability, a gift of premonition that Aunt Cass believed could be traced all the way back to ancient Greece. While the idea appealed to his imagination, Kit wasn’t all that comfortable with the notion that he might be able to “see” into the future. He’d always preferred to take life as it came at him. It was challenging enough to deal with problems as they arose without having to handle the ones that were headed at him from the future.

Still, he took a moment to rub the back of his neck. The intensity of the tingling and the way that it had been building all day warned him that some significant event was looming on the horizon. In his opinion, these little premonitions didn’t prove he was psychic. After all, no one had labeled his friend, Roman, a “seer” when he’d claimed he had a “feeling” that something was going to happen the night he’d crashed his father’s car after Kit had talked his reluctant friend into taking it for a joyride.

Of course, his aunt’s counterargument to that would be that Roman wasn’t Greek. And Kit Angelis was—certainly enough to know that something was definitely coming tonight.

No matter that it was the last thing he needed. He already had plans for the weekend. He was going fishing with his brothers.

For one tempting moment, he considered turning off his computer and hightailing it out of town. But the escape attempt would be futile. Fate had a way of dogging a person’s footsteps. How often had Aunt Cass read the story of Oedipus Rex to him as a child? If good old King Oed hadn’t been able to escape what the Fates had in store for him, how in the world did Kit Angelis hope to do it?

With a sigh, Kit pressed the button that would boot up his computer. When his dog Ari echoed his sigh, he glanced over to where the large black animal was stretched out below the window. The dog gave him a patient, longsuffering look.

“Working on it,” he said as he reached into his bottom drawer and fished out a biscuit. “Twenty pages and then we’re out of here.” That was his goal—to get down the second chapter of his new novel. Then they’d leave. “I promise.”

Ari made a sound in his throat. The tone sounded skeptical.

Kit aimed the biscuit for a spot right between the dog’s paws and hit his mark. Ari would move for food, but not much else when the temperature was this humid, and Kit hadn’t the heart to make the dog run for a treat.

Then he turned his attention back to the computer. He’d set his goal and he was going to accomplish it. True, this was not the way he’d envisioned spending a Friday evening—especially not one that was kicking off a long holiday weekend that he still intended to spend fishing with his brothers.

It wasn’t merely psychic senses that ran strong in the Angelis family; he and his brothers had also inherited an affinity for the sea. His grandfather on his father’s side had been a fisherman in Greece. His grandfather and great grandfather on his mother’s side had been shipbuilders near Sausalito.

His oldest brother, Nik, especially loved the challenge of pitting himself against the elements, and so he’d be taking out his sailboat at some point this weekend. Theo would probably take the boat out, too, and he would definitely sit on the dock and throw his line in, but Kit sensed that Theo only participated in either activity because he just loved to be near water.

But for Kit, as well as for his father, the lure of the sea had always had to do with fishing. He just loved the game of it. In his mind, he pictured himself choosing one of the lures his father made, throwing his line out into the water and then waiting for that first tug that signaled the beginning of the battle.

Kit gave himself a mental shake. Twenty pages, he reminded himself. Of course, finishing them could mean that Theo and Nik would beat him to the cabin. He tried to ignore the stab of regret he felt about that as he opened up the file on his laptop. When the phone rang, he let the answering machine pick it up.

“Hey, bro, I know you’re there.”

It was Theo’s voice. Some people thought that he and his brothers sounded alike, but Theo’s drawl was unmistakable. His older brother always spoke slowly, the way he seemed to do everything else. Energy conservation, he called it. Whatever it was, his easy manner endeared him to juries and often deceived his opponents. Theo’s mind worked fast enough, and he could move like lightning when the need arose. Like today, Kit thought with a frown. He was certain that Theo was calling to gloat because he’d arrived first at the cabin.

“Just thought you’d like to know,” Theo continued, “I’m here. There’s an hour or so of daylight left, so I think I’ll get Dad’s latest lure and catch me some fish.”

Kit grimaced. He could picture his brother all too clearly in his mind, and it was just like Theo to mention the lure. Kit had been looking forward to using it. Theo knew that, just as Kit knew that Theo probably wouldn’t even get his line wet. He’d just sit there on the porch and commune with the sea gods while he plotted strategy for his next case in court.

“Drive safely. No need to rush.”

Kit stifled a sigh as he glanced at his watch. Theo must have clocked out at 5:00 p.m. on the dot. His only consolation was that his oldest brother Nik would be getting the same gloating message on his cell.

Ever since they were kids, they’d had an ongoing competition. Whoever made it through the cabin door first got their choice of poles and lures—and their father had quite a collection. When they were little, the race to the cabin had started the moment they’d rocketed out of the car. In the early days, Nik and Theo had had an advantage because they were older. As the youngest, he’d had to rely on wit and cunning. When he was six, he’d managed to tie their shoelaces together once. He could still recall the unadulterated joy he’d felt as he’d left them face down in the grass and sprinted for the cabin door.

Their dad still told that story in the restaurant he ran in the Fisherman’s Wharf area—The Poseidon. In the Angelis family, fishing had always been something the men of the family did together—much to the annoyance of Philly, their kid sister. Kit’s lips curved at the memory of the time that Philly had stowed away in the trunk of their father’s car so that she could be a part of a fishing trip. She’d gotten her way—but only after she’d promised Spiro that she’d never do anything that dangerous again. His father told that story in the restaurant, too.

Usually, their father joined them. But ever since Spiro had lured the beautiful Helena Lambis from Greece and convinced her to open an upscale dining room on the upper level of The Poseidon, he seemed to find it very difficult to get away from work.

Philly was sure the relationship between his father and Helena was a romantic one. Helena had been a five-star chef at a hotel in Athens. When Spiro had visited Greece six months ago, he’d stayed at that very hotel. To hear Philly tell it, the story had overtones of Paris snatching Helen and carrying her off to Troy.

Spiro’s version was less romantic. According to his father, his relationship with Helena was business. He’d been thinking for some time of opening a fine-dining restaurant on the upper level of The Poseidon and he’d convinced Helena to join him in that venture. But in the five months since Helena had established her restaurant, even their business relationship had become a bit rocky. The two had become competitors, each trying to outdo the other.

Whatever the true story was, Spiro seldom had time for fishing anymore. So Kit would be spending time with Nik and Theo, something that was becoming rarer since they all had very active careers.

Nik was a detective in the SFPD and on the fast track to becoming a captain. Theo had established a reputation as a top-notch criminal defense attorney in the area and, more recently, he’d been proclaimed one of the top ten most eligible bachelors by the San Francisco Examiner, something that had garnered him quite a bit of razzing from his brothers.

The article had also resulted in some “groupies,” who’d followed Theo around for a time. When one of them had turned into a stalker, Theo had handled the situation with his usual unruffled aplomb, but he’d taken a bullet for his troubles and Kit had a hunch that there was a lot about the experience that he hadn’t shared with them.

Kit glanced down at his laptop. His own career had taken off recently, too. For the past several months, he’d been juggling two jobs—his P.I. business, which paid the bills, and his new job as a published author. He’d signed a contract for two mystery novels just over a year ago. The first, which featured a Hitchcock-type hero with amnesia, had hit the bookshelves in the spring. The proposal and chapters for his second book were due in three weeks.

Nothing was going to keep him from achieving his goal. Not the images of his brothers arriving ahead of him at the cabin, not the soulful, pleading looks that Ari was giving him, not even the Fates, who’d thrown one obstacle after another in his path today.

First, there’d been a case that had dragged on late into the afternoon. He’d been typing up his report when a violent little summer storm had rolled through and driven his already ailing air conditioner into cardiac arrest. He’d jimmied open the window in the hopes that the storm had cooled the air, but it hadn’t. Now, thanks to the heat wave that had been holding San Francisco in a tight fist for the past five days, the temperature in his office resembled a steam bath.

To top it off, he couldn’t get the window to shut, so not only did he have to put up with the distracting sounds of traffic, but he was also being plagued by an occasional rogue breeze gusting in and scattering his once carefully stacked notes hither and yon.

Kit gave the mess of papers littering the floor of his office a considering look. Cleaning it up was probably a good idea. And he’d be more comfortable if he shed his blazer. With a sigh, he rose and stripped down to his T-shirt and jeans. As he toed his shoes off and peeled out of damp socks, he doggedly ignored the trickles of sweat rolling down his back. Moving to the center of his office, Kit squatted down and began to pick up papers and sort them into piles.

He could endure the heat. After all, the temperature hadn’t been much better before the air conditioner had given up its ghost. The good news was that now his miserly landlord would be forced to replace the unit.

The phone rang again, and the tingling at the back of his neck once more claimed his attention. He stifled the urge to reach for the receiver as he listened to his voice inviting the caller to leave a message. It was probably Nik calling to gloat, too.

“Kit?”

The female voice was breathless. And frightened, Kit thought as he tried to place it.

“This is Sadie Oliver. You may not remember me. I’m Roman’s—” A burst of static cut the last word off.

Though he’d only met her once, Kit remembered Sadie, all right. His friend Roman Oliver had two sisters. The younger one, Juliana, was about to start college. A year ago Sadie had graduated from Harvard Law School and come back home to work in her family’s business. She was an attractive brunette, nearly as tall as Roman, and if she hadn’t been his best friend’s sister, he might have called her for a date. But his bond with Roman dated back to their freshman year in college when they’d shared a room.

He’d even dedicated his novel to him. Who better, since his friend had provided a wealth of information on the inner workings of organized-crime families. Not that the Oliver family had any connection to crime anymore. Their business holdings in real estate up and down the California coast had been legitimate ever since Roman’s great-grandfather had moved to San Francisco and built his first hotel forty years ago.

But it had been the Oliver family’s long-established feud with the Carlucci family, dating back to a time in Chicago when both families had been involved in shadier business practices, that had sparked the idea for Kit’s first novel. The Montagues and the Capulets had nothing on the Olivers and the Carluccis. And although both San Francisco families were legitimate now, they were still bitter rivals when it came to business.

There was another burst of static. “…To talk to you. My cell is 546-2122.”

Even as he filed the number away in his mind, Kit rose and moved toward the phone. But the line had already gone dead when he picked it up. He stared thoughtfully at the receiver for a minute. Why would Sadie Oliver need to talk to him?

He was punching in her number when another voice grabbed his attention.

“Excuse me.”

The hoarse sound had him whirling, and as he did, he stubbed his bare toe on the leg of a chair. Swearing softly, he grabbed his throbbing foot and stumbled against his desk. The phone and the answering machine crashed to the floor.

In the midst of the chaos, all Kit could do was stare. Straddling the threshold between his office and his secretary’s was a beautiful waif who could have graced the pages of any P.I. novel, including his own.

Here she is. That was the only clear thought he had as the tingling at the back of his neck morphed into an electric current. The tingling he understood. He’d been expecting something all day and she was it. He also understood the tightening in his gut. He’d experienced it before—that instant sexual awareness of a woman. The sensation of the ground shifting under his feet? Now, that was tougher to explain. But, hey, this was San Francisco. It could be a tremor.

And then it finally registered. The suit she was wearing was stained with blood.

3

“I… MAYBE , I SHOULD …”

She was going to turn and run. Pure panic shot through him and brought Kit out of his daze. He didn’t trust himself to take a step yet, but he managed to speak. “Don’t go.”

She glanced down at a card she was clutching in one hand, then at Ari. “That’s a very big dog.”

“He won’t move unless he smells food on you.” In which case, Ari would definitely leap on her and she was such a bit of a thing that he figured the dog might just topple her over. Worrying about that brought the rest of his thoughts into focus. “You don’t have any on you, do you? Food, I mean?”

“No…but…” She glanced uncertainly down at the card again. “I think I might be in the wrong place. I’m looking for…”

“Me.” She was what he’d been waiting for all day. He was absolutely sure about that. And he was pretty sure the blood on her suit wasn’t hers since she’d evidently gotten here under her own steam. So the tiny blonde with the bottle-green eyes was a damsel in distress of the first order. Her heart-shaped face and that perfect mouth might have been carved on one of the cameos his aunt Cass kept in her jewel box.

She was poised for flight. And no wonder. His office looked as though it had just been attacked by the same tornado that had carried Dorothy off to Oz. There was a dog the size of a small bear cub lounging on the floor, and he…well, he just wasn’t presenting his best professional image.

“Why don’t you come in?”

She took one step and then paused again as if to gauge the response of the dog. In one quick glance Kit cataloged details, taking in the bruise that darkened the otherwise perfect skin near her left temple and the silky-looking hair that fell in tousled layers to just beneath a stubborn-looking chin. Last, but not least, he noted the first-rate legs and the designer open-toed shoes. Her other features remained hidden behind the dress bag and tote she was holding on to for dear life.

Kit had an overpowering urge to go to her, to press his hand to the small of her back and guide her carefully to one of his two client chairs, but he sensed that the slightest move on his or Ari’s part would make her bolt.

“How can I help you?” he asked in a calm voice as he settled his hip firmly on the edge of his desk.

“I’m not sure you can.” Her voice was stronger now. While he’d been studying her, she’d glanced warily around the room, her gaze settling on Ari twice. She met his eyes, then frowned down at the card in her hand. “I’m looking for Mr. Kristophe Angelis.”

“You’ve found him.” Kit sent her what he hoped was his most charming smile. Of the three Angelis brothers, he’d inherited the dimples. Most of the time he could have done without them, but every so often, especially when women were involved, they served him well. “I go by Kit. Kit Angelis.”

She transferred her frown from the card to him, and this time when he looked into those green eyes, he felt a little punch right in his solar plexus.

“Have we ever met before?” she asked.

“No.” Kit was absolutely certain of that—in spite of the fact that what he was feeling bordered on recognition.

“It says on this card that you’re a private investigator.” Her tone held a note of accusation—as if the card were lying.

“I am,” he explained, “during the days. On my free nights, I write crime fiction.” As he gestured around the room, a breeze sent more papers scattering to the floor. “You’ve caught me in my writing mode.”

“I’m interrupting, then.” She didn’t appear to be at all reassured by his explanation. If their positions had been reversed, Kit wasn’t sure he would have been, either.

“Not at all.” It wasn’t a lie, really. She hadn’t interrupted. He hadn’t even gotten one word down. Something she saw on his face must have reassured her—perhaps the dimples had finally kicked in—because she took a few steps forward. Good, he thought as he willed her to take a few more. He sat perfectly still while she did. Experience had taught him that luring a woman wasn’t a lot different than reeling in a fish. Patience and persistence usually paid off.

She was close enough now that he could reach out and touch her. Kit had to suppress a powerful urge to do just that. He wanted very much to trace his finger along her jawline, to find out if that porcelain-delicate skin was as cool as it looked. He thought not, but a good investigator always tested his theories.

“You do investigate crimes, then?”

“Hmm?” Kit reined his thoughts in from the little detour they’d taken.

“You investigate crimes, right?” She was studying his face very closely.

He finessed his wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open and handed it to her. “I’ve been licensed by the state of California to do just that. I’m even allowed to charge for my services.”

She glanced down at the wallet, then back at him. “Could you find out if I’ve committed a crime?”

He noted that her knuckles had turned white on the strap of the tote. He wanted very much to take that hand in his, but he kept himself very still.

“Probably.”

“How?” she asked.

“My brother Nik is a cop. If a crime has been committed and the police are involved, he would know. I also have friends at the newspaper and TV stations. What kind of a crime are we talking about?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a robbery. Maybe worse. That’s what I need you to find out.”

He said nothing, but he noted the way her grip tightened on the dress bag and the tote.

She held out his wallet to him, and when he took it, his fingers brushed accidentally against hers. Well, perhaps not accidentally.

The effect of that casual touch shocked both of them. She snatched her hand back as if it had been burned. And he knew exactly how she felt. The brief contact had sent a little current of electricity zinging along his nerve endings, and the knowledge that she’d been affected, too, had desire twisting his stomach into a hot, hard knot.

“I—” She faltered as if she’d lost her train of thought. He’d better damn well gather his own or he was going to lose her. He could read it in her eyes. She was still thinking of bolting.

Suppressing panic, he summoned up a businesslike tone. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me who you are and what happened?”

She pressed her lips together firmly, drew in a deep breath and met his eyes. Beneath that fragile-looking exterior was an inner strength that he couldn’t help but admire. “Are you any good at what you do?”

Considering the first impression he must have made, Kit couldn’t fault the skepticism in her tone. He sent her another smile, again putting his faith in the dimples. “I’m the best.”

She studied him for one more moment, then nodded. “I want to hire you, then.”

Relief streamed through him. “Fine.” He’d made the decision to take her case the moment he’d set eyes on her. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she spelled trouble. But he was Greek enough, curious enough, not to turn his back on what fate dropped smack in his path. The twenty pages would have to wait. So would his fishing trip with Theo and Nik, if necessary.

“To make it official, I’ll need a retainer. Do you have a dollar?” he asked.

“You’ll help me, then?”

“Yes.” Kit tried to ignore the feeling that he was agreeing to a lot more than a case.

She let out the breath she was holding and, for one brief moment, he thought she might lose that iron grip she seemed to have on her control. His admiration for her shot up a few more notches when she didn’t. Finally, she set the leather tote on a chair, opened it and dug out a twenty. “I don’t have anything smaller.”

Kit took the bill she offered and placed it next to his closed laptop. “Neither do I so I’ll have to owe you nineteen.” He met her eyes steadily. “Will you trust me?”

There was an instant of hesitation before she nodded. “Yes.”

A careful lady, he thought as he smiled at her. This was a woman who preferred to test the waters before she jumped in. That wasn’t his particular style, but he could admire it in others. “Good. Now, you said, “maybe worse.” Can you be more specific?”

Drawing in another deep breath, she finally let go of the death grip she had on the dress bag and draped it carefully over the back of the chair.

Then she stepped to the side and pointed to the stains on her skirt. “It’s blood, I think. I don’t believe it’s mine. I checked, and I’m not bleeding anywhere. But I don’t know how it got there. I can’t remember what happened.”

“You can’t remember?”

“I don’t remember anything before the accident. I was in a taxi that was in a collision just a few blocks from here.” She gestured at the bruise on her temple. “I must have bumped my head during the impact, and I don’t remember anything before I came to in the backseat. I don’t know my name, what I do or what may have happened before I got in that taxi.”

Kit glanced at the tote. “What about a wallet? Do you have some ID in that bag?”

She shook her head. “I checked. And I couldn’t find my purse in the taxi. Everything’s a blank. And…there’s a wedding gown in the dress bag. I don’t know why I’m carrying it around. I could be on my way to my wedding or running away from it. I don’t remember.”

There’d been a thread of panic building steadily in her voice, and Kit felt some of it move through him. In sympathy? He might have accepted that explanation if he hadn’t tasted something bitter when she’d mentioned she might be on her way to her wedding.

“If I was getting married today, if I loved someone enough to…make that kind of commitment, wouldn’t I remember that?”

He sure as hell hoped so, just as he hoped that particular scenario had no basis in reality. “Perhaps you couldn’t make the commitment. Brides and grooms get the jitters. A lot of them have second thoughts.” A scenario he much preferred in this case.

He reached for her left hand. The little current of electricity zinged through him again, but this time he didn’t allow her to snatch her hand away. “You aren’t wearing an engagement ring, and there’s no sign that you’ve been wearing one. No indentation, no telltale white mark even though you have a slight tan. I’d say you’re probably not the bride.”

“Why would I have the wedding gown?”

“Could be you’re a relative. A sister—or a member of the wedding party.”

She curled her fingers around his. “Right. I hadn’t thought…or maybe I’m a wedding planner. That might explain why I have the dress?”

“There you go.” The relief Kit heard in her tone was all the more recognizable because it matched exactly what he was feeling. Which was ridiculous. He had to get a grip. He’d met this woman…what? Five minutes ago? Even setting his physical attraction to her aside, he’d never before met a female who’d drawn so many emotions out of him in so little time.

He’d taken her on as a client, Kit reminded himself. She was in trouble, and the least she deserved from him was some professionalism.

That was what his mind was telling him. Still, he didn’t let go of her hand. He wanted to hold on to it. On to her.

She frowned suddenly. “That still doesn’t explain the blood. Or the rest of it.”

“The rest of it?”

Squaring her shoulders, she pulled her hand out of his and drew in a deep breath. “There’s a gun and a lot of money in the leather tote. Maybe…” She paused to moisten her lips. “I can’t help thinking that maybe I stole the money at gunpoint and shot someone. I could be more than a thief. I could be a killer.”

4

“T HAT’S A POSSIBILITY ,” he said.

The matter-of-fact way Kit Angelis made the statement surprised her. He didn’t look shocked or even the least bit disturbed that he might have taken on a killer as a client. For some reason, his calm acceptance of that possibility eased her nerves. Just a bit.

There was no denying the fact that the man was having the strangest effect on her senses. When he’d first whirled around to face her, he’d looked so dangerous and beautiful at the same time. He’d reminded her of an angel—one of the dark ones who’d been booted out of paradise.

What he didn’t look like was a P.I. In fact, her first thought had been that she’d interrupted him in the act of burglarizing the office. But he’d been barefoot. A thief would be wearing shoes, right? Still, she might have run for her life if she hadn’t also felt something like recognition ripple through her. And a definite…pull.

When his fingers had brushed against hers, she’d felt the intensity of that touch right down to her toes. She’d blamed it on the fact that she must still be in shock…and told herself to get a grip. But a few seconds ago, when he’d taken her hand to examine her fingers, she hadn’t been able to pull away. She hadn’t wanted to.

“Have you touched the gun?”

She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Pardon?”

“Have you touched the gun since you regained consciousness in the taxi?”

She suppressed a shudder. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” She paused to consider the question. “Well, it might have prints on it. Or it might accidentally go off.”

“Or you might have an instinctive fear of firearms. A lot of people do.” He extended his hand. “Why don’t you let me take a look at the gun?”

She picked up the tote and handed it to him, careful not to bring her hand in contact with his.

“See. You’re not even touching it now. You’re going to let me take it out of the bag.”

After setting the tote on his desk, he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to extract the gun. Then he lifted the barrel to his nose and gave it a sniff. “It’s a Magnum,” he said. “And it’s been recently fired.”

She pressed a hand to the sudden queasiness in her stomach. She was not going to faint.

“That doesn’t mean you fired it.”

She met his eyes, and the steady way he was looking at her helped her keep control.

“There’s a serial number to trace. If it’s yours and you have a license, then we’ll know your name.” Kit rescued the phone from where he had knocked it to the floor earlier and punched in some numbers. “My brother, Nik, will probably be gone, but his partner will be there. Running the serial number will take some time, but it will give us something to go on.”

Once again, the calm, steady way he spoke soothed her nerves. Instead of allowing her imagination to run wild because the gun had been fired, she tried to focus on the conversation Kit was having on the phone.

He laughed at something the person on the other end of the line said, and she had the distinct impression that the cop he was talking to was a woman.

“Dinah, if you can put a rush on that, I’ll buy you a drink at The Poseidon.”

Definitely a woman.

He laughed again, and the sound of it tingled along her nerve endings.

“Okay, okay. A dinner in the new dining room.”

Something hot tightened in her belly, and her eyes widened. She could not be feeling jealous because Kit Angelis had invited a cop to dinner, could she? That would mean she was attracted to him and she’d only just met him. What she was feeling had to be shock. Didn’t it?

She studied him for a moment. Objectively speaking, he was very handsome. His face had the lean, strong features that ancient artists had liked to capture in marble and bronze. His nearly jet-black hair was on the long side and untamed. Standing there barefoot in threadbare jeans and a T-shirt, the man looked a bit untamed, too. And large. She felt something begin to pulse right in her center. He had broad shoulders, a narrow waist, long legs. And narrow feet. For some reason, she found his bare feet…sexy.

The pulsing in her center deepened. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t merely shock. She was a bit attracted to him. It was a natural reaction on her part. The man would speed up the pulse of any woman who had one.

But it was definitely not jealousy she was feeling—just because he’d asked another woman out to dinner. That was ridiculous. She was in trouble. He was going to help her. The cop on the other end of the line could have dinner with him anytime she wanted. She wished both of them well.

Kit hung up the phone and shifted his gaze back to the Magnum. “You know, this is definitely not a lady’s gun.”

She couldn’t have said why his comment had her lifting her chin. “Maybe I’m not a lady.”

His grin was quick and charming. “Sugar, you’re a lady right down to the tips of your toes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you would know that because?”

His smile widened. “I’m a crack-shot investigator. I make a good part of my living noticing and cataloging the details. Look at your feet.”

She glanced warily down at the open-toed shoes and blinked. Her toes were painted red.

“Those shoes, if I don’t miss my guess, have a designer name on them. I’d say Italian. My kid sister, Philly, would give up lunches for a month to own a pair. I’m guessing the suit you’re wearing has a designer label, too. Plus, you’ve got a pedicure. And a manicure.”

She unclasped her hands and studied her nails. They were clean, neatly filed, painted with a clear polish except for the white tips.

“It’s a special kind of manicure—with some kind of name. Philly told me once.” Kit paused, narrowed his eyes and snapped his fingers. “French. It’s a French manicure. And according to my sister, it costs extra. So you’re certainly not trailer trash. You either come from money or you work hard to earn it. And you use some of it to take good care of yourself.”

Was she the kind of woman who had nothing to do but shop and go to beauty salons? Was getting a manicure and a pedicure the highlight of her week? She sincerely hoped not. She thought of the money in her tote. Maybe it belonged to her. Maybe she’d earned it. She much preferred the latter. But how had she earned that much money and all of it in cash? A thought popped into her mind. “Maybe, I’m a professional hit woman.”

This time he didn’t flash her that killer grin. Instead, he looked at her as if he were considering the possibility. Not good.

“That’s one possibility. Let’s test it.” He opened another drawer, took out a gun and placed it on his desk. It wasn’t the same kind as the one he’d taken from the tote, but it was large and just as deadly looking. “Pick it up.”

She hesitated for only a moment. Then she lifted it with her right hand. It was heavier than she’d expected and she nearly dropped it.

“You’re not holding it like a professional,” he commented.

She shot him a narrow-eyed look. “I’m suffering from amnesia, remember?”

“If I asked you to boot up my laptop and search the Web for information on amnesia or memory loss, would you know what to do?”

She glanced at his computer and considered. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

He smiled at her. “There you go. The gun isn’t as familiar to you—therefore, you’re probably not a professional hit woman. Why don’t you try pulling the trigger? Aim it at the wall over there. It’s not loaded.”

More than anything she wanted to set the gun down on the desk, but she didn’t. Instead, she clasped it with both hands, raised it and pointed it at the outer wall of the office.

Even as she tightened her finger, her hands began to shake. A chill moved through her and, in spite of the heat in the room, she very nearly shivered.

She wanted to drop the gun and run. Biting her lower lip, she steadied her grip on the gun and squeezed the trigger. In the quiet room, the click sounded like a gunshot. Immediately, an image flashed into her mind—quick and bright as lightning. She was in a room filled with shadows. She was breathing hard as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs and there was a musty smell that was somehow familiar. Beneath that, she caught the scent of something else. Roses? A shadow shifted and a door in front of her opened slowly. Fear—an icy ball of it—lodged in her throat. Her hands shook. She couldn’t steady them, but she was going to shoot—she had to—

When the dark figure slipped into the room, she pulled the trigger. And saw the figure stumble back into the wall. Deafened by the sound, blinded by the bright flash of fire, she stumbled backward herself and hit something hard. Hands gripped her upper arms.

“Easy, sugar. I’m right here.”

Her head spun once, and then she remembered. Kit Angelis, the P.I. She’d hired him to help her.

“It’s all right. Just take a deep breath and lean on me for a minute.”

She did. But even as her vision cleared, she felt her whole body begin to throb. He continued to talk to her in that calm, steady tone, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her senses were so filled with him—his body was rock hard at her back and so were his hands. She could feel the press of each one of his fingers through the fabric of the suit on her upper arms. Her mind suddenly filled with the sensations of what those fingers would feel like moving over her bare skin—over her throat, her breasts, her waist, and lower…lower. Oh, she knew exactly where she wanted those fingers to press.

“Take another breath.”

She breathed in, trying desperately to rein in her unruly thoughts.

“You remembered something.”

His words brought the memory back clear as crystal. How could it have slipped away—even for a moment? “I shot someone.”

He turned her then and, after settling her in a chair, knelt down in front of her.

“Who?”

He wasn’t touching her now. Instead of feeling…bereft, she should be grateful. The man was trying to help her and she wanted to just…jump him. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t blame this on shock. It had to be something else.

“Close your eyes. Try to picture it like a video.”

He was trying to do his job, trying to help her. The least she could do was help him. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and tried to recapture the image of the shadowy figure opening the door and slipping into the room. “I can’t make out his features. The room was so dark.”

“Him?”

She thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yes. The figure was large. Tall and broad. I’m positive it was a man.”

“Did you see him fall?”

She shook her head. “He stumbled backward into a wall, and I can’t remember what happened next.”

“What do you recall about the room?”

She frowned. “Nothing—no wait—there was a musty smell…the scent of old books. And—” her heart skipped a beat “—I smelled flowers, too. The bridal bouquet?”

Panic sprinted through her. She wasn’t sure how, but her fingers were laced with Kit’s when she opened her eyes. “What if I’m not the bride or the sister or the maid of honor or even the wedding planner? What if I’m a jealous ex-lover of the groom and I shot him for revenge? Maybe I shot the bride, too.”

“Whoa! As a writer, I’d like to steal that idea for a plot. But as a P.I., I prefer to stick to the facts. The jealous, revenge-seeking ex-lover scenario doesn’t explain why you’d run off with the wedding dress. Nor does it account for the loot you’re carrying around. Plus, all you remember so far is that you shot someone.”

“Maybe I killed him.”

“And maybe not. You saw him stumble backward. You didn’t see him fall. Let’s stick with that until we know more.”

She stared at him. He was being kind, trying to reassure her. She wanted desperately to believe him, but her gut instinct was telling her that she’d shot and killed someone.

“Have you ever had to shoot anyone?” she asked.

Kit’s gaze was steady. “Not yet.”

But he could, she thought. She could see it in his eyes. If he had to, he could shoot someone. So could she. Did that make them alike? That strange feeling of recognition moved through her again. This was a man she wouldn’t have thought she’d have anything in common with, but it seemed she did. Right now she wanted nothing more than to just lean into him, to put her head on his shoulder and ask him to put his arms around her.

Even as she tried to clear the image out of her mind, she was suddenly aware of just how close they were, of how still the room had become. His face was only inches from hers and she could hear each individual breath he drew in and let out. She could smell him, too—a combination of soap and something else that was dark and male.

His mouth was so close, but it was his eyes she was most aware of—she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away from them. Something about the way he was looking at her had changed. As his fingers tensed on hers, heat streamed through her and she saw the reflection of that heat in his eyes.

Right now, she saw in them the same hunger she was feeling. She wanted to kiss him, and he wanted to kiss her, too. All either of them had to do was to lean just a bit closer…She’d barely moved when the memory of that dark shadowy room once more flashed through her mind, and she jerked back. “I need to…we need to…”

He released her hands, but his eyes remained on hers. “Yes, we do.”

There was a promise in his tone that had a little thrill moving through her. But as he rose and helped her to her feet, his voice became businesslike.

“It’s a very good sign that you’re having flashes of memory,” he said as he moved behind his desk. “It probably won’t be long until you remember everything.”

She drew in a breath and let it out. Her skin felt cold now that he’d moved away. It shocked her that she still wanted to kiss him. A total stranger. A man who could make her blood turn into hot lava with a look or the most casual touch.

What could he do when he really touched her the way she’d imagined only moments ago? When he touched her all over? When and not if? What was the matter with her? Was she sex-starved? She barely kept from dropping her head into her hands. She could not go on this way. She had problems here. Big ones. She didn’t know who she was or exactly what she’d done. Throwing herself at the man she’d hired to find out just how bad her situation was—well, that was a sure path to disaster. She had to get a grip, keep her mind on business.

Kit was certainly doing that. While she’d been fighting off a lust attack, he’d been emptying the tote. The packets of bills were neatly aligned along the edge of the desk, and he was carefully thumbing through one of them.

Obviously, what he’d felt a few moments ago hadn’t been as intense as what she’d felt. She drew in a deep breath and let it out. Maybe she’d hired the wrong man for the job. She didn’t think she’d be having this problem if he were short, fat and balding. Her eyes shifted to the twenty-dollar bill he’d laid on the desk. She could take the retainer back and just tell him that she’d changed her mind.

She considered that option as she watched him count the money. He certainly was focused. And thorough. And perceptive. So far, he’d told her things about herself that she might not have noticed—at least, not for a while. Not to mention the fact that Kit Angelis didn’t look at all shocked by the gun, the money or the bloodstains. He hadn’t batted an eye at the memory she’d shared with him, either. Plus, she needed someone’s help.

Just thinking about gathering up the wedding dress, the money and the gun and starting over with someone else was exhausting her. She glanced at the business card she’d set down on the desk when she’d picked up his gun. Someone had given her that card. Someone had sent her here. Fate? She didn’t know if she believed in fate or not, but she wanted very much to believe that she was the kind of woman who stayed the course.

Kit set the last bundle of bills on the desk, then sat down in his chair and smiled at her. “Have you decided whether or not to fire me, yet?”

5

S TARTLED, SHE SAID , “How did you—” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re some kind of psychic?”

Kit managed not to wince when she said the word as if it were some kind of disease. But the way she was looking at him now was a great deal safer than the way she’d looked at him a few moments ago. Safer for him. She’d been pale as a ghost and, for a moment, all he could think of was kissing her. She was a client, but reminding himself of that wasn’t doing a bit of good.

“Well, are you?” she asked.

“No. My aunt Cass would argue that my brothers and I have some latent psychic abilities that we’ve inherited from my mother’s side of the family, but my sister, Philly, is the only one who really has a true gift.”

Now she was staring at him as if he was a smear some lab tech was about to shove under a microscope. In pure self-defense, he summoned up the dimples. “Sugar, I don’t have to be a psychic to read what you’re thinking. You have the most expressive face and eyes I’ve ever seen.”

At her skeptical glance, he continued. “For example, a few minutes ago you wanted me to kiss you. Then you started to worry about that. You glanced more than once at that twenty-dollar bill.” He raised his hands, palms out. “My conclusion—you’re having second thoughts about hiring me. No psychic powers required.”

He saw the flash of temper in her eyes. “Well, if I’m so transparent, then you already know whether I’ve decided to fire you or not.”

“Touché.” As he threw back his head and laughed, Kit had the satisfaction of seeing the corners of her mouth twitch. He hadn’t seen her smile yet, and he wanted to. Very much. He wanted other things from her, too. If she hadn’t pulled back from him, he would have kissed her a few minutes ago. He’d very nearly kissed her even after she’d pulled away, but he wasn’t sure he could have stopped with just a taste of her.

Truth be told, the strength of his attraction to her made him nervous. And cautious. Women had made him cautious before. But nervous? Never. A smart man would keep their relationship strictly business for the time being. Kit had always thought of himself as a smart man.

“Since you haven’t taken your retainer back, I’ll give you my first report. Usually, I type them up, but under the circumstances, I’ll deliver it verbally—if that’s all right?”

“That will be fine.”

She was sitting there with her hands folded on her lap, as prim as a nun. But there were passions simmering beneath that cool exterior. Kit reined his thoughts in and focused on what he’d deduced so far.

“Counting the twenty you gave me for a retainer, there’s a cool twenty thousand here.” He gestured toward the stacks of bills.

Her already straight spine stiffened. “Not a bad payoff for a hit of some kind.”

“Based on the way you handled my gun, I still don’t think you’re a professional killer.”

“I did shoot someone.”

He met her eyes steadily. “You might have acted in self-defense. And there are other possible scenarios. Perhaps you interrupted a hit.”

She blinked. “I never thought about that.”

He watched her consider that possibility, and he knew the minute that the headache hit her. Opening a drawer, he grabbed aspirin and a bottle of water and pushed them across the desk.

She shot him an accusing look as she reached for both.

Kit raised both hands, palms out. “Hey, you winced and your knuckles turned white. I’m a P.I. I make my living observing the details. And for what it’s worth—I don’t think you can force the memories. They’ll come when you’re ready.”

“You know something about memory loss, then?” she asked.

“I had to do some research for the last book I wrote.” Enough to know that it probably wasn’t merely the bump on her head that had triggered her amnesia. “But I’m no expert.” His glance dropped to the stains on her suit. Something had happened, something of a traumatic nature and she’d shot someone. That was what her mind was blocking. At least, that was the way he would have written it.

“Could I see your research?”

“Sure.” Then he shot a rueful glance around the office. “It might take me a while to locate it. In the meantime, why don’t you let me do my job? What we know for sure is that you’ve got a gun, no purse, a wedding dress, my business card and twenty thousand in cash. The serial number on the gun is being traced. You remember shooting at someone, you think it was a man. As a theory, we’ll assume you hit him because of the bloodstains on your suit.” He spread his hands on the desk. “That’s what we know for sure. Agreed?”

“Yes. So what do we do now?”

He pulled a notebook out of a drawer and opened it to a fresh page. “I want you to start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember, everything that’s happened since you regained consciousness in the taxi.”

She’d gone tense on him again, he noted. “Try closing your eyes and picturing what happened.”

“There isn’t much to tell.”

“Replay it in your mind like a video and don’t leave anything out.”

She did what he asked, and he jotted down notes in his own personal shorthand. For a while the sounds of traffic outside were muted by her voice and the movement of his pencil across the paper. When she finally finished, he set the pencil down and met her eyes.

“See?” she said. “There’s nothing.”

“On the contrary, I’ve learned a lot.”

“What?” She leaned forward a bit.

“Number one, you’re smart. In spite of everything that happened—the accident, the discovery that you couldn’t remember anything and that you had bloodstains on your suit—you acted in a calm and logical way. You searched for clues. You asked the taxi driver the right questions. Number two, you told me the story in a clear, straightforward way, revealing that your mind works logically. Three, you’re meticulous. If you recalled something, you went back and filled it in. And the way you described examining the dress bag and tote looking for clues tells me that you’d make a pretty good P.I.”

For the first time since she’d walked into the office, her lips curved in a full smile, and Kit felt his heart stutter. Swallowing hard, he continued, “Four, you have a very good eye for detail.” The way she described her short, belligerent taxi driver and the tall, skinny man who’d crashed into them had made the two men come vividly alive in his head—the gypsy and the scarecrow. “I’d say you’re some kind of an artist. A writer perhaps, or maybe a painter.”

She considered that, then said, “You’re being very kind. You’ve left out number five—I’m a coward. When I heard the siren, my first instinct was to run from the cops.”

“You’re not a coward. You’re cautious. You didn’t merely run away. You came here and hired me to find out what happened. I call that smart and brave.”

On impulse, he rose, circled the desk and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“You said you trusted me, remember?”

She put her hand in his and he drew her to the door that opened into a small bathroom. Gripping her shoulders, he turned her toward the mirror over the sink.

“What do you see?”

She looked intently at the image of herself. He saw hope bloom and then fade in her eyes. “I see a stranger.”

“Look harder.”

Her chin lifted. “Okay. I see a woman—blond hair, green eyes. Short, about five…”

“I’d say five foot two.”

“She has pale skin, and she looks…scared and…fragile.”

“At first glance. But look at that chin.”

A tiny line appeared on her forehead as she studied her reflection. Then he saw a smile flicker at the corners of her mouth. “Okay. Maybe not so fragile.”

“Does the woman in the mirror look like a cold-blooded murderer to you?” Kit asked.

“No. But…”

“But there could be circumstances under which she might fire a gun. I promise you two things—we’ll find out those circumstances and we’ll find out who you are. Okay?”

“Okay.” Her eyes met his in the mirror then, and Kit felt as if he’d been punched right in the gut. Too late, the warning bells rang in his mind, telling him it was a mistake to have brought her in here—an even bigger mistake to have touched her again. But even as those thoughts appeared, they vanished from his mind in favor of more tempting ones.

He pictured the two of them, limbs tangled, in a dark room on a narrow bed. He pictured them right here in the bathroom, her skirt pushed up, her legs wrapped around him. Desire—that he could understand and accept. But in the past, it had always been simple, never this urgent. And the pressure, the tiny ache around his heart—he’d never experienced anything like it before.

Her eyes had darkened, her lips had parted. He could see the pulse beating frantically at her throat. If he turned her around and kissed her, she wouldn’t resist. Perhaps if he had a taste of her, maybe if he felt that slender body pressed against his, just once, it would quench the fierce hunger growing in him.

And pigs fly, said a little voice at the back of his mind. But his body paid no attention to that voice. His hand was already sliding over her shoulder to her throat, where he’d imagined touching her earlier. Her skin was warmer than porcelain, soft as sin and so delicate that he could feel her pulse against his fingers. Desire sharpened into an ache. One taste. He had to have one.

Her eyes were still on his in the mirror when he said, “One kiss.”

“Yes.”

Kit turned her around and, before another thought could intrude, he pulled her up on her tiptoes and covered her mouth with his. The moment he did, he felt as if he’d ignited an explosive fuse. Sensations poured through him. He’d known she’d taste sweet—but her flavor reminded him of melting ice cream on a hot summer day. The kind you have to lick fast and hard. He’d thought he knew what that slender body would feel like pressed against his. But she was stronger and even more responsive than he’d imagined. He’d sensed the simmering passion beneath that cool, rather prim exterior. But actually experiencing it was undermining his already thin grip on his self-control.

He’d never been so aware of a woman before—the press of her nails through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, the quick catch of her breath when he nipped on her bottom lip, the soft press of her breasts against his chest. He wanted more.

It would be so easy to drop his hands down to her waist—to lift her onto the narrow counter and shove her skirt up. Whatever she was wearing beneath the suit, it wouldn’t prove much of a barrier. Before either of them could think, he could be inside of her. And that’s where he wanted to be. Inside of her. That’s where he needed to be.

As need clawed through him, Kit dragged himself free and took a quick step back. They were both breathing hard, and it wouldn’t have surprised him a bit if the expression on his face was as dazed as the one on hers. No one had ever made him feel like this. So desperate, so unsure of his control. So absolutely wonderful.

“What are we going to do about this?” she asked.

If grinning hadn’t been beyond his present capabilities, he was sure he would have. “I think we both know the answer to that. But unless you want it to happen right now, right here, we’re getting out of the bathroom.” Since he didn’t trust himself to touch her anywhere else, he placed his hand on the small of her back and urged her toward the client chairs. Then he circled behind his desk, putting it between them.

“We can’t—” she glanced back at the bathroom, then at him “—we can’t do that again.”

Now he did grin. “The one thing I can be certain of is that we’re going to kiss again. And more.”

“But it’s…crazy.”

“I agree.”

“We don’t even know each other. We don’t know who I am.”

“I’m with you there, too.”

She began to pace. “I don’t know if I feel this way about every man I meet. Or if it’s just you.”

He didn’t like the idea of her kissing other men any more than he’d liked the idea of her being a bride. “No one else has ever made me feel quite this way.”

“Oh.”

Yes—oh, thought Kit as he watched her return to the chair and sink into it.

“Then, surely, you’ll agree we can’t kiss again. At least, until you know that I’m not a killer or a thief.”

Because he wanted very much to go to her, he leaned back in his chair. “Sugar, I can’t give you any guarantees on that one. Number one, I don’t believe you’re either a killer or a thief. And I’m not sure it would make any difference if you were Lizzie Borden. I wanted to kiss you from the moment you walked in the office. And I still want to kiss you. I want to make love to you very slowly in a cool, dark room on a big soft bed.”

She didn’t say anything, but what he saw in her eyes made it almost impossible for him to stay seated behind his desk. This is not helping. Stick to business, Kit. “However, you are a client. And you’re paying me to help you. You have a right to complain if I don’t do that. So, for now, we’ll stick to that. How does that sound?”

She met his eyes and nodded.

“Good.” Picking up his pencil, he tapped it on his notepad and forced himself to focus. “In any case, it always comes back to the evidence. You walked in here with the wedding dress, a gun, the money and my card.” He reached for it and studied it. “I wonder where and how you came by it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Since I don’t leave these lying around town, someone had to give it to you. Perhaps a satisfied client. I do have a few of those. I could go through my files, toss out some names and see if anything clicks for you. But first let’s try this.” Reaching into his bottom drawer, he pulled out a phone book and began to leaf through it.

“You’re not going to just read off names from that, are you?”

Kit shot her a grin. “Have some faith. The taxi driver said he picked you up on Bellevue. You’re carrying a wedding dress in that bag, so I’m going to check for churches on that street.”

Her eyes brightened as she rose and came around the desk to peer over his shoulder. “I hadn’t thought of doing that.”

“That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks, sugar.” He flipped to the Yellow Pages and they began to scan the church listings together. They might have found it sooner if she hadn’t laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned just a little closer. Though her palm rested only lightly on him, heat radiated from that contact point.

He caught her scent just as he eliminated St. Alban’s Church. She smelled fresh like soap and water, and a man would have to get close to learn that. He was just past the Church of Latter Day Saints and moving on to St. Patrick’s when she reached around him and began to trace one finger down the column. Her arm brushed against his, and his gaze shifted to her hand. It was delicate-looking, the fingers long and slender. Perfect French manicure aside, her nails were short. She worked with her hands. He’d lay odds on it. And he wondered—no, he had to know what they would feel like moving over his skin.

Focus, he reminded himself. And he might have if he could have stopped breathing—or if she hadn’t chosen that moment to lean just a little bit closer. So close that if they both turned at the same time, his mouth would brush hers. The image filled his mind and he could no longer see the words on the page.

“Move your hand,” she said.

“Hmm?”

They turned at the same time, and their lips did indeed brush before each of them drew back a little. He didn’t have to wonder if she’d felt the same flash of heat that he had. He could see it in the darkening of her eyes, her parted lips and her quickened breathing.

“You need to…move your hand.”

He knew exactly where he wanted to move it, but he was a professional, Kit reminded himself. He reined his thoughts in from the little detour they were once more taking and glanced down to where her hand was nudging his.

“It’s blocking half the page.”

“Right.” That was when he saw the bracelet, and it instantly cleared the sensual fog out of his brain. He hadn’t noticed before, probably because it had been hidden beneath the sleeve of her suit. The bracelet was made of small, flat gold squares, four of which were engraved with letters. “What have we here?” Lifting her wrist, he spelled out the letters. “D-R-E-W. Drew.” He met her eyes. “Odds are it’s your name. Does it ring a bell?”

She stared down at the letters and repeated the word, testing it on her tongue. “Drew.” Something flickered in her mind. The sound of someone calling her that? “Drew, run! This way!” She tried to capture the memory, but it faded.

“You’ve remembered something else,” Kit said.

“I think someone was calling me that, telling me to run. The name seems…familiar. I just don’t—I can’t be positive.” She glanced down at the bracelet. If she remembered someone calling her that, and she was wearing a bracelet with that name engraved on it…logic told her that the name was hers. “Drew,” she said again. For a moment, as the word lingered in the air, she allowed herself to hope. Shouldn’t the simple sound bring more memories flooding back?

Seconds ticked by. Her hope dwindled.

“Nothing,” she finally said. “Nothing.”

“You’re wrong.” He was still holding her wrist, and with his free hand, he tipped her chin so that she had to meet his eyes. “It’s definitely something. I’m betting it’s your name. So that’s a start. From now on, that’s what I’ll call you, and you start to think of yourself as Drew. Soon you’ll have more. It’s all going to come back to you, Drew.”

There was something in the intent way he looked at her, in the sound of the name, her name, when he said it that made her want to believe him—to believe that he could make it all happen.

But it wasn’t merely his kindness that she wanted. She wanted more than anything else to kiss him again. When his lips had brushed against hers a moment ago, she’d felt the explosion of warmth right down to her toes. And it hadn’t been fair of him to plant that image of the dark room with the big soft bed in her mind. Hadn’t she decided that she would have to be the strong one? How could she kiss him again? How could she even let herself think of what it might be like to make love with him when she didn’t know anything about herself?

But she couldn’t think of anything else. Right now, all that seemed to matter was how fast the pulse at her wrist was racing against his thumb. Her heart was racing, too. And his mouth was so close.

She should move, pull away, but she’d lost the will to do so. He moved a finger over her bottom lip and she trembled.

“You’re so responsive. Watching you, I can’t stop thinking of what it will be like to be inside of you.”

“I…” Her mouth had suddenly gone so dry that words were sticking. Just as well, because what she wanted to tell him was that their thoughts were identical.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth and, for a moment, neither one spoke or moved. She wasn’t sure she could do either. She realized that he was leaving it up to her. There was a sweetness to him—an irresistible contrast to the danger she’d sensed in him from the beginning. A smart woman would draw back. And hadn’t he said she was a smart woman? Plus, she was logical. But there was nothing logical about what she was feeling—it was purely sensual. But he’d also said she was an artist. And they took risks, didn’t they?

She wasn’t sure quite how it had happened, but suddenly he was closer, his mouth just a breath away from hers. She wondered if she’d ever wanted anyone quite as much as she wanted Kit Angelis right now. Throwing caution to the wind, she pressed her mouth to his.

The moment she did, he took over the kiss, moving his mouth expertly over hers, parting her lips with his tongue. Yes, she thought. More. Whatever her reservations, there was absolutely nothing not to like about kissing Kit Angelis. Pleasure moved through her from each and every contact point—the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the arousing slide of his tongue. And there was such heat—glorious waves of it crashing through her until she was sure her bones were disintegrating. Tension, fear, all of her worries evaporated until she was aware of only this moment, this man.

Had anyone ever made her feel with such intensity before? If they had, surely, she wouldn’t have forgotten. One of his hands cupped the back of her neck, the other gripped her waist, but she felt as if he were touching her everywhere. She couldn’t wait until he actually did.

When he drew back, they were both breathing hard.

“Don’t stop,” she said.

“I won’t.” He moved a thumb over her bottom lip. “I can’t.”

“Neither can I.”

This time it was Kit who closed the distance between them and pressed his mouth once more to hers.

Here she is. Here she is. The words thrummed in his blood as her taste once more poured through him. The sweetness was still there, but beneath it was the darker nuance of a desire as desperate as his own. Dragging his mouth from hers, he sampled the skin at her throat. It was damp, salty and vibrating with the sound of his name.

His name. The sound of it on her lips sent an avalanche of feelings ripping through Kit. Needs sharpened to an ache in his center. He couldn’t get enough of her. He might never get enough. Hadn’t he known this would happen? Hadn’t he foreseen that she could strip him of control?

Even as the questions formed in his mind, her fingers dug into his shoulder and she wiggled on his lap trying to straddle him. Minds in tune, he lifted her off him and their fingers tangled, fumbled, as they sent her skirt sliding to the floor. The breath backed up in his lungs as he stared at the tiny scrap of white lace she wore beneath.

“Wait.” She would have climbed back onto his lap if he hadn’t pressed the palm of one hand flat against her stomach, trapping her between the chair he sat in and the desk. The soft dampness of her skin nearly distracted him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the thong. “I wondered what you were wearing under that skirt.”

He drew one finger of his other hand along the satin ribbon hugging her hip and then slowly down the triangle of lace to where it disappeared between her legs.

He fastened his gaze on her and watched those sea-green eyes darken and then glaze as he pushed aside the lace and eased two fingers into her. Wet heat enfolded him.

“Kit!”

She was so hot, so ready, but he kept his eyes on hers. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Please.”

He shifted the hand that he held pressed against her stomach, easing his thumb beneath the lace triangle until he found the little nub of her desire. He rubbed it hard as he pushed the two fingers of his other hand into her again.

She cried out his name again as her hips arched forward, and his control nearly snapped. But he wanted…no, he needed to give them both more. Gripping her hips, he settled her on the edge of the desk, then pushed her legs apart, knelt down on the floor and began to use his mouth on her.

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