And he’d come across two more partial photographs of the shadowy woman in black standing on the fringes of the goings-on. An interview with St. Louis P.I. Ripley Logan had yielded him a name: Nicole Bennett.
The same name on the hotel register for the room across from his.
He turned the corner of the second-floor hall. His room was halfway down the vomit-green corridor with its narrow wood doors and tarnished knob and lock plates. Room 107. He slid his key into the lock, then paused, the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He slid a glance over his shoulder at the peephole to Room 108. Nicole?
He pushed his door open and paused. Before he could question the wisdom of his actions, he walked across the hall and knocked on the door to Room 108, his gaze steadily on the peephole.
Silence.
Alex cocked a half grin. He knew she was there. Sensed it with every molecule.
He raised his hand to knock again, then heard the lock mechanism turn. And instantly found out exactly what it was like to encounter those coal-black eyes up close and personal.
Nicole Bennett swung the door open all the way, then leaned against the jamb and crossed her arms.
Alex felt like someone had just given him a sucker punch to the gut. There emanated such a sizzling current about her that he was distantly surprised he wasn’t suffering electrocution.
“You wanted something?” she asked, looking at him as intently as he was looking at her.
Alex’s grin grew. Oh, but she was slick. Very slick. You wouldn’t suspect that she was aware he was tailing her. But he knew. Knew by the way he hadn’t heard her step to the door—she must have been standing on the other side of it watching for him. And since he knew she’d already seen him on the street, well, he had plenty of evidence that proved she wasn’t that dumb.
He allowed his gaze to drop to the deep vee of her black leather vest. She had a knockout figure. Not that you could tell by the loose leather coat she’d worn up until a few weeks ago when the warm weather had forbidden it. He appreciated the subtle muscle tone of her arms, and the way her breasts pressed together, offering up a virtual buffet of sweet flesh that made his mouth water.
“Yes,” he said, raising his gaze back to her face to find her cheeks touched with the slightest color.
“Hi, I’m Alex.” He waited for her to offer an introduction of herself, but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t. “I’m across the hall.” He tried looking into her room, as if he hadn’t been in it two minutes after she had left that morning. “Did housekeeping bring you towels? Because I—”
She stepped from the door to the tiny bathroom to her right and grabbed a dingy gray, threadbare towel. She handed it to him.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” She closed the door, then slid the lock home.
Alex stood for long moments grinning at his feet. There hadn’t been the sound of her moving away from the door, which meant that she was probably looking at him again from the peephole. He decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to give a little salute as he crossed back to the other side of the hall.
Interesting. He let himself into his room. She had not only come back to the hotel, but didn’t seem fazed in the least by the knowledge that he was tailing her. Or she wasn’t entirely certain and was trying to force his hand. Either way, he gave her a lot of credit. Never in his career had he met a woman so sure of herself.
And so totally hot.
Maybe this wasn’t over yet.
2
ALEX.
Mmm…
Nicole stood on the fringes of the party, her short, sleek socialite blond wig in place—nothing too flashy or too trendy—her black dress clingy yet elegant. Her second favorite quote after Bette Davis’s memorable words were “Lead me not into temptation; I can find the way myself,” written by author Rita Mae Brown. And if Alex was anything, he was one hundred percent pure temptation. And like it or not, she was definitely leading herself into it…and to him.
She twisted her lips and scanned the gathering of a hundred and fifty people looking for anyone that might appear out of place. A little voice told her that the instant she’d made her tail, she should have been in a taxi straight to the airport. Forget the boardinghouse. Forget the job. Forget everything but losing Alex. She accepted a champagne flute from a passing waiter with a small, close-lipped smile, then watched him move on, unwittingly comparing him to the man who was occupying far too much of her thoughts.
Alex.
At over six feet, he was tall enough to put him squarely in the danger category when it came to her and her attraction to tall men. His hair was nearly as dark as hers, brown and silky and enticingly touchable. His eyes were an opaque green and seemed to crackle with a knowing, a sexual energy that made her mouth water just looking at him. But it was his lips—full and captivating—that made her nipples tighten and her thighs vibrate.
Okay, so he was attractive. To the point of distraction. Which was exactly the reason she should never have gone back to the hotel. Especially since his very essence seemed to scream “cop.” Hadn’t she had enough problems in her love life lately without adding a sex god of a cop to the mix?
She wrinkled her nose and lifted her glass to toast an elderly gentleman eyeing her favorably from across the room. A good six hours had passed since she’d first spotted Alex, then watched him unlock the door across the hall. Of course, she’d had no idea he would turn and look right at her through the peephole, then be even bolder yet by knocking on her door and asking about housekeeping when he hadn’t even walked fully into his room first. But at least her suspicions had been confirmed.
She pretended to sip the sparkling wine. Definitely Dom Perignon. The Theismans of the Baltimore Theismans, the multimillion-dollar hosts of tonight’s little soiree, knew how to throw a party. Nothing but the best, especially for the first-year wedding anniversary of the mismatched couple standing near the fireplace mantel. Nicole slightly craned her neck, judging Mrs. Theisman to be closer to twenty than she was thirty, and Mr. Theisman, head of Theisman Telecommunications, pushing closer to seventy. She idly wondered what place number this particular trophy wife held. Two? No. More than likely three. Or possibly even four.
Nicole politely nodded at a woman who came to stand near her.
“Lovely couple, aren’t they?” the guest commented.
Nicole hiked a brow. “Lovely” wasn’t a word she’d use to describe the twosome. Revolting hit closer to home. “Aren’t they just?” she said before discreetly moving away.
She shifted her weight from one expensive pump to the other. Who was she to criticize? If she judged the men she dated more on character than looks, maybe she wouldn’t run into the problems she did. Perhaps if she expanded her criteria beyond tall, gorgeous and built like a linebacker, she wouldn’t have to worry about waking up one morning and finding the guy had come across her stolen Tiffany jewelry and called the cops on her.
A waitress drifted by her from the opposite direction. Nicole squinted at her neck where the top of a black tattoo peeked from her starched white shirt. If her calculations were correct, the thieves were going to strike tonight, taking full advantage of the hubbub created by the party, when the house’s security system would be on low alert and it would be easy for the thieves to move among the guests. They would also probably fall back on the tried and true method of posing as temporary catering staff in order to do it. Not difficult considering the young Mrs. Theisman had chosen a new caterer with a transient, unbonded staff instead of going with the long-established company her peers used. No doubt attempting to make her mark as a stylish hostess. Instead she’d set herself up as an easy target.
Nicole’s gaze went to the sweeping staircase to her left. She’d gotten wind of the heist the day before Sebastian had elected himself her latest ex.