She looked like the prototype for a tall, cool sip of blond elegance. She was pale and slim—skinny, he told himself—with blue eyes and classic features marred by a nose too assertive for its setting. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a kind of a roll at the back, very sleek and polished. The cut of her suit was conservative, too, if you ignored where the hemline hit.
And the color. Which was echoed in the siren-red gloss she’d sleeked over a cute little rosebud mouth.
Her story might be crazy, but her voice was worth listening to, even if it did tug at memories he’d prefer stayed safely buried.
She didn’t really look like his ex-wife. Bianca had been a blonde, too, but the color had been courtesy of Clairol, not nature. Not that he knew for a fact Claudia Barone’s sunny shade hadn’t come from a bottle, too. There was one sure way to find out…. Don’t go there, he told himself, even as his body enthusiastically endorsed the proposed investigation.
But she sure sounded like Bianca. That smoky alto was uncannily familiar, though that had to be sheer coincidence. The Contis and the Barones were no more related than the Hatfields and McCoys had been, and for similar reasons. Her accent was the same as Bianca’s, too, but that was no fluke. Upper-class Boston was Miss Claudia Barone’s natural habitat.
Unlike the office of a thoroughly working-class detective. Ethan steepled his fingers on the desk and smiled at her blandly. “How can you call the article ‘A Day in the Life of a Private Investigator’ if you’re planning to follow me around for a week?”
“Oh, it will be a composite day.” She waved that away. “Not a literal day. That would actually be deceptive, wouldn’t it? Any given day might not be typical at all. It’s much more accurate to pick and choose parts from several days.”
“Then you should call it ‘A Typical Day.’ Or ‘An Average Day.”’
“Perhaps you’re right.” She turned the wattage up on her smile. “Whatever I call the article, it will be great publicity for your agency. Free publicity. And I won’t be any bother, truly. What do you say?”
“Free publicity is usually welcome. The only problem I can see is that you aren’t a reporter.”
She didn’t even blink. “What makes you say that?”
Maybe it was her casual attitude toward her own lies that made him decide to do it. Or that perverse sense of humor his uncle had warned him about. Or maybe it was those legs—those mile-long, silk-clad legs she’d been showing off ever since she sat down. “First, there’s your shoes.”
“My shoes?” She looked down as if checking that the red-leather pumps were still there. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“Not a thing. Except that no one on a reporter’s salary can afford custom-made Italian shoes. The coat looks too expensive, too.”
“Well, damn.” The mild epithet came out sounding quite ladylike. “I spent three hours shopping for this suit yesterday at a couple of those chain stores that pop up like mushrooms at all the malls. I wanted something with a touch of class, even if it had to be modestly priced to suit the image. Why should being a reporter mean one lacks taste?” She paused expectantly.
“No reason, I suppose,” he said, fascinated. She had to be a natural blonde. She sounded blond.
“That’s what I thought. Stacy wanted me to wear this shapeless pants suit in a dreary shade of brown. Of course,” she added with the tone of one wanting to be fair, “she can wear earth colors. They turn my complexion muddy. But the style was impossible.” She glanced down at her suit with some satisfaction. “I found this on sale for eighty-seven dollars. Can you believe that? But I do so dislike off-the-rack shoes. They always rub or pinch somewhere, especially when they’re new. And I didn’t think you’d know enough about women’s shoes to spot the difference.”
“Because I’m not from your background?” His voice took on an edge.
She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re a man. Men never know the least thing about women’s clothing, not unless they—” Now she blinked, startled. “You aren’t, are you? Inclined toward women’s clothing yourself, I mean.”
“Good God. No.”
This time her smile crinkled up the corners of her eyes. It looked more natural that way. “I must say, I’m pleased to hear that. Though I shouldn’t be. It’s none of my business, but one learns so little if one is overly concerned about that sort of thing, don’t you find?”
It was time to get rid of her, before he became too fascinated by the prospect of what absurd thing she’d say next. His uncle had also warned about Ethan’s tendency to let his fascination with people distract him. Ethan shoved his chair back and stood. “You didn’t have to pretend to be a reporter, you know.”
“No?” She watched curiously as he rounded his desk. “Does that mean you’ll let me be part of your investigation?”
When frogs fly. “It means that a lot of women find P.I.s…appealing.” He loaded the words with innuendo and let himself enjoy a leisurely visual journey over her body. Small, high breasts…slim waist…smooth hips…and those drool-worthy legs. Pity he had to chase them, and the rest of that enticing package, back out the door. “Not many are as gorgeous as you are, though.”
With that, he bent and clamped his hands on the arms of her chair, penning her in. At last her eyes turned wary. “You’ve misunderstood.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” He leaned in closer. Her breasts were rising and falling a little too fast beneath the red wool jacket. He turned his smile into a smirk. “I’m flattered. I’m sure we can work out a way to get better acquainted.”
Up close, her eyes looked different. The irises were summer-sky blue, but they had a darker ring around the outside that was almost green. His gaze dipped to her red, red lips. She licked them. His heartbeat jacked way up.
Something stabbed down on the arch of his left foot. Hard. He yelped and straightened. Why, that little—! She’d stomped on his foot with the heel of one of those wicked red shoes.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said sternly. “Sexual intimidation is not playing nice.”
“Playing nice?” He snorted. “What about that thing you kept doing with your legs? And the way you licked your lips just now?”
Guilt flashed across her face, but she tilted her chin up. “That wasn’t intimidation.”
“No, that’s not the word I’d use for it.” He propped his hip against his desk, crossed his arms and scowled at her. He’d try plain old intimidation this time. A man his size usually didn’t have any trouble pulling that off. “Unless you plan on following through with what you were offering, I’d say it’s time for you to leave.”
She didn’t budge. “I think you knew who I was all along.”
“Of course I did. I’m investigating the fire at the Baronessa plant. I’ve got a newspaper photo of you in my file.”
“But I don’t have anything to do with the plant or the company.”
“You’re a Barone, and I’m a thorough kind of a guy.” And she’d had her face in the paper often enough—the society pages, of course.
She leaned forward. The neckline of her suit gapped enough to give him a glimpse of cleavage. “Listen, that fire was— Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She glanced at where he was looking and straightened. “I know you think of sex seven times a minute or something like that. You can’t help it, being a man. But could you please try to pay attention? This is important.”
“I can pay attention and look down your top at the same time,” he assured her. “Being a man, I’m used to that kind of multitasking.”
She chuckled. It was low and husky and caught him by surprise. “Your point,” she