Tori Carrington - Private Investigations

“THIS IS THE CHART showing our fiscal growth over the past three years during our contract with your competitor.”

Joe sat in the cramped Shoes Plus conference room with the great view of the Mississippi that no one was looking at, trying like hell to concentrate on what the company sales rep was saying. If only the peaks and valleys on the graph didn’t remind him of a certain someone’s peaks and valleys, he’d probably be having an easier time of it. Unfortunately, the distractedness he’d noticed yesterday, even before one certifiably insane Ripley Logan had thought about climbing into his bed, was doubly worse today. He pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced at his expensively produced graph showing his projections for the next two years if Shoes Plus decided to contract with his company. But he couldn’t seem to summon up the energy to do as he planned, which was to use his graph to cover the one the rep was droning on about.

No, he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Call him an idiot, but he hadn’t called the police. He hadn’t been able to do anything more than lie on that uncomfortable, scratchy couch not even trusting himself to go into the bedroom to get the spare linens from the closet. Instead he’d tossed and turned on the narrow sofa, fallen off the sucker no fewer than two times and spent a perfectly miserable night fantasizing what would have happened had he been able to convince the delectable Miss Logan to finish what she had so skillfully started earlier in the night.

Finally, the sales rep put down his pointer and wrapped up his spiel. Ten sets of eyes turned in Joe’s direction in unison. He blinked at them, having completely forgotten where he was.

He discreetly cleared his throat, then smiled. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute…”

He pushed from his chair and stepped from the room, closing the door against the open mouths that followed his progress. He pulled out his cell phone and moved toward the farthest corner of the waiting area, nodding at a woman waiting there. He punched a number, asked to be put through to someone, then waited. And waited. He waited for a full eight rings before a decidedly sleepy, infinitely sexy voice answered.

“What are you doing answering the phone?” he asked in a fake chastising voice.

He heard a soft gasp, then sheets rustle. “Who is this?” Ripley finally responded.

“Who do you think it is?” Joe turned away from the woman watching him curiously. “The guy you threw out of his own bed this morning.”

“Joe?”

“Unless there’s someone else you evicted from their room.”

“Where are you?”

He glanced toward the closed door to the conference room. He was supposed to be working. “In a meeting.”

A long, protracted yawn. “I didn’t even hear you leave.”

Which was a wonder, because he’d gone out of his way to make as much noise as possible two hours ago, slamming doors, opening and closing drawers, after the sounds he’d made showering and getting ready hadn’t broken the rhythm of her soft snoring. He’d come out of the bathroom with her smack dab in the same position he’d left her in the night before.

“Isn’t sleeping so soundly a job hazard?” he asked. “Especially after what happened last night?”

A pause. “I wasn’t in any danger after I got to your room.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because…because, well, I have a sixth sense about these things, that’s why.”

“Ah, something else you learned from the private investigator’s handbook?”

A soft laugh. Joe found himself smiling.

“Is there something in particular you wanted, Mr. Pruitt, or did you just call to annoy me?”

Joe realized that there really hadn’t been a reason for his call beyond seeing if she was still there. And his relief that she was proved a little off-putting. He thought of the display case on the conference table in the other room and asked if Ripley saw it around the hotel room anywhere. She told him to hang on and he waited while she looked.

He supposed he should tell her that he’d spotted the guy left behind in her room leaving at the same time he did. In fact, he’d shared an elevator with him. But that might mean she’d leave the minute they hung up.

Joe glanced at his watch and called himself a moron. A moment later she was back on the line. “Nope. Nothing of that description around here.”

“Damn. I must have left it in the car,” he said.

“Is that all?”

He grimaced, drawing a blank for other reasons to keep her on the line. Well, aside from the guy. “Yep. That’s it.”

“Okay. Well, bye then.”

“Yes, bye—wait.”

He was afraid she’d hung up, then she sighed and mumbled a distracted, “What?”

“Don’t answer the phone again. You, um, never know who might be calling.”

“I thought you said you weren’t married.”

“I didn’t say I was a monk.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Joe disconnected the line, waited a heartbeat, then pressed redial. As expected, Ripley picked up on the first ring.

“I thought I asked you not to pick up the phone.”

“Well, then, quit calling me.”

Joe disconnected again and chuckled as he headed to the conference room, ready to face the suits in there.

RIPLEY REACHED OVER to replace the receiver on the nightstand, then collapsed against the pillows, smiling. And he thought she was weird. What kind of person called to tell her not to answer the phone, then called back and checked to see if she would? She stretched. The kind of guy with a sense of humor, that’s what.

She settled her head more comfortably against the pillows. How long had it been since she’d dated someone with a sense of humor? A while. Maybe never, even. At least not a guy with the same wicked, inventive sense of humor Joe had. Of course, she and Joe weren’t dating. They’d just slept together. In the same hotel room.

She pushed up to her elbows. A hotel room she should be at least thinking about getting out of.

She caught a glimpse of a note next to the phone and reached over to pluck it up.

“Call the police,” was written in large block letters. It was signed, “Joe.”

She put the paper down and glanced at the clock then leaped off the bed. Was it really nine-thirty already? She’d meant to get up early and try to follow the third guy when he left her room. Assuming, of course, that he had left her room.

She crossed to the wall and pressed her ear against it, although common sense told her one person waiting for another to return probably wouldn’t make all that much noise. She sighed then eyed the phone. A person waiting for another probably wouldn’t answer the phone in that room, either.

She placed an order for room service to deliver to her room. As soon as she broke the connection, she rushed into the bathroom for a quick shower, only after toweling off realizing she didn’t have anything to wear. She stood in the doorway to the bedroom and eyed the drawers. Well, she’d already borrowed the guy’s bed. A pair of underwear wouldn’t be completely out of line, would it? She put Joe’s shirt on, fished a pair of those clingy cotton boxers out of the top drawer, then a pair of socks from the next. Not exactly the epitome of fashion, but it would do. Then she hurried to the door to stand watch for room service, wishing she had thought to have something sent to Joe’s room when her stomach growled.

Five minutes later she watched the elevator open and a white uniformed guy roll a cart in the direction of her room. She followed it as far as the peephole would allow, then with the security block securely in place, cracked the door open so she could listen.

A brief, determined knock next door. “Room service.”