The Professional (9 page)

Still chuckling, she shook her head and wiped her eyes. “Ah, wow. I needed that,” she said. Poetic justice.

He shrugged a mouthwatering shoulder, his expression droll. “I live to entertain.”

“It’s good to have goals.”

Seemingly weary, he dropped onto her couch and started loosening his tie. It was such a man thing to do, she found herself momentarily dumbstruck.

“Are you going to tell me what that was or not?”

Have a seat, Jeb. Make yourself at home, Jeb.
Take off your shirt, Jeb
. Wait, no… She gave herself a shake. It was then that she noticed the state of him. His coat was covered with dirt and debris and tiny tears rent his shirt. Blood oozed through the linen from a couple of cuts on his chest and visible gashes marred his hands.

She frowned, seized with the irrational urge to nurse those minor injuries. “What happened to you?”

“Fence number two. Stupid me, I left my night-vision goggles at home.” He lifted his hand, inspected the damage, then grimaced as though it didn’t signify. “It’s nothing. The noise?” he prodded.

“It was Heathcliffe, one of my peacocks.” She arched a brow. “You’ve never heard one cry before?”

The corner of his sulky mouth twitched with a grin and he cut a look at her with that bright blue gaze. “Obviously not.”

“It takes some getting used to.”

He snorted. “It’s creepy as hell.”

That, too, but she’d grown to like it. She snagged her ice cream from the table and settled into her chair. “Your tux is ruined.”

He laughed softly, watched her spoon a bite of ice cream into her mouth. “So is my pride, but I’ll recover.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I don’t want anything to drink, thanks.”

She smiled unrepentantly. “I’m only polite to invited guests.”

He tsked. “What would Emily Post have to say about that?”

“Nothing I’d care to hear, I’m sure. Please tell me what you’re doing here.”

He sighed softly, the sound seasoned with dread, then he looked up at her, that bright blue gaze pinning her once more. “Were you looking for me when you came back to the ball?”

Sophie opened her mouth, closed it. What an odd question. Why would he want to know that? What difference did it make to anything? She licked her lips. “I… Does it matter?”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his hands dangling between them. He studied her carpet, then gave a little resigned laugh, as though the answer surprised him. “It does.”

She couldn’t imagine why, but rather than dance around half-truths and lies, it was time for a little honesty. She’d give it with the hope that he’d reciprocate. She released a small breath. “I was,” she admitted. “I’d told you that I would come back, and I happen to appreciate that old antiquated notion that people should do what they say they will. But by the time I’d gotten back, you’d already left.” She purposely avoided looking at him, swirling the melted ice cream around the bottom of her bowl. “So I left, too.”

“But why did you leave to start with?” he asked. “Why did you go to Marjorie’s office?”

Oh, no. She’d answered a question. Now it was his turn. She set her bowl aside, then looked up. “Why have you been following me? Either you tell me or you leave. The choice is yours.”

“It’s part of my job,” he said.

She felt her forehead wrinkle and renewed fear washed through her. “You’re being paid to follow me? Who hired you?” Surely to God her father hadn’t— Or her mother— But why? What could they possibly want? Beyond making her miserable? She absently rubbed her arm, struggling to control the irrational panic. She was an adult. She was protected. She didn’t have to be afraid. She could take care of herself, dammit.

Evidently something in her expression caught his attention. Concern lined his otherwise smooth brow, reflected almost tenderly in his gaze. “Sophie? Are you all right? Nobody hired me to follow you, specifically,” he said, still staring at her. “You just got swept up in the net of my investigation, that’s all.”

Swept up in the net? His investigation? What did that mean? She nodded, the rush of adrenaline spent, making her insides tremble. Geez. She couldn’t take much more of this.

“Right,” she said, trying to sort it out amid the mess in her head. “But you obviously suspect me of something, or you wouldn’t have been following me, you wouldn’t have danced with me, and you wouldn’t have come over my fence,” she persisted. She arched a brow and might have whimpered. “Could you please just stop talking in cryptic circles and tell me what’s going on?”

He released a heavy breath. “Okay, let’s get something straight. I haven’t
followed
you anywhere until tonight, after I caught
you
skulking around Marjorie’s office. Up to that point, I have been conducting an investigation, which like it or not, you’ve been a part of. Because I don’t think you’re the person I’m looking for and because you are so well-liked and trusted in the village, I’d planned on asking for your help. Tonight. At the Fall Ball. Then you left and didn’t come back and you broke into Marjorie’s office and, well—” He laughed darkly. “—for obvious reasons, that sort of changed things.”

“If by ‘changed things,’ you mean ‘moved to the top of your list,’ right?” Wonderful. Just brilliant. Several things suddenly clicked into place. “Listen, I know damned well that you aren’t who you say you are—Foy doesn’t have any children, so a grandson is pretty much out of the question. You’ve spent more time wandering around the village, visiting with other people than you have spent with your so-called grandfather, so it’s obvious to me that you are investigating something or someone related to Twilight Acres. Here’s a thought,” she said, sarcasm rising right along with her temper. “Why don’t you just ask me if I’ve done what you think I’ve done? Just ask me, Sherlock, and I’ll tell you the truth. I won’t lie.”

He shrugged, then shot her a sardonic grin. “That simple, eh?”

“You’re the one making it complicated.”

“How am I supposed to know whether or not you’re lying?”

She lifted her chin. “If you were following me so that you could eliminate me as a suspect and then ask for my help, then you’re already half-convinced that I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

His gaze searched hers and that Petri dish sensation commenced again. She resisted the urge to squirm beneath that probing stare, that singularly intense, unwavering regard.

“Tell you what,” she said. “In a show of good faith, I will tell you what I was doing in Marjorie’s office first, then you can decide whether or not you want my help.”

He blinked, seemingly surprised. “That’s…generous. You had me on the ropes. Why are you backing down?”

She chuckled low. “Oh, I’m not backing down. I’m showing mercy. Sometimes that takes more courage, wouldn’t you say?”

Jeb grinned, the dimple appearing in his cheek. Seemingly impressed, his gaze drifted across her mouth, making her lips tingle. “All right. Show me what you’ve got, badass.”

Mercy
. If he looked at her again like that, more than her lips were going to be tingling.

Time to put up or shut up. She released a slow breath. “Over the past couple of years, several of our residents have supposedly misplaced some of their valuable items. Four, that I’m aware of. Losing things is common enough among the residents of Twilight Acres. It comes with the territory.” She hesitated, bit her lip. “But losing stuff from their
safes
isn’t. Two of the four who have supposedly ‘lost’ their valuables had them go missing from their in-home safes. I believe someone is stealing from them, taking advantage of them,” she said, her voice hardening with anger. “And I want to know who.”

A slow grin had begun to spread across Jeb’s face—which he tried unsuccessfully to smooth away with his hand—and his eyes twinkled with knowing humor. Almost like she’d confirmed a suspicion.

Sophie paused, lifted a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said lightly. “Please continue.”

Why did she get the sensation that he knew as much or more about this than she did? She shot him a wary look. “These safes were installed when the complex was built and new codes are programmed when a new resident moves in.”

His smile faded and he leaned forward. “Who has access to the codes?”

“Other than the resident, only Marjorie.”

“I see.”

No doubt he did. “Personally, I don’t think Marjorie is guilty of anything—she’s utterly devoted to the residents and the village.”

That blue gaze sharpened. “Then why did you break into her office?”

“Because I wanted to see how accessible the codes were, to see if perhaps someone could have looked at them without her knowledge.”

“You’re a whole helluva lot better at this than I am,” he muttered grimly.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Go on. Did you find anything?”

She winced, shook her head. “Not the codes, anyway, which was what I was looking for. Her computer is password protected and there’s one locked drawer in the bottom of her desk, which I couldn’t get open. It’s possible that the code file is in there, but I doubt it. In all probability, it’s on the computer, but the likelihood of someone knowing her password is slim to none.” Boo leapt into her lap and she stroked his silky fur. “She keeps good records though,” Sophie added. “She’s got detailed files on everyone.”

He made a moue of agreement. “That could come in handy.”

“That’s what you’re doing here, isn’t it?” she asked, wondering why it had taken her so long to put it together. “You’re investigating the thefts.”

He nodded, gave his head a small wondering shake. “I am. Rather poorly, it would seem.” He passed a hand over his face. “Geez.”

“Ah, I doubt that,” Sophie told him, eying him consideringly. “You’d never tolerate a poor performance, most especially out of yourself.”

He glanced up, a hint of surprise lighting his gaze. He studied her again, his eyes narrowing slightly in bewilderment, as though he was not only interested in trying to figure out what was going on in her head, but that it was somehow imperative. Necessary. “What makes you so sure?”

She lifted her shoulder, didn’t just meet his gaze, but held it. “Intuition. I’m good at reading people.”

A beat slid to three. “I’ve been told I’m not easily read.”

Ah. So that was it.
She
was getting into
his
head and he wasn’t used to it. For whatever reason, that little bit of insight settled warmly around her heart. She hummed under her breath. “Perhaps the person who told you that didn’t speak the right language.”

There, Sophie thought. Chew on that.

8

“S
O
,
AM
I still at the top of your list?” Sophie asked, absently stroking the cat sprawled across her lap.

He envied that cat.

Jeb swallowed a sigh, suddenly exhausted, still disturbed by her speak-the-right-language comment. What did she mean? That he’d just never met anyone capable of understanding him? That couldn’t be right, because even Judd couldn’t always get a bead on him. Granted it was rare, but it did happen. He winced, remembering his phone, and made a mental note to call first thing in the morning to get a replacement.

Was she still at the top of his list? she wanted to know. She, of the double fence and sexy dress and melting eyes and hot mouth.

“No, not that one, anyway,” he said, resting his head against the back of her couch. She’d never truly been there to start with, but now didn’t seem like the time to tell her that. Her house smelled like cinnamon and yeast and a low fire burned on the hearth, crackling merrily.

“Oh? There’s more than one list?”

“You’ve been officially moved to the top of my pain-in-the-ass list, but you are no longer the prime suspect in my investigation.” Eyes closed, he laughed softly. “Happy now?”

“I was the prime suspect? Really?” she asked disbelievingly. “Why?”

“Because in the preliminary search, one of our agents found a complaint about you in an online review of the community. The reviewer accused you of taking a piece of jewelry from a resident.”

She inhaled sharply.

He turned his head and cracked one eye open. “You don’t ever Google yourself?” He winced. Shit, that sounded dirty. “I didn’t mean… Er…”

Her ripe mouth curled into a wide grin and her eyes twinkled with humor. “My grandmother would threaten to wash your mouth out with soap.”

“You know what I mean,” he said.

“I do,” she admitted. “And no, I have never Googled myself,” she said, giggling. Her face fell. “But clearly that is something that I need to start doing if there are slanderous allegations against me being reported in cyber space.”

“They didn’t say that you’d
stolen
it, only that you’d
taken
it,” he pointed out.

Her shrewd gaze narrowed. “Ah. Accepted it, you mean?” She sighed. “Well, in that case, I am guilty. Cora gave me a cameo pendant. It had been a gift from her husband, one he’d bought her during their honeymoon in Rome. I suspected that her family didn’t like it, but since it wasn’t theirs and Cora wanted me to have it, I couldn’t refuse.”

Jeb smiled. “I can see where that would have been difficult. She doesn’t seem like the type to take no for an answer.”

She snorted. “I’ll say. How the hell do you think I ended up in this dress?”

Jeb let his gaze drift slowly over the dress in question and, by default, the body beneath it. Naturally, his own body reacted accordingly. Heat flooded his groin and his fingers itched to touch her. “I can’t fault her for that, I’m afraid. You look beautiful.”

He could see the pulse hammering in her throat from where he sat, watched her gulp, her gaze sliding along his thigh. “Thank you,” she murmured. A frown suddenly marred her brow and she winced, then nudged the cat off her lap and stood. “I’d better put some antiseptic on that,” she said, nodding at his fingers.

He shook his head. “Nah. Don’t trouble yourself. I’m fine.” He’d had much worse.
Much
, much worse, as a matter of fact, but was touched that she seemed so concerned. He wasn’t used to having anyone make a fuss over him—anyone except his mother, of course—and it felt odd…but nice.

“It’s no trouble,” she said, heading toward the door. Just as she would have went through, she grabbed the jamb, stopped short, wheeled around and looked at him. A sheepish smile tugged at her lips. “Can I get you something to drink, Jeb?”

He grinned, chewed the inside of his cheek. So he’d been upgraded to guest status then? Sweet. “Do you have any liquor?”

“Johnny Walker.”

He lifted a brow. Annie Oakley knew her scotch. “Red?”

She nodded haltingly. “I’ve got Red. I’ve also got Blue.”

He whistled low, pleasantly astonished. Blue was as legendary as rare. “You’re willing to waste your good scotch on a trespasser?”

She lifted her chin. “I’m willing to
share
my good scotch with a partner.”

“You’ll help me then?” He’d assumed that she would since she’d already taken it upon herself to look into the thefts, but he hadn’t officially asked her yet.

“In any way I can,” she told him, determination ringing in her tone. “This person isn’t just taking a piece of jewelry, they’re taking a memory. Lila’s father had given her that necklace for her coming-out party. She’s heartbroken that it’s gone and she suspects her daughter, which has undoubtedly caused resentment.”

“Do you think the daughter took it?”

Sophie considered the question before responding, which he liked. “I don’t know. Lila said Monica had only been concerned with the monetary value of the piece, but that it had been insured.” Her brow puckered. “She never said if Monica knew the necklace was insured.”

“That’s something we’re going to need to know.”

“I can ask her.”

Jeb grinned at her. “I’m counting it on it.”

She returned his smile, then disappeared into the other room. While she was gone, he put a few more logs on the fire, pleased when the timber took flame. He liked that she’d opted for a working fireplace instead of gas. Gas might be more user-friendly, but there was nothing so satisfying as the scent and sound of a real blaze.

A cursory glance around her living room revealed a good deal about his new “partner.” She had a keen eye for good electronics, comfortable furniture—some of it repurposed, like the antique traveling trunk that doubled as her coffee table—and vintage prints. Some he recognized—the Parrish’s, for instance—but others he couldn’t place.

A handmade quilt lay folded over the back of the couch, suggesting she spent a lot of time curled up with a blanket, and a stack of books rested on the end table. Everything from the classics to current popular fiction. He browsed her DVD collection and felt his lips twitch. A fellow Dr. Who fan.

A fellow Dr. Who fan with a double fence around her place, who’d looked momentarily terrified when she thought he’d been paid to follow her, almost as if he would have done her harm. And she knew her way around a rifle. He’d also noticed that she’d absently rubbed her arm, or more specifically the five inch scar on the inside of it. Up until this point she’d been wearing long sleeves, so he hadn’t caught a glimpse of it until tonight. It was faded, which indicated she’d had it awhile and it would have hurt. The unconscious reaction coupled with the fear told him that it hadn’t been an accident—it had been deliberate—and she was terrified of the person who’d given it to her.

The urge to protect had been plaguing him since he’d met her, but it was a living, breathing thing inside him now. He wanted to pummel the hell out of whoever had hurt her. He wanted to make them afraid. He wanted to pay them back in kind for what they’d put her through.

Though he desperately wanted to probe her about it, to ask more questions, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Some pains were too difficult to share, a fact he knew all too well himself. Some burdens weren’t lifted with a conversation, they were lanced, like a boil.

He couldn’t ask that of her. Wouldn’t.

She returned to the living room then, the first aid kit under one arm, the whiskey beneath the other, and a pair of crystal tumblers in her hands.

He hurried forward. “Here, let me help you with that,” he said, rescuing the whiskey first.

“Thanks,” she murmured. She set everything else down on the trunk.

He gestured to the bottle. “Mind if I pour?”

She shook her head, her lips twitching. “Not at all. You’re really excited about this, aren’t you?”

“‘Pleased’ is the word I think you’re looking for,” he said. “I’ve never had the Blue.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. It was my grandmother’s favorite,” she said. “She was Scottish. A war bride. She was only seventeen years old when my grandfather brought her over here. She said she was willing to leave her country for him, but she wouldn’t give up her name.” A sigh slipped through her lips. “And she never did. She was an O’Brien until the day she died.”

“So she was your maternal grandmother then?” Jeb took the top off and carefully distributed the liquor into their tumblers, then handed one to her.

“No, paternal.” She raised her glass and clinked it against his. “To a new start.”

Paternal? Wouldn’t Sophie have taken the grandfather’s name then? After all, it would have been the same as her father’s. How could she be an O’Brien. Unless she’d chosen to be…

His gaze tangled with hers. “To a new start,” he repeated. He lifted the glass to his lips without ever taking his eyes off of hers. Anticipation spiked as the whiskey settled smoothly on his tongue, smokey and sweet. Just like her, he thought, watching her savor the rich amber liquid.

He hummed appreciatively, winced as the fire sizzled pleasantly down his throat. “Nice,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled, almost shyly, then gestured to the couch. “Take a seat and I’ll work on those cuts.”

He did as she asked, shifting his tumbler to his other hand. She settled in next to him, opened the first aid kit, then reached for his hand, wincing as she inspected the gash in his palm. “I’ll try not to go too Nurse Ratched on you,” she said, her small fingers inspecting his damaged skin.

He stared broodily at her, unable to help himself. “Hey, I’m just glad you didn’t shoot me.”

Her lips twitched. “Me, too. Mild abrasions are within my scope, but a gunshot wound is beyond my talents.” She carefully cleaned the negligible wound, chewing absently on her bottom lip while she worked.

He wished she wouldn’t do that. Her mouth was distraction enough, without her sinking her teeth into it. And watching her mouth while she was touching him, even if it was only to bandage a few shallow cuts, was…provoking.

“Was being Foy’s grandson the only untrue part of your cover story?” she asked.

Firelight brought out the red in her hair, Jeb noticed, and cast a warm glow over her face. This close he could see a series of ginger freckles across her pert nose and he found them strangely adorable. He was a freckle man. Who knew?

“Depends,” he said. “What did you hear?”

Finished with one injury, she moved onto his fingers. “That you were former military. A Ranger.”

“What do you think, Nancy Drew?” he drawled, interested in her response. What did she see when she looked at him? Aside from those disturbing bits of insight she’d already exhibited.

She nodded at his glass, indicating that he should move his drink to his other hand. He did, and shifted closer to her on the couch, so that she could more easily reach him. “Oh, I never doubted that part,” she told him. “I was just looking for confirmation.”

He took another drink, felt the warmth of the alcohol burn through his blood. “It’s true,” he said. “I came out a few months ago and went to work for a private security company in Atlanta. Rose-Marie Wilson’s family hired us and I was assigned to the case. It’s my first, as it happens, so I’d like to make a good impression.”

“I’m sure you did or they wouldn’t have hired you.” She made a nonsensical noise under her breath, then frowned at his hand. “This one is worse. I’m going to have to put a bandage on it.”

He was past caring. At this point he would have let her wrap his whole damned arm in gauze if it meant she’d keep touching him. Funny how something so seemingly innocuous could elicit such a strong reaction.

But her fingers were cool and tender, her profile achingly sweet, and every bit of desire—every last fiber of this unholy attraction—seemed to boil up from beneath his skin. Heat slithered into his groin, tightening his balls.

“There,” she said, looking up at him. She stilled at his expression and her smile faltered. “All
d-done.”

No, he was the one who was done, Jeb thought fatalistically. No doubt he’d been done the day he met her. He’d just been too ignorant to realize it.

* * *

S
OPHIE
’
S
HEART
SKIPPED
a beat in her chest and, though she’d finished tidying up those scratches, she still kept Jeb’s hand in hers. She should probably let it go—and had intended to, really—but when she’d glanced up and caught him looking at her like
that
…

No man had
ever
looked at her like that.

Like he wanted to lay her out like dinner on the ground and lick her up with a spoon. Like he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Like every depraved thought that had flitted through her mind the last couple of days hadn’t been original at all, because he’d thought of them first and more often.

Impossibly, it made her hotter.

Longing twisted through her, tying her up in knots, and her mouth watered while the rest of her body had decided to liquefy and simmer. She longed to touch more of him, to slide the tip of her thumb across the slope of his brow, to taste the skin on the highest part of his cheek, where she knew it would be the softest.

She had never, ever wanted a man more than she did him right now.

Ever.

And she instinctively knew she never would again. He had some sort of mystical power over her, an appeal that called to her on a purely visceral level. Not that she didn’t find him fascinating, because she did. She liked being able to predict those inscrutable faces—the man behind the mask, as it were—and she especially liked that she appeared to be the only person who could do it. Take now, for instance. For all intents and purposes, he still looked every bit as lethal and intimidating as always.

But she could tell that the alcohol had mellowed him out, easing some of the tension from his shoulders and his eyes—that purely remarkable shade of blue—had gone all heavy-lidded and sultry-looking. Combined with that perpetual sulky, sensual mouth he looked especially hot…wicked, even.