The Weekend Wife Page 10

  Kimberly just stood there, dumbfounded. “That’s a terrible idea.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “A terrible idea for catching this thief? Or a terrible idea for you and me?”

  “The second one. Because I officially don’t want to be around you anymore.”

  His full mouth pressed into a flat line. “Well, afraid the case is what’s more important here—so guess you’ll just have to tough it out and show me exactly how professional you can be.”

  “Likewise, Tate. Because this time around, you’re the one who dropped his professional guard, not me.”

  And with that, she turned and stalked away from him, out of the kitchen and down the massive hall.

  So he lusted for her. And he thought what she felt for him was a simple matter of lust, as well—a matter of two bodies drawn to each other by something as meaningless as chemistry. She entered the bathroom, shut the door, and let herself cry a little, hating herself for the weakness of tears even as she set them free.

  But enough of that. Too much, in fact. She reached for a tissue and blotted her eyes dry, then looked at herself in the mirror. How dare Max Tate hire her to be sexy and then criticize and judge her for it.

  Well, this would end now. She’d change out of her bathing suit as soon as she exited the bathroom. And she would wear a potato sack to bed tonight if she had to before she’d put on another of the sexy nighties she’d unwittingly packed. She’d do nothing to tempt him that wasn’t completely necessary to the role. She’d do this job, catch this creep, collect her pay, and be gone.

  She’d started thinking that being back around Max was wonderful—enticing, invigorating, tempting—but she’d been wrong. It was painful, and she wanted it to end as soon as possible.

  Tossing away the tissue with a sniff, she put back on her tough P.I.’s stance and came back out, ready to be in character if she confronted Carlo. Then she made her way to the grand stairway and up to the master suite, ready to change into something Max might find more acceptable now that he was suddenly the clothing police.

  Coming back downstairs in a short, shape-flattering, but amply covering yellow summer dress, Kimberly was met by Max and informed that their “guest” was sitting out on the patio enjoying what remained of the day’s sun. Then he grabbed her hand and led her down the hall to the office, shutting the door behind them.

  At first she feared he was going to continue berating her about her bikini, or perhaps find fault in what she wore now despite that it was the most conservative thing she’d brought. But instead he turned to face her, leaning back against the desk in a stylish button-down shirt and a well-fitting pair of blue jeans that were unfortunately snug in all the right places, to say, “Let’s talk strategy.”

  “All right.” She herself was more than eager to talk strategy at this point—it seemed the only safe subject between them. And she didn’t really want to be noticing the viscerally appealing bulge in those jeans of his, either.

  “I told Carlo I wanted to take you both out for a casual dinner tonight. I saw a little bistro that looked nice when we were out earlier. I figured I’d use the dinner as a chance to try to find out more about him. He’s pretty tight-lipped about himself, but maybe we can get something. We might also consider bringing up the jewelry again. Maybe we can wheedle some hint about where he’s stashing or selling what he steals. A longshot, but worth a try.”

  She kept her response simple. “Okay. I’ll follow your lead.”

  “After that, we’ll just be biding our time—likely until tomorrow afternoon, when I’ll pretend to get a call from my office about some stock market emergency.”

  “Max,” she pointed out, “there can’t be any stock emergency on a Sunday—the market is closed.”

  “It’ll be Monday in Australia,” he replied, “and I’m an international sort of guy. Besides, I don’t think Carlo’s gonna argue about a chance to get you alone.”

  The very idea of that made Kimberly shiver inside, but it had been the goal all along so she wouldn’t shrink from it now. And she also knew she wouldn’t really be alone with him—Max would secretly be in the closet. Besides, she was tough and emotionless—all business. And she intended to keep it that way until this assignment was over. She was ready to take Carlo on.

  “So then,” she replied, “after your imaginary call, I’ll keep Carlo busy on the patio or something while you go get set up in the closet?”

  He nodded. “Right. The camera equipment is already there, so it shouldn’t take long—give me five minutes or so and then you can come up. If Carlo doesn’t suggest looking at your jewelry himself, offer to show it to him. And then we can bring this baby home.”

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  “Any questions about your end of this?”

  “I just act submissive and passionate and let Carlo do the rest, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And then when things heat up a little, I act like I’ve changed my mind. I decline his advances and rush from the room, leaving him alone with the jewelry?”

  “Right again.”

  “And if things get out of hand, you’ll be there.”

  “Right a third time.”

  She nodded, then turned to leave the office—when Max stopped her with, “Oh, and Brandt?”

  She paused and glanced back at him. “Yeah?”

  “At dinner, you can, uh, hold off on the touchy-feeling stuff. I think he’s got the message that you don’t mind him touching you.”

  Inside, her stomach roiled with anger, but she was a professional—an unemotional professional—so on the outside she worked to remain very calm. “Yeah, I already picked up on your feelings about that.”

  She started to go then, but instead looked back at him once more. “By the way, Tate, the next time you hire a woman to play this kind of role, you might want to spell out your expectations a little more clearly. You know, one touch by the pool, not two—that sort of thing. It’s kind of hard to play by your rules when I don’t know them.” Okay, she was unemotional, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t make smart remarks.

  After which she finally turned and walked out, heading down the hall toward the kitchen. She caught a glimpse of Carlo through the French doors, his back to them, so he hadn’t seen her, thank goodness. She could use a few more minutes without the lout bothering her.

  A few seconds later, Max caught up with her. “Looks like Carlo is content enough for the moment, so if we have a few minutes to kill,” he said, “I might as well make use of it.”

  “How?”

  “I’m gonna go search his room.”

  She cocked her head, caught off guard. “And what do you expect to find? The guy’s only been there since last night.”

  “Possibly nothing. But you never know. A phone number of a contact, a matchbook from someplace he hangs out, some kind of clue to where the jewelry goes when it leaves the victims.”

  “A matchbook, Tate? Besides the fact that Carlo doesn’t smoke, I’m pretty sure matchbooks went out of style as big clues for private eyes sometime in the last century.”

  He arched a challenging eyebrow in her direction. “They were examples, Brandt.”

  She just shrugged, done trying to play nice with him.

  “Your job,” he pointed out, “is to keep him from coming in and surprising me.”

  At this she grimaced. “I’m not crazy about being alone with the doofus, you know.”

  “You probably won’t have to be. Just stay here and keep an eye on him from a distance. If he comes inside, keep him occupied.”

  “But don’t flirt or touch,” she clarified. Adding sarcasm to the list of ways she could address Max that she deemed still qualified as being unemotional.

  He just rolled his eyes. Then gave her a look. “You can handle it, right?” Challenging her again, the jerk.

  “Of course.” She rolled her own eyes in return.

  She stationed herself at the table in the breakfast nook where she had a cl
ear view of the back doors as Max headed upstairs. And she further pondered his instructions for dinner—no more touching. That was more than fine with her, but she was slightly afraid it might confuse Carlo. And what was Max’s problem here, anyway? After all, if all he felt for her was lust, what difference did it make who touched her?

  The French doors opened then, drawing her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see their smarmy houseguest. Pasting on a smile, she said, “Hi,” sounding way more friendly than she felt. See, you are a good P.I. Whether Max knows it yet or not. And yuck—wrong call, Max, because looks like I’m alone with him again.

  “Hi there, beautiful.” Carlo walked up and gave her a thorough once-over, something she was beginning to think of as his trademark greeting. And he’d added the beautiful thing, raising the stakes a little when “her husband” wasn’t there to hear it. “You look amazing—as usual.”

  “Well, thank you.” She gazed at him from beneath flirtatiously slanted lashes. Then she stood up. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Max should join us any moment and then we can go.”

  “You know, actually,” he said, “I need to make a phone call first in my room.” And to her great astonishment—after all, he was not one to squander a moment alone with her—he headed toward the stairs. That fast.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped and looked back.

  “Why don’t you use Max’s office down the hall? Quiet, private, and it’ll save you the trip upstairs. Then I’ll get Max and we’ll be ready to go when you’re done.” She offered him a wide smile for good measure.

  And he returned the wide smile, but he didn’t go along with her suggestion. “That’s okay. I need to get my shoes, too.” Only then did she glance down and see that beneath his khaki trousers his feet were bare. Damn.

  She considered her options. She could yell for Max. But Max hadn’t wanted her to yell for him—he’d wanted her to keep Carlo occupied. And it might be a small thing, but she’d be damned if she would give him one more tiny bit of ammunition to hold over her head when he was busy accusing her of not being able to do her job.

  Then an idea hit her. It was fairly lame, but so was Carlo, so maybe it would be okay. “Carlo, would you be a dear and do me a favor first?” This time she even fluttered her eyelashes, feeling a little desperate.

  The request, thankfully, seemed to abate his hurry. “For you, gorgeous, anything.”

  She giggled for him, having picked up on the fact that he liked the dumb-girlishness of the sound, and then shifted her gaze to a philodendron in a ceramic planter situated on a high ledge in the family room. “I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how I could get that plant down to re-pot it, but I just don’t think I can reach it.” For added effect, she threw in, “I’ve been asking Mrs. Leland to get it down for weeks, but she keeps forgetting.”

  “You do that sort of thing yourself?” Carlo asked.

  She blinked, slightly caught off guard. A tactical error. Carlo had apparently been stealing jewelry from the sort of rich people who wouldn’t be caught dead with their hands in dirt.

  “It’s a hobby,” she claimed. “I…like the way the potting soil feels. Between my fingers. I like to…you know, just touch things. Lots of different things. Don’t you?” She hoped like hell this was sounding sexy rather than just messy.

  The tilt of his blond head came with a suggestive grin. “So you like…getting dirty sometimes, huh?”

  Oh boy. “Doesn’t everyone?” She giggled some more. Then decided it was time to refocus on the pot. “And the poor plant needs some attention. So do you think you could help me?”

  He looked up at it. “Well, I can try…”

  And she understood his hesitation. The ledge was clearly too tall for him, as well. She wondered vaguely how anyone could get the plant down, or even water it. “I’ll bet if you balanced on the back of the sofa you might be able to reach it. I’d be indebted. Will you try for me?”

  “Of course,” he said, back in full flirt mode. “Like I said, anything for you.”

  She watched as Carlo approached the couch and stepped up onto the cushions. And hell, this wasn’t going to work—she could see that immediately. He was nowhere near being able to reach the plant.

  And that made her panic a little. There wasn’t much else she could do to occupy him without more flirting that might lead to more touching—with Max not around to keep him in check. And what was taking Max so damn long anyway? She was starting to feel kind of abandoned down here, so…much as she hated to, she pulled the plug on “occupying” Carlo. “You know,” she said, “We have a little retractable ladder thingy in one of the upstairs closets. I’ll just run up and get it for you.”

  And then she scurried away and up the stairs and straight into Carlo’s room as quick as she could. She found Max bent over a bedside table going through Carlo’s wallet—and he looked up at her like a man who’d been caught stealing jewelry. “What are you doing—trying to shave a few years off my life?”

  She kept her voice low. “We need to get out of here. He might wait for downstairs a minute longer —but he’s dead set on coming up to his room. There’s nothing I could do to prevent it.”

  Max took a step toward her, looking completely irritated. “What happened to keeping him occupied?”

  “I did all I could. And doing more didn’t seem prudent given the circumstances. Now, if you’ll just quit arguing and—”

  Dropping the wallet, he took a step closer and clamped a hand over her mouth, silencing her. And then they both heard it—the faint but distinct sound of footsteps padding down the hall. “Damn it,” he muttered below his breath.

  It was too late to get out now.

  So she scanned the room and said, “The closet.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Max moved briskly toward the closet and opened the sliding door, stepping inside. Then he grabbed Kimberly’s wrist and pulled her in with him, although it was close quarters, the move crushing their bodies together. Apparently the house’s owners used this space for storage as it was crammed with boxes and garment bags.

  A murmured curse left him as he attempted to find a more comfortable position behind her. “Try turning around,” he whispered, so she did, plastering her back against his front. He slid the door shut just before they heard Carlo enter the room.

  Max stood statue still, waiting for something to happen. Two things promptly did. He heard Carlo puttering around. And Kimberly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, moving against his torso in the process.

  And he was getting aroused. That quickly. Jesus. His erection pressed into her bottom through their clothing.

  He wanted to bang his head against the wall. Somebody put me out of my misery. Why couldn’t he stop this? He’d as much as blamed her earlier, but the fault was all his. His and his uncontrollable desire for her. And how could he be getting so hard now, while they were hiding in the closet, while they were in direct danger of being discovered? This was not the time to lose control of himself again—and considering that their bodies were practically cemented together, there was nothing he could do to keep her from feeling it. Things were going quickly from bad to worse.

  “This is Carlo,” Max heard him say outside the closet. That puttering must have resulted in a phone call. “Yeah, you should see this place, man—out of this world.”

  Hmm, so someone else knew Carlo was here. That was a beginning—the start of a clue.

  Which, by all rights, should have taken Max’s mind off his pants and fully into his job, yet that didn’t appear to be happening. What was going on down there didn’t exactly seem to be a matter of the mind. He grew more and more rigid against Kimberly’s soft bottom and wondered how much she felt it.

  “They’re loaded,” Carlo said, and then he lowered his voice so that Max could just make out the next part. “Haven’t seen most of the goods yet, but the husband has been talking them up like they’re the crown jewels. Ought to be a hel
l of a heist.”

  Okay, this was big. Whoever Carlo was talking to knew he was here to steal jewelry. Did he have a partner in crime? Keep talking, Carlo. Tell me what I need to know.

  Though at the same time, Max couldn’t help thinking: Get off the phone, Carlo, before one of us in here loses our balance and goes tumbling out the door—and before my preoccupation with my partner’s body becomes any more obvious than it already must be. He couldn’t believe how much he wanted to touch her, even now.

  “They asked me to stay the weekend—not sure if it’ll stretch out any longer than that.”

  No, he more than wanted to touch her. He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to push up her skirt, yank down her panties, and bury himself deep, deep inside her.

  “Oh man, the wife is incredible.” Carlo had lowered his voice again, but kept talking. “All curves and legs. And pretty friendly, too. I don’t think I’ll have much of a problem with her.”

  Oh yeah you will, buddy. Lay another finger on her and you’re a dead man.

  But Carlo had one thing right. Incredible? Was she ever. At the moment, Max was wondering how he’d ever let her go in the first place—ruined career or no ruined career. And her beauty and her body were only two parts of the equation. She was smart. And she was funny. And she was passionate—oh God, was she ever passionate.

  But then Max muttered a silent oath. Kimberly’s passion was definitely the wrong thing to be thinking about right now. Still, a flash of memory—her on top of him on a rainy Sunday morning three years ago, making love to him until they were both weak—only increased his longing. Hell, that morning had been enough to make an L.A. guy appreciate some gray, stormy skies. And he knew she felt it now, that longing—it would be impossible for her not to.

  All he could do was hold still against her and wait for Carlo to get off the phone and leave. And all he could do was keep on wanting her—more desperately with each passing second it seemed.