Free Private Dancer by Suzanne Forster Page B

knee, a toothpick dangling from his lips. “We’re working together on this one,” he said, the words little more than a husky whisper. “You’ve got a partner on the Covington case.”
    Bev shot out of the chair. “ What ?”
    “If you’re going to yell,” he said calmly, “yell at Harve. This was your dad’s idea. He saved my butt once. Now he wants me to return the favor”—he worked the toothpick expertly and flashed her a cheeky grin—“and save yours.”
    The urge to stomp, yell, and throw things nearly overwhelmed Bev. Normally she was even-tempered, but this man made her wild. He knew where her buttons were, and he couldn’t keep his damn fingers off them!
    “Harve shouldn’t have done that,” she said tightly. “I’m running the agency now. And your services are not needed.”
    He dropped his foot to the floor and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “It won’t work, B.J. I owe your dad and I’m on the case whether you need my services or not. So let’s talk about Blankenship. The sooner we find him, the sooner you’ll be rid of me.”
    Bev sent her chair spinning backward with a bump of her hip, turned, and walked to the window. Apparently her father had already filled him in on the details of the case. Blast Harve anyway! Blast both of them. She wasn’t obligated to work with Nichols if she didn’t want to, no matter what Harve had cooked up, but the question was how to get rid of him. She was trying to think that through when his voice interrupted her train of thought.
    “Harve’s worried about you, B.J. He asked me to keep you out of ‘harm’s way’—his own words. He doesn’t want you off globetrotting on your own, hunting down con men—”
    Bev swung around. “So he’s sending you along to protect me? The man who tried to ravish me in my own kitchen? Does he know about that?”
    Sam looked her over, sitting back and taking his time, as though he were replaying the kitchen scene in his mind in great and graphic detail. His eyes brushed over her like a warm, steamy caress, and then he drew the toothpick from his mouth and snapped it between his thumb and forefinger.
    “You won’t have a problem with me, Lace,” he said. “Not unless you want one. I’m doing this because an old friend’s in trouble, not because I want to get into your undies.”
    She wasn’t going to dignify his last remark with a comment, but her skepticism couldn’t be contained. “Even Ripley wouldn’t believe that one. You’re saying you don’t want to—” There didn’t seem to be any safe way to finish the sentence.
    “I’m saying my preference in women runs more to low-cut dresses than beige polyester slacks.”
    Bev’s cheeks went hot. Apparently he was just making do yesterday. Killing time until a low-cut dress came along. She wanted to challenge him, but she refused to be put in the position of defending her own sex appeal. Ironically, he was the first man in years who’d made her feel as though she had any, which was probably why she’d been so susceptible to him.
    “About the Covington case,” she said, determined to get the matter settled.
    “Here’s the plan.” He stretched his arms out in front of him and rose, much like a big cat awakening from a nap. “According to his M.O., Blankenship operates on cruise ships. We’ll start with a credit card check, and then if necessary we’ll check out passenger bookings on the luxury lines. Once he turns up, we’ve got him. You’ll be the bait—a wealthy divorcee, a widow, heiress, whatever blows your skirt up.”
    “Bait?” Bev checked the zinger of a retort that came to mind. She stared at Sam, her disbelief fading as an idea glimmered and took hold. That was the oldest trick in the world, wasn’t it? A woman as bait? The perennial mantrap?
    Would it work?
    It took a monumental act of self-control, but Bev sat back in her chair and forced a calm smile to her lips. Whatever unladylike urges she might have had