Wrong Place Right Girl

Wrong Place Right Girl by

Marie Ferrarella Chapter One Chelsea Mack kept her smile in place, digging deep for patience as she looked down at the barrel-chested, white-haired man in the wheelchair who was bent on sending her away empty-handed. Yes, you do, you crafty old man. You’re just too loyal to him to admit it. Playing the game, still hoping to coax an admission out of him, Chelsea pretended she hadn’t heard him and repeated, "I’m looking for the former Duke of Montebello. Maximillian Sebastiani." She watched William Ryker’s eyes closely, looking for some kind of a sign that she’d broken through. There was no indication that he was even familiar with the name. "Isn’t he your grandson?" Starting to turn away, Bill suddenly brought his wheelchair around to face her, executing a sharp turn within the confines of the small, first-floor office that would have filled the heart of any stunt car driver with pride. "Duke? Duke of what?" He laughed shortly, gesturing around the two room, L.A. office, as if that would reinforce his denial. "Do I look like the grandfather of a duke to you?" Chelsea never blinked. "Actually, yes, you do. Very much so," she tacked on for good measure. Her solemn affirmation drew a tolerant smile from Bill. He liked people with guts. Even annoying ones, as long as they were pretty, and this one certainly was. She reminded him a little of his late daughter when she was that age. Helen’d had the same stubborn streak, like a bull terrier when she latched on to something. And she had been dearly in love with Antonio — the scum. Bill brought his mind back to the present. Max had a right to his life, a life without nosy reporters trying to track him down just for the sake of a photo op. The boy’d had enough of that when he was growing up halfway around the world. "Sorry, honey, flattery isn’t going to get you anything but a smile from an old man." Bill glanced at his watch. It was almost one. "A hungry old man who wants to clear out and get some lunch, so if you don’t mind —" He looked at her pointedly, indicating the outer door. She was right about this, Chelsea thought, she had to be. Which meant the old man was deliberately lying to her. "You want me to leave," she said.

Hands on the wheels of his chair, Bill grinned. "I always did admire a bright young lady." Using his chair as if it were an old-fashioned cow pony, Bill herded the young woman who had walked into his grandson’s office 10 minutes ago toward the door. "Now, if you don't mind, my stomach’s growling —" Chelsea had no choice but to back out the door. She glanced at the lettering across the top. M. Ryker, Private Investigator. Ryker had been the duke’s American mother’s name. Her gut told her she was right. She just had to get someone to verify it. "I’ll buy you lunch —" Bill cocked a shaggy eyebrow as he took out his key. "Bribery? I’m a retired cop, honey. We frown on that sort of thing." Chelsea ignored the warning and tried to turn the tidbit he’d offered to her advantage. "If you were a policeman, then maybe you know my godfather — Frank Sullivan. He’s with the L.A.P.D." It was a common enough name and Bill had a hunch she’d probably made it up. In either case, it did her no good. "Sorry, can’t say that I do." Moving her the last few feet across the threshold, Bill pulled the office door closed and locked it. He pocketed the key. "See you around, honey. And good luck." With that, he pushed himself out toward the main lobby and the outdoor café that was just beyond it. Chelsea stood where he’d left her, halfway between the building’s front and rear entrances, unconsciously working her lower lip. She knew the old man didn’t mean it. Not the part about seeing her around and definitely not the part about wishing her luck. Unless it was bad, of course. If he’d intended for her luck to be good, he would have told her the truth. That his grandson was really the Duke of Montebello, or would have been if he hadn’t abdicated the title to his younger brother and left the country after his father died more than 15 years ago. Well, she aimed to change her luck with or without the old man’s help. And that meant getting to the bottom of the story she’d been tracking for almost three weeks now. She needed this break and she needed it badly. It was her last chance to make the editor sit up and take some kind of notice. And this was just the kind of story to do it. A good portion of the American public was unabashedly fascinated with royalty and she had, quite by accident, stumbled across a piece of information that pinpointed the whereabouts of the elusive and mysterious Disenchanted Duke of Montebello, as the press had once nicknamed him. Maximillian Sebastiani had come to America hoping to find himself. And now she was hoping to find him. Normally, she respected privacy. But this story could put her on the map, and she dearly wanted to be on that map. Wanted to prove that she had what it took to play hardball with the big boys and get the kind of stories that increased circulation. It seemed rather ironic that in order to get there she was beginning with, admittedly, a fluff piece — but fluff that had heretofore eluded everyone else. Had her best friend’s cousin not been working as a dog walker for Alexandra Jayne, one of Hollywood’s brighter stars, a star who had needed protection from a stalker, Chelsea knew she might never have discovered that the one-time almost-duke was now working as a private investigator and security consultant for the stars.

Which brought her to this office. She glanced at the door. An office that was now closed. But not, she thought, for long. All it took was some determination, a credit card, a very thin metal nail file, and a larcenous ex-boyfriend who had liked to show off his dubious abilities. She’d dated Larry during her rebellious teen period — which had contributed to every one of her mother’s gray hairs — and Larry had taught her how to pick almost any lock. Glancing up and down the corridor to make sure there was no one around to see her, Chelsea skillfully put that long-ago lesson to use and wondered what had ever happened to Larry. Probably serving five to ten for burglary in Soledad, she mused. The door gave. Chelsea smiled as she let herself in. Looking at her watch, she took note of the time. She had maybe 15 minutes at best to find what she was looking for. Some kind of tangible proof that Max Ryker was really Maximillian Sebastiani, the Disenchanted Duke. She already knew that Maximillian himself was out of the state. That much the guardian at the gate had volunteered when she’d asked to speak to Ryker. Which meant that all she had to worry about was the old man’s return. The office wasn’t very large and she went through it swiftly. It was incredibly neat and not what she would have expected from an office run by two men. In lieu of the usual paper clutter, there was a state-of-the-art computer. Everything, apparently, was locked up in its hard drive. Chelsea’s smile broadened. Beneath her short blond hair and small, curvy body beat the soul of a consummate computer nerd. She’d fallen in love with her first CPU at the age of seven and the affair had never ended. There were very few computers she couldn’t get into. Switching the computer on, she saw the customary request for a password winking at her. The obstacle proved to be nonexistent. After several guesses, she’d typed in "Helen," Maximillian’s mother’s name. Access was approved. She lost no time in opening files and surfing through folders. Embedded in a program designed to enhance surveillance photos were pictures of the royal family. Including one of Maximillian with his mother and the late duke. "Bingo." Quickly, she hit the print button, knowing she had used up most of her margin of time. The printer on the desk came to life, emitting a grinding noise. She didn’t hear him until he cleared his throat a second time. Gathering the newly printed photographs together, the sensation that she was no longer alone made her glance up. Her heart launched into a Sousa March.

But the person in the room wasn’t the old man, ready to have her hauled away for this clear violation of at least half a dozen criminal laws. Instead, the man standing in the doorway was quite possibly the handsomest man she had ever seen outside of her own dreams. Maybe even inside them, as well.

Chapter Two It was too early in the day for hallucinations. It wasn’t hot in the office and she wasn’t suffering from a fever. Chelsea blinked again, but Mr. Gorgeous was still in the room. Not only that, but he was coming toward her, his hand extended. In his other hand, he held a piece of folded paper and he glanced at it, as if to make sure of an address, before pocketing it. "Hello, I’m Tristan Robertson. Are you M. Ryker?" It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she was anyone he wanted her to be. Her next response was a complete 180-degree reversal, grounded in reality and she began to say that he’d made a mistake. But in that split second her brain quickly telegraphed a message to her. She could revamp her as yet unwritten piece. Rather than merely "Discovering the Disenchanted Duke," why not something along the lines of "Walking a Mile in the Disenchanted Duke’s Royal Shoes"? He was a private investigator, a hired detective, right? The man before her was clearly the kind of client the duke dealt with. If she was going to understand the allure of Maximillian’s American life and how he lived it, what better way than to emulate him? She rose from the desk, a wide smile on her face, her hand extended to his. "Yes, I am." Tristan nodded, relieved. "What’s the M stand for?" Her mother’s name came to the rescue. "Miranda." She noticed the way he was looking at the pin on her lapel. The one with the C on it. "But my friends call me Chelsea." He took the hand she offered. "How do you get Chelsea out of Miranda?" "I don't." Her smile was quick, glib and he liked it instantly. "It’s my middle name. Keeps people from getting me confused with my mother. I was named after her." There, that sounded plausible. "What can I do for you?" Tristan blew out a breath, glancing back toward the outer door he’d closed behind him. "Someone’s after me and I don't know why." Right off the top of her head, she could easily envision at least half a dozen women pursuing this man. He was mouthwateringly gorgeous. The kind of man you rarely saw outside of a movie screen. "After you. You mean like a stalker?"

He ran a hand through pitch-black hair that was already slightly mussed in contrast to his impeccable light gray designer suit and bright blue custom-made shirt. "Something like that, except without the romance." He paused. "And with gunfire —" Her eyes widened. Gunfire. Maybe she was biting off a little more than she could safely chew. Chelsea debated retracting her previous affirmation about being M. Ryker. The sound of someone turning the doorknob in the outer office aborted the debate. Her eyes darted toward Tristan. He didn’t look nervous so much as exasperated. "I think they followed me here." She doubted it. Things like that happened in movies. It was probably the old man returning from lunch. Just her luck, he believed in takeout. Chelsea capitalized on Tristan’s fear. "Why don't we just step out this way?" Turning, Tristan saw that the sexy blonde was already opening up the window behind the desk. It let out onto the parking lot. And escape. He was behind her in a heartbeat. These people were not the reasonable sort. If they were, he wouldn’t have been in fear of his life. "You’ve done this before?" he asked, marveling at the agile way she slid out. "Once or twice," she admitted. She didn’t elaborate that at the time she’d been escaping detection by an angry restaurant owner who hadn’t wanted his grievous kitchen practices or the fact that he was paying off someone at the county health inspection office to come to light. She’d cut her teeth on stories like that, but she had only been the journalist’s assistant then and none of the credit had gone to her. She was only "staff." Now she was determined to get her own byline. Running toward the parking structure where she had left her car, Chelsea’s innate curiosity had her turning around to look toward the eight-story building they’d just vacated. Someone had come to Ryker’s window. The sun was in her eyes so she couldn’t make out the form, but it appeared to be a great deal taller than a man in a wheelchair — unless the man had somehow stood up. Was there really someone after Robertson? The next second, the silent question was answered. There was a noise vaguely like the sound of a champagne cork exploding out of a bottle. Except that this time, the cork was lethal. The next thing she knew, she was being tackled and thrown to the ground behind a parked car. Mr. Gorgeous was on top of her. Startled, she raised her knee, about to forcefully reposition it where it could do the most good when he looked down at her, concern etched on his tanned complexion.

"Are you all right?" She lowered her knee slightly, but kept it tensed just in case. "I will be once you get off me." Tristan raised his head, looking around the car as far as he dared, only partially moving his body from hers. Chelsea felt heat radiating up and down every inch of her. It wasn’t that warm a day. "He’s not at the window anymore." Chelsea swallowed. Her mouth was drier than detergent. "That’s nice to know. Who’s not at the window anymore?" Rising, Tristan extended his hand to her. "The man who’s after me. One of the men," he corrected, then looked at her. "I think there’re two." At least, that was the number of men he’d seen in the car that had tried to run him down. "Maybe more." This didn’t sound good. But a story was a story, and in order to write one, she and this man shouldn’t be standing around out here like veritable ducks in a shooting gallery. Chelsea grabbed his hand. "C’mon." Hurrying, she quickly led the way into the bowels of the parking structure to where she had parked her car. It was at the far end of the first floor. For a moment, the sound of her heels clicking along the concrete was the only detectable noise. And then there was the sound of footsteps behind them. Running footsteps. Something whizzed by her head. It might have been a bee bent on breaking the sound barrier, but somehow Chelsea doubted it. More likely, it was the tall, dark, handsome stranger’s playmates. She was not about to waste time making any kind of inquiries. Still holding on to Tristan’s hand and vaguely contemplating the wisdom of having told him she was M. Ryker, Chelsea broke into a dead run as if her life depended on it. Because it did.

Chapter Three Chelsea waited until the waiter had placed their coffee and dessert before them and withdrawn before asking Tristan, "Have you gone to the police with this?" Tristan's mouth curved in a self-depreciating smile. He didn't like not being in control of things and he was definitely not in control here. The last 15 minutes and a whirlwind drive through the streets of L.A. had clearly shown him that. But at least they had lost the two men and were safe. For now. "And said what? That someone's shooting at me?" She took a sip of her coffee. "Sounds like a good opener to me."

With little information to offer, Tristan knew there would be no way the overburdened police department could help. "Problem is, I don't have anything to follow it up with. I didn't get enough of a look at either of those men to give a sketch artist details to draw anything beyond stick figures." She studied Tristan over the rim of her cup, trying to think of reasons someone would have it in for him. "No jealous husband in the wings?" He set down his cup. She'd lost him. "What do you mean?" A P.I. would be blunt, right? Chelsea forged on, getting into her role. "I mean, are you seeing anyone's wife?" Tristan laughed shortly. Up until a week ago, his life had been a nonstop marathon at work. "I'm not even seeing anyone's daughter. My job keeps me pretty busy." She wrapped her hands around her cup. Maybe he was a spy. He certainly looked as if he could slip into James Bond's suits — and sheets. "What is it you do?" "I'm a senior CEO at Gabrielle." He didn't add that he was newly promoted and that it had taken an almost insurmountable amount of work to get there. "The cosmetic company?" When he nodded, she grinned, thinking of her medicine cabinet. "Small world. I use your products." "The stockholders'll be happy to hear that." He allowed himself a smile. Wrapped up in a moment's respite, Tristan looked at the woman sitting across from him in the dimly lit restaurant she had brought him to. It was as if he suddenly saw her for the first time. Her features were almost perfect. "Although I don't think you'd need to rely on them." His compliment pleased her. It took a second to pull herself back into her role. "Are you working on any big breakthroughs — anything that might spark this kind of, um, 'attention'?" He shook his head. Up until a week ago, his life had been hectic, but predictable. With no surprises. "I'm just the backup man." He wasn't in charge of development at Gabrielle, not yet. The edginess he'd been living with broke through. "Look, what does this have to do with the men who are after me?" "Probably nothing. Just exploring the possibilities." Chelsea lifted a brow, as well as her fork, poising it over the Boston cream pie Tristan had ordered. The slice he hadn't touched. "May I?" He gestured toward the plate. Though he'd ordered the dessert at the woman's behest, his appetite was nowhere in sight. "Be my guest." Sampling a taste, she sighed. "Never could decide between chocolate cream pie and Boston cream pie." "Here." He pushed his plate toward her. "Knock yourself out." Tristan wondered where she put it. The woman certainly didn't look as if she was carrying an ounce more that she should be. Savoring the second piece, Chelsea tried to make sense of what was going on in Tristan's life. So far, he came across like a monk. A very sexy monk. "When did all this start —?"

She'd asked him a number of questions already; it was time he asked one of his own. "Then you'll take the case?" Chelsea blinked. Did she forget to say that? "Sorry, I thought that was understood when we were fleeing for our lives back there." She looked more intent on consuming the dessert than she did about her work. "Shouldn't we discuss your fee?" he asked. Other than what she'd picked up on late night reruns of defunct detective shows, Chelsea had absolutely no idea what the going rate for private investigation was these days. When in doubt, hedge. "I'll have my secretary get in touch with you about all that." Finished, she pushed the plate aside and flashed him a smile. "I don't get involved in the money end of it." He supposed that sounded plausible. She knew he was waiting for her to make noises like a P.I. She did her best. "All right, when did all this start?" she repeated. "Last week." He realized he wasn't being specific enough. "Last Monday." The man was not a font of information. "What happened?" she pressed. "I think someone tried to run me down," he replied. Maybe it had been just a drunk driver, she thought, or a careless one, too frightened to stop. "Anything out of the ordinary happen last Monday?" Tristan stared at her. Wasn't that enough for her? "Other than someone trying to run me down?" She smiled, trying to encourage him to loosen up a little. If she was going to go through this pretense, she wanted to do it right. "Yes, other than that." Tristan tried not to notice that her eyes were an intense blue when she looked up at him like that. "I got an office with a view. It went with the promotion," he added. "Well, I doubt anyone would stalk you over a view." Still, maybe there was some kind of connection. "That promotion, anyone else in line for it?" He thought of Evans and Henderson, neither of whom could bench press the weight of an anemic Chihuahua or kill a fly. "Nobody that would kill for it." The shots earlier hadn't hit him and neither had the car. "Maybe they're not trying to kill you. Maybe they're just trying to scare you." That didn't make any sense to him. "Why?" Good question, she thought. "That's the part we need to find out." She nodded a silent thanks to the waiter as he refilled her cup. "Do you owe anyone any money?"

He thought in terms of mortgages and loans. "You mean like a bank?" He really was straight, wasn't he? She smiled, amused and more than a little attracted. "No, like a bookie, a loan shark, a drug dealer." Tristan stared at her. She was talking about a whole other world, one he'd never gotten any closer to than in the movie theater. "Do I look like the type of man who would go to a bookie or a loan shark or a drug dealer?" This time, she grinned. "Off hand, I'd say no, but appearances can be deceiving." His eyes swept over her. "I suppose you're right. You don't look like a private investigator." "Oh?" Amusement curved her mouth. "What do I look like?" "Fun." He was more surprised than she at the single-word summation. "Sorry, I didn't mean to say that." The response intrigued her. "No, wait. Explain that." He wondered if he'd insulted her, or somehow managed to trivialize what she did. "You just look like someone who would be fun to be with." Tristan looked away. When had he lost the ability to communicate? "I guess I've been working so hard to get ahead, I forgot why I was working." She took a guess, trying to put him at his ease. "To put a roof over your head?" It was way more than that. "To lay the foundations for a good life. Doesn't feel so good when I can't take the time to enjoy it and don't have anyone to enjoy it with." When he looked at her again, she was looking back. Smiling. "What?" "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were describing my life," said Chelsea. "Yours?" She nodded. "I've been so busy trying to make a name for myself, I haven't had the time to stop and smell the roses." She looked at him for a long moment. "Or get to know the men holding them." Sensuality swirled around him. Hers. "Maybe you should," he said. She couldn't draw her eyes away from his mouth. "Yeah, maybe I should." Tristan had no idea what possessed him. Maybe it was the incredible fact that he was dodging bullets rather than deadlines. Maybe it was because he'd suddenly, at the age of 32, become aware of his own mortality. Or maybe it was because the woman seated opposite him had lips the color of his favorite shade in Gabrielle's new upcoming spring line of lipsticks. Without fully understanding why, Tristan raised her chin with the crook of his finger, leaned over the table, and kissed her.

She saw it coming. She could have moved out of the way at the last moment. Could have, if she hadn't willed the kiss into existence in the first place.

Chapter Four By the time she drew her lips away, her head was spinning hopelessly. It felt as if it had been lost in action. It took her a second to focus on his face. "Was that supposed to be a down payment?" "Sorry, I'm not sure what came over me." Yes, he was. He had momentarily lost his bearings. The situation he found himself in was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. That included kissing a woman who tasted of excitement. "I'll take that as a compliment." Her smile seemed to burrow itself under his skin, generating a heat all its own. He tried to remember that he was a man who'd been shot at less than an hour ago, and ridden in a car driven by a woman bent on breaking the sound barrier. "So where do we go from here?" he asked. "Your apartment," she replied. Under any other circumstances, that would have definitely gotten his vote, too. "No, I meant in my case." Her smile was wicked and created delicious sensations all through him. "So did I," Chelsea assured him. *** "You can tell a lot about a man by his home," Chelsea told him as he unlocked the door to his apartment 20 minutes later. She took a step inside, surveying the abject chaos in every corner of the room. "Like the fact that you don't believe in maid service." Tristan closed the door behind him and turned around. "What?" His mouth dropped open before the word had completely emerged. It was a typically ransacked apartment. Cushions, books, and overturned furniture vied for floor space. She picked her way over the debris. The man was obviously not imagining things. "I take it you didn't leave the place looking like this when you left this morning." Stunned, Tristan shook his head. Someone had run his apartment through a blender. "This feels like a bad dream."

"This isn't a dream, Tristan." Books that had lined his shelves had been systematically thrown on the floor one by one. Someone was looking for something. "And I don't think this is about any irate husband or boyfriend, either." "I already told you there isn't one." He paused, needing reassurance about the woman he was entrusting with putting his life back on track. "But what makes you say that?" Chelsea turned from the pile of books she was examining. "Because if it were, you'd be trashed instead of your apartment." Maybe this was in retribution for an imagined transgression, Tristan thought. "He might be demented —" What was he saying? There was no "he." He had to get a grip. "If there was someone," he amended. She'd already thought of that. "If this was someone out for revenge, he would have done something really awful." She thought of the first Godfather movie. "Like leave a dead animal in the middle of all this." Chelsea tried another angle, a theme and variation of the first. "How about a spurned girlfriend?" They were going around in circles. He began picking up the books and replacing them on the shelves. "We've already covered that. There's nobody." "It's a shame." Tristan stopped replacing books and looked at her. Chelsea shrugged, realizing that the words had come out before she'd had a chance to censor them. She had no choice but to finish her thought. "Someone's really missing out. Not many men kiss like you." Frustrated, he resumed picking up books. "You've taken a poll?" Chelsea began to automatically pick up several volumes, handing them to Tristan one at a time. "Polls don't tell you anything." How many men had she kissed? Tristan shook off the thought. He needed to find a plausible explanation for all this. One that didn't unnerve him. "Maybe it was a burglary." So much for living in a high-rise, security building, he thought cynically. Her gut told her no. Chelsea took a quick survey of the room. His home entertainment unit looked to be expensive. VCR, DVD, flat screen, all state of the art. All untouched. The painting that was thrown on the floor like a discarded Frisbee looked to be an original. She turned to look at Tristan. "Anything taken?" He set the books he was holding down on the coffee table and looked around. "Hard to tell." And then he stopped as he looked at his desk. "My portable computer." Surprise was on his face as he looked at her. "It's gone." Finally, they were getting somewhere. "What was on it?" He was thinking of the actual value of the item. Her question stopped him in his tracks and had him reassessing. There wasn't anything on the computer that anyone would want. "Aside from one very bad Western novel, just notes from work." Now there's something she wouldn't have associated with the man standing in front of her. You just

never knew, did you? "You write Western novels?" "Novel," he corrected, embarrassed. "One." He shrugged it off, looking away. "And it's not finished." He was uncomfortable. She dropped the subject. "Well, I think we can safely rule out the novel as being what they were after." She centered on something hopefully more fruitful. "What kind of notes?" "Notes." He lifted his shoulders and let them drop, frustrated. "Reports. Future products —" She was instantly alert. "Were you working on future projects?" Tristan blew out a breath. It wasn't what she was fishing for. "The color list for next summer's lipstick and eye shadow shades doesn't sound like a reason to come gunning for me." Probably not. She came back to the personal angle. Maybe she'd missed something. "Do you have any photographs of yourself? Albums, a framed graduation portrait, anything like that?" He wasn't very big on saving photographs, other than of his family and those were in a box somewhere in one of the closets. Which, he didn't recall. Tristan took her over to the baby grand. The bench was overturned, the sheet music beneath the cushioned seat had been strewn around, just like the books. "There was one there." He pointed to the top of the piano. Chelsea was already sifting through the papers. "I think I found it." Rising, she examined her find. The glass was smashed and the frame taken apart, but his photograph had been thrown aside like so much litter. He looked over her shoulder. The scent she wore infiltrated his space and his thought process. Aware of the nearness, Tristan took a step back. "What are you looking for?" Turning, she bumped against him. Shock waves danced through her. Think case, not male, she told herself. Chelsea indicated the photograph. "Well, if it was a jealous girlfriend or someone with a fixation on you, this would either be missing or slashed, not thrown aside." She placed the photograph on top of the piano. "Just wanted to be sure we could rule that out. Whoever redecorated your place was obviously looking for something. And from the looks of the place, they didn't find it." Time to get blunt again, she thought. Chelsea turned to him. "Are you holding out on me?" "If I was, why would I hire you?" "Good point." He was about to say something in response when she heard a noise just outside the door. Chelsea held up her hand to silence him. "Are you expecting anyone?" she whispered. He shook his head. Were they — whoever "they" were — back? "No one."

"I'd definitely talk to the doorman about security if I were you," she muttered. The doorknob was being tried again. "Is there a back way out of here?" He shook his head. "Do you have a gun?" There was no earthly reason for him to even want to own one — until last week. "No, don't you?" She strained to hear what was going on outside the door. "No." That didn't sound right. Weren't all detectives supposed to have firearms? "What kind of a private investigator are you?" "An unarmed one." Her mind was going a mile a minute. "You play golf?" "No, tennis." What did his choice of sports have to do with it. "But —" She didn't have time for his questions, only answers. "Where's your racket?" He opened the hall closet and took out a racket from the top shelf. Like everything else, the inside of the closet had been ransacked. "Here, but —" She grabbed it and hurried to position herself by the door. None too soon. The next moment, a tall, broad-shouldered man pushed the front door open and stormed in, followed by another man, slightly shorter. Chelsea swung the racket into the first man's face. The gun he held went flying as he fell back into his cohort. "Here we go again," Chelsea moaned as she grabbed Tristan's hand and ran into the corridor. The elevator was standing open. Tristan came to a skidding halt, but rather than get in, he reached inside and pressed for the penthouse. Stunned, Chelsea looked at him. "Saw that in a movie, once," he told her. "Stairs." He didn't have to say it twice.

Chapter Five The seatbelt dug into Tristan's hip as he turned around in Chelsea's car. "I don't see them." The information only made her feel marginally better. "Just because you don't see them, doesn't mean they're not there." Chelsea looked up into her rearview mirror, but other than the signs of normal traffic for this hour of the late afternoon, there didn't appear to be anyone following them. No car weaving in and out, trying to keep up. Nothing out of the ordinary.

With effort, she tried to keep her mind on her driving and not on what she was doing — willingly throwing herself in front of an oncoming train. Chelsea glanced at the man beside her. She was in over her head. Pretending to be a P.I. for the sake of a new slant on a story was all well and good, but getting a Pulitzer posthumously had never been in her plans. Besides, if she got herself killed, she couldn't very well write this story, now could she? She debated telling him the truth and just driving to her godfather's precinct to turn the matter over to professionals. She bit her lower lip. Maybe one more try. "You know, for a man who hasn't done anything, you certainly have someone mad at you. Are you sure you're telling me everything?" Exasperated, he repeated his earlier defense. "Why would I want to hire you and then lie?" Stranger things had happened. She made a right onto a major thoroughfare. A little longer and then she'd feel better about losing the angry duo. Chelsea spared her "client" a glance. "I don't know — why?" He turned to face her. "I wouldn't." There was something in his eyes, something that said he was telling her the truth. And that he trusted her. Her conscience chafed, urging her to tell him that she wasn't who he thought she was, that until she'd stumbled onto this story she hadn't investigated so much as a paper cut on her own without assistance. But the man needed help and if she told him who she really was, he probably wouldn't let her help. And she really wanted to. Chelsea pressed her lips together, holding them shut. He felt like a man in the middle of a '60s movie — except that the bullets were real. Tristan searched for order, something that had been the mainstay of his life until all this had exploded. "You know, my car is still in your parking lot." She'd already thought of that. "For the time being, we'd better leave it there." That made no sense to him. "Why?" He wasn't going to like this, she thought. But there was no way around it. "If these people know where you live, they know the kind of car you drive. They might have wired it." She had to be kidding. One look at her face told him she wasn't. "You mean like a bomb?" "Yes." In the past 24 hours, before he'd found her number in the Yellow Pages, he'd examined and reexamined his life, trying to figure out what he'd done to set off this chain of events. And come up empty. He still couldn't believe this was happening. "Why would they want to blow me up?" "Why would they want to shoot you?" she countered.

The sobering question sank home. "Good point." She made a sharp left. "I thought so." Trying not to lean into her as they made the turn, he asked, "So where do we go to now?" She glanced in her rearview mirror. Good, no police cars in sight. She pressed down on the accelerator. "Now we make sure no one's following us and then I take you to my place." Tristan held on to the dashboard as she took a hairpin turn, stealing his breath away. He felt as if he was in the front car of a roller coaster. "They followed me to your office. They know who you are. Can't they figure out where you live?" Chelsea grinned. "Not likely." Especially since she had no ties to the office, she thought, other than having walked through its doors 20 minutes ahead of Tristan. Chelsea tossed her purse onto the side table as she walked into her loft apartment ahead of Tristan. "Make yourself at home." Despite the offers of family and friends of loans, outright gifts, and secondhand furniture, Chelsea had been determined to furnish the place on her own. The apartment was fairly empty. Tristan looked around. "Cozy." He was being polite. She appreciated that. "Uncluttered." A whimsical smile flirted with her lips. "But it suits my purposes." There was a sofa in the middle of the room, but he was too keyed up to sit. "You probably don't spend much time here, anyway." "What makes you say that?" Tristan wandered over to the bay window and looked out. There was nothing suspicious in the street four stories down. "Your cases probably keep you away from home a lot." "Right, my cases." She shifted course, momentarily making a beeline for the truth. It was easier to keep track of than lies. "Actually, I fell in love with this place when I first saw it. It used to belong to a dot-com company that went belly up." Tristan turned from the window and crossed back to her. As far as lofts went, it was rather small. "Not a very big company, I take it." The company hadn't needed much. "All you need is a computer. Speaking of which, yours is still missing." She got back to the only tangible thing she had to work with so far. "Besides that novel, what else do you have on it that might make someone think it was valuable?" "I already told you, nothing. I've been going over and over it in my head, but keep coming up with the same answer. There was no reason to take it, other than its street value."

She shook her head. If that had been the case, there were so many other things of worth in his apartment to steal. Desperate, she cast about. "Is there any reason someone might want, say, a stock option report, or the minutes of the last meeting?" "That's not on there." "What is? Exactly," she pressed. He ran a hand over his forehead, thinking. There was only one thing that might be even remotely interesting to anyone outside the company. "Mainly next year's plans for expansion. But even that's not worth getting shot over." "Industrial espionage is a big deal, Tristan." It was possible he knew but didn't know he knew. She tried prodding. "Some secret projects in the works? Formulas that someone might think are worth risking your neck for if not theirs?" He shook his head. "No." Tristan threw up his hands, pacing. "Damn it, this is frustrating." He swung back to look at Chelsea, realizing he'd raised his voice. He didn't want to take this out on her. "I want you to know that I'm not used to this sort of thing." Humor filled her eyes, nudging its way beside empathy. "Getting shot at? That's comforting for your tailor." "No, I mean I'm not used to not being able to handle things on my own." He looked at her pointedly, aware that there was something else going on here besides his frustration. A pull, a tension that had somehow gotten mixed-up in all this and was zipping along his body like an electrical current. "Coming to someone else for help is something new for me." Her breath kept insisting on backing up in her lungs and hovering there. She had to keep reminding herself to breathe. "There's a lot to be said for new experiences — as long as they don't leave holes in vital parts of your body." "Funny," he murmured, leaning into her, his eyes on her lips, "I was just coming to the same conclusion." Still breathless, Chelsea felt her heart go into double time. Belatedly, she remembered to take a step back. Which was exactly one full step away from his lips. What the hell was going on here? Tristan desperately tried to collect himself. "Why would someone like you want to be a detective?" "We prefer the term private investigator." She'd heard that line in an old TV series once. More useless trivia, she thought. Like the way she was always going to remember the look on his face right now. And the color of his eyes as they looked at her. Intense and blue. So blue they made the rest of the room fade. Heat began to nibble away at her extremities. "My mistake," he murmured, fighting off the sudden desire to take her into his arms, to feel her, real and alive, against him. "Why would someone like you want to be a private investigator?"

She swallowed, mesmerized by what she saw in his eyes. "The excitement." "You like excitement?" The question whispered along her skin, teasing her. "In spades." And right now, she was feeling it, Chelsea thought. In spades.

Chapter Six The next moment, his lips were on hers. Her body fused against his, Chelsea was utterly and blissfully losing her way within the multilayers of the kiss when the annoying humming noise finally penetrated her consciousness. Tristan drew back, looking at her quizzically as he placed the sound. "Do the opening notes of the 1812 Overture always play when you kiss someone?" "Not usually." It wasn't easy keeping the words from coming out on the tail end of a sigh. "Excuse me." Turning, Chelsea pulled her cell phone from her pocket, making a mental note to change the ringer. She fairly snapped, "Yes?" "Where are you, Mack?" Her editor's curt voice filled her head. "In case you've forgotten, you said you were filing your notes on the story today." "Oh, right, the story." She'd completely forgotten all about the story. She did her best to sound confident as she stalled. "Um, there's been a new development in that." She could hear the older man snort. The sound had "I might have known" written all over it. "You were wrong. He's not the duke." "No, I was right and I've got proof." Silence met her declaration, but she knew it wouldn't last long. Hurriedly, she pleaded her case. "But I'm going to need a little more time piecing it together. Please, I promise you, you won't be sorry." "Too late, I'm already sorry. And probably soft in the head," he added before she could say anything in her own defense. "You've got 24 more hours — make that 21," the senior editor amended. "Got it?" "Got it. It'll be there, I promise." She closed the phone and returned it to her pocket. She'd bought herself a reprieve. Tristan couldn't help but overhear the conversation. "Who was that?" "My boss." Too late, she realized her error. "I mean, another client." He thought it was rather telling that she thought of a client as the boss, although she was definitely in control here. "You're working on another case?"

This called for some fast footwork, Chelsea thought. Reassurance was the key. "The only case I'm working on is yours. It's a matter of priorities. Gunshots always move up to the head of the line." He looked as though he believed her. Another reprieve. She was on a roll. "Now, where were we?" The taste of her mouth was still on his. It did nothing to relieve the heat he felt. "About to get unprofessional." "Yeah, we were, weren't we?" She bit her lower lip. She'd never been attracted this quickly, this intensely to anyone before. Maybe it was the gunfire. "Maybe I'd better ask you some more questions." He didn't see what there was left to ask. "I've told you all I know." She didn't doubt him. "All you think you know." He looked at her, confusion in his blue eyes. "Ever see Charade?" "The game?" What did a party game have to do with any of this? She shook her head. "The movie. What they were looking for turned out to be right in front of them all along. Hidden in plain sight." There was nothing hiding in plain sight as far as he knew. "You're wasting your time." Not as long as I'm hanging around with you. The thought had come out of the blue and she banked it down. This was about her article, and keeping him alive. Not necessarily in that order. She couldn't afford to lose sight of that. For both their sakes. "I'll be the judge of that." She needed to get him to relax, to get comfortable. "We'll talk while we eat. I can send out for pizza, or you can take a chance on my culinary abilities." Her smile was infectious. He found himself returning it. "How big a chance?" Chelsea shifted over to the kitchen portion of the loft. "Depends on whether or not you have your will in order." He still couldn't tell if she was being serious or not. "You're kidding, right?" "Right." She took out a pan and placed it on the small cooktop. "My boyfriend didn't leave me because he had complaints about my cooking." He couldn't envision any man walking away from her. Not willingly. "What did he have complaints about?" She thought of Shaun. It had been wrong from the start. They were better off going their separate ways. "My career." "The fact that you were a private investigator?" Saying yes would have been the easy way to go, but she found herself wanting to keep the lies down to a minimum with this man.

She winked. "The fact that I had one and he still hadn't made up his mind about what he wanted to be when he grew up — besides well fed." He took a seat on a stool, content to watch her move around the abbreviated kitchen. "You know, you're kind of cute when you wink. Actually, you're kind of cute when you don't wink." She turned, a spatula in her hand, a pleased smile on her face. "Are you flirting with me?" "No." The denial had been too quick. "Maybe just a little." He felt compelled to explain. "It's been a long time since I was out with a beautiful woman. Or in with one." When she looked at him like that, she made him trip over his tongue. He wasn't accustomed to that. Trying to remain in character, as well as in her clothes, Chelsea thought of what the duke's grandfather had said to her earlier. "Flattery won't reduce my fee." Right now, money was no object when it came to that. "If you find out who's after me and why, I'll pay you anything you want." She turned to face him, the minuscule counter the only barrier between them. She felt it was safer that way. For him. For her. "I'd be careful the way I throw my words around if I were you. A less scrupulous woman would hold you to that." A smile played on his lips. "And you're scrupulous." "I have scruples to spare." Right now, that was a lie. The words tasted hot on her tongue, but she ignored that, clinging to the thought that it would all turn out in the long run — provided she ran long enough. *** Tristan stretched out on the sofa, feeling more content than he had in a long, long while. "You really are a very good cook." She deposited the last dish into the dishwasher and dropped down beside him on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand. She'd poured one for him, as well. "And you may very well be the most straight and narrow man I've ever met. No jealous ex-girlfriends, no angry coworkers. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were George Bailey." Leaving the wine where it was, he looked at her blankly. Was that a client? "George Bailey?" "Or Jimmy Stewart." Obviously she wasn't ringing any bells. "It's a Wonderful Life," she added. "Frank Capra story played every year during the Christmas season. Snow, angels, happy ending." A light came into his eyes. "So, far as I can see, the only ripple in your life in the past week has been a new office —" They kept coming back to that. "Where did you say the man who used to be in that office went?" He hadn't said. He did now. "No one knows, really. Richard Elders just disappeared one day. Valuable company man, too, so I'd heard." He looked at her. "You're not suggesting that the office is jinxed, are you, because I don't believe in that kind of thing. I —"

She shook her head. They had that much in common. She'd never been superstitious. "No, but maybe there's something that the other man had, something that he might have left in the office. Or maybe the men who are after you think that you're him." She looked at him, running out of options. "Work with me, here. Do you look anything like this Elders?" "I don't think so." It amazed him how, in the middle of a life and death situation, all he could think about at this very moment was kissing her again. He forced his mind back to her question. "I suppose we could pull up a company profile, if they haven't pulled it off the database yet." On her feet, she put distance between them. Before she followed her instincts and threw herself at the man. Served her right for drinking wine, she thought, putting the glass down. Her computer was on a small folding table, already turned on. A cable hookup was one of the luxuries she allowed herself. Sitting down, Chelsea pulled up his company on the Internet. He crossed to her. "I'm not sure we can get into the database," he warned, looking over her shoulder. "You need a pass —" Tristan blinked, recognizing the familiar screen. "You're on." The woman was amazing. "Piece of cake." Chelsea's fingers flew over the keyboard. Richard Elders's profile had no accompanying photograph, only a thumbnail description. She scanned it quickly. Dark hair, blue eyes, 36 years old, 6'2". "From this, someone might mistake you for Elders." He'd seen the man fleetingly. "That's reaching." "Right now, since the rest of your life reads like a Disney fairy tale, it's the only thing we've got." She paused, thinking. "I think the key to whatever is going on is back in Elders's office — your office," she corrected. With that, she hit the keys to close the computer and rose. By now he could read her body language. Especially since her body was heading toward the door. "Where are you going?" "We're going to your office." He crossed to her. "You can't get in. This time of night, you need clearance." "You have clearance," she pointed out. "What about you?" She unlocked the door and walked out, waiting for him to join her. "All I need is a cleaning woman's uniform." "And where —?" He didn't finish. Locking the door, she was winking at him again. The wink that said everything was under control. He was beginning to believe her.

Chapter Seven Tristan looked up and down the corridor of the 15th floor. It appeared deserted. He was alone. But just as he unlocked the door to his office, he heard a grating, rhythmic squeak that seemed to be getting louder with each beat. Turning, he saw a cleaning woman pushing a cart before her heading in his direction. The cart was loaded with all the cleaning products necessary to keep the offices of Gabrielle Cosmetics in pristine condition. Cocking his head, he peered closer. "Chelsea?" In response, the woman with the cart removed the bandanna holding back her hair. He laughed, shaking his head. "Where did you get this?" "There's a woman in the basement right now sitting in her slip, a hundred dollars richer and sipping a diet cola." She indicated the cart. "I promised to have this back in half an hour." That still didn't explain everything. Tristan opened his door and held it for her. "How —?" Chelsea pushed the cart into his office. "I told her my fiancé was working late and I wanted to make sure it wasn't on a secretary." He could only shake his head in wonder. "Does the army know about you? You could be the country's new secret weapon." Behind her, Tristan flipped on a switch, illuminating the office. It looked almost bigger than her loft, and a great deal better furnished. It was evident that the powers that be at Gabrielle thought well of Tristan. "My mother taught me to be resourceful." "Obviously she was a good teacher." He glanced once up and down the corridor before closing the office door. Still no one. He relaxed a little. "Who taught you to hack into a computer?" "I taught myself that. Comes in handy." Chelsea eyed the computer on his desk. "Is there anything on this one that might give us any new insight?" He doubted it, but she'd already surprised him several times today. "There's an in-house program, but it's not anything that I'm privy to." That sounded promising. She pushed up her sleeves. "Who is?" "The chairman and five of the top senior officers on the board." Sounding better and better. "Something to aspire to." Switching on the computer, she turned the monitor toward him. There were a number of icons on the desktop she was unfamiliar with. And time was of the essence. "Can you get me to the program?"

Tristan sat down in his chair. "To it, yes. Into it, no." She winked at him, sending wicked ripples through his belly. "Just leave that to me." He pulled up the program in a matter of seconds, then vacated his seat. Chelsea took over. "I don't know what it's even doing on my computer, really. We're not supposed to have access to the password window, much less the program. I found it by accident." But Elders apparently had access to the program. Perhaps for a reason. "Maybe this is where the trail starts, then." He looked at his watch, remembering that she'd said she had half an hour. "Is this going to take long?" Her eyes were on the screen, her fingers flying along the keyboard. "The difficult, I can do, the impossible takes a little longer." She spared him a quick glance. "Why, are you planning on being somewhere?" "No, I thought you might like some coffee while you break into the mainframe. There's a snack area down the hall —" Chelsea made a face and shuddered. "Vending machine coffee? I'd rather drink motor oil. But thanks for the thought." She drew closer to the screen, as if proximity could somehow verify what she was reading. "This is interesting." "What?" He looked over her shoulder. "Did you find something?" And then it dawned on him. She was reading something within the program. "You got in." "Of course I got in." She supposed it was vain, but she couldn't help feeling a little glimmer of pride. "Did you doubt me?" "Not for a moment." And it occurred to him that he really hadn't. On some level, he'd just taken it for granted that she could do whatever she said she could. "What did you find?" "Something a lot more provocative than the latest shade of lipstick." She reread several lines just to be sure. "Seems that your company has a revolutionary formula in the offing that can actually tighten sagging skin on a level equal to that of laser surgery. That's something that could make a lot of other companies nervous, not to mention putting a crimp in the plastic surgery community's retirement fund." It was all news to him and he was cleared for all but the very top level. "Let me see that." Tristan turned the monitor toward himself. She raised an eyebrow, watching surprise spread over his features as he read the report. It was clear he hadn't known about this. "Skip a few meetings?" "This wasn't covered in any meeting I ever attended —" He looked at her, moving the monitor back into place. "And I attend them all." She pointed to the beginning of the last paragraph. "Notice who the chairman is thanking in advance for bringing this formula to the company's attention?"

He'd just been getting to that part. The woman was a speed reader on top of everything else. His eyes widened. "Elders." "In advance," she repeated. "That means the formula wasn't in the chairman's hands at the time of the memo. It's dated two weeks ago — that means that as of two weeks ago, the formula still hadn't reached your company." She looked at Tristan. "Maybe whoever is after you thinks you have the formula, or at least access to it." "That's ridiculous." Annoyance furrowed his brow. "I didn't even know there was a formula." "They don't know that. Elders had the formula, or knew where it was and now he's missing and you have his office. This could all be just a terrible matter of mistaken identity. Remember, your description matches his in a cursory way." She was right and he knew it. "So how do I convince them I don't have it?" Chelsea turned, about to answer. Her eyes widened. "You talk — fast —" She pointed toward the door. The two burly men who had broken into Tristan's apartment filled the room. She could feel the pulse in her throat jumping, but did her best not to show any fear. "Drs. Livingston, I presume?" The leader had his gun drawn, a small, formidable piece of weaponry he waved toward Tristan. "Shut up and stand over there and you won't get hurt. We're just after pretty boy here." The man's eyes narrowed. "You have something that doesn't belong to you." Tristan played for time, trying to think. "Who does it belong to?" Both men were coming at him. The second one spoke with a slight Bostonian accent. "Like you don't know. Like you didn't steal it from that nitwit chemist. You went to bed with her for no reason, Elders. We want the formula back." She expected panic, but all she felt was deadly calm. "How's he supposed to give it to you if he's dead?" The first man scoffed. "He can't give it to anyone if he's dead." Now panic reared its head. Her mind worked furiously. "That means you don't get it, either." The second man's glare was condescending and icy. "But we've got the notes the chemist who came up with the formula took." He aimed his weapon at her. "I thought I told you to shut up." She had no idea where the bravado was coming from. Especially since she had a terrible suspicion that the chemist they were talking about was dead. "Yeah, you did. But I don't take orders very well." The next second, Chelsea pushed her cleaning cart at him, completely throwing him off. The gun went off, its shot going wild as he stumbled backward. He hit his head against a corner of the desk as he went down. The man was out cold. Tristan threw himself against the other man, grappling for his weapon. Another bullet went flying, shattering the glass door. The first gunman grabbed Chelsea's hair, pulling her to him. He aimed his gun to her head. "Got anything in your fall line to camouflage the effects of bullet to

the brain, Elders?" He glared, triumphant. "Put the gun down and maybe she lives," said the gunman. Tristan had no choice but to comply.

Chapter Eight The very next second, Chelsea ducked her head down as she drove her elbow into the man's ribs. It felt as if he'd ripped out her hair. Pain generated tears that sprang to her eyes. The man yelped, releasing her. Tristan immediately grabbed the weapon he'd dropped and trained it on the gunman. "Are you all right?" he asked Chelsea. Her scalp still felt as if it was on fire. "I'll live." Blinking away tears, she went straight for the telephone, stopping only to pick up the other weapons and to reassure herself that the first man was still out. He was. Tristan cocked the gun he was holding. "Call the police." She pulled the telephone to her on the desk. "Way ahead of you." Tristan never took his eyes off the man he was holding his gun on. Behind him, Chelsea was pressing an awful lot of buttons on the telephone keypad. "Have they hyphenated 911?" Please be there, please be there. "This'll be faster, I promise." She counted off eight rings before she heard the familiar deep voice. "Hello, Uncle Gary? This is Chelsea. I need help." She rattled off the address on the front of the building. "We're on the 15th floor, room 12. And, Uncle Gary, this is official," she added. "Bring your gun." She hung up. It was hard not taking his eyes off his prisoner. "Uncle Gary?" Chelsea bent over the other assailant. He didn't move. She wondered if he had a concussion. "Not really my uncle. He's actually my godfather. Gary Worchester. He's with the L.A.P.D." Tristan could only shake his head. The woman had all the bases covered. "Why am I not surprised?" She came up beside him, relieved that she didn't have to worry about him any longer. And a little sorry, too. "I don't know, why?" "Because I'm beginning to believe that you're a magician, that's why." The answer tickled her. Officer Gary Worchester arrived exactly 15 minutes later. Standing 6'7" in his regulation police uniform

shoes, the gentle Worchester could create an imposing impression on anyone loitering on the wrong side of the law. Answers from the two men who had invaded the offices of Gabrielle Cosmetics and threatened the life of one of its CEOs were not long in coming. Richard Elders had stolen a formula that Mayflower Cosmetics had been working on for nearly a decade, thanks to a liaison with a rather vulnerable lady chemist with low self-esteem and a high sex drive. No one knew where Elders or the formula was. It took another two hours before everything was squared away and Tristan and Chelsea were allowed to leave the police precinct. Her godfather had even sent a man out to check over Tristan's car. The vehicle was safe. No bombs had been planted. For Tristan the ordeal was over. Walking out of the precinct, Tristan held the door open for Chelsea. The night air felt bracing. He took a deep breath. "Well, that ends that." She nodded. "Except that the formula is still missing." "Right now, I don't think I care very much about 'dramatically reducing wrinkles' and 'sensuously tightened skin,'" he said, quoting the press release that had been uncovered. They walked briskly to her car in the darkened lot. "You might not, but a lot of women do." "Not you." Stopping before her car, Tristan ran the back of his hand along her cheek and watched in fascination as her pupils grew larger. "Not for a long, long time." It took her a second to find her voice. "Never too early to be prepared." Taking a deep breath, she opened her car door. Tristan rounded the hood and got in on the passenger side. Closing the door, he strapped in. "You were right." Chelsea left her keys in the ignition and looked at him. "About wrinkles?" "No, that this was a case of mistaken identity. I wonder where Elders is." She made an educated guess. "Either vacationing in some exotic resort spending his advance — or sleeping with the fishes would be my guess." Tristan nodded, agreeing. "Well, you've been dead on so far." She shuddered. "Please, use another word. I think I'll stay away from 'dead' for a while." Chelsea started the car. He looked at her profile as she backed the vehicle out and eased it onto the street. "So I guess I won't be needing your services any longer." Where had this awful pang come from? An overwhelming sadness draped her. "Guess not." Was it proper to ask your P.I. out after the fact? He had nothing to guide him except the way he felt about her. "By the way, you never did tell me what you charge." She supposed now was as good a time as any to come clean. It was over, right? "There's a reason for

that." He remembered. "Right, your secretary handles all those details." Chelsea eased down on the brake as the light up ahead turned red. "No, a different reason." She took a deep breath. "Those two goons thinking you were Elders wasn't the only case of mistaken identity that was going on." This was coming out all wrong, she thought, stumbling over her own tongue. She could feel Tristan looking at her. "I don't follow you." The light turned green. Her foot covered the accelerator. Her heart was accelerating, as well. "I'm not M. Ryker." "You're not?" He stared at her, thrown completely off balance. "Then what were you doing at the computer — are you a secretary?" She laughed, though she didn't find it very funny. "Not even warm." Five minutes ago, he would have said his life was finally back on track; now it felt as if the rug had just been pulled out from under him. Again. "If you're not M. Ryker and not the secretary, then just who are you?" Holding the steering wheel with one hand, Chelsea dug into her side pocket with the other. Pulling out her wallet, she held up her driver's license for him, so that he'd have proof she wasn't lying again. "Chelsea Mack." Closing the wallet, she tucked it back into her pocket. "I'm an investigative reporter." That went a long way in explaining her ability to think quickly on her feet, but didn't make a dent in why she'd lied to him in the first place. "Just who are you investigating?" She slanted a look in his direction. He didn't look angry, but then, that could just be deceptive cover. "Max Ryker." Some of the pieces were beginning to fit together. "Then you were hacking into his computer." "Something like that." Tristan still found the story incredible. "And he let you?" "He's out of the state." She thought about telling Tristan that Ryker was the missing former Duke of Montebello, but decided that it would only make her story sound even more implausible. For now, she'd keep that to herself. "It's for a story for the Times..." Now it was making sense. "And that man on the phone earlier tonight?" "That was my editor. I was supposed to file my notes earlier." And her deadline was getting closer and closer, she realized.

This was turning out to be one hell of a day — and night. "Let me get this straight. You're not a P.I." She was hitting all the lights. At this rate, she'd have him back in the parking lot, and his car, in no time. And out of her life. "No." "You're a reporter." Was that anger in his voice, or disappointment? She couldn't tell. She could only be honest with him. Finally. "Yes." He didn't understand and he was getting tired of not understanding. "Then why did you help me?" This part was easy. "Because you needed it. Because someone was shooting at you." She paused, then gave him her original reason. "And because I thought I could get an inside slant on the kind of life Ryker leads if I worked one of his cases." There was a long moment of silence, and then he said, his voice deadly calm, "That's fraud, you know, posing as something you're not." "I prefer to think of it as undercover work." She allowed herself a smile as she looked at him, mentally crossing her fingers. "You could come home with me and find out the difference." And then, to her relief, Tristan's solemn expression melted and he grinned. "I guess I could at that." He saw his car up ahead and put his hand into his pocket to get his keys. His fingers came in contact with a piece of paper. He pulled it out, scanning it. "I guess I won't be needing this anymore." Entering the parking lot, she saw the paper in his hand. "What is it?" "Ryker's phone number and address. I copied it from the phone book." She thought she saw writing on the other side. A gut instinct jumped into play. Chelsea stopped the car. "Wait, let me see that." He gave it to her. She flipped it over, then looked at him. "Where did you get this piece of paper?" "It was stuck on the runner in Elder's closet. I pulled it out this morning and I must have written down Ryker's address on it. Why?" She grinned, holding it up to him. "Look at it." As he took in what he saw, it occurred to Tristan that he was probably never going to be surprised by anything again after tonight. "It looks like a formula of some sort." It did to her, too. "Might be what all the fuss was about. Shouldn't we get it to somebody?" It was past three in the morning. "It can wait. Right now, I'm still interested in finding out what other kind of undercover work you do." A warm feeling slipped around her. "I had no idea you had such a one-track mind." The hell with waiting until they got to her place. He leaned over and kissed her. Slowly.

"I have a feeling, Chelsea, that I'm going to be on this track for a long, long time." He searched her face for a sign. "Is that all right with you?" "The engineer has no complaints. Besides," she grinned, "you're the man with the formula that'll keep me looking eternally young." He laughed. "I believe in stacking the deck whenever I can." She had a feeling she was going to be late with her notes after all. "If you feel that way, put your mouth where your money is." He leaned over and undid her seat belt. "Interesting turn of the phrase." The notes were going to be very, very late. "Shut up and kiss me again, Tristan." She didn't have to tell him twice.

The End