Read Online License to Thrill by Stephanie Bond - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Bond
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can't swear to it after that." She looked at James and shrugged slightly. "James, you're probably accustomed to high-profile, intricate cases, but the embezzling, the missing items, and the theft of the letter could be unrelated."
"True," he acknowledged with an air that made her feel as though she was missing something that was quite obvious to him.
He withdrew his hand to parallel park near her apartment door. She missed his warmth, and it disturbed her. "Oh, I was going to ask you to drop me by the gallery to get my van."
"The police had it impounded."
Kat stared at him. "You're kidding."
"Evidence," he said, turning off the engine. "And prepare yourself—I'm sure they've searched your apartment by now."
She gripped the handle. "Look, James, I'm sure you're exhausted from your trip and today's activities—"
He stopped her with a pointed look. "I've never suffered from jet lag in my life, and we have many things to discuss. Plus I want to see you safely secured away."
Relief washed over her, and she supposed her face showed it. "I'd be grateful."
He leaned toward her, his eyes glinting in amusement. "Grateful, did you say?"
His gaze roved over her, and Kat burned with embarrassment. The man must have an indiscriminate taste for American women if he could flirt with her the way she looked now. She fumbled for the door handle and nearly tripped in her haste to escape his close proximity. By the time she had righted herself, he was out of the car and beside her, taking her arm.
"Easy," he said, his voice as soothing as the hot shower she intended to take the instant he left. And as far as these weird, tingly feelings James evoked in her, she passed it off as lack of sleep, lack of food, and lack of sex.
Her shoulders tensed as they climbed the few steps and walked down the hall. When he swung open the door, she thought she was prepared for the worst, but she was wrong.
"Bloody hell," he muttered.
Vile American phrases whirled through Kat's head, but her tongue and body were paralyzed. She recognized the arm of her couch peeking out beneath a mountain of books and other debris. Drawers and shelves had been emptied, with no thought to replacing the items. Scarcely a bare spot remained on the floor. Pots and pans, bathroom linens, clothing—the contents of the rooms had been commingled and abandoned.
She lifted her hand to her mouth and whispered, "Can they do this?"
"Apparently so," James replied, lifting a carbon of a written order that had been taped to the door. He swung his head back and forth to survey the damage. "Seems a bit sloppy to me."
Kat's legs felt rubbery. In the space of a few seconds, the events of the last twenty-four hours had caught up to her.
He curled his arm around her waist. "You're quite pale, Pussy-Kat, maybe you'd better lie down."
Which seemed like the most hilarious thing she'd ever heard, considering there was no place for her to lie down. She opened her mouth to laugh, but only a pathetic little squeak emerged.
James released her and removed his jacket, hanging it from a bare nail where a picture had once hung, then began rolling up his sleeves. "I'll clear us a spot to sit while you freshen up," he said cheerfully.
She smoothed a hand down the sleeve of the ratty cardigan she'd thrown on over her dinner clothes—God, had it been only this morning? Her skin itched, her scalp crawled, her tongue tasted stale. Her state of grooming seemed insignificant compared to everything else she'd been through, but right now the small solace of hot water sounded like nirvana. "Well, perhaps just a quick shower," she murmured.
He waved her toward the bedroom, then began retrieving books from the sofa and shelving them. Kat yanked a semi-folded clean towel from a mound on the floor and walked into the disaster area that used to be her bedroom. Swallowing a lump of frustration, she marched straight through the strewn articles of her life and into the white tiled bathroom, which was too
"True," he acknowledged with an air that made her feel as though she was missing something that was quite obvious to him.
He withdrew his hand to parallel park near her apartment door. She missed his warmth, and it disturbed her. "Oh, I was going to ask you to drop me by the gallery to get my van."
"The police had it impounded."
Kat stared at him. "You're kidding."
"Evidence," he said, turning off the engine. "And prepare yourself—I'm sure they've searched your apartment by now."
She gripped the handle. "Look, James, I'm sure you're exhausted from your trip and today's activities—"
He stopped her with a pointed look. "I've never suffered from jet lag in my life, and we have many things to discuss. Plus I want to see you safely secured away."
Relief washed over her, and she supposed her face showed it. "I'd be grateful."
He leaned toward her, his eyes glinting in amusement. "Grateful, did you say?"
His gaze roved over her, and Kat burned with embarrassment. The man must have an indiscriminate taste for American women if he could flirt with her the way she looked now. She fumbled for the door handle and nearly tripped in her haste to escape his close proximity. By the time she had righted herself, he was out of the car and beside her, taking her arm.
"Easy," he said, his voice as soothing as the hot shower she intended to take the instant he left. And as far as these weird, tingly feelings James evoked in her, she passed it off as lack of sleep, lack of food, and lack of sex.
Her shoulders tensed as they climbed the few steps and walked down the hall. When he swung open the door, she thought she was prepared for the worst, but she was wrong.
"Bloody hell," he muttered.
Vile American phrases whirled through Kat's head, but her tongue and body were paralyzed. She recognized the arm of her couch peeking out beneath a mountain of books and other debris. Drawers and shelves had been emptied, with no thought to replacing the items. Scarcely a bare spot remained on the floor. Pots and pans, bathroom linens, clothing—the contents of the rooms had been commingled and abandoned.
She lifted her hand to her mouth and whispered, "Can they do this?"
"Apparently so," James replied, lifting a carbon of a written order that had been taped to the door. He swung his head back and forth to survey the damage. "Seems a bit sloppy to me."
Kat's legs felt rubbery. In the space of a few seconds, the events of the last twenty-four hours had caught up to her.
He curled his arm around her waist. "You're quite pale, Pussy-Kat, maybe you'd better lie down."
Which seemed like the most hilarious thing she'd ever heard, considering there was no place for her to lie down. She opened her mouth to laugh, but only a pathetic little squeak emerged.
James released her and removed his jacket, hanging it from a bare nail where a picture had once hung, then began rolling up his sleeves. "I'll clear us a spot to sit while you freshen up," he said cheerfully.
She smoothed a hand down the sleeve of the ratty cardigan she'd thrown on over her dinner clothes—God, had it been only this morning? Her skin itched, her scalp crawled, her tongue tasted stale. Her state of grooming seemed insignificant compared to everything else she'd been through, but right now the small solace of hot water sounded like nirvana. "Well, perhaps just a quick shower," she murmured.
He waved her toward the bedroom, then began retrieving books from the sofa and shelving them. Kat yanked a semi-folded clean towel from a mound on the floor and walked into the disaster area that used to be her bedroom. Swallowing a lump of frustration, she marched straight through the strewn articles of her life and into the white tiled bathroom, which was too
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