Lust. Somehow the word halted her in place. Because it stung—deep. Deeper than it should have.

She knew lust—she lusted for him, too. But what she felt for him went deeper than that. She loved him. And she knew he didn’t love her back, knew too much had happened for him to ever love her, but lust, at the moment, sounded so empty. And despite herself, it hurt. So she said nothing, only blinked to make sure she didn’t start to cry.

“What the hell am I supposed to feel here?” he boomed at her then. “First last night, seeing you in that dress—”

“You told me to look that way!”

“You’re right, I did. But I sure didn’t tell you to come to bed wearing a tiny see-through nightgown. And then today, that bikini. I know, you’re supposed to wear that, too. But seeing so much of your body just finally got to me, all right? It was unprofessional and I know it. So sue me. But it takes two to tango, doesn’t it? You weren’t exactly fighting me off, were you?”

Oh, so he was turning this back on her? She’d heard enough. “Well, don’t worry, that won’t happen again—you can bet on it.” Then she shook her head. “I can’t wait until we’re done with this stupid job.”

“That makes two of us,” he groused.

She shot him a pointed look. “Then I suggest we move ahead full-steam-ahead with the plan—I think it’s high time you plant yourself in that closet and let me invite him to see my jewels. The sooner the better, don’t you think?” She ended with a concise nod.

Yet he hesitated. And she didn’t like the look on his face. “Actually, I haven’t had a chance to tell you this, but…”

“But what?”

“But we’re holding off on that until tomorrow. That’s why I invited him to stay the whole weekend.”

She blinked her disbelief as a tired sigh left her. “You’re kidding. I thought that was just to make him think I was into him.”

“Well, it served that purpose, too. But timing is critical here, Brandt, and I’m tuning in to the fact that he likes all this posturing, likes hanging around with us and taking his time about it. Rush it too fast and we could blow it. And I’m not taking that chance. So we’re giving him a little longer to have his fun with us—and only when I feel the moment is right will I get that fake call from the office.”

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 clear 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.”