With Private Eyes

November’s menu

BARONESSA GELATERIA

in Boston’s North End

In addition to our regular flavors of gelato, this month we are featuring:

 Tall, cool drink of tart lemonadeWith her incredible legs and honey-blond hair, Claudia Barone bowled Ethan over at first sight. But the strong, sassy society dame was not about to make him forget who was in charge of this investigation. He’d match her clue for clue, kiss for kiss…

 USDA Grade-A prime beefsteakEthan Mallory was as different from Claudia as any person on the planet. But the rough-and-tumble private eye got to her like no man ever had. Beneath his gruff exterior was a real diamond in the rough.

 Decadent chocolate bombeNo longer able to resist him, Claudia gave herself over to Ethan’s kisses, to his touch. Being with him was different—explosive, dizzying, mind-blowing. She’d revel in it—for as long as it lasted. After all, none of her other relationships had had any duration. But, then again, Ethan wasn’t like any other man….

Buon appetito!

Dear Reader,

Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire—where passion is guaranteed in every read. Things sure are heating up with our continuing series DYNASTIES: THE BARONES. Eileen Wilks’s With Private Eyes is a powerful romance that helps set the stage for the daring conclusion next month. And if it’s more continuing stories that you want—we have them. TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: THE STOLEN BABY launches this month with Sara Orwig’s Entangled with a Texan.

The wonderful Peggy Moreland is on hand to dish up her share of Texas humor and heat with Baby, You’re Mine, the next installment of her TANNERS OF TEXAS series. Be sure to catch Peggy’s Silhouette Single Title, Tanner’s Millions, on sale January 2004. Award-winning author Jennifer Greene marks her much-anticipated return to Silhouette Desire with Wild in the Field, the first book in her series THE SCENT OF LAVENDER.

Also for your enjoyment this month, we offer Katherine Garbera’s second book in the KING OF HEARTS series. Cinderella’s Christmas Affair is a fabulous “it could happen to you” plot guaranteed to leave her fans extremely satisfied. And rounding out our selection of delectable stories is Awakening Beauty by Amy J. Fetzer, a steamy, sensational tale.

More passion to you!

Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

With Private Eyes

Eileen Wilks

MILLS & BOON

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This one’s for Karen,

who’s always willing

to listen.

EILEEN WILKS

is a fifth-generation Texan. Her great-great-grandmother came to Texas in a covered wagon shortly after the end of the Civil War—excuse us, the War Between the States. But she’s not a full-blooded Texan. Right after another war, her Texan father fell for a Yankee woman. This obviously mismatched pair proceeded to travel to nine cities in three countries in the first twenty years of their marriage, raising two kids and innumerable dogs and cats along the way. For the next twenty years they stayed put, back home in Texas again—and still together.

Eileen figures her professional career matches her nomadic upbringing, since she’s tried everything from drafting to a brief stint as a ranch hand—raising two children and any number of cats and dogs along the way. Not until she started writing did she “stay put,” because that’s when she knew she’d come home. Readers can write to her at P.O. Box 4612, Midland, TX 79704-4612.

Meet the Barones of Boston—an elite clan caught in a web of danger, deceit…and desire!

Who’s Who in

WITH PRIVATE EYES

Claudia Barone—She’s always fixing her family’s problems, but her own love life is a mess. Her former beaux never lasted longer than four months; they were too intimidated by her stubbornness and her strength….

Ethan Mallory—Despite hailing from the wrong side of the tracks, he’s always been attracted to tall, cool blondes—all of whom have been Ms. Wrong. This time he tells himself he’ll stay away from Ms. Barone, no matter how much it kills him….

Derrick Barone—He, more than anyone, knows you can’t fight who you really are.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

One

Uncle Miles had always told him his sense of humor would get him hanged one of these days, Ethan reflected. Maybe today was the day.

“I’d like to start as soon as possible.” The blonde sitting on the other side of his desk gave him a bright smile. “This is going to make a terrific article.”

Maybe it was his curiosity that would get him in trouble this time. As much as it tickled his sense of the absurd for Claudia Barone to present herself in his office posing as a reporter, he wouldn’t have let her run through her spiel if he hadn’t wanted to know what she was up to. “I haven’t agreed yet,” he pointed out.

“Oh, well.” She said that tolerantly and crossed her legs, sliding one long, silky thigh over the other. “How can I persuade you?”

Then again, those legs might be the real culprit. The moment she’d appeared in his doorway in her lipstick-red suit he’d wanted to get her into the visitor’s chair in front of his desk. He’d wanted to find out how far that one-inch-too-short skirt hiked up.

They were world-class legs, he thought regretfully. And she knew it. She’d crossed and uncrossed them four times since she sat down. “I don’t imagine you can.”

Not a whit discouraged, she launched into a repetition of her asinine story, her hands flying enthusiastically. It was an intriguing contrast, he thought. Her posture was very proper—shoulders squared, spine straight—and she certainly didn’t raise her voice. But her gestures were as loud as the color of her suit.

Even on ten minutes’ acquaintance, he could tell Claudia Barone was crammed with contradictions. She looked like the prototype for a tall, cool sip of blond elegance. She was pale and slim—skinny, he told himself—with blue eyes and classic features marred by a nose too assertive for its setting. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a kind of a roll at the back, very sleek and polished. The cut of her suit was conservative, too, if you ignored where the hemline hit.

And the color. Which was echoed in the siren-red gloss she’d sleeked over a cute little rosebud mouth.

Her story might be crazy, but her voice was worth listening to, even if it did tug at memories he’d prefer stayed safely buried.

She didn’t really look like his ex-wife. Bianca had been a blonde, too, but the color had been courtesy of Clairol, not nature. Not that he knew for a fact Claudia Barone’s sunny shade hadn’t come from a bottle, too. There was one sure way to find out…. Don’t go there, he told himself, even as his body enthusiastically endorsed the proposed investigation.

But she sure sounded like Bianca. That smoky alto was uncannily familiar, though that had to be sheer coincidence. The Contis and the Barones were no more related than the Hatfields and McCoys had been, and for similar reasons. Her accent was the same as Bianca’s, too, but that was no fluke. Upper-class Boston was Miss Claudia Barone’s natural habitat.

Unlike the office of a thoroughly working-class detective. Ethan steepled his fingers on the desk and smiled at her blandly. “How can you call the article ‘A Day in the Life of a Private Investigator’ if you’re planning to follow me around for a week?”

“Oh, it will be a composite day.” She waved that away. “Not a literal day. That would actually be deceptive, wouldn’t it? Any given day might not be typical at all. It’s much more accurate to pick and choose parts from several days.”

“Then you should call it ‘A Typical Day.’ Or ‘An Average Day.”’

“Perhaps you’re right.” She turned the wattage up on her smile. “Whatever I call the article, it will be great publicity for your agency. Free publicity. And I won’t be any bother, truly. What do you say?”

“Free publicity is usually welcome. The only problem I can see is that you aren’t a reporter.”

She didn’t even blink. “What makes you say that?”

Maybe it was her casual attitude toward her own lies that made him decide to do it. Or that perverse sense of humor his uncle had warned him about. Or maybe it was those legs—those mile-long, silk-clad legs she’d been showing off ever since she sat down. “First, there’s your shoes.”

“My shoes?” She looked down as if checking that the red-leather pumps were still there. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

“Not a thing. Except that no one on a reporter’s salary can afford custom-made Italian shoes. The coat looks too expensive, too.”

“Well, damn.” The mild epithet came out sounding quite ladylike. “I spent three hours shopping for this suit yesterday at a couple of those chain stores that pop up like mushrooms at all the malls. I wanted something with a touch of class, even if it had to be modestly priced to suit the image. Why should being a reporter mean one lacks taste?” She paused expectantly.

“No reason, I suppose,” he said, fascinated. She had to be a natural blonde. She sounded blond.

“That’s what I thought. Stacy wanted me to wear this shapeless pants suit in a dreary shade of brown. Of course,” she added with the tone of one wanting to be fair, “she can wear earth colors. They turn my complexion muddy. But the style was impossible.” She glanced down at her suit with some satisfaction. “I found this on sale for eighty-seven dollars. Can you believe that? But I do so dislike off-the-rack shoes. They always rub or pinch somewhere, especially when they’re new. And I didn’t think you’d know enough about women’s shoes to spot the difference.”

“Because I’m not from your background?” His voice took on an edge.

She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re a man. Men never know the least thing about women’s clothing, not unless they—” Now she blinked, startled. “You aren’t, are you? Inclined toward women’s clothing yourself, I mean.”

“Good God. No.”

This time her smile crinkled up the corners of her eyes. It looked more natural that way. “I must say, I’m pleased to hear that. Though I shouldn’t be. It’s none of my business, but one learns so little if one is overly concerned about that sort of thing, don’t you find?”

It was time to get rid of her, before he became too fascinated by the prospect of what absurd thing she’d say next. His uncle had also warned about Ethan’s tendency to let his fascination with people distract him. Ethan shoved his chair back and stood. “You didn’t have to pretend to be a reporter, you know.”

“No?” She watched curiously as he rounded his desk. “Does that mean you’ll let me be part of your investigation?”

When frogs fly. “It means that a lot of women find P.I.s…appealing.” He loaded the words with innuendo and let himself enjoy a leisurely visual journey over her body. Small, high breasts…slim waist…smooth hips…and those drool-worthy legs. Pity he had to chase them, and the rest of that enticing package, back out the door. “Not many are as gorgeous as you are, though.”

With that, he bent and clamped his hands on the arms of her chair, penning her in. At last her eyes turned wary. “You’ve misunderstood.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” He leaned in closer. Her breasts were rising and falling a little too fast beneath the red wool jacket. He turned his smile into a smirk. “I’m flattered. I’m sure we can work out a way to get better acquainted.”

Up close, her eyes looked different. The irises were summer-sky blue, but they had a darker ring around the outside that was almost green. His gaze dipped to her red, red lips. She licked them. His heartbeat jacked way up.

Something stabbed down on the arch of his left foot. Hard. He yelped and straightened. Why, that little—! She’d stomped on his foot with the heel of one of those wicked red shoes.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said sternly. “Sexual intimidation is not playing nice.”

“Playing nice?” He snorted. “What about that thing you kept doing with your legs? And the way you licked your lips just now?”

Guilt flashed across her face, but she tilted her chin up. “That wasn’t intimidation.”

“No, that’s not the word I’d use for it.” He propped his hip against his desk, crossed his arms and scowled at her. He’d try plain old intimidation this time. A man his size usually didn’t have any trouble pulling that off. “Unless you plan on following through with what you were offering, I’d say it’s time for you to leave.”

She didn’t budge. “I think you knew who I was all along.”

“Of course I did. I’m investigating the fire at the Baronessa plant. I’ve got a newspaper photo of you in my file.”

“But I don’t have anything to do with the plant or the company.”

“You’re a Barone, and I’m a thorough kind of a guy.” And she’d had her face in the paper often enough—the society pages, of course.

She leaned forward. The neckline of her suit gapped enough to give him a glimpse of cleavage. “Listen, that fire was— Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She glanced at where he was looking and straightened. “I know you think of sex seven times a minute or something like that. You can’t help it, being a man. But could you please try to pay attention? This is important.”

“I can pay attention and look down your top at the same time,” he assured her. “Being a man, I’m used to that kind of multitasking.”

She chuckled. It was low and husky and caught him by surprise. “Your point,” she conceded. “But not set and match. My point is that you’re investigating the weird things that have been happening with Baronessa lately—the tampering with the gelato at the tasting. The arson at the plant. Obviously we need to know who your client is and what you’ve learned.”

“Obviously, I’m not going to tell you.”

“You need the cooperation of Baronessa employees. I can get that for you. All I ask in return is a little information. Or the chance to accompany you while you uncover information.”

“No. And don’t bother to wave a checkbook at me. I don’t take bribes.”

“Did I suggest that?” She was indignant. “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to trick information out of you if I thought money would work.”

His lips twitched. “Just as well. Your brother already tried.”

A crease formed in her forehead. “Derrick? He wasn’t supposed to. We agreed that I’d handle things. Well.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind that. I—”

His phone rang. He picked it up. “Mallory Investigations.”

It was Nick Charles, the arson investigator in charge of the Baronessa case—and a good friend of Ethan’s cousin, Mel. Nick didn’t really have anything for him; mostly he was fishing, himself. Ethan dragged out the conversation, keeping his responses uninformative, just to make his audience squirm with curiosity. Petty, maybe, but a man took what satisfaction he could. Lord knew it was all the satisfaction he was likely to get from Ms. Claudia Nose-in-the-Air Barone.

When he hung up, she had her purse in her lap. “If you’d believed I was a reporter, would you have let me tag along?”

“Probably not. Reporters aren’t entitled to the details of my investigation, either.”

She sighed. “You’re not going to be helpful, are you?”

“Sleep with me and see how helpful I can be.” The suggestion slipped out before he could edit it.

“You don’t mean that,” she informed him, and opened the big clutch-style purse. “Smile.” She pulled out a little camera—one of those new digital jobs that aren’t much bigger than a wallet.

“What the— Hey!” He held a hand in front of his face a second after the flash went off.

“For my collection,” she said breezily, retrieving her coat from the other chair.

No, not a coat, he realized as she slung it on. A cape that fell to mid-calf. Her dramatic side had apparently won out over the proper Boston deb on that particular shopping trip.

Her smile was perfectly polite. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mallory. When you change your mind about working with me, let me know. I’m sure a thorough man like yourself has my phone number in that file of yours.”

He watched the gorgeous legs move briskly out his door and out of his life. She had a damned fine behind, too—high, round and not as skinny as the rest of her.

Not that the rest of her was really skinny. He sighed and reached for his phone. He might lie for a living, but he didn’t lie to himself. Ever. Fact was, she was packaged just right. Incredible legs.

Incredible ego, too. Ethan punched in a number he didn’t have to look up. Conceited little society twit. Did she really think he was going to invite her to tag along just because she wanted him to? He’d have to be nuts.

The phone was answered on the third ring. “Sal,” Ethan said to his client and former father-in-law, Salvatore Conti, head of the family that occupied eight or nine slots on the Barones’ Top Ten list of enemies. “You’ll never guess who just showed up in my office.”

At eight-thirty that night, Claudia had her hands full of milk—two gallon jugs of it, to be precise. She was in her kitchen. Her best friend since the third grade, Stacy Farquhar, stood near the pantry, watching her suspiciously.

Claudia’s kitchen occupied the rear end of her apartment. It was divided from the long, narrow living area by an ivy-covered lattice and the dining table, a glass slab set on a cast-iron frame. Her dining table could seat twelve, and sometimes did. Tonight it held an empty pizza box, two paper plates and a few scattered bits of mushroom and bell pepper.

Claudia was very fond of bell peppers. “Grab the olive oil from the pantry, would you?” she said, using her hip to swing the refrigerator door shut.

“What are you going to do with that milk?” Stacy’s voice was filled with accusation. “You said you’d fill me in while we gave ourselves pedicures. Weird ones, maybe, but so much of what you do is weird.”

“Don’t be silly. What could be more natural than olive oil, salt and milk?” Claudia pulled out a soup pot and poured the milk in a gallon at a time. “You’re allergic to so many things, I thought we’d try—”

“I’m allergic to milk!”

“You’re allergic to drinking it. This is for soaking our feet after we give them the salt-and-olive oil scrub. You’ve heard of milk baths, for heaven’s sake. Now, quit squinting at me and go get us a couple of towels, okay?”

Stacy rolled her eyes and headed for the linen closet. “I don’t know why I let you do this to me. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten the time you persuaded me to try out for the boxing team. I still have nightmares…. Hey, the printer’s finished.”

She darted into Claudia’s bedroom, which was affixed to the rest of the apartment like an afterthought about midway down the living area. And emerged waving the just-printed photo. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I told you what happened.” Claudia tested the milk with the tip of her finger. Still cold. She turned the gas up a bit.

“You said Ethan Mallory reminded you of a grizzly bear.” She slapped the image down on the counter. “Exhibit A: photograph of major hunk who does not look like any kind of bear.”

Claudia glanced at the photo. Crisp brown hair that would curl if it weren’t cut so ruthlessly short. Hazel eyes framed by dark, extravagant lashes, that might have looked pretty if they hadn’t been set in such an uncompromisingly masculine face.

“He’s very big,” she offered, trying to remember just why she’d thought of a grizzly bear when she met him.

“He’s an ex-football player, you said. From his college days. Of course he’s big.”

“Solid, too. And not just physically. I had the feeling it takes a lot to rile him. Not because he lacks a temper, but because he’s so insufferably confident that anything other than a direct hit just rolls off. I guess it was the way he loomed over me when he had me pinned in the chair that made me think of a grizzly bear.” Claudia headed for the pantry for the olive oil. “Are you going to get us some towels, or not?”

Stacy opened a drawer, grabbed two dish towels and tossed them on the table. “And just when did he pin you in a chair?”

“I told you he tried to intimidate me.”

“Humph.” Stacy grabbed a mixing bowl from the cupboard. “He can’t be all that bright. A runaway train wouldn’t intimidate you.”

“No, I think he’s sharp enough.” Claudia paused, frowning at the container of salt in her hand. “Too bright, maybe. And very stubborn. He isn’t going to be easy to work with. Oh, well.” She shrugged and put the salt and olive oil on the table. “I have to work with what’s available, not with what’s ideal.”

“Claudia.” Stacy’s tone was ominous now. “He’s smart. He wears his hair short. He’s got shoulders like a—well, like a football player. And he’s domineering. Is he successful? Leader of the pack in his field?”

“Confident and assertive are not synonyms for domineering.” She went to check the milk. Nice and hot. “He does wear his hair short, doesn’t he?” Claudia had an image of the surly Mr. Mallory with his hair grown out enough to curl, cherublike, around that hard face. She grinned. “Curls would interfere with his tough-guy image.”

“Oh, Lord. He’s big, sexy, macho as hell. He’s practically the archetype. Your archetype.”

“I wouldn’t say that Ethan Mallory is at the top of his profession. He’s made himself a nice little niche in the detective business here in Boston, investigating white-collar crimes, but…” Claudia decided not to think about that. “The milk’s ready.”

Stacy dragged out a chair, plunked herself down and fixed Claudia with her most repressive stare. Since Stacy’s eyes swallowed about half her face, she looked like a cute, green-eyed owl. The green, of course, was supplied by her contacts. Without them she couldn’t have seen who she was glaring at. “You are not to have anything further to do with this man.”

“Well, I have to. Besides, I’ve changed.”

“You’ve made one of your plans, that’s all. You decided to change. That doesn’t mean you have changed.”

“Quit worrying. I’m reformed,” Claudia assured her, setting out two plastic tubs for their feet. “On the wagon. I’m dating Neil.”

“Four, five dates—big deal. Besides, Neil is not a cure. He’s a symptom.”

Claudia paused with the pot of steaming milk in her hands, surprised. “I thought you liked Neil.”

“Of course I like Neil. He’s my type. But I like caution. I love caution. You don’t.”

“The Neils of this world are an acquired taste. I’m acquiring it. I learned to like coffee, didn’t I?”