Sealed With A Kiss. Kristin Hardy

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      “It’s no big deal. A slick guy like you can probably figure it out while you’re still booking your flight.” He cleared his throat. “You make my client happy, you’ll make me happy.”

      Bax snorted. “Next time we go back to contract, I’m upping my rate.”

      “Whatever you say, buddy, whatever you say.”

      Bax hung up the phone and stepped out into the hallway that led to the reception area of the communal office suites. So maybe having space here cost a couple hundred more in rent than a one-room office somewhere, but it gave him access to a receptionist, mail room and a slick conference room. More important, it gave his business an established air that reassured the kinds of clients he sought. Just because he worked without a staff didn’t mean he had to look like a one-man show.

      As long as he was a one-man show.

      “MR. BAXTER will be with you in just a moment,” the blond receptionist told Joss, punching the button on her console with one red-lacquered nail before she pulled off the telephone headset and prepared to go home.

      Joss turned to the deep, pewter-colored couches that lined the walls. A receptionist? Who’d ever heard of a private eye with a receptionist? Then again, who’d ever heard of a private eye having a lobby with ice-blue carpet so thick you could snag a heel in it? And five-foot-tall ficus plants? Weren’t P.I.s supposed to work out of tiny offices with venetian blinds and half-glassed doors, in tired old buildings on the wrong side of town?

      Tom’s lawyer was going to have a lot of explaining to do. She should have known better than to trust his referral. Simon Fleming had told her his investigator might be able to help her out. He’d neglected to tell her the guy was going to be some corporate clown.

      An expensive corporate clown.

      Scowling, Joss stalked over to the wall of windows that overlooked Montgomery Street, now pooled with shadow in the late afternoon. She didn’t like the idea of telling her problems to some pretentious twit who’d look down on her. She knew the type—if you didn’t have a brokerage account and an MBA, they wouldn’t take you seriously. She could just imagine the kind of private eye who’d have an office here. He’d probably be short, for starters, pasty and soft. And balding, with a comb-over that didn’t hide anything.

      “Are you here for Executive Security Consulting?”

      Joss jumped and whirled.

      He didn’t look soft at all, was her first thought. He’d come up behind her so quietly on the plush carpet that she hadn’t heard a thing. Then again, he looked like he always moved silently. There was something about him that reminded her of a panther, dark, sleek and dangerous.

      Then he smiled and the impression evaporated. He looked, if not entirely friendly, at least approachable.

      “I’m John Baxter.”

      Tall, she thought, tall enough that she had to raise her chin to meet his eyes as he came closer. Not lanky, though. Self-possessed and lean, solid without being bulky. He looked like the kind of guy who could snatch flies out of midair or explode into violence if the need arose. Confident, capable and eat-him-with-a-spoon sexy.

      She squared her shoulders and held out her hand. “Joss Chastain.”

      BAX WASN’T sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t her. She looked like nothing so much as a gypsy in her long flowered skirt and cropped T-shirt, her dark hair sweeping loose and wild down her back. It had red highlights, he noticed, then frowned at himself.

      “Simon Fleming sent me over.” Her hand was softer than he’d expected, and stronger. When she tugged it away from him, he realized he’d been holding it for far too long.

      “I know. He called me. Come on back to my office.”

      He led the way down the winding hallway with its crown molding and subdued lighting.

      “Pretty fancy digs for a private eye,” she commented.

      “I’m not a private eye. I’m a security consultant.”

      “Which means?”

      “I check out security setups and do some investigative work—legal, industrial espionage, that sort of thing. My kind of clients expect to see this kind of office.”

      “Are you saying that I’m not your kind of client?”

      Prickly, he thought. Nerves, maybe. Sometimes people got that way before they had to spill their story. Or maybe she was just feisty. She had that look. “I usually deal with corporate personnel. They’re more comfortable with this sort of look.”

      “But you’re not a cop?”

      He opened his office door. “No. Strictly private sector.”

      “Exactly. Private eye.” She walked past him, leaving a whisper of scent in her wake that had every one of his hormones sitting up and panting.

      Now he was the one feeling prickly. Bax crossed to his desk. Taking his time, he studied her. She had the kind of bone structure that you saw in old Italian paintings, the mysterious arch above the eyes, the haunting hollows in the cheeks. Something in the set of her shoulders told him that she was very used to having her way. Her mouth was wide, the upper lip just a bit more full than the lower. When he’d first seen her, it had given her the look of a mistreated child, but now it made him think of stolen kisses in the darkness. He wondered suddenly what she looked like when she laughed.

      “Let me know when you’re finished,” she told him, shifting to get more comfortable in his client chair, draping an elbow over the back. The trouble was, she didn’t look like any client he’d ever had before and she was playing hell with his concentration.

      Bax leaned his elbows on the desk and tried to ignore the taut belly exposed by her T-shirt. “So why are you so dead set on getting a private detective?”

      “I need someone who’s good at finding things. Are you?”

      “When I decide to be. What do you need to find?”

      She studied him in her turn. Finally, she nodded to herself, apparently deciding he passed muster. “A stamp.”

      “I’ve got a whole roll of them here in my drawer.”

      “Cute. This particular stamp is worth a bundle. It was stolen from my grandfather and I want to get it back.”

      “Why isn’t he the one here?”

      “He’s on an extended vacation with my grandmother. My sister and I have been taking care of his business and the theft happened on our watch.” She pushed the tumble of dark hair back over her shoulder. “I want to get the stamp back before he comes home.”

      Just for a second, that anxious kid expression came back. The urge to wipe it away flickered through him. “Do you know who stole it or where it is?”

      “I have an idea. A colleague of my grandfather’s, Stewart Oakes, was approached by a Swedish collector who wanted my grandfather’s prize pair, the Blue Mauritius and the one-penny red-orange Mauritius.”

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