Page 7 of Stone Rules

Friend my ass. She wants under him if she hasn’t been already. And if she has, she wants more. I should know. After all, it takes one to know one. Sluts. Dirty mistresses. Home wreckers. She may dress the part better than I do, but I’m sure she perceived the same about me. We all have that sense about each other. That radar that warns us of the competition. That passive-aggressiveness that comes off as bitchy to other women, but allows us to manipulate unsuspecting men.

I don’t see a ring on his finger. And there weren’t many pictures of women displayed on the wall out front. Not that it matters, but I ask anyway. “Is there one? A wife or girlfriend?”

He lifts a brow. “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions here?”

I shrug, not in the least bit embarrassed about my curiosity.

“So why don’t you start by telling me why you think you need the services of a private investigator, Charlie.”

“To find out if you’re single, for one.” I smile at him but he cocks his head, unamused. I roll my eyes. “I need to find some people.”

“Okay.” He opens up the file folder and pulls out a piece of paper. “We’re very good at that. Who is it you need to find?”

I open my purse and pull out the list. I unfold it and try not to cringe as my eyes drift across the names.

When he takes the list from me, his fingers brush mine. I’m sure he felt it too—the pulse of electricity that passed between us. He clears his throat, not hiding it as well as he thinks he is.

His lips move in silence as he reads the names to himself. My gaze zeroes in on his mouth as I watch it form each syllable. A chunk of hair falls across his forehead and he absently pushes it back. My breath comes quickly and I reach down to grip the sides of the chair so I don’t start squirming. The man is hotness on steroids.

“These are all men,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. His thumb and forefinger rub across his faint stubble, meeting at the base of his chin as he studies me.

“And that’s a problem because you only enjoy tracking down women?” I deadpan.

“Just making an observation, Charlie.”

As my first name rolls off his lips for the third time –why am I counting?– I realize I want him screaming that, too. First name, last name, hell, he can even scream his own name as long as he’s deep inside me when he does it.

“A few of these men are famous,” he points out.

“Yeah?”

He silently appraises me. He reminds me of the one and only shrink I saw a few years ago. Except better looking. And more fuckable. The guy would just stare at me and occasionally spew out some existential shit that was supposed to get me talking.

Stone, though, makes me want to open my mouth for a far different reason.

He jots down a few notes and it doesn’t escape me that he’s a lefty. Like me. Damn,even the way his pen flows across paper is sexy. I shift in my seat and his knowing eyes find mine.

Becoming oddly uncomfortable at the piercing silence, I say, “Uh, my mom died.”

His stubborn expression softens. “Yes. I heard. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be.” Then I clamp my lips together before I reveal anything I don’t want him to know. I don’t think private investigators fall under the same rules as say, attorney-client or doctor-patient privilege. And since I don’t yet know what I’m truly capable of . . .

Brows lifted, his dark eyes study my face. I shrink a little in my seat.

“So, the list. My mom was kind of a” —I try to think quickly— “um . . . she liked her men. And I thought I owed it to her to find them. I have something for each of them.”

“That’s nice of you,” he says, making more notes.

“Yes. I thought so.”

More silence.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you, Stone?”

He puts down the pen and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he stares at me thoughtfully.

“It’s my job to read people,Tate. And I’m very good at my job.”

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