Page 41 of Secret Agent Santa

“How’d you come up with that?”

“Hamid actually came up with it himself.” She shrugged. “He’s a fan of American pop culture, and I’m the only blond heiress he knows.”

“Makes perfect sense to me. What are you posting?”

Her fingers hovered over the laptop. “I just want to let him know we can help.”

She chewed her lip and started typing.

Mike read her words aloud as she entered them. “‘Everything okay with the band? I think we’re in the same boat. Let me know if you need a backup singer.’”

She clicked the button to post her message under the username Paris. “If he sees that, he’ll know what I mean.”

“Why so cryptic if the message board is a safe zone?” He took the computer from her lap and logged off.

“You can never be too careful.” She raised her arms, stretching them toward the ceiling and yawning.

“It’s past midnight. You gotta be tired even after all that so-called sleep on the bus.”

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “I haven’t even looked past the bathroom in here. Are there two bedrooms?”

“Yes. Do you want to check them out first and call dibs?”

She wanted to call dibs on him.

She stuffed the thought back down into her tired brain. She wanted Mike Becker because he believed in her and it had been a long time since anyone had believed in her. It couldn’t be real attraction. She didn’t have time for that.

He crouched before the fire to douse it, and her gaze traveled from his broad shoulders, down the length of his strong back and settled on his tight backside encased in worn denim.

He believed in her and he was as hot as that fire he was smothering. The sensations pummeling her brain and body emanated from overwrought emotions and pure lust—nothing more.

She forced her languorous muscles to move and pushed off the love seat. “Do you know if the beds are made?”

“Should be.”

She clicked on the hall light and poked her head into the first bedroom—standard-issue bed, including sheets and a turned-down bedspread, a dresser, and a small nightstand sporting a lamp and a clock radio.

She crossed the hall to the other bedroom, where a king-size bed dominated the room and a dark chest of drawers stood in the corner.

“You can have this room.”

He appeared behind her, and she jumped.

“You okay?” He placed his hands on her shoulders from behind and the warm breath caressing her ear made her heart beat a little faster.

“On edge.”

“I can’t imagine why.” He pinched her shoulders. “I found some toiletries in the closet and left them for you in the bathroom—toothbrush, toothpaste, soap. What were you just saying?”

“You can have this room.” She flung out her arm into the space. “You need the bigger bed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Besides, the other room has a mirror. I’m going to need to spend long hours in front of that mirror tomorrow morning to fix myself up after the day I had today.”

“You did have a rough day, and yet—” he shifted to her side and cupped her face with one hand “—you still look beautiful.”

A pulse thrummed in her throat and she parted her lips to protest, to assure him she hadn’t been fishing for a compliment. She never got the chance.

He swept his lips across hers, and when she didn’t make a move, not even a blink of an eyelash, he pressed a hard kiss against her mouth that felt like a stamp. He pulled away just as abruptly.

“Get some sleep, Claire.”

“G-good night.” She sidled past him out the door and practically flung herself into the bathroom across the hall.

She slammed the door behind her and hunched over the small vanity, almost touching her nose to the mirror. She couldn’t.

She hadn’t been with a man since she lost Shane. Her attraction to Mike felt like such a betrayal to her dead husband.

A sob welled up from her chest and she cranked on the water in the sink, letting her tears drip down her chin and swirl down the drain with the water.

She’d kept telling herself that she’d let go once she found justice for Shane, but maybe she’d been fooling herself. Once Shane’s killer was brought down, would she have another excuse?

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