Page 9 of Daddy's Little Spy

Option two: Someone had paid the account for her. Her gut latched on to option two, and she even had a sneaking suspicion of who would have paid it.

The only answer she didn’t have was why. Amara had no reason to even suspect she wasn’t who she said she was, unless she’d done some major digging. And say she had dug, and had discovered Diana’s true identity, why not just kill her? It wasn’t like the Rinaldis were incapable of making people disappear; Amara’s uncle being the most recent example Diana was aware of.

Did they have some kind of strange moral code that prevented them from killing cops? Unlikely. Women and children, maybe, but she assumed cops were fair game.

With the question still dogging her, she poured her third cup of coffee for the morning into a to-go cup and headed for the door.

And nearly spilled the entire thing down the front of her shirt when she found Benito Rinaldi on her front steps, his hand raised as if about to knock. For a moment, he looked as surprised as she felt, but his expression quickly smoothed back into the polite mask he always wore.

“Good morning, Miss Sullivan.”

“Ah, good morning, Benito.” Benny, she’d decided the night before, felt too simple, too childish for a man with as much raw sexuality as the one standing in front of her. “Did you need something?”

“Miss Amara thought you might like a ride to work. She was worried you might not feel up to driving yourself after last night.”

They’d certainly gotten home later than she’d expected, and the three glasses of champagne had made her rather giggly when Benito had picked them up, but it wasn’t as if they’d overindulged. Certainly not enough to warrant him showing up on her front porch and offering her a ride to work.

Tilting her chin up, she sent him a cool stare in response. “I feel perfectly fine. You can thank Amara for her concern, but I’m a big girl and I know my limits.”

Benito took a step forward, and she silently cursed herself when she stepped back in retreat, her backside bumping up against the porch railing.

“Are you?” he murmured, running the back of his fingers across her cheek.

“Am I what?” God, she sounded like a horny teenager, all breathless and needy.

“A big girl.”

“What? Of course, I am. I’m a grown ass woman and you’re crowding me. Please move.”

To her surprise, he stepped to the side, allowing her to brush past him. But he fell into step beside her, his hand settling at the small of her back.

“What are you doing?”

“Walking you to your car. It’s what a gentleman does.”

Great. A gentleman criminal. Just what her already confused and overloaded system needed to make this assignment even more difficult. She started to snap at him, then stopped herself when she remembered she wasn’t a cop but a fancy, powerful businesswoman as far as he was concerned. Would Diana Sullivan brush him off or would she accept the ride, maybe flirt a little?

Stopping on the sidewalk, she turned and sent him an apologetic smile. “I apologize for my rudeness. I suppose I’m not feeling that well after all. A ride to work would be lovely, thank you.”

“Too much caffeine can make one jittery and cranky.” He tapped the lid of her to-go cup. “How much coffee have you had this morning?”

“I don’t see where that’s any of your business.”

“Hmm. We shall see.”

Placing his hand at the small of her back again, he used the slightest bit of pressure to maneuver her over to the sleek town car she remembered from the night before. With another of his polite smiles, he opened the door and helped her inside. She used the time it took him to walk around to the driver’s side door to drag in a few deep breaths to try and settle her jittery nerves.

It didn’t work.

As soon as the driver’s door opened, she was back on high alert. And when his eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, she felt like a deer trapped in the headlights. Or maybe a chicken cornered in the henhouse by a particularly ravenous fox.

Whatever the metaphor, she didn’t appreciate the feeling. She really didn’t appreciate the sudden, undeniable stab of arousal which accompanied that trapped, pinned, helpless feeling. What the hell was that all about?

“Where to, Miss Sullivan?”

“Ah, just a moment. I have a meeting this morning at a client’s office, let me just pull up the address.” Picking a random building on the same street as her precinct, she did a quick check of the Google street view to make sure it was an office building and not, say, a random deli before she rattled off the address.

“How did you get into the closet business?” Benito asked as they pulled away from the curb.

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