She was small and vulnerable-looking, like somebody's little sister, he mused. Her body was fluid and graceful, all subtle curves and sly lines with a dangerous air of understated sexuality. It was a lethal combination for a woman who made a living off men willing to shell out their hard-earned cash for a peek at her goods.
Kicking the door closed with his foot, Randall forced her over to the shabby vinyl chair in front of the desk and thrust her into it. Placing his hands on the armrests, he leaned close to her, enjoying the way her eyes widened. "Fifteen seconds," he said quietly.
Indignation heated her gaze. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You obviously have me confused with somebody else."
She was breathing hard, and Randall could see that she was shaking. Temper, he thought, and warned himself that women turned unpredictable when they were angry. They tended to lose control. He wondered if she was a screamer or a hitter.
She pressed herself into the chair as if she were trying to put some space between them, but he went with her, refusing to give her a respite. "The money, Felicia. Four hundred bucks. Then you can go."
"Felicia? My name is Add—"
Randall snatched the purse from her shoulder. "Time's up." Without waiting for a response, he dumped the contents on the desk. A gold-encased tube of lipstick rolled over the edge and hit the floor.
She came out of the chair like a spring-loaded jack-in-the box. "You can't treat me like this! Who do you think you are?"
Ignoring her, Randall found the wallet, an overstuffed piece of goatskin jammed full of crinkled receipts and coupons. Christ, he hoped he didn't find drugs. The last thing he wanted to do was cart a screaming topless dancer down to the police station.
He rifled through the cash pocket, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. "Is this all?" He waved the bill. "Where did you stash your tips?"
. She blinked and stepped away from him. "Is this a robbery?"
Anger rippled through him that she would try to use that innocent facade to weasel out of paying a man who sorely needed the money. ''Where the hell's your sense of decency?" he growled. ''The man's in a wheelchair, for chrissake."
''I don't know what you're talking about. I have an appointment..."
Randall hated liars. Especially good ones with big brown eyes and a body that could give a man wet dreams for a week. A man was never quite safe around a woman with such formidable weaponry.
Even a man like him.
Intent on teaching her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget, he gave her a blatant once-over. "Maybe we could take it out in trade." He tried not to notice when her tongue flicked nervously over those ripe lips. This was a hell of a time for him to realize he'd gone too long without sex.
She looked like a prim little housecat that had just stepped into the ring with a snarling junkyard dog. "Touch me and you'll be singing soprano with the Vienna Boys' Choir," she warned in a voice that was refreshingly tough.
Captivated, and oddly pleased, he leaned forward and hit her with a look that had brought more than one tough guy to his knees. "Why don't you show me?"
Chapter 2
Addison had known she was in trouble the moment she set eyes on him. Now, as she took in the mussed black hair, the unforgiving eyes, and the cruel mouth, she could only wonder how she was going to get out of it.
Dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a red plaid shirt, he had the haunted eyes of a prisoner on death row and the rough-hewn face of a gangster. He towered over her like a giant sequoia, without the beauty, all brawn and muscle and temper. The way he moved reminded her of a big predatory cat, a hungry one that enjoyed the kill as much as the feast.
Under different circumstances, the image might have been appealing in a physical, fundamental way. Too bad he had the intellect of an ice cube and a mean streak that had her shaking in her shoes. Her throat constricted when she considered the possibility that he might actually try to hurt her.
But she reminded herself that he was a private detective and that she was merely a victim of mistaken identity. Surely they could handle this like mature adults.
He stuffed the ten-dollar bill into the front pocket of jeans that stretched snugly across lean hips. For an insane instant she found her eyes drawn to a part of his anatomy she didn't want to think about. Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin and gazed at him squarely. "My name isn't Felicia. My name is Addison Fox, and I had a nine A.M. appointment with Jack Talbot."
His eyes glittered menacingly. "My name is Randall, and I'm Jack's brother from hell. He asked me to fill in."
"You're making a huge mistake ... Randall."
"Ah, now that we're on a first-name basis, I should tell you I'm not as nice as Jack. I'm certainly not above frisking you."
Indignation punched through her. "How dare you speak to me like that."
"How dare you take advantage of a man in a wheelchair."
"I've never met your brother. I don't even know him."
"Ten bucks isn't much of a down payment." His eyes raked over her. "Maybe we could work something out."