LITMIR.BIZ

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blush or stammer or smile flirtatiously. Instead she just looked pleased. And it made him ninety-nine percent sure she was a con artist’s wet dream, not his girlfriend.

      The situation was worse than any Russ could have envisioned. She wasn’t butt-ugly at all. In fact, she was downright hot, and it aggravated the hell out of him. He was trying to think, to concentrate on sorting this new development out, and he was completely distracted by the fact that her leg kept knocking into his. There were showy pretty women, and model-gorgeous women, and then there were women like Laurel. Sweet and soft and sexy, with an innocent sensuality radiating off her pink skin. She was beautiful, damn it.

      Her hair was the color of split pine, with lots of darker and lighter streaks running through it, making it interesting to look at. Eyes like lake water, and rich cherry-red lips that jutted forward in a permanent pout. That off-white sweater she was wearing hugged a couple of really nice breasts, and despite the coffee aroma hanging in the air, he could swear he could smell her. Sweet and sugary, like a fresh bag of cotton candy.

      If he were scum like Dean, he would string this woman along for a long, long time, taking everything she had to give—emotionally, physically, financially—enjoying every second along the way. So where was the bastard?

      “Well, I wanted to e-mail you a picture of me, but I was too chicken. Which wasn’t fair of me, since I knew what you looked like. I looked you up in your high school yearbook.”

      Russ lifted an eyebrow. This just got weirder and weirder. “How did you get a hold of my high school yearbook?” And damn, what had he looked like back then? Bad hair and acne, probably. Arms that looked like they’d gone through the taffy pull, thin and rangy, like his thirteen-year-old brother, Sean.

      “Michelle Ganosky gave it to me. Remember Michelle? She’s the one who saw your name in the reunion chat and suggested I introduce myself.”

      “Michelle?” Russ couldn’t remember women he’d dated two weeks ago, he sure in the hell wasn’t going to remember a girl from high school. Unless he’d slept with her, but he couldn’t exactly ask Laurel about that.

      Then his memory jogged. “Oh, Michelle Ganosky. Wasn’t she that…” he trailed off, realizing he’d been about to say “deaf girl.” He cleared his throat and unzipped his jacket, uncomfortable. Could he fit his size twelve feet in his mouth?

      “Deaf? Yes, Michelle’s deaf. That’s how I know her. We went to college together for a year before I had to come back home. But I didn’t tell you I knew Michelle because I didn’t want you to know that I’d started talking to you intentionally, which I did. And I guess now I’ve told you anyway.” She laughed, pushed her hair off her shoulder.

      Russ was starting to get a clearer picture of what was going on here. Laurel had met someone in a high school reunion chat room. Trevor Dean. Not as Trevor Dean, but using his name, Russ Evans, the slimy motherfu…

      “Did you know I’m a cop, Laurel?”

      She blinked. “Cop? Is that what you said?”

      “Yes, did you know I’m a cop?”

      Tense, he waited for her answer. Up to now, they’d had no reason to think Dean knew they were investigating him.

      “Yes, you told me.”

      Laurel’s answer shot that assumption out of the water. His anger rose. Dean was playing with the department, dicking them around—or, more specifically, him. And dragging this woman into it.

      “You told me a lot of things, Russ.” Her smile was flirtatious.

      He could only imagine. Infuriated at Dean, Russ shifted and hit Laurel’s leg again. He jerked it back quickly, aware of her sharp intake of breath.

      “Laurel, I’m not the man you’ve been talking to online. I don’t even own a computer.” He’d probably throw the thing out the window if he did. He had trouble sitting still and no patience for technology.

      Laurel just frowned at him.

      “Do you know Trevor Dean?”

      “Who?” She fiddled with the ends of her scarf, over and over, her fingers always moving. They flowed in sign language when she spoke, and when she wasn’t talking, they were still wiggling, plucking, fluttering.

      He wanted to draw those fingers into his mouth and suck them.

      Russ rubbed his eyes. That was nice and inappropriate. Jesus.

      “I don’t know anyone named whatever Dean, and I don’t understand what’s going on here.”

      Russ did. Laurel wasn’t a sophisticated con artist’s girlfriend. She was either fun on the side for Dean, to flirt with online, or she was his next target.

      Russ wasn’t about to let that happen.

      Not on his watch.

      Not to this woman.

      And maybe Laurel could help him catch a thief.

      Chapter 2

      Laurel Wilkins sipped her coffee and tried to figure out what in the world Russ was talking about. She wasn’t having much luck, so she contented herself with admiring his cuteness while waiting for him to explain himself.

      There was a lot of cuteness involved, so she could be looking for a while. He was delicious, like a caramel wrapped around a crème filling. Strong jaw, a baseball cap over his light brown hair, eyes the color of dark chocolate before it melts. Broad shoulders, visible even through his navy winter coat. Hard chiseled muscle beneath a jersey-gray T-shirt. Jeans that had hugged his crotch when he’d walked toward the table. Large hands that could benefit from a good moisturizing lotion, and an earnest expression that was incredibly sexy.

      Laurel’s whole body went hot and sensitive, moist, like she’d spent too long in a steamy shower.

      “Look, I’m sorry, but you’ve been exchanging e-mails with a man who’s using my name. Trevor Dean is a con artist, he rips women off. First he meets them—some online, some around town—then he gets them to trust him.” Russ shifted a little, but met her gaze head-on. “He sleeps with them, moves in with them, then cleans them out. The PD has been investigating him for theft and fraud.”

      Laurel’s lovely thoughts of seeing Russ strip to Bruce Springsteen music evaporated. Theft and fraud? Had she misread his lips? “What?”

      “Theft and fraud.”

      She took a fortifying sip of her third mocha latte. So much for her wild and wanton plans. “How do you know it’s him I’ve been chatting with?” And exchanging personal thoughts and feelings, and most embarrassing of all, a little sexy flirtation.

      She’d told that person she hadn’t had sex in six years. He had probably turned right around and tagged her e-mail address as “dumb blonde ripe for the picking.”

      “We found your name and this appointment among the personal things he left behind at his last victim’s house.”

      Laurel couldn’t decide if she was more embarrassed or disappointed. Disappointment was edging out embarrassment by a horny head. But she couldn’t admit that to Detective Dream Boat. “This is very embarrassing.”

      “Don’t be embarrassed. Be glad you found out now.”

      Easy for him to say. He hadn’t put on pink underwear in anticipation.

      And worst of all, she’d really liked the guy. He was funny and thoughtful, always free with a smiley face in his e-mails. Laurel felt her cheeks pinken, until they probably matched the hue of her scarf. Her mother always said she was too nice, that she’d offer to help a serial killer learn how to tie better rope knots.

      That was a ridiculous exaggeration, but maybe she was too trusting. It had never even occurred to her to doubt that Russ Evans was Russ Evans.

      The Russ Evans in front of her gave her a stern, paternalistic

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