“What can I help you with, Natalie?”

She runs her tongue over her lips and takes a deep breath. Her fingers brush together, and she leans forward. “I think I’m being stalked,” she says quietly.

Oh, okay. That’s new.

I grab my pen and poise the tip above my notebook. “Elaborate.”

“My boyfriend and I broke up three weeks ago. He cheated on me, and I refused to accept his apology. He’s been begging me to take him back ever since.”

Inwardly, I wince. “That’s closer to harassment than stalking.”

“I know.” She exhales slowly but loudly. “But it’s not only the calls. There are…messages. Threatening ones. With my mail, texts, tucked under the wipers of my car. And sometimes, it just feels like I’m being watched, you know? I can’t go anywhere without feeling like I’m being followed.”

“Okay. And when did it start—the messages?”

“Four days after we broke up. I forced him to move out the same day I found out.”

Her jaw ticks, and she licks her lips again.

Lying.

I nod, ignoring the nudge from the back of my mind. “And the feeling of being followed?”

“The day after.”

“Okay.” I underline that on the notepad, set the pen down, and look at her. “Natalie, you do realize that this is probably a matter for the police, don’t you?”

“I have issues with figures in authority.” Bitterness flickers across her face, and her lip curls in disgust. “The hoops they have to jump through for simple things is ridiculous. The local PD are so busy making sure no one tries to kill the damn mayor that my gut feelings won’t be enough for them to go on.”

Wow. She really doesn’t like authority, huh? I knew someone like that in Dallas. Not for long, though, because he pulled a gun on my partner and ended up getting himself killed. He was more trigger-happy than I am…

Not that I’m saying she’ll get shot. Just that, you know. Respect and all that.

“You think the person following you is your ex-boyfriend?”

When she nods, I continue.

“So, what if I find out? Then what do you do with that information?”

“Then I take it to the police and they have to arrest him.”

I sigh and sit back in my chair. “They’ll do their own investigation and bring me in for questioning over it, even if my brothers make up half the detectives on the squad. That doesn’t exempt me from the procedures.” I hesitate as fear flickers across her delicate features. “But,” I add, “and I mean but, if you agree to report this to the police, I promise to take this and get to the bottom of it.”

Natalie inhales quickly, her eyes widening as my words hang in the air between us. She wets her lips then tugs on the bottom one with her teeth. Her dejected sigh is accompanied with slumped shoulders, and I have only one thought.

I would really, really love to play this chick at poker. The last time I saw someone this expressive was when I was sixteen and wanted to see why my brothers loved porn so much.

“What if they see?” she asks quietly, all bitterness completely removed and replaced with resignation.

“The stalker? Call from here and request that a plainclothes officer comes to you in an unmarked car if you’re that worried.” I open my drawer and pull a new contract out. “Here’s my basic contract. My flat-rate fee is on there as well as a breakdown of my process and what I need you to get for me. I’ll have one personalized for you drawn up once I’ve seen a copy of the police report. Take your time with this.” I slide it across the table.

She shakes her head. “I’ll have it to you tomorrow. With the report,” she replies.

“I’m out of the office tomorrow, but I’ll get to it first thing on Friday morning.” I glance at the clock. “Without being rude, I have another appointment in five minutes.” I offer her a smile and stand.

“Of course.” Natalie folds the contract and tucks it into her purse before getting up and joining me at the door. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?”

“Sure don’t. Head down the hall and you’ll see it. It has a sign on the door.” I shake her hand then close the door as she disappears into the bathroom.

My phone rings before I can process that meeting, and I dart across my office to grab it.

“Noelle Bond?”

“Your next appointment is here,” Grecia says. “He’s cute,” she adds in a hushed voice.

I fight my laugh. Great—that’s what I want to do. Hire a cute tech whiz so her boyfriend, who happens to be an ex–FBI investigator, can see her little doe eyes whenever he walks past.

“Bring him up in five minutes, okay? I need to get ready.”

“Sure.” She hangs up.

I put the receiver down and pause. What’s one minute out of five to make a phone call? I grab my cell instead of the office phone and bring up my call log. Then I scroll to Drake’s name and hit call.

“Detective Nash,” he answers, his voice gravelly but distracted.

“I have a question.”

“Better than a dead body.”

I laugh. “Shut up. Okay, so this date thing tomorrow.”

“Date,” he says. “Just date, Noelle. No date thing.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “For this date, what am I supposed to wear? Where are we going?”

There’s a small crackle on the line, and I swear it’s him smiling.

“Not sayin’. But wear clothes. Course, if you wanted to wear lingerie and high heels, I can rearrange my plans.”

“Um, I’m thinkin’ I’ll stick to the clothes. But that doesn’t help, Drake. Do I wear jeans? A dress? Shorts? Boots? Heels? Flip-flops?”

“Sweet fuck, cupcake. I think you just gave me a brain aneurism.” He chuckles. “Wear whatever you want. Preferably something that shows your leg and a hint of panties when you bend over.”

“Will I be bending over?”

Another chuckle. “If you ask me nicely.”

I bite the inside of my lip although I can feel my cheeks heating at his insinuation. Or is it an offer? Knowing him, it’s an offer. Or a promise. Whatever.

All I know is that, right now, I have an image of me bending over the end of a bed while he fucks me from behind.

I clench my legs together and take a slow, deep breath.

“Noelle? You still there?” Smug—that’s what he sounds like.

“You’re a head-screwing little shit,” I half snap at him. “Nice try, Detective, but you won’t be seeing my panties. And to think, I just spent the equivalent of a mortgage on two new pairs.”

“You did what?”

“See you tomorrow.” I grin and hit end call as he yells out a “Wait!”

I’ve barely put the phone down when it rings again, his name flashing on screen. I let it ring to voicemail then put my phone on silent.

There are three rapid knocks at my door, and I call out, “Two seconds!” then scuffle in my papers to find Carlton’s résumé. Upon finding it beneath my electric bill and a ten-percent-off coupon for Victoria’s Secret, I grab it and shove the bill and coupon into my top drawer.

Whoops.

Carlton Hooper. Twenty-six years old. Two degrees that don’t make much sense to me, but Dean reassured me that they mean he’s more than qualified for the job. And apparently cute.

I shrug and get up yet again to go to the door. I’m gonna start leaving the damn thing open, I swear.

“Noelle, this is Carlton Hooper. Mr. Hooper, this is Noelle Bond, the owner of Bond P.I. She’ll be interviewing you today,” Grecia says, and, oh, she has a point about the cute thing.

Dirty-blond hair swept to the side—think a teenage Justin Bieber hairstyle but rougher and messier—piercing, dark-blue eyes, and enough muscles hidden under his white shirt that he’d send a whole college of girls into cardiac arrest.

Dear California, you’re missing a surfer, but Texas has decided to keep him. Thanks.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Bond.” He holds his hand out, and I put mine into his. Nice, firm handshake.

God, what a male ought to have. Nice, firm handshake. Shouldn’t I be thinking that but about his ass?