André just looked like a big bear. I was certain he needed a hug, but he had a gun as well. All this muscle and metal for little ole me. I felt important. Illustrious. Majestic. Or I would have, had my ass not said “Juicy.”

In contrast, my visitors were quite the dapper gentlemen. Dressed for success, and well suited to charcoal gray. I thought about suggesting they steer clear of anything in a rouge, but not everyone took kindly to fashion advice from a chick in a T-shirt and boxers.

After lacing my coffee with just enough cream and sugar to turn it the color of melted caramel, I strolled to the overstuffed sofa across from boss man, sank into it, then leveled my best death stare on him.

“Okay,” I said after taking a slow, gratifying sip, “you got one shot. Make it good.”

The man tipped his head in greeting before allowing his eyes to drop to the letters on my T-shirt. I hoped the saying didn’t give him the wrong impression of me. NERDY didn’t quite encompass the image I wanted to project. Had it said BADASS INCARNATE …

“Ms. Davidson,” he said, his voice sure, calm. “My name is Frank Smith.”

That was a big fat lie, not that it mattered. “’Kay, thanks for coming. Come back when you have more time to catch up.” I rose to show them out. The deadly one tensed, and I had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t only there to protect boss man. Damn. I hated torture. It was so torturous.

“Please sit, Ms. Davidson,” Mr. Smith said, after staying his man with a gesture.

With an annoyed sigh, I obeyed, but only because he said please. “So, I know your name and you know mine. Can we get on with this?” I took another slow sip as he studied me.

“You have an amazing sense of calm.” His expression turned serious. “I have to admit, I’m a bit impressed. Most women—”

“—have enough sense to lock themselves in their bedrooms and call the police. Please don’t mistake an underactive sense of self-preservation with intelligence, Mr. Smith.”

The deadly one worked his jaw. He didn’t like me. Either that or my use of big words intimidated him. I decided to go with that.

“This is Mr. Chao,” Smith said, noting my interest. “And that’s Ulrich.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Ulrich nodded. All things considered, they were quite cordial. “And you’re here because?”

“I find you quite fascinating,” he answered.

“Um, thanks? But really, a text would have sufficed.”

With a slow grin, he took note of every expression, every gesture I made. I got the distinct feeling he was studying me, assembling a baseline so he would later be able to tell if I was deceiving him or not.

“I’ve done quite a bit of research on you,” he said. “You’ve led an interesting life.”

“I like to think so.” I decided to hide behind my cup, to obscure part of my response to his questions. While the eyes gave away a lot, the mouth betrayed even the best liars. This way, he would only be able to tell if I was half-lying. That’d teach him.

“College, the Peace Corps, and now a private investigations business.”

I counted on my fingers. “Yep, that about sums it up.”

“And yet everywhere you go, things—” He looked up, searching for the right words before returning his gaze to me. “—tend to happen.”

I consciously stilled, tried to dilute my response, to muddy the waters, so to speak. “That’s the thing about things. They tend to happen.”

An appreciative smile crept across his face. “I would expect nothing less from you, Ms. Davidson. As you, by now, would expect nothing but brutal honesty from me.”

“Honesty is nice.” I glanced at Mr. Chao. “Though brutality is unnecessary.”

With a soft laugh, he crossed his legs and sank farther into his chair. “Then honesty it is. It seems you and I are looking for the same person.”

I let my brows arch in question.

“Mimi Jacobs.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Ms. Davidson,” he said, casting a shameful glance from underneath his lashes. “I thought we were being honest.”

“You were being honest. I was being professional. I can hardly talk about my caseload. PIs have this weird code-of-ethics thing.”

“True. I commend you. But might I add that we’re on the same side?”

I leaned forward, making sure my point was clear. “The only side I am ever on is that of my clients.”

He nodded in understanding. “So, if you did know where she was—”

“I wouldn’t tell you,” I finished for him.

“Fair enough.” He inclined his head to the side, indicating average, dark, and deadly with a nod. “But what if Mr. Chao were to ask?”

Damn. I knew it would come down to torture. I tried not to clench my teeth, tried not to let my eyes widen even that fraction of a millimeter that constituted an involuntary reflex, but it happened anyway. He had me dead to rights. He knew I was concerned. But I also had a few tricks up my sleeve if it came to that. If nothing else, I would go down swinging.

I looked at him and said, matter-of-fact, “Mr. Chao can bite my ass.”

As if made of stone, Mr. Chao’s expression remained utterly blank. I got the feeling he would enjoy torturing me. And call me sentimental, but damn it, I liked bringing joy to the world.

“I’ve upset you,” Smith said.