approved of her plan to arrange for a date each
day, that was a minor matter. Besides, there was no one else on the
island whose opinion he was interested in, no one else he trusted
to give him the truth.
Yeah, right, and pigs could fly. What was the use in
lying to himself? He wanted her, pure and simple. “Would you be
willing, purely for scientific reasons, to kiss me?”
Her mouth dropped open a bit before
she snapped it shut. “You want me to kiss you? For scientific reasons?”
“I realize it's a strange request, but I do have a
reason for it.” Such as, she was an island of beauty and
intelligence in a sea of bimbos. “My girlfriend left me a couple of
months ago, and…well, we'd been together for a long time, so I
haven't had an opportunity to kiss a lot of other women, and since
she said I was a lousy lover, I thought maybe if you'd let me kiss
you, you could evaluate me.”
“Evaluate you?” She looked a bit stunned about the
eyes, but he didn't think she was offended by the request. At
least, he hoped she wasn't offended. She was obviously already of
the opinion that he was a lust-crazed slobbering mound of
testosterone thanks to that stupid Monday Marsh catch phrase. Damn,
he wished he could tell her the truth about himself. He hated lying
to her, even if it was indirectly. “You want me to evaluate how you
kiss?”
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea. Maybe he didn't
want her to tell him he had terrible kissing skills. Maybe it would
destroy him to know that he couldn't stir any passion in her.
“Er…that's the idea,” he said hesitantly. “I thought maybe you
could tell me if Brittany was right, or if she was just getting in
a parting shot before she left.”
“But…you're a sex therapist. Why would anyone say an
expert in sex was a poor lover?”
Well, she had him there. He looked at her sitting
next to him, all innocent and beautiful and smart and he knew he
couldn't do it. He couldn't lie to her any longer. Hell, she
already knew he was a cat smuggler, how much worse could it be to
find out he was a private detective?
“That would be because I'm not really a sex
therapist.”
“You're not?”
He shook his head. “I'm not Monday Marsh. My name is
Adam Fuller. I'm a private investigator. A detective,” he said when
he saw the question in her eyes. “I was hired to come to Mystique
and pretend to be one of the contestants.”
A puzzled frown settled between her
brows “You were hired to be a contestant? But . . . everyone acts as if they know
who you are. I mean, who you are pretending to be.” She waved her
hand about. “That whole nipple thing.”
He sighed. “It's horrible, isn't
it? My client, the man who hired me, paid off the real Monday Marsh
so I could take his place. Turns out Marsh
has agoraphobia or is terribly shy, or something along those lines.
His producer was forcing him to do the show as a publicity stunt,
so he leaped at the chance to get out of it when my client
approached him. Gar bribed a couple of producers as well. I had no idea who I was supposed to impersonate
until I was on the plane here, but I can tell you this—I will have
my revenge on Gar one way or another.”
“Gar?”
“My friend. The one who hired me.”
“Oh.” Her fingers pleated the soft
cotton of her skirt where it lay on her thigh. “But won't people be able to tell that you aren't this Marsh
person?”
Adam's brows drew together in a faint frown. “I
worried about that too, but no one has said anything so far. I
guess hearing someone speak in person is different enough from the
radio that people are willing to accept any variations.”
“What exactly were you hired to do here?”
He gave her a wry smile. “I can't tell you.
Confidential.”
“Would it have anything to do with Sally
Simmons?”
He said nothing.
She nodded. “I see.” She played with her dress for a
moment longer. “Why are you telling me this? I'm already
blackmailing you because of your cat, why would
day, that was a minor matter. Besides, there was no one else on the
island whose opinion he was interested in, no one else he trusted
to give him the truth.
Yeah, right, and pigs could fly. What was the use in
lying to himself? He wanted her, pure and simple. “Would you be
willing, purely for scientific reasons, to kiss me?”
Her mouth dropped open a bit before
she snapped it shut. “You want me to kiss you? For scientific reasons?”
“I realize it's a strange request, but I do have a
reason for it.” Such as, she was an island of beauty and
intelligence in a sea of bimbos. “My girlfriend left me a couple of
months ago, and…well, we'd been together for a long time, so I
haven't had an opportunity to kiss a lot of other women, and since
she said I was a lousy lover, I thought maybe if you'd let me kiss
you, you could evaluate me.”
“Evaluate you?” She looked a bit stunned about the
eyes, but he didn't think she was offended by the request. At
least, he hoped she wasn't offended. She was obviously already of
the opinion that he was a lust-crazed slobbering mound of
testosterone thanks to that stupid Monday Marsh catch phrase. Damn,
he wished he could tell her the truth about himself. He hated lying
to her, even if it was indirectly. “You want me to evaluate how you
kiss?”
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea. Maybe he didn't
want her to tell him he had terrible kissing skills. Maybe it would
destroy him to know that he couldn't stir any passion in her.
“Er…that's the idea,” he said hesitantly. “I thought maybe you
could tell me if Brittany was right, or if she was just getting in
a parting shot before she left.”
“But…you're a sex therapist. Why would anyone say an
expert in sex was a poor lover?”
Well, she had him there. He looked at her sitting
next to him, all innocent and beautiful and smart and he knew he
couldn't do it. He couldn't lie to her any longer. Hell, she
already knew he was a cat smuggler, how much worse could it be to
find out he was a private detective?
“That would be because I'm not really a sex
therapist.”
“You're not?”
He shook his head. “I'm not Monday Marsh. My name is
Adam Fuller. I'm a private investigator. A detective,” he said when
he saw the question in her eyes. “I was hired to come to Mystique
and pretend to be one of the contestants.”
A puzzled frown settled between her
brows “You were hired to be a contestant? But . . . everyone acts as if they know
who you are. I mean, who you are pretending to be.” She waved her
hand about. “That whole nipple thing.”
He sighed. “It's horrible, isn't
it? My client, the man who hired me, paid off the real Monday Marsh
so I could take his place. Turns out Marsh
has agoraphobia or is terribly shy, or something along those lines.
His producer was forcing him to do the show as a publicity stunt,
so he leaped at the chance to get out of it when my client
approached him. Gar bribed a couple of producers as well. I had no idea who I was supposed to impersonate
until I was on the plane here, but I can tell you this—I will have
my revenge on Gar one way or another.”
“Gar?”
“My friend. The one who hired me.”
“Oh.” Her fingers pleated the soft
cotton of her skirt where it lay on her thigh. “But won't people be able to tell that you aren't this Marsh
person?”
Adam's brows drew together in a faint frown. “I
worried about that too, but no one has said anything so far. I
guess hearing someone speak in person is different enough from the
radio that people are willing to accept any variations.”
“What exactly were you hired to do here?”
He gave her a wry smile. “I can't tell you.
Confidential.”
“Would it have anything to do with Sally
Simmons?”
He said nothing.
She nodded. “I see.” She played with her dress for a
moment longer. “Why are you telling me this? I'm already
blackmailing you because of your cat, why would
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