At his office two days later, Chandler scrolled through the results on the names Alana had given him for a third time. He wasn’t sure what, if anything, he would find. These things were like puzzles and it never helped when the person in need of his assistance lied.

Staying with a friend.

Bullshit.

After leaving her apartment, he’d driven around the block and then parked down the street from her apartment. Thirty minutes later and just when he was about to go right back up to that apartment and drag her ass out of it, a cab showed up and out came Alana, tugging along a small suitcase.

What kind of male would let her take a cab to his house at this time of night? he’d wondered, but then he had his answer shortly thereafter.

He hadn’t believed it at first. Alana hadn’t gone to a friend’s house. Nope. She’d checked into a hotel. Not even an extremely great one, either.

Jesus.

How could she have absolutely no one here? And if there was not a single person who could help her out in a time of need, why in the hell did she move to this city? She was truly all alone, and something about that didn’t sit well.

Still didn’t sit well with him two days later.

He’d almost gone into the hotel room that night, but what would he have done? Taken her back to his house? Frankly, the woman had too much pride for that, so he let it go and tailed her ass the following morning, early enough to catch her before she left for work.

She’d actually walked to work.

And then she’d walked back to the hotel later that evening. Alone. With a potential stalker watching her. Nice.

The bad thing was, he’d actually been relieved that she wasn’t staying with some tool. He rolled his eyes. There was a lot wrong with that.

It was going to take a little more digging, given that most of the suspects were public figures. What he got wasn’t much. Only Michelle Ward had any contact information, and he’d fielded a return call from her this morning.

The tennis player was most definitely not a fan of Miss Gore, but his instincts were telling him that she didn’t have anything to do with this threat. And if anything, the Ward chick was reluctantly grateful for Miss Gore’s interference and tactics.

Just like his brother.

When Alana had talked about her job, it was obvious the woman took it seriously and it meant something to her. It was also obvious that the way some of her clients viewed her got to her, which surprised him. From his previous run-ins with her, he’d thought she had bigger balls than he did.

His gaze moved to the note that had been wrapped around the brick. Could someone else have the same kind of specialized stationary? It was more than just possible, but the likelihood of the person using the stationary and not knowing that Alana had the same was as likely as a UFO landing on the Washington Monument.

He briefly entertained the idea of calling her and checking in, but she hadn’t called him. And he really didn’t have a reason to be calling her other than…

Well, other than hearing her voice, and if he called her for that reason, then he’d grown a vagina at some point.

“Joe’s Body Shop called. You know, just in case you were wondering why the phone was ringing off the fucking hook.”

He shifted at the sound of Murray’s voice. The man was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. Murray was Chase’s age but had the attitude of a crotchety old man half the time.

Murray limped into the office and plopped down in the chair across from Chandler’s desk. “So when did you get a Lexus? Thought you were a live-and-die Ford redneck?”

He took a sip of his coffee. “It’s not mine.”

“Then who has someone so pissed off at them that thousands of dollars of damage was done to their car?” He ran a hand over his close-shaven skull, the fingers brushing tattoos running up and down his neck and throat. Murray could be one scary motherfucker if you met him in a dark alley. “I thought only you pissed off people that badly.”

Grinning, Chandler sat his cup down. “Nope. Apparently there are people out there who have a more charming personality than I do.”

Murray snorted. “Working on a new case?” When Chandler didn’t say anything, the other man was used to it. “What’re the details? Because I’m curious. You got William-mother fucking-Manafee’s name written down.”

Seeing no way of getting Murray out of his office without giving him the lowdown, Chandler told him about the possible case, quick and to the point.

“Shit.” Murray sat back, scrubbing at the stubble on his face. “You’re talking about Chad’s publicist?”

He nodded.

A slow grin appeared as Murray dropped his hand onto the arm of the chair. “Is that his name on the list of suspects?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome.” Murray laughed. “You think the douche behind this is serious?”

“Don’t know.” He flicked his gaze to the screen. “I’ve only been able to get ahold of one person and rule her out. Alana is a ball breaker—no doubt about it—but is this person serious? Hard to believe.”

“Alana? First-name basis?”

“Shut up,” he said, kicking his booted feet up on the desk. “And you know, even though her tactics may piss off people, she repairs their images, ultimately leaves them in a better situation than they were in before. How can you seriously hate someone who does that for you enough to want to hurt her?”

“Are you sure it’s a client, then?” he asked, his dark eyes sparking with the interest of a new case and all its wonderful, fucked-up possibilities.

“Could be an ex. I know she said she doesn’t have any, but you know just as well as I do, sometimes it takes the question to be asked a time or two to get a straight answer.” But he didn’t think Alana had lied about that. The woman had been rattled when she’d seen the note. He doubted she’d hide important info, like a psychotic ex-boyfriend, from him.

“So you’ve been tailing her?”

He nodded. “She’s at work right now.”

“Want me to see if I can track down some of the numbers? I got a friend who’s a friend of a player on the Falcons. And obviously I can’t do nothing else but sit behind a desk.”

Chandler laughed as he pushed the list over. “Who do you know?”

“Remember the Redskins cheerleader two years ago? The one who was being stalked by that parolee? Well, we’ve stayed in contact. I’m sure she can make a few calls and point us in the right direction.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, I bet the contact you’ve been staying in has been totally professional and doesn’t involve your cock.”

“I am not talking to you about my cock.”

Chandler’s eyes narrowed. “Do I need to remind you of the number-one rule?”

“Whatever.” Murray pushed himself up. “Do I need to remind you about the rule?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Murray laughed as he ambled out of the office, closing the door behind him. Looking back at the screen, Chandler let about five seconds go by before his gaze fell to the small card propped along his keyboard. He thought about the nightie that had been lying on Alana’s bed, and his jeans tightened.

Chandler knew the rules. He’d fucking written them.

He just didn’t always follow them.

Besides, he hadn’t technically been hired by Miss Gore, so what the fuck ever.

Picking up the card, a slow smile spread across his face. He wanted to say that it would’ve made a difference if she had hired him, but Chandler hadn’t made a habit of lying to himself before.

Why start now?

There was something about Little Miss Alana Gore that got to him, crawled under his skin, and had him acting worse than Chase and Chad combined. He didn’t know what it was or what it would mean, but he would find out.

Because unlike his brothers, when he wanted something, he didn’t fuck around and neither did he spend time bullshitting himself. When Chandler wanted something, he went right for it.

And he wanted Alana.

…

Every time Alana walked into her office at Images, she was reminded of exactly where she came from. What she had to overcome to get to where she was now. If Granny were still alive, she would’ve been proud—bitter as all hell, but she would’ve been proud.

Smoothing her hand across the polished oak desk, she inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. Nothing was going to screw this up.

The door to her office flew open and Ruby Baker stormed in, her blond hair sticking out at the temples. Her partner at the publicist firm was only a few years older than she was and had reminded Alana of a librarian, with her collared shirts and pressed linen pants. “We have a problem.”

Alana stiffened behind the desk. “What?”

“End-of-the-world scenario,” she said. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it. “We just got a call from a journalist at the Washington Post, inquiring about Dick in A Box.”

Her eyes widened as her stomach dropped. Okay. That could screw this up. She smacked her hands down on the edge of her desk. “How?”

“I don’t know.” Ruby strolled forward, slumped in the chair, and threw her arms up. “Everyone who knows about this has been either paid off, warned off, or suddenly sent off vacationing in the sunny tropics of Jamaica.”

“Someone had to have said something.” Alana cursed under her breath as she mentally sprinted through all those involved in the latest shenanigans. “I bet you it’s the maid. I told you she was going to be a problem. She has two kids she wants to put into private school. There’s money in this story.”

Ruby groaned.

Damn senators and their dicks all the way to hell and back.