ribbons. It should have looked out of place in the elegant simplicity of the room but, somehow, it didn't.
"Do you think that's the mirror?" Willow whispered.
"Must be. It's the only one in here."
Willow hesitated for a moment, then walked over and stood directly in front of the mirror. There was nothing looking back at her but her own reflection—and then Steve's, as he came up behind her. They were a study in contrasts. He was so big and blond and masculine, with a sexy, laid-back Southern California style that suited him right town to the size-twelve Reeboks on his feet. She was slender and dark, a sleek, sophisticated woman in expensive, tailored clothes.
She had never thought of herself as particularly feminine or fragile—certainly no more so than the average woman—but she looked both standing next to him. It wasn't his height, because he wasn't overpoweringly tall; in her heels, the top of her head came to his nose. It wasn't his physique, either; although that was impressive, his muscles weren't the bulked-up kind so beloved by weight lifters. It was his basic, elemental maleness that made him look so solid and bigger than life. He was totally, unapologetically masculine and he made her feel totally feminine in return. She wasn't quite sure she liked the feeling; it didn't fit in with her image of herself as a modern woman of the world. Willow Ryan didn't lean on anybody, and Steve Hart had shoulders tailor-made for leaning on. Her head had been tilting toward them from the minute she turned her problem over to his capable hands.
"See anything in there?" he asked, leaning forward to whisper the words in her ear.
"No," she murmured and moved away from the mirror. And him. "The banging has stopped," she said, as if he couldn't hear it for himself. "Don't you think we'd better let this Mr. Mueller know we're here so we can ask our questions?"
But Mueller came out of the bathroom before either of them could move to make their presence known. He was a small man, wiry looking, with a shining bald head and a belligerent expression in his pale gray eyes. He was wearing faded green coveralls and carried a length of pipe in his hand. Willow took an instant aversion to him.
"Who're you?" he demanded, looking back and forth between the two of them. "What are you doing in here? This apartment ain't for rent right now."
Willow took a step back, unconsciously edging closer to Steve, more than willing to let him handle the manager of the Wilshire Arms. She'd worry about standing on her own two feet later.
"We're not here to rent an apartment," Steve said. "We'd just like to ask you a few questions."
"You reporters?"
"No, we're—"
"Been a lot of reporters nosin' around here ever since it leaked out about Blackstone renting this place. Damned bloodsucking nuisances, every one of them. Well, he's gone," he said, gesturing at the empty room with the piece of pipe he held in his hand. "Left last month, right after his kid's wedding. So if you're working for one of them tabloids or that 'Hard Copy' program, you can get the hell out of here, right now. I ain't got nothin' to say."
"We're not reporters, Mr. Mueller," Steve assured him. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. "I'm a private investigator." He extracted a business card and handed it to Mueller. "Ms. Ryan is my client."
Mueller studied the card for a moment. "What are you investigating?"
"Zeke Blackstone, for starters," Steve said.
"I knew you was a couple of reporters," Mueller said angrily. He tossed the card on the floor in disgust and started to turn away. "Get outta here before I call the cops."
"And Ethan Roberts," Steve said.
Mueller turned back around to face them. "Huh?"
"And Eric and Jack Shannon," Steve added softly, knowing he had him now by the suddenly avid look in the smaller man's eyes. "And their possible connection to a young woman by the name of Donna Ryan."
"Where'd you get them names?"
Steve glanced
"Do you think that's the mirror?" Willow whispered.
"Must be. It's the only one in here."
Willow hesitated for a moment, then walked over and stood directly in front of the mirror. There was nothing looking back at her but her own reflection—and then Steve's, as he came up behind her. They were a study in contrasts. He was so big and blond and masculine, with a sexy, laid-back Southern California style that suited him right town to the size-twelve Reeboks on his feet. She was slender and dark, a sleek, sophisticated woman in expensive, tailored clothes.
She had never thought of herself as particularly feminine or fragile—certainly no more so than the average woman—but she looked both standing next to him. It wasn't his height, because he wasn't overpoweringly tall; in her heels, the top of her head came to his nose. It wasn't his physique, either; although that was impressive, his muscles weren't the bulked-up kind so beloved by weight lifters. It was his basic, elemental maleness that made him look so solid and bigger than life. He was totally, unapologetically masculine and he made her feel totally feminine in return. She wasn't quite sure she liked the feeling; it didn't fit in with her image of herself as a modern woman of the world. Willow Ryan didn't lean on anybody, and Steve Hart had shoulders tailor-made for leaning on. Her head had been tilting toward them from the minute she turned her problem over to his capable hands.
"See anything in there?" he asked, leaning forward to whisper the words in her ear.
"No," she murmured and moved away from the mirror. And him. "The banging has stopped," she said, as if he couldn't hear it for himself. "Don't you think we'd better let this Mr. Mueller know we're here so we can ask our questions?"
But Mueller came out of the bathroom before either of them could move to make their presence known. He was a small man, wiry looking, with a shining bald head and a belligerent expression in his pale gray eyes. He was wearing faded green coveralls and carried a length of pipe in his hand. Willow took an instant aversion to him.
"Who're you?" he demanded, looking back and forth between the two of them. "What are you doing in here? This apartment ain't for rent right now."
Willow took a step back, unconsciously edging closer to Steve, more than willing to let him handle the manager of the Wilshire Arms. She'd worry about standing on her own two feet later.
"We're not here to rent an apartment," Steve said. "We'd just like to ask you a few questions."
"You reporters?"
"No, we're—"
"Been a lot of reporters nosin' around here ever since it leaked out about Blackstone renting this place. Damned bloodsucking nuisances, every one of them. Well, he's gone," he said, gesturing at the empty room with the piece of pipe he held in his hand. "Left last month, right after his kid's wedding. So if you're working for one of them tabloids or that 'Hard Copy' program, you can get the hell out of here, right now. I ain't got nothin' to say."
"We're not reporters, Mr. Mueller," Steve assured him. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. "I'm a private investigator." He extracted a business card and handed it to Mueller. "Ms. Ryan is my client."
Mueller studied the card for a moment. "What are you investigating?"
"Zeke Blackstone, for starters," Steve said.
"I knew you was a couple of reporters," Mueller said angrily. He tossed the card on the floor in disgust and started to turn away. "Get outta here before I call the cops."
"And Ethan Roberts," Steve said.
Mueller turned back around to face them. "Huh?"
"And Eric and Jack Shannon," Steve added softly, knowing he had him now by the suddenly avid look in the smaller man's eyes. "And their possible connection to a young woman by the name of Donna Ryan."
"Where'd you get them names?"
Steve glanced
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