Short, Sweet and Sexy
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Cara Summers
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18,0K
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Lawyer A. J. Potter needs a solid case — not a man. Only, little did she guess when she wore her roommate's "man-magnet" skirt to convince the firm's partners to take her seriously, that she'd end up with both! The case — to defend a retired jewelry thief. The man — Sam Romano, the sexy P.I. who thinks her client is guilty. A.J.'s solution? To keep Sam so "busy," he won't have the time — or the desire — to think about work.
1
SHE WAS LATE.
The fact that the pretty, petite and very punctual blonde had not burst through the door of her apartment building at seven-fifteen sharp had Sam Romano’s fingers tingling, and that was a sign that something bad was about to go down. In his ten years as a P.I., his fingers had never failed him.
Nerves. He couldn’t afford them now. Nor could he afford to be thinking about that tiny little blonde with the initials A.J.P. embossed on her handbag. She had nothing to do with the case he was supposed to be focusing on.
Rubbing his hands on his threadbare jeans, Sam shifted his gaze to the Grenelle Museum across the street. He’d had it staked out for five days, ever since the Abelard necklace had gone on display. The museum had hired Sterling Security, the firm he worked for, because they’d wanted to take some extra precautions with a five million-dollar necklace on display.
They’d made a wise decision. Sam knew from the two assistants he’d stationed at the side and back of the building that someone had climbed up the back of the building at 6:30 a.m.
What he hadn’t known until he’d seen for himself was that the man was none other than his godfather, Pierre Rabaut, a prominent New York jazz club owner and retired jewel thief. Sam had gotten a good glimpse of Pierre through his binoculars just before he’d seen the thin, wiry man disappear through the skylight at six-thirty-five.
That had been forty minutes ago. The museum’s alarms would be turned off at seven-thirty to allow for a shift change in the security staff, and Sam was banking on the fact that Pierre would choose that moment to make his escape through the front doors.
Always do the unexpected.
It was one of the mottoes that Pierre Rabaut lived by. And because he had shared that piece of advice and more with the youngest son of an old friend, Pierre Rabaut was going to be caught with the Abelard necklace in his possession…but he was not going to be arrested. Sam wasn’t going to allow that to happen.
For the first time in his life, he was about to betray a client to save an old friend. Pierre Rabaut had been like a second father to him, especially during the days after his mother had died and then again later when his father had met and fallen in love with Isabelle Sheridan, a woman who hadn’t been willing to become a part of his father’s life. Pierre had always been there for him, and Sam was going to see that he didn’t go to jail.
If a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well.
Sam’s lips twisted wryly. That piece of advice had come from Pierre, too. But this was the first time that doing his job well had put him between a rock and a hard place. He’d been hired to make sure the Abelard necklace wasn’t stolen. He intended to do just that. But making sure that Pierre Rabaut wasn’t arrested—that might cost him his job.
Flexing his fingers to ease a fresh wave of tingles, Sam stifled the urge to glance at his watch. His disguise as one of New York City’s homeless would be worthless if Pierre happened to glance out of one of the museum’s windows and catch him checking the time.
Instead, Sam shifted his gaze down 75th Street. Two taxis, horns blaring, squeezed their way through the intersection. Halfway down the block a delivery man dropped a case of soft drinks on the cement and then let out a stream of curses. Over them, Sam caught a snatch of lyrics from a rap song pouring out of the open window of a pickup truck double-parked across the street.
And there was still no sign of the tiny blonde.
Not that he should be even thinking about her. He needed to keep all of his attention focused on Pierre. But for the life of him he hadn’t been able to get the woman out of his head. She just didn’t…fit.
He could recall in great detail that first time he’d seen her walking toward him. He’d pegged her for a rich socialite—the kind of woman he always steered clear of. Still, she’d been worth a second glance and the stakeout was proving to be long and boring. A nice fantasy always made the time go faster. So he’d begun to indulge in one.
The easy way she’d swung her briefcase had told him she worked out regularly in a gym. He’d pictured that compact little body of hers in designer workout clothes that clung to every curve, her fair skin slick with sweat. He hadn’t a doubt in the world that she would attack each and every piece of equipment in the gym, one by one, with the same energy and concentration that she exuded when she left her building and headed toward the subway each morning.
Would she make love with that same intensity and passion? The question had barely slipped into his mind when she’d stopped and tucked a twenty-dollar bill into his cup. Startled, he’d glanced up and met her eyes, and for one moment he could have sworn his mind had gone blank. By the time he’d recovered, she’d been halfway down the block, and he’d nearly gotten up and gone after her. Sam shook his head at the memory. He’d nearly blown his cover and gone running down the street after her! No one—man or woman—had ever made him forget he was on a job.
The second day she’d stopped, he’d had his wits about him until she’d surprised him again by speaking to him. She’d asked him if he was interested in getting a job. When he’d said yes—hell, he’d felt compelled to when he was staring into those eyes of hers—she said she’d look into it. Then she’d dropped another twenty into his cup. Thoroughly bemused, he’d gazed after her wondering if she were some kind of blonde, violet-eyed guardian angel sent down from on high to look after the homeless.
The last two days had followed the same pattern. She’d stop, tuck money into his cup and give him little updates on how her job search was going.
Sam frowned as he switched his gaze back to the museum doors. He just couldn’t figure her out. Rich socialites didn’t stop to chat with homeless people, and they certainly didn’t try to find jobs for them.
“Any sign of movement, Mr. Romano?”
Luis Santos’s voice, carrying clearly through the wireless device in his ear, had Sam ruthlessly reining in his thoughts and focusing on the museum. He had two young men, Luis and Tyrone Bass, stationed at the back and side doors of the building Pierre had entered. Luis and Tyrone were P.I.s in training, or so he’d told the judge when he’d arranged to supervise the community service they’d been sentenced to. He hadn’t told either of them yet what he intended to do today.
If he did it right, he would never have to tell them. But the timing had to be perfect.
“Everything’s quiet here,” he said. Except for the rap song, he thought as he glanced at the pickup truck. The driver was reading the morning paper and sipping coffee, seemingly oblivious to the racket his radio was making.
Once more Sam flexed his fingers to ease the tingling. “You got the time?”
“Seven-twenty,” Luis said. “He’s been in there fifty minutes.”
“He’ll be walking out the front door in ten,” Sam predicted.
He didn’t have a doubt in the world that his godfather was going to walk out the museum door with the Abelard necklace. He’d researched the man thoroughly when he was a kid, and there’d been no jewel thief in Europe to match him when he’d decided to retire forty years ago.
The problem would be to convince his godfather to put the necklace back before anyone knew it was missing. It was a task that required his full attention. He certainly didn’t have time to think about the tiny blond woman who wanted to save him from a life on the streets.
“LET’S JUST SEE,” A.J. said as she slipped the skirt over her head and pulled it down. Then she studied her reflection in the mirror. What it looked like was any other black skirt. She had one she’d bought from Bloomingdale’s hanging in her closet just like it. Almost. The thing was—this one might look like the other one, but it felt…silky…and light…almost as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all. And it fit perfectly.
If it had been too big or too tight, she would have had an excuse to call the whole experiment off. “It feels sort of—different.”
“Isn’t that the whole point?” Samantha handed her one of the three mugs of coffee she was juggling. “If you’re going to get the men at your law firm to start thinking of you as something other than a research nerd, changing your dress style is an excellent first step.”
“The skirt shows off your legs much better than those slacks you always wear,” Claire pointed out.
A.J. studied herself in the mirror. She wore slacks and jackets because in a law firm that had only a few token women on its roster, she felt she fit in better. Behind her, she could see her two roommates studying her as closely as she was studying herself. It was hard to believe that she’d known Samantha Baldwin and Claire Dellafield for less than two months. In the short amount of time since they’d rented Tavish Mclain’s apartment, she’d begun to feel as if she’d known them forever. She shifted her attention back to the skirt. “Don’t you think it’s a little short?”
“It’s much shorter on me. I was thinking you could tape up the hem a little. All the better to wow those stuffed shirts with,” Samantha said with a wicked grin.
“I think it’s fine,” Claire said.
“I don’t know. I just don’t feel quite myself in it.”
“That’s perfectly normal,” Claire said. “You put on a skirt that’s supposed to have the power to draw your true love to you—that’s a scary step.”
A.J. held up a hand. “Time out. I’m not looking for my true love. All I want is to be taken seriously at work and for Uncle Jamison to trust me enough to assign me to a litigation case. The pro bono cases I’ve been doing don’t seem to carry any weight with the executive board.” Her dream was to become a partner at Hancock, Potter and King. Once she did that, surely her aunt and uncle would stop worrying that she was going to blemish the Potter name by running away with a ne’er-do-well like her mother had.
Claire exchanged a glance with Samantha, then said, “It’s a little hard to predict exactly what will happen when you wear it. The skirt has a tendency to surprise you.”
That was one of the reasons A.J. had waited nearly two months to give the skirt a whirl. And first, she’d done some research. The simple black skirt that had helped them rent Tavish Mclain’s apartment already had quite a history in Manhattan. She’d found the three articles that had appeared in Metropolitan magazine, all giving evidence to the skirt’s power to attract men. It had even made the news on a morning talk show, and a smart entrepreneur had sold a department store chain a whole line of knockoffs.
But the skirt A.J. was wearing was the real McCoy. Samantha’s cousin, Kate Talavera-Logan, had mailed it to her right after her wedding. And both Claire and Samantha had testified to the fact that the incident that had gotten them the apartment had not been an isolated one. The skirt did have some kind of power over men.
“Too late for second thoughts,” Samantha said glancing at her watch. “You’re already running late.”
“Besides, what have you got to lose?” Claire asked. “Even if you strike out at the office, you’ll probably get a date with a tall, dark and handsome stranger.”
“I’ll pass on the date,” A.J. said. “The only tall, dark and handsome stranger I’ve seen lately is the homeless man camped around the corner of 75th Street. And I’m certainly not going to date him.” She bit down hard on her tongue before she told them that she was trying to get the homeless man a job. They would think she was nuts. And how could she explain why? It had to do with his eyes—and that intent, searching look he’d given her the first time their eyes had met. She could still recall the strange sense of recognition that she’d experienced. “I’d really be in a pickle if he turned out to be my true love.”
She’d be just like her mother then—falling in love with the wrong kind of man. To push the uncomfortable thought out of her mind, she raised her coffee mug. “I propose a toast. To the power of the skirt.” She clinked mugs with her roommates and was about to take a drink of her coffee when she saw a flash of light in the mirror. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Claire asked.
“I saw something. I think the skirt flashed,” A.J. said.
“Nerves.” Claire put a hand on her shoulder. “I felt a little apprehensive the first time I wore the skirt too. But you’ll get used to it.”
“Eventually you might even get used to the strange way that men react to it,” Samantha added.
A.J. studied her friends’ faces in the mirror. Their faint smiles told her that they were slipping off into their own private worlds again. They’d been doing that more and more lately, and it had all started when they had each first worn the skirt. It was beginning to make her feel like an outsider. The moment the thought drifted into her mind, she stiffened her shoulders. That was not going to happen. Living with Samantha and Claire for the past two months, she’d felt as if she’d belonged for the first time since her parents had died. She liked it. And she wanted to feel that way at the law firm too. “Okay, I’m off to give this thing a little test drive at the office.”
“Good luck,” Claire said, taking her mug.
“You go girl,” Samantha said, handing A.J. her purse.
A.J. was smiling when Claire and Samantha pushed her out into the hall and closed the door behind her. How different her life had become since she moved into this apartment. She had never felt this at home growing up in her uncle and aunt’s place.
“Yoo hoo! Ms. Potter, how fortuitous that we should run into each other. I was just going to knock on your door.”
A.J. bit back a sigh. Of course, every silver lining had its cloud. And Mrs. Higgenbotham and her French poodle Cleo were a huge gray one that daily threatened to rain on apartment 6C’s parade. The three-month rental of 6C came with a catch—an expectation—as Roger the broker had explained to them. And what it boiled down to was the care of Cleo, a prize-winning show dog. Strictly speaking, sublets were illegal in the building, but regular tenants looked the other way and never breathed a word of it to Marlon, the owner, as long as certain “neighborly favors” were exchanged. A.J. could only thank her lucky stars that it was Claire’s turn to walk Cleo in the park on Thursdays.
A.J. turned to give Mrs. Higgenbotham a smile and blinked at the peach cloud filling the hallway. In two months she should have grown used to the older woman’s appearance, but then she was never quite sure what color the hair would be. Today it was definitely peach, a perfect match to the billowing caftan that seemed to be in perpetual motion around her.
“Cleo isn’t eating again. I’ve decided she needs an emergency therapy session. Dr. Fielding is opening up his office early to fit her in. Isn’t that wonderful of him?”
Several more appropriate adjectives ran through A.J.’s mind—greedy and opportunistic heading the list—but she kept them to herself as she began to edge her way backwards toward the elevator. She didn’t need a Ph.D. in pet therapy to recognize that Cleo’s problem was that she was lonely. She wanted a mate. Most of the male dogs that she met on her daily walks in the park could testify to that in court. The problem was that Mrs. H. was determined to mate Cleo with another pedigreed poodle, and Cleo preferred commoners.
Mrs. Higgenbotham and the peach cloud wafted toward her. “I have a favor to ask. Could you possibly drop Cleo off? I’m not dressed to go out, and Dr. Fielding wants her at 7:45. Miss Dellafield isn’t scheduled to take her on her walk until this afternoon. You don’t have to wait for her. I can pick her up myself. Or…” she paused to glance back at the door of 6C, “or I can make other arrangements.”
A.J. took the leash from Mrs. Higgenbotham’s outstretched hand. “No problem.” Experience had taught her the hard way that agreeing to the woman’s requests was the quickest way out of the apartment building.
“Bless you.” Mrs. Higgenbotham pressed a card into her hand. “Dr. Fielding’s office is on Park Avenue. I’ll wave goodbye to Cleo from my living room window.”
In the safety of the elevator, A.J. glanced at her watch. Seven twenty-five. She was ten minutes behind schedule and delivering Cleo to Dr. Fielding would delay her even further. And there was still Franco Rossi to deal with. Hopefully, she could slip past him before he could notice she was wearing the skirt.
All hope of accomplishing that vaporized when the doors slid open and she found herself staring at the doorman.
“Thank heavens,” Franco said, sweeping a hand to his chest and fluttering a small Japanese fan with the other. “I was worried. You’re ten minutes late!”
“Mrs. H. stopped me,” A.J. explained as Cleo yipped at Franco and then, head down, dashed for the door. For some reason, Franco seemed to be the one male that Cleo had no use for. A.J. picked up her pace.
The door to the building was less than ten yards away, but, thanks to Franco, her best personal time for crossing the lobby was five minutes. And that was only if she kept her sentences short, avoided asking questions, and didn’t comment on anything he was wearing—like the kimono in shades of red, pink and vermilion. The colors were bright enough to make her eyes water. And she was sure, though she’d only risked a glance, that the clogs he wore added a good three inches to his height.
“They’re doing a musical version of Teahouse of the August Moon off Broadway,” Franco explained. “What do you think?”
Since she really didn’t want to think anything about it, A.J. said, “Cleo has stopped eating.”
“Poor thing,” Franco said.
Cleo yipped again.
Five yards short of the glass doors, A.J. halted and broke one of her rules. “What do you know about Dr. Fielding?”
Franco’s brows shot up. “He’s a very successful pet therapist—works a side specialty putting his clients through past-life regressions. Charges a bundle for it.”
She took another step toward the door, then stopped. “Cleo doesn’t need a past life regression. She’s young, she’s lonely and she’s healthy. What she needs is a man.”
“Don’t we all?” Franco asked in a heartfelt tone.
A.J. blinked. No, she wasn’t talking about herself. Her problem was she had too many men in her life. She didn’t need any more. She was definitely talking about Cleo. “What good does it do her to win top prizes at the Westminster Kennel Show if she’s lonely and she can’t eat—and worse still, she can’t even play with the other dogs in the park? She’s doomed to be lonely until Mrs. H. locates the perfect pedigreed poodle for her.”
“Honey, she’s doomed to be lonely forever if she keeps attacking them. How’s the lawsuit going?”
“You know I can’t talk about it,” A.J. said. No one at the firm was going to let her forget the fact that the first lawsuit she brought to Hancock, Potter and King was a dog-bite case.
“I heard tell that the other poodle had to have eight stitches and they’re suing for millions in pain and suffering.”
Too late, A.J. realized that Franco’s gaze was moving over her in a slow, careful assessment. Was he going to recognize the skirt? He’d been after her to wear it, and she’d sworn to him that she never would.
“Nice blazer,” he said. “That shade of lemon yellow looks great on you. I was right. Your colors are definitely light spring. Most definitely.”
When his gaze moved lower to her shoes, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.
Fat chance, she thought. Franco noticed everything. On top of that, he was a man, and, according to Samantha and Claire, men noticed things about the skirt that women were oblivious to. She began to inch her way backward toward the door.
Suddenly, Franco lunged past her, teetering on the three-inch-high clogs, and threw himself against the plate-glass door to block her exit.
“You’re wearing it. I knew you would. You almost had me fooled there for a minute. I actually thought you were talking about Cleo—but you’re talking about yourself. You’re actually going to see if you can reel in a man with that skirt. And you owe me an Alexander Hamilton. I told you that sooner or later, you’d succumb to the power of the skirt. Hand it over!”
Calmly, she reached into her purse, pulled a ten-dollar bill from her wallet, and placed it in Franco’s outstretched palm.
Quick as a blink, he pressed it to his lips and then shoved it in the pocket of his kimono. Finally, he fastened his eyes once more on the skirt as he minced around her in a slow circle. “Very nice.”
Cleo yipped again.
Franco fixed her with a look. “Settle down, girl. I’m not one of your stud poodles. My hands are registered lethal weapons.”
“How can you tell it’s the skirt?” A.J. asked. Then a disturbing thought struck her. “You’re not…starting to…” How was she going to put it? “You’re not starting to have any special feelings for me or anything?”
Startled, Franco stopped in his tracks and stared at her. “Perish the thought. I’ve already found my true love.” He winked at her. “And Marlon wasn’t wearing a skirt.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little nervous.”
Franco patted her arm. “That’s perfectly natural. I remember exactly what it was like to be single and alone in New York. Terrible. It’s a dating wasteland out there, and any little thing that will help is a blessing. I remember those singles’ bars were right out of a horror movie. And you know how I feel about them.”
Everyone knew how Franco felt about horror movies and just about everything else. His favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz. He hated Chinese food, loved sushi, preferred his opera sung in the original language and subtitled, hated free rock concerts in Central Park but had no objection to free Shakespeare because those performances were less crowded. And, above all, he loved living in New York.
It occurred to A.J. that there wasn’t much she didn’t know about Franco since he was bound and determined to share all aspects of his life with anyone who lived in the building—even on a summer sublet. And he had a knack for prying as much information out of the tenants as he imparted to them.
Stepping back, he glanced at the skirt again. “But you won’t have any trouble attracting men while you’re wearing that little number.”
“I don’t want to attract them—at least, not the way you mean. I just want to influence them. At eight-thirty this morning, we have our monthly department meeting at Hancock, Potter and King. Trial cases will be assigned, and while I would have preferred to get one on my own merits, I’ve decided that desperate measures are called for.”
Franco grinned from ear to ear. “I’d say you have a good shot. When you stand in the doorway with the light behind you, that skirt becomes almost transparent.”
“Transparent?”
“A woman with legs like yours shouldn’t have any trouble influencing men.” Opening the door, Franco gave her a little shove into the street.
“You and Cleo should make quite a team.”
As the door swung shut behind her, A.J. drew in a deep breath and let it out. As much as she might dread it, the gauntlet she had to run each morning to make it out the door was good training for the job facing her at her uncle’s law firm. Today was the day, she promised herself as she charged up the street with Cleo in tow. By five o’clock tonight she was going to have a client, and she would be on her way to court.
Cleo’s sad little whine had A.J. automatically tightening her grip on the leash and glancing across the street. A St. Bernard had pulled his owner to a dead stop and the dog was straining at his leash to cross the street.
Quickly, she tightened her grip on Cleo’s leash. “I know you’d rather go play, sweetie. But we don’t have time this morning.”
Drawing in another deep breath, she strode toward the corner. The one thing that she hadn’t shared with Franco, or either of her roommates, was that if Uncle Jamison did not assign her to a trial case today, she was going to have to think about resigning from the firm. It was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.
EVEN THOUGH HE HAD his eyes on Pierre Rabaut walking down the steps of the museum, Sam knew the moment that the little blonde and the poodle stepped onto the sidewalk and started toward him. The tingling in his fingers immediately intensified.
Her timing couldn’t have been worse. Unless Sam missed his guess, Pierre would step into the street just about the time that A.J.P. would be slipping a bill into his cup and giving him an update on her job search. The last thing he wanted right now was to be distracted.
Quickly, he scanned the street, taking in the double-parked pickup truck with the driver who loved rap songs and a car that had just pulled into the curb farther up the block. A man, medium height, thin, with a beard, rounded the corner on Pierre’s side of the street. Other than that, he and the blonde and the dog were the only others in sight.
He had to wait to make his move. He couldn’t allow Pierre any possibility of escaping. If he were going to save his godfather from going to jail, he had to get him to replace the necklace immediately—before anyone knew it was gone.
The mistake he made was in glancing at the blonde. The moment he did, he felt his mind empty and his stomach tighten as if he’d just sustained a swift, hard blow.
He was deadly certain that he’d never seen legs quite that…for the life of him, he couldn’t find a word to describe them. He could only stare at her as she moved toward him with that quick, sure stride.
The skirt—what there was of it—clung to her hips and thighs like a second skin. Except that skin wasn’t transparent. Or was he merely fantasizing the thigh-high stockings trimmed with a band of lace?
“Good morning.” She swung her purse off her shoulder and reached into it at the same moment that a motor revved loudly and the poodle began to bark. Sam tore his gaze from the woman to Pierre, but, even then, it took a moment for the scene in front of him to fully register.
Pierre stood in the middle of the street with the thin, bearded man in a green jacket at his side. One of the man’s hands was gripping Pierre’s arm, the other held a knife. Neither of them seemed to be aware of the pickup truck, gathering speed as it barreled toward them.
Sam’s heart somersaulted, but the blonde reacted first. One minute she was standing beside him and the next she was sprinting toward the two men with the poodle at her side.
Sam sprang to his feet and leaped toward the curb, but she was ahead of him by two lengths. He was going to be too late. The truck was going to hit her—it was going to mow down all three of them. The dead certainty of that struck him, just as he saw something flash. Then two things happened simultaneously. The woman leapt toward the two men, using the impact of her body to shove them backward. And the truck swerved in his direction.
Fear fisting in his throat, Sam pivoted and threw himself at the hood of a parked car. Metal screeched against metal and sparks flew as the truck sideswiped the car and sent him rolling onto the sidewalk.
Scrambling to his feet, Sam placed a hand against the car for balance and managed to get the plate number before the pickup took the corner on two wheels. Then he shifted his gaze to the two figures lying in the street.
They were still, both of them, and the dog was racing around them in circles, barking.
Both…?
Glancing down the street, he spotted the thin, bearded man racing down the sidewalk.
“Stop!” His voice sounded raw and thin, and the man paid him no heed.
“Mr. Romano? What’s going on?”
“I wish the hell I knew,” Sam replied to Luis’s voice in his ear. “There’s a bearded man running down 75th Street. Luis, you take him. Tyrone, you call 911. I’m staying with Rabaut.”
It wasn’t until he reached his godfather and knelt down that he saw the blood. It was smeared on the woman’s hand, but it seemed to be coming from a thin surface wound on Pierre’s arm. Even as he found the blonde’s pulse she was pushing herself up.
He was gripping just her wrist when his eyes met hers, and his last coherent thought was that he’d never seen eyes that color. They reminded him of violets, the kind his brother grew in pots on the roof of the hotel. The punch he felt in his gut was stronger this time and set off a flood of feelings. For the life of him, he couldn’t have named any of them. Because his mind, suddenly blank as a slate, had room for only one thought.
This is her.
THIS IS HIM.
The moment the thought slipped into her mind, A.J. tried to shove it out. But the words became a permanent chant in her brain, low and thrumming.
This is him. This is him.
Even then, she might have been more successful in dismissing the thought if it weren’t for the feelings tumbling through her—delight, terror, recognition.
This just couldn’t be him—the person that was supposed to be drawn to her by the skirt. But Claire’s words flooded into her mind. “Perhaps it will get you a date with a tall, dark, handsome stranger.” The description had made her think of this man—a street person. He did have dark hair and eyes, both the color of dark chocolate. And he was handsome all right. She’d noticed that the first time she’d seen him. It would have taken more than a few days’ growth of beard to disguise the lean handsome features, the strong jaw. And the mouth. The lips were thin. They wouldn’t be soft when they pressed against hers. They would be hard and demanding.
And it was absolutely ridiculous to be thinking of that. Her only thought when she’d slipped money into his cup and tried to find him a job was to help him. What in the world was wrong with her? Blinking hard, she tried to drag her gaze away from his.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” she managed, shocked to find she had to work to form the words.
“That pickup nearly hit you.”
The pickup. Images suddenly began to flood back into her mind—the two men had seemed so far away, the roar of the engine so close. There’d been no time to calculate the distance, to even know if she had a chance. She could still recall the impact as she’d hurled herself against the two men, and then they’d tumbled to the pavement and the breath had suddenly left her body.
That had to be why she’d suddenly felt so strange, why looking into this man’s eyes had affected her in such a strange way. Relief surged through her.
“Adrenaline rush,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“I felt a little strange there for a moment. Adrenaline rush. I’ve read that it can have a very strange effect on one’s system. But I’m recovering.” And she was. She even finally managed to drag her eyes away from the stranger’s. And, for the first time, she saw the blood on one of the men she’d launched herself at. “You’re bleeding,” she said as she met the older man’s eyes.
“It’s just a scratch,” he said, smiling up at her. “It will heal…unless I am dead and I’m staring into the eyes of an angel.”
“No, you’re not dead.” She noted that he had a French accent and the kindest blue eyes. They were clear and focused on hers. No adrenaline surge this time. “But you took a pretty hard fall.”
“I’m fine,” the older man said. “It’s even better if you’re not an angel.”
A.J. blinked. Could he be flirting with her? No. Quickly, she made herself look back at the street person. “We should help him sit up.”
When he grinned at her, she began to feel another pump of adrenaline surge through her system. He had the kind of smile that made you want to smile right back.
“I’d be happy to help you with him if you’d let go of my hands,” he said.
“What?”
“You’ve got my hands.”
Glancing down, A.J. saw that her hands were indeed clasping his tightly—right there in her lap—right on top of the skirt!
“Sorry.” She released him immediately, and together they eased the older man into a sitting position. Then Cleo offered her a welcome distraction by moving onto her lap and licking her face.
“We’ve got to be fast, Pierre.” The street person’s voice was low and urgent. “Give me the Abelard necklace.”
A.J. managed to peer around Cleo to see that the homeless man was patting down the Frenchman.
“You are mistaken. I don’t have the necklace, Salvatore.”
“Salvatore?” A.J. glanced from one to the other. “Pierre? You know each other?”
“Yes,” the Frenchman said, turning toward her with a smile. “Salvatore’s father and I were old friends. Salvatore works for a security firm now, and he’s made a little mistake.”
“The name is Sam,” the street person said. “Turn over the necklace, Pierre. I can’t let you do this.”
A.J. cut Sam off by grabbing both of his wrists. “You don’t have any right to search this man.” She turned to Pierre. “Insist that he stop.”
“I insist that you stop.”
“I insist that you stop also,” A.J. said.
Sam lifted both of his hands in the air, palms out. “Fine. But the police will be here soon.” He paused so that the sirens in the distance could emphasize his point. Then he met A.J.’s eyes.
“If you want to help my godfather, you’ll let me handle this.”
She lifted her chin. “Really? And I’m supposed to trust the word of a thief?”
“I’m not a thief,” Sam said, fishing out a card and handing it to her. “I’m a licensed private investigator and I work for Sterling Security.”
“S. Romano,” A.J. read aloud. “Well, Mr. Salvatore Sam Romano, no matter who you work for, you’re a thief. You stole twenty dollars from me each time you let me put money in your cup.”
Fishing a card out of her purse, she turned to the Frenchman. “You shouldn’t say one more word to anyone until your lawyer is present. If you want, I can represent you until then.”
“I would like that very much, madame—or is it mademoiselle?”
Scrambling to her feet, she helped the older man to his.
The mistake Sam made was looking at A.J. again. The thigh-high stockings had not been a figment of his imagination. The hem of her skirt had hiked up so that the lacy border of the stockings was quite visible along with a narrow expanse of smooth skin…
A.J. hurriedly pulled the skirt down, but not before Sam felt his throat go dry.
Pierre captured her left hand. “Ah. No rings. It’s Mademoiselle Potter then, I presume?”
Sam stared at Pierre. He had some smooth moves for a man who had to be in his seventies.
A.J. frowned a little. “I’m not married, if that’s what you mean.”
“Excellent,” Pierre murmured, raising her hand to his lips. “The gods have smiled on me twice today. Perhaps they will smile a third time, mademoiselle. Tell me that you are free, that there is some hope of my winning your hand.”
“I hate to interrupt the romance, Pierre,” Sam said. The sirens were growing closer. “But we don’t have much time. When the police get here, they’re going to invite you down to the station to take your statement. A man stabbed you and another one nearly ran you down. We have a very small window of opportunity here to put that necklace back. I don’t want you to go to jail.”
Pierre waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture. “What matter is that? The important thing is that I have just fallen in love with Mademoiselle Potter.”
A.J. and Sam were still staring at Pierre when the first patrol car, sirens blaring, screeched to a halt at the curb.
