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Short, Sweet And Sexy
Cara Summers
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.…



“I want to make love to you,” Sam said
A.J. cocked her head to one side. “And what makes you think that will help you solve the case, Sherlock?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to her neck. “Haven’t you ever come up with the solution to a particular problem when you weren’t thinking about it at all?”
“Sure. All the time.” His mouth was now working magic on her shoulder and her skin felt hot and icy at the same time. She struggled to focus on the thread of their conversation. “You think we’ll figure out the solution if we have sex?”
Sam took the lobe of her ear between his teeth. “Not sex, Ariana. I’m going to make love to you.”
“My name is A.J.”
“But you’re Ariana, too. And making love is different than having sex. I’m going to show you.”
Please, she thought. “Do you think Sherlock ever used this technique with Watson?”
Sam laughed, framing her face with his hands. “God, I hope not. So, are you game?”
Wrapping her arms around him, she brought her mouth to his ear and tried a little magic of her own. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Dear Reader,
The city is Manhattan, and the “man-magnet” skirt is back in circulation! And A. J. Potter has finally given in to the temptation to wear the infamous skirt. All she wants is to make the good old boys at her law firm take her seriously, but before she can even get to the office, she finds herself surrounded by men!

a teenage delinquent who finds her “hot”
a retired jewel thief who thinks he’s fallen in love with her
a mugger who seems fixated on stealing her purse
a sexy P.I. who is determined to convince her that one of her new clients just stole a five-million-dollar necklace from a museum
All P.I. Sam Romano wants to do is make sure his godfather doesn’t go to jail. But every time he tries to talk to the old man, he runs smack into a little spitfire of an attorney. Each time he sees her, Sam becomes more convinced that the only way to get A. J. Potter out of his way is to get her into his bed.
I hope you enjoy reading about A.J. and Sam’s romantic misadventures. And that you’ll watch for the next installment of the SINGLE IN THE CITY miniseries next spring, when the skirt makes its way to San Francisco!
Enjoy,
Cara Summers
P.S. Come and visit me on the Web at www.carasummers.com. And for more information about all the SINGLE IN THE CITY books, visit www.singleinthecity.org.
Short, Sweet and Sexy
Cara Summers


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my daughter-in-law, Mary Elizabeth Plante Hanlon.
In many ways, A. J. Potter reminds me of you.
You’re both smart, strong and loving. And you had the courage to marry my son! I love you, Mary.

Contents
Prologue (#u5494afc9-8c99-5401-86c0-ec0a4f823b84)
Chapter 1 (#udf2c28f8-c904-59a4-8e6b-bc2a96285d31)
Chapter 2 (#uedfa86af-8c48-5244-99ab-0d7d572f9001)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
A. J. POTTER NEEDED A BREAK. As the taxi careened around a corner into Central Park, she threw out a hand to brace herself against the door and glanced down at the address she’d recorded in her Palm Pilot. She was not running away. All she was going to do was move into an apartment, not ten blocks away from her aunt and uncle’s.
In comparison, it wasn’t considered running away when you asked a judge for a postponement in court.
And that’s all she needed—a postponement from her family, a little vacation from her Uncle Jamison and her cousin Rodney who sat at the dinner table every night, talking about the cases Rodney was being assigned at the law firm and she wasn’t. Most of all she needed a reprieve from her Aunt Margery whose mission in life was to match her up with a man who wouldn’t bring disgrace on the Potter family name. If she had to endure another date with one more Mr. Perfect handpicked by her aunt, she was going to…do just what she was doing. Move out!
Leaning back, A.J. closed her eyes as the taxi wound its way through Central Park. Somehow in the seven years she’d spent away at college and then in law school, she’d forgotten what a misfit she was in the Potter family. But living with them for the past year had certainly refreshed her memory. Worse than that, it was beginning to undermine her confidence. Ever since Uncle Jamison and Aunt Margery had taken her in at the age of seven, she’d tried—and failed—to prove to them that she could be a Potter, that she wasn’t at all like her mother.
A.J.’s eyes snapped open the minute the taxi lurched to the curb.
“The Willoughby,” the driver said.
After paying the fare and stepping out onto the sidewalk, A.J. studied the building. It was small with the same kind of understated elegance that characterized her aunt and uncle’s building. She sighed. Her aunt would definitely approve.
The real estate agent who’d given her the tip about the apartment had hinted at something different. Pushing down her disappointment, A.J. slipped her Palm Pilot into her purse and strode toward the door of the Willoughby.
The moment she stepped inside, she stopped short. The scene in front of her was definitely a tad unusual—even for New York. The fact that it was taking place in the lobby of a Central Park West apartment building had her thinking that she’d tumbled down a rabbit hole into Alice’s Wonderland.
The woman with the wavy brown hair appeared normal enough. The suitcases and slightly out-of-style clothes, as well as the confused expression on her face, pegged her as a visitor to the Big Apple.
The man was an entirely different matter. He was wearing a baggy blue polka-dot bathing suit and standing in the middle of a small wading pool decorated with cartoon fish. Sun poured down from a skylight, turning the zinc oxide he’d smeared across his nose a bright shade of lime green. “Surfin’ USA” blared out of the boom box beside his striped deck chair.
A.J. smiled slowly. If she wanted a reprieve from the stuffiness of her aunt and uncle’s condominium and from being a Potter twenty-four hours a day, she couldn’t have picked a better place. She was definitely going to take this apartment.
“Password!” the man with the green nose shouted above the pounding rhythm of the Beach Boys.
The woman with the suitcases shook her head.
A.J. moved forward.
“I’m waaaaiiiiiting.” He sang this time instead of shouting.
Nice voice, A.J. noted, and now that she was closer, she recognized the tattoo on his left forearm. The moment the Beach Boys faded, she said, “Toto.”
“Close but no cigar,” he said and then sang the opening stanza of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” “Are you here for the apartment?”
“Yes.” A.J. found herself speaking in unison with the suitcase woman.
“You and about forty others,” he said, peering at them over his sunglasses. “Tavish Mclain is the man you’ll have to convince, and this is his day of glory—the day he dreams of the other 364 days of the year. He is surrounded by women, and each one of them is willing to do whatever it takes to get his apartment.”
“We’d like to join them,” A.J. said. The real estate agent had warned her that there would be an auction, and she needed to size up her opponents.
He glanced quickly around, then leaned closer and spoke in a stage whisper. “You might try naming the actor who played the cowardly lion.”
“Bert Lahr.” A.J. and the suitcase woman spoke again at the same time.
A grin split his face. “Excellent.”
“Bert Lahr is the password, then?” A.J. asked.
“No. But I like the fact that you’re Wizard of Oz movie buffs, so you may pass.”
“Thanks,” A.J. said as she hurried toward the elevator. Oh, this was getting better and better. She definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
“The name’s Franco,” the man with the green nose called after them. “Franco Rossi. You’re going to see it in lights someday.”
A.J. pressed the elevator button and when the door slid open, she helped the suitcase woman muscle the biggest one in.
“Thanks. I’m Claire Dellafield,” the woman said.
“A. J. Potter.” She looked the woman up and down. “I guess we’re competitors.”
Claire nodded. “Do you think the apartment’s going to be expensive? If so, I don’t have enough money to be much competition.”
A.J. thought the apartment might be very expensive. She’d heard about it through a broker for whom she’d done a closing that morning. Tavish Mclain, an eccentric and thrifty Scot, had money to burn and just couldn’t miss an opportunity to make more. Rather than allow his apartment to sit empty for three months while he went off on holiday, he ran what the broker had described to her as a sort of auction-lottery to rent it for the summer. The moment she’d heard that it was a rental and that she could move in immediately, A.J. had taken it as a sign. And the fact that the address was Central Park West would stifle some of her family’s concern.
When her mother had left the family home she’d moved to a coldwater flat in the Village with the man who’d become A.J.’s father.
A.J. would never do that to her family. The address of the Willoughby would definitely reassure her aunt and uncle of that. And the money wouldn’t be a problem for her because of the trust fund her mother had left her. But Claire Dellafield looked as though it might be a problem for her. She also looked beat and a little lost. Manhattan could be a tough city for the uninitiated, and A.J.’s heart went out to her. “Want to join forces and bid together?”
“I don’t know. I—”
A.J. nodded as the door slid open. “Smart girl. Someone warned you about the big bad city.” Unzipping her purse, she pulled out a card. “I have a hunch that the bidding might be brutal and I intend to win. Think about it.”
The noise was coming from the apartment at the end of the hall, and dozens of people were jammed around the door of 6C. At barely five feet tall, she couldn’t see over them, so she wiggled and elbowed her way through. Reaching the door and finding Claire right behind her, A.J. helped her heave the suitcases into the foyer.
The room was packed with women, mostly blondes in various shapes and sizes. They ranged in age from…A.J. figured the one in the latex capris and midriff-baring tank top to be about twenty, and the one just entering with the bouffant hair and the poodle had to be in her seventies. That poodle lady might have money, she decided. The huge rock on her right hand looked very real.
Eyes narrowed, A.J. rose to her toes and peered around shoulders to scan the room again. She caught glimpses of a tacky Southwestern decor. Could that have been a longhorn cow over the fireplace? It was only by leaping up that she finally spotted the broker who’d tipped her off to the auction. Roger Whitfield, who was handling the sublet for Tavish, stood on the steps leading up to the loft.
When she landed back on her feet, her eyes collided briefly with a tall woman—not a blonde—who carried a package under her arm and had a determined look on her face. Very determined. Well, A.J. was determined too.
Someone waved a check high over her head. “Here it is, folks. Good faith money. Forty-five hundred dollars—three months—up front.”
“Hey!” someone shouted.
“That’s not fair!”
“I can’t go that high!”
“Tavish promised to rent this place to me for eight hundred.”
As pandemonium broke loose around her, A.J. pulled out her checkbook and cell phone. Women surged around her in waves, some heading toward the stairs, others toward the door. The tall brunette with the package was pushed up next to Claire’s biggest suitcase.
“This is ridiculous.” Tapping her foot, A.J. punched numbers into the cell phone, and waited. After counting ten rings, she decided that Roger, now besieged by blond ambition, was not going to take her call. Finally, she turned to the two women beside her. She’d overheard enough of their conversation to understand that the brunette had just offered Claire a free room at the hotel she worked at.
“Why would you do that?” Claire asked. “You don’t even know me.”
“Because I can. Because helping the sisterhood was something my mother drilled into me. And, hey, I get off on warm fuzzy feelings in my tummy.”
A.J. smiled. She was beginning to like the tall determined woman with the box. “So do I, but they don’t always come from giving away freebie hotel rooms.”
The woman returned her smile. “Samantha Baldwin.”
A.J. shook the offered hand. “A. J. Potter. You sounded a little like a madam gathering a poor waif into her house of ill repute. I already made the same first great impression on her. I think we scared her.”
“I’m not scared,” said Claire. “Just fascinated by abnormal human behavior. Abnormal for a New Yorker, that is.”
Making a sudden decision, A.J. pulled out her Palm Pilot and checked on the information Roger, the broker, had given her. Then she turned her attention back to the two women. “According to my information, this place has three bedrooms.”
“I don’t smoke. I can do eighteen hundred a month, but I don’t want to.”
A.J. couldn’t help but admire Samantha’s quick uptake and no-nonsense style. “Nonsmoker. I’m in for two grand.”
“You’d get the big bedroom then.”
Perfectly in sync, they both looked at Claire.
“What’s your name?” A.J. asked.
“Claire Dellafield. Why?”
“Get with the program,” Samantha said. “We’re forming a rental coalition. You want in?”
Claire stood. “You mean we’d room together?”
“Mental functions seem to be intact,” said A.J. “Do you smoke?”
Claire shook her head. “But I can learn.”
Samantha laughed. “She’s in for the entertainment value alone.”
A.J. nodded her agreement. Plus, she guessed Claire needed this apartment as much as they did. “How much can you contribute to the rent?”
Claire drew in a deep breath. “Eight hundred.”
“That’s forty-six hundred. Surely the rent won’t go any higher,” A.J. said.
Just then, the door to the apartment swung open and two men entered.
“Tavish!” several blondes squealed as they ran towards him, arms outstretched.
“Let this play out,” A.J. suggested. Getting a handle on the opposition always paid off in the courtroom.
Samantha and Claire took her advice, but it wasn’t a pretty sight. The women were fawning all over the man in a sage-green faux leather vest—with fringe. A.J. knew the type well. He might dress a little less conservatively, but Tavish Mclain reminded her of all the rich, middle-aged, self-absorbed Mr. Perfects that her aunt had been setting her up with for the past year.
The dates from hell were one of her prime motivations for getting out of her aunt and uncle’s home. Aunt Margery’s mission was to marry her off before she disgraced the family the way her mother had. With that whole scenario off her plate, she figured she could concentrate all her attention on making her uncle take her more seriously at the law firm. For the past year, her assignments at Hancock, Potter and King had consisted of real estate closings and research. She was the only Potter woman to join the firm since it had been founded, and she definitely didn’t fit into the good old boy network.
But she was going to. And if she could prove herself at the law firm, maybe her aunt and uncle would stop worrying that she would follow in her mother’s footsteps and they would finally accept her.
She needed this apartment. But as she rose once more to her toes and saw the bevy of blondes waving checks in Tavish’s face, she feared the odds of getting it were slipping away. She remembered what Franco Rossi had said about this being the day Tavish Mclain lived the other 364 days for. She could see why. One woman was literally pawing his vest.
A.J. glanced at her two companions. No, they were definitely not the pawing types—which was why she liked them.
Hmmmm. Tapping her foot, she was desperately searching her mind for a different approach when Samantha said, “Stand in front of me.”
A.J. watched her tear the brown paper off the package she was holding.
“What are you doing?” Claire asked.
“I’ve got something in here that may convince Mr. Mclain to give us anything we want.”
“What?” A.J. asked. “A gun?”
“Even better,” Samantha replied, pulling out a wad of silky, black fabric. “A magic skirt.”
A.J. exchanged a skeptical glance with Claire. Then Claire cleared her throat. “Did you say a magic skirt?”
“I know it sounds crazy,” Samantha said as she shook out wrinkles, then began to pull it on over the skirt she was wearing. “But it’s a regular man-magnet. According to the legend, it’s woven out of a special fiber that will make men do anything for the woman who wears it. It’s even supposed to have the power to bring your true love to you…yada, yada, yada.”
“You’re kidding, right?” A.J. watched her shimmy out of the old skirt underneath. The “magic” garment was simple, black, basic. She could have sworn she had one just like it in her closet. She’d bought it at Bloomingdale’s right after Christmas. A quick look around told her that the only one paying any attention to Samantha’s quick change routine was the elderly lady with the poodle and the rock.
“Look, I don’t believe it either, but it can’t hurt,” Samantha said to A.J.
A.J. had to agree with her on that. Jumping up, she glimpsed a blonde with black lipstick, pulling out her pen, ready to sign on the dotted line.
“Follow me, ladies,” Samantha said. Then, leading the way, she cut a path through the sea of blondes toward the man in the fringed green vest.
A.J. looked at Claire and shrugged. “What can it hurt?”
“True,” Claire said. “And if it doesn’t work, we can always resort to Plan B.”
“What Plan B?” A.J. asked.
“We can hang Tavish out the window by his ankles until he agrees to sublet his apartment to us.”
A.J. grinned. “A regular win-win situation.” Then she turned her attention to Samantha as she advanced slowly on Tavish Mclain. With each step, she wiggled her hips. A.J. could have sworn the skirt caught the light and glimmered.
“I’m Samantha Baldwin.” One last step and wiggle brought Samantha within an arm’s length of the man in the green fringed vest.
“Tavish Mclain,” he said as he grasped her extended hand.
“You have the perfect apartment,” Samantha said, beaming a smile at him.
“I call…it…home,” Tavish stuttered as he pumped her hand.
For a moment neither of them said a thing. They just stood there, hands clasped and staring at each other.
“I’d like to call it home, too, for the summer,” Samantha finally said.
“Well, I…Well, I’m sure—” Tavish began.
Then Roger Whitfield and another broker crowded forward, introducing themselves, but Tavish didn’t relinquish Samantha’s hand.
Eyes narrowed, A.J. took a minute to size up the situation. The three men had their eyes locked on Samantha. Even the other women were beginning to notice it.
The blonde in black lipstick waved her check. “Just a minute. I’ve given you a check for forty-five hundred.”
“Roger, give Meredith back her check,” Tavish murmured, never taking his eyes off Samantha.
“So I’ll give you another for six thousand,” the blonde said.
Quickly, A.J. scribbled out a check and tucked it in Samantha’s free hand. Two thousand for the first month would match the blonde’s offer.
“Here you go…” Samantha glanced at A.J.’s check. “Two thousand dollars.”
Tavish smiled. “So you did want to pay all the rent up front after all?”
All the rent? A.J. glanced at the skirt. Had they just rented a Central Park West apartment for the summer for two thousand dollars?
Tavish stuck the check in his vest pocket. “The perfect tenant, wouldn’t you say, Roger?”
“I’d…say…so.”
A.J. tore her eyes from the skirt to check out the broker. Any minute now, Roger was going to drool. The other broker was doing that already. It was time to make her move. “Gentlemen, which one of you has the papers we should sign?” She was pretty sure it was Roger, but at the moment she’d settle for someone who wasn’t catatonic.
“Papers?” Roger asked.
A.J. snapped her fingers in front of his face. “An indemnity clause? Terms of lease? Liability release?”
To her relief, Roger blinked, then fumbled in his pocket for papers. Ruthlessly, A.J. pulled him aside, and made him focus on the lease agreement. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Claire take the other broker by the arm. “You and I are on crowd control. Thanks for coming, everybody.”
The only ones in the room who hadn’t moved were Samantha and Tavish. They were still gripping hands, still staring into each other’s eyes. But Samantha seemed to be perfectly all right as she explained to Tavish that she had two roommates. A.J. glanced once more at the skirt before she focused her entire attention on the lease agreement.
“It’s standard, although I should probably mention Cleo,” Roger said, his gaze drifting back to Samantha. “Could you introduce me?”
“To Cleo?” A.J. asked.
“No,” Roger said, gesturing vaguely toward the woman with the bouffant hair and the rock on her hand. “Cleo’s the poodle, lives in 6B. You’re expected to walk her. It’s part of Tavish’s arrangement with his neighbors.”
“No problem,” A.J. said. She’d see to it that it wasn’t. She wanted signatures on the bottom line before Tavish Mclain could come out of his skirt trance and change his mind.
And she got them! An hour later when A.J. stepped out into the bright sunlight on Central Park West, she gave a little jump of pure pleasure. Not only did she have a new place to live, but she had two new roommates—women she’d seemed to click with immediately. She hugged the knowledge to her.
Not bad for the day that she’d chosen to build a new life for herself.
And then there was the skirt. Samantha had put it in her bedroom closet before she’d taken off for work. If A.J. hadn’t seen it, she never would have believed it.
There was definitely something about that skirt—something that might come in handy if she couldn’t solve the problem of being taken seriously at Hancock, Potter and King by herself.
Pushing the thought out of her mind, A.J. strode toward the corner. She preferred solving things by herself.

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.

2
“HAVE I TOLD YOU LATELY how much I hate smooth-talking attorneys?” Sam nudged a pile of papers aside, making a small space for himself on the corner of his brother’s desk. When he unearthed a donut, he broke off a piece. He could always depend on a cop to have food nearby, and he was starved.
“Join the club. Do you want to tell me why you happened to be on the scene when Pierre was nearly run down by a truck in front of that museum?”
With a muffled curse, Sam spit the contents of his mouth into an overflowing wastebasket, then grabbed for his brother’s coffee. Pure survival instinct had him glancing in the paper cup and taking a good sniff before he downed the contents. “I didn’t know a donut could become mummified.”
“Weird science. Happens all the time around here. Cops don’t have the luxury of being neat freaks like P.I.s. And you’re not answering my question.”
Sam let his gaze sweep the large room that was home to the detective division. Most of the desks were cluttered, none to the extent his brother’s was. But then, Andrew Jackson Romano was one of the best detectives in the city. “What do you know about the Abelard necklace?”
Andrew’s brows shot up. “Just what I read in the papers. It’s worth about five million, and the LaBrecque family, producers of LaBrecque Estates Bottled Wines, brought it to New York and are exhibiting it at the Grenelle Museum to launch the new line of wines they are exporting to the U.S. Let me guess. You were part of the extra security that the papers claimed was hired to protect it.”
“I think it was stolen this morning.”
Andrew frowned. “No one called it in.”
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Sam paced to the window and then turned. “That’s because it’s in the display case. I saw it myself.” Immediately after the squad car had arrived on the scene, a TV reporter with a cameraman had showed. They’d come to photograph the necklace in its case. The attempted hit-and-run had been a bonus for them.
Once Pierre and A. J. Potter had left in the squad car for the precinct, Sam had gone into the museum himself to check. And there it had been.
Andrew settled back in his chair. “It’s still in the case in the museum, but you think it’s been stolen. Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”
“This is off the record? Brother to brother?”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “Sure.”
“I saw Pierre Rabaut climb in the skylight at six thirty-five and walk out the front door of the Grenelle at seven-forty, and I don’t believe he went in for a private viewing.”
“But you said it was still in the case.”
“Pierre’s trademark as a thief was to leave a high-quality copy in place of the jewelry he stole. That’s why he was never put away. Often the theft wasn’t discovered until years later, if at all. I have to talk to him. And his attorney is telling him not to talk to me.”
Andrew was quiet for a minute, studying his brother. Finally he said, “Okay. Let’s back up a little, and stick to the facts. What we know for sure is that Pierre was nearly run down in front of the museum.”
“And he was cut on the arm by a thin man with a beard.”
“Right. The mugger who got away.” Andrew began to rifle through the papers on his desk. “I just ran the license plate you gave me on the pickup. Where the hell is it?”
As his brother dug into the debris, Sam turned back to the window. On the street below, cars inched their way along, and a taxi nearly lost a fender as it nosed its way to the curb.
He might have had the problem solved by now if it hadn’t been for A. J. Potter. The sweet little thing who’d been giving him money and finding him a job had turned into a tough little firebrand, standing like a guardian angel over his godfather. If it hadn’t been for her, he’d have had time to find the necklace and it could have been back in the museum by now. But when she’d grabbed his hands to keep him from searching Pierre, she’d absolutely drained his mind.
The woman was different for him. Oh, he’d felt desire before—even that instant and inexplicable kind he’d felt for A.J. the first time he’d seen her walking up the street toward him. But today had been different. When she’d grabbed his hands, what he’d felt then hadn’t been merely desire. It had been…recognition. This is her. His father had warned him that he’d know when he found the woman he would fall in love with.
The moment the thought entered his mind, Sam shoved it out. No, that just wasn’t a possibility. A. J. Potter was not the kind of woman he was looking for. He’d had Luis go back to the office and run a check on her. She came from the kind of money that someone earned about five generations ago, and she worked at a law firm that her great-great-grandfather had founded. His name and hers were on the letterhead of Hancock, Potter and King. In short, A.J. came from the same kind of highbrow lineage as the woman his father had fallen in love with—Isabelle Sheridan, the rich CEO of her family’s company. She and his father had come from different worlds, and Sam had viewed firsthand the problems that could arise in that kind of relationship.
A sudden tingling in his fingers had Sam clenching his hands into fists. As if he’d conjured her up, A. J. Potter appeared on the street below him holding on to Pierre’s arm and guiding him down the steps of the precinct. Sam frowned. The older man had some very interesting techniques. He knew for a fact that Pierre worked out four times a week at the same gym Sam went to. His godfather needed help getting down steps about as much as Andrew did. She laughed at something Pierre said and for a moment, as she tilted her head back, her eyes met Sam’s and held.
The pull was there. Even at a distance and through glass, he could feel it. What in hell was it about her? Was it because she’d been so sweet to a person she’d thought was homeless? Or maybe his hormones had just time-warped themselves back to adolescence. Whatever the hell it was, he was going to find out. And he was going to talk to his godfather.
A.J. WAS SURPRISED at the effort it took to pull her gaze away from Mr. S. Romano. Just about as hard as it was to keep from thinking about him. Why?
Perhaps because Sam Romano wasn’t what he seemed. He certainly wasn’t one of New York City’s homeless. In spite of that laid-back charm he’d projected when he’d conned her out of a hundred bucks, he was as stubborn as they came. And, for some reason, he was obsessed with the idea that her client was a thief.
“He’s a fascinating young man,” Pierre Rabaut said.
“Who?” A.J. said, forcing her complete attention to the man who was raising her hand to his lips with one hand and petting Cleo with the other.
“My godson, Salvatore.” Pierre lowered her hand but kept it in his. “His father Henry and I were very close until he passed away two years ago. We came to this country about the same time. Henry worked for me at my jazz club until he got enough money to open his hotel, Henry’s Place. I’ve known all the Romano boys—Nick, Tony, Andrew and Sam—since they were babes. Sam was always the cleverest of the lot. The youngest sometimes has to be, no?”
“I suppose. Why does your godchild want to put you in jail?”
When Cleo flopped to the sidewalk and rolled over, Pierre leaned down to scratch her on her neck. The poodle’s tongue dangled out of the side of her mouth as she slipped into dog heaven. “He doesn’t. But he’s a man of principle. He’s been hired to see that the necklace isn’t stolen, and he believes I’ve done just that. I think he wants to convince me to put it back.”
A.J. studied her client. Although his hair was both thinning and gray, she would have guessed him to be in his early sixties if he hadn’t told her he was seventy-five. A thin, wiry man, he moved with a grace and agility that reminded her of Fred Astaire dancing with Ginger Rogers in late-night movies she’d seen. And there was a keen intelligence in his dark blue eyes.
“But you didn’t steal it. The necklace is still in the museum.”
“Yes,” Pierre agreed. “It is.”
Cleo chose that moment to roll over. Immediately, Pierre obligingly scratched her belly. “She’s a lovely dog.”
“You’re being very patient with her. Cleo throws herself at every male she meets—man or beast, except for the pedigreed studs her mistress matches her up with. My roommates and I think she has all the makings of a slut.”
Pierre chuckled as he continued to stroke Cleo. “She has a great desire to be loved, that’s all. Some women deal with it by throwing themselves at men. Others deal with it by isolating themselves and pushing men away. All this beauty needs is to be loved by the right male. I ought to introduce her to my dog, Antoine.”
“No, please don’t. Not unless he’s a pure-bred poodle and registered at some kennel club. Otherwise, Mrs. Higgenbotham, her owner, will have my head.”
“Ahhh.” Rising to his feet, Pierre shook his head sadly. “So there’s an arranged marriage in Mademoiselle Cleo’s future. Too bad. They often result in tragedy. It is much wiser to follow your heart—if you have the courage.”
A.J. studied him for a moment as he continued to stroke the dog. She could have sworn that he was talking about more than Cleo’s problems.
A limousine pulled up to the curb and, as the driver alighted, Pierre continued to pet the dog absently. “Salvatore is going to insist on talking to me. He’s always had a fascination for solving puzzles. He keeps after them, like a dog with a bone.”
A.J.’s eyes narrowed as she thought for a minute. “Why don’t I arrange a meeting then? That way I can make sure I’ll be present.”
“Yes. That would be best.” Smiling, Pierre raised her hand to his lips again. “I have always had a weakness for beauty and brains in a woman, Mademoiselle Potter. And you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago.”
For a moment, A.J. said nothing. She could see that her client had drifted away into a memory, and she saw traces of both joy and grief in his eyes. Then, suddenly, they cleared and she could read nothing in them.
“How about later this afternoon—say, around five o’clock?” Pierre suggested. “There’s a small café called Emile’s. It’s near the courthouse and they serve excellent French coffee. Their wine list is superb. I think you would enjoy it.”
“That would be fine,” A.J. said.
Pierre raised her hand to his lips again. “And you’ll let Salvatore know?”
“Absolutely.”
A.J. waited until the driver of the limo had settled Pierre into his seat and closed the door before turning on her heel and marching up the precinct steps. A meeting with her client wasn’t the only thing A.J. intended to settle with Mr. Salvatore Sam Romano.
“EARTH TO SAM. Come in, Sam.”
“Sorry.” Sam turned back from the window to face his brother. “What were you saying?”
“I found the license plate number. It belongs to a pickup owned by a construction company. They reported it stolen this morning.”
“So it wasn’t an accident,” Sam said as he took the scrap of paper and tucked it in a pocket.
“Probably not,” Andrew said as he studied his brother. “Hit-and-run drivers don’t like to use their own vehicles. You got any other evidence that Pierre might have copped the necklace—other than that he often left copies when he pulled a heist?”
“That and the fact that I saw him break and enter the museum. He’s good enough to have jammed the security cameras and he obviously turned off the alarms.”
“Damn,” Andrew said.
“I think it’s safe to say that he didn’t do all that to have a private viewing of the exhibits. He may have the real necklace on him right now.”
Leaning back, Andrew propped his feet on the desk. “Why? For the past forty years, Pierre Rabaut has lived in this city and been a model citizen. He operates a highly successful and lucrative jazz club and serves on a couple of the mayor’s committees. Why go back to a life of crime now?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “I was thinking about that while he was in the museum. He was really good at stealing, you know. One of the best. Maybe he just wanted to see if he could still do it.”
“It’s a hell of a solution to a mid-life crisis. And what about the man with the knife and the guy in the pickup? How do they fit in?”
“Pierre knew there was extra security. It was on the news. I figure the bearded mugger was an accomplice. He was supposed to take the necklace and run. That way Pierre couldn’t be caught with the necklace on him. The guy in the pickup is another matter. He was out to get Pierre. And he must have known Pierre would be there. All I know for sure is that as long as Pierre has the necklace, he’s in danger.”
Andrew thought for a minute. “We only have your word. That’s not probable cause to search him.”
“That’s the last thing I want. What I want is to convince him to return the necklace before he gets caught, and Ms. A. J. Potter won’t let me near him.”
Andrew’s eyes widened. “Ms. A. J. Potter? Pierre has a woman attorney, and you’re having trouble getting around her?”
“She’s—” Rising, Sam began to pace again. “You should have seen her when she saw that truck barreling toward Pierre and the bearded man. She’s this tiny little bit of a thing, and she didn’t even stop to think. She moved like lightning and launched herself at them.” Even now when he thought about it, fear knotted in his stomach. “I thought they were all goners. I couldn’t believe it when the truck swerved at the last minute. It was a miracle.”
“A. J. Potter, hmm?” Andrew’s face split into a wide grin. “Nice name. Same initials as me. I suppose she’s a looker too?”
“Yeah. She’s…” Sam paused. It occurred to him that he’d never before had trouble talking about a woman to his brother. But he didn’t feel comfortable talking about A.J.’s legs—or any other part of her. And he certainly wasn’t going to tell his brother that her eyes reminded him of violets. “She’s…I…she’s hard to describe.”
“I can see that. She’s got you stuttering.”
“No…I mean…”
“Is she single?”
Sam frowned. “Yeah. Pierre got that out of her in less than two minutes. For a guy in his seventies, he’s got a way with women. He told her he’d fallen in love with her. What kind of a thing is that to tell a girl first time you meet her?”
“You better introduce us, bro. Maybe she and I will have more in common than the initials.”
Sam pinned his brother with a long, steady look. “Forget it.”
“This just keeps getting better and better. First you’re jealous of an old man. Now you’re warning me off. I’ve got to meet her.”
“No.” Just as Sam’s fingers began to tingle, Andrew gave a long, low whistle.
“Too late. We’ve got company.”
Sam knew before he turned who it was moving toward him. He would have recognized the click of those heels and that quick, ground-eating stride anywhere. The moment he turned, he got a quick vision of a woman and poodle before his eyes homed in and fastened like a tractor beam to her legs. The skirt seemed to inch a little higher with each step she took. He felt the blood drain from his head.
A.J. VERY NEARLY STOPPED mid-stride. If Cleo hadn’t been pulling at her leash she might have. This time the rush of adrenaline surged through her and he wasn’t even touching her. It was his eyes. He looked at her in a way that no one else did—as if he could really see her.
“Two things,” A.J. said when she reached him. In a minute, she would remember what they were. She drew in a deep breath and opened her mouth, hoping that something intelligent would come out.
He spoke first. “I want to see my godfather.”
“Right. That’s number one on my list. He wants to meet with you at a French café, Emile’s, near the courthouse at five this afternoon.”
The smile came then, quick and charming. She wanted to smile right back, but she bit down on the side of her cheek instead. Ruthlessly, she gathered the evidence against him. This was a man who wanted to put a defenseless old man in jail. A man who had with that same charming smile taken money from her on the street!
“Number two,” lifting her hand, she turned it palm up, “I also want my money back.”
“Your money…?”
“The hundred dollars I’ve slipped into your cup during the past five days.”
“Whoa,” Sam said, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I gave all of it to a homeless man who hangs around my family’s hotel. He might be interested in that job you were lining up for me.”
She studied him for a moment. “If you’re making fun—”
In a movement that she didn’t even see coming, he took the hand she was still extending and began to draw her toward the door. “Me, make fun? Never. Why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee and we can talk about the money and Pierre?”
“I’ve got some coffee right here,” Andrew said, snagging her other hand and putting a mug of coffee in it. “And I have some information on that pickup that tried to run down your client.”
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE TIMES when Sam wished he’d been an only child. Or that murdering your brother was legal. One minute, he’d nearly had A.J. out the door for a private chat and, the next, Andrew had drawn her back to his desk. He’d even cleaned off a chair for her.
“This is a really nice dog you’ve got there,” Andrew said. “Do you show him…or is it a her?”
Andrew was actually petting the dog. Even more amazing was that his desk was also looking more orderly. File folders were stacked in a pile, and Sam could even make out the edge of a pristine-looking blotter. He was sure it had never seen the light of day before. But what really stunned him was that he hadn’t been aware that any of that was going on. All he’d been aware of was A. J. Potter from the moment she’d walked into the room.
“Cleo is a her. And she loves men. My neighbor shows her. Right now she’s looking for the perfect male to breed her with.”
“My brother has absolutely no manners.” Andrew managed to get Cleo settled on his lap. “Otherwise, he’d introduce us. I’m Andrew Jackson Romano, but you can call me Andrew.” He took A.J.’s hand in his. “We have the same initials.”
Murder was out of the question. But he’d warned Andrew off. In a minute, he was going to punch him. He hadn’t felt that way since junior high school. Hell, it couldn’t be jealousy he was feeling. Could it? But as two other detectives rose from their desks and gravitated toward A.J., Sam had the sinking realization that it was. And that was ridiculous.
A. J. Potter shook her head. “No coffee, thanks. I’m very late for a meeting at my office. My client asked me to give Mr. Romano a message. And I just wanted to clear up the money thing.” She glanced at Sam, then back at his brother. “Is he telling the truth? Did he give my hundred dollars to a homeless person?”
“I’ll be happy to check into it for you.”
“Andrew…” The warning note in Sam’s voice was clear.
Andrew sighed. “You can always take Sam at his word, Ms. Potter.”
A.J. nodded. Then she plucked the poodle off Andrew’s lap, turned to Sam and gave him the same brief nod. “Two more things. First, I won’t press charges for the money. And two, I don’t want you harassing my client anymore. He said you’d have questions. We’ll settle them this afternoon, and then you’ll leave him alone. Understood?”
The two brothers watched her until the door swung shut and blocked her from their view.
“Very nice. If that skirt had inched up just a little bit—” Sam whirled on his brother.
“Hey! I’m just admiring the view. She’s—”
“Yes…?”
Andrew cleared his throat. “In the interest of brotherly love and support, it’s only fair to tell you that if you decide you don’t want her, I’m calling second dibs.”
Sam frowned. “I don’t want…” He stopped short, stunned, when he found he couldn’t complete the sentence.
Andrew grinned at him. “See? You’d have known it sooner if you were as good a detective as I am.”
Sam didn’t comment. He had too much to think about as he headed toward the door.
GLANCING AT HER WATCH, A.J. raced down the steps of the precinct building with Cleo in tow. Ten o’clock. She’d lost another five minutes delivering her client’s message to Sam Romano. But Pierre had insisted. And he was her client. Her very first. She might have danced a little jig on the sidewalk if it weren’t for the fact that landing her first client had caused her to miss the monthly meeting at the firm.
Unless…Fishing out her cell phone, she punched in her uncle’s number, then kept her voice as patient as she could as she waited for the receptionist to route the call. A quick scan of the street told her there were no taxis in waving range, so she drew Cleo with her toward the corner.
There was a chance, a slim one, that she hadn’t missed the meeting entirely. But that hope was dashed when her uncle’s secretary Mrs. Scranton immediately put the call through.
“Ari—oh, sorry, I forgot. No one is allowed to call you that anymore.”
A.J. drew in a deep breath the moment she recognized her cousin’s voice. Rodney was the only one in the family who needled her about the fact that she’d changed her name legally to A.J. She’d done it before she went to college. To her, the name Arianna conjured up images of all the pink dresses and formal afternoon tea parties she’d endured to please her Aunt Margery. In college and law school she’d wanted to project an entirely different image. A.J. was a much better name for the tough lawyer she’d intended to become.
“Rodney, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Uncle Jamison announced his retirement and the board appointed you the new head of the firm. That’s why you’ve moved into your dad’s office.”
“I’ll be running this place sooner than you think. I’m going to be working with Father on the Parker Ellis Chase file. In a few months, it will be mine.”
“Congratulations.” A.J. tamped down the feelings running through her. Jealousy was a waste of time, and disappointment…well, she could eventually do something to change that. Parker Ellis Chase ran a fifty-million-a-year company that was constantly running into problems with the EPA. The file was an up-and-coming litigator’s dream.
“You were on TV. We caught it at the end of the news. Dad wants to see you as soon as you get here. A hit-and-run?” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “It’s bad enough that you’re dragging in those ragtag pro bono clients from the overflow at the Public Defender’s office, but a hit-and-run? Father is not pleased.”
“Thanks for the update, Rodney. Did anything get thrown my way at the meeting?”
“You got quite a few research requests. I put the files on your desk myself.”
Careful to keep the disappointment out of her voice, A.J. said, “Thanks. I’ll be in shortly.”
The one disadvantage cell phones had over the wired kind was that you couldn’t slam them in someone’s ear. As she tucked the phone in her pocket and once more searched the street for a taxi, Cleo made a low sound in her throat.
“I know, sweetie. You’re very late for your appointment, but I called Dr. Fielding, and he’s going to squeeze you in.”
Out of habit, she glanced around. A few pedestrians milled past them, hurrying to cross the street before the light changed. But there was no sign of another dog. She did catch a glimpse of Sam Romano coming out of the front door of the precinct, and she quickly strode away from him toward the corner.
Just as they reached it, Cleo growled deep in her throat and then barked.
The shove from behind took A.J. by surprise and sent her sprawling to her knees. Then the man grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. With her free hand, she grabbed the strap of her purse, swung it off her shoulder and into the man’s face. The moment he dropped her arm, she aimed and landed a quick kick to his stomach.
With a string of curses, he sank to his knees, but he caught the strap of her purse and held on. In the second that their eyes met and held, A.J. sized him up. He was thin, with a beard, but there were muscles under that frayed gray T-shirt and a grim determination in his eyes.

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