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Angels and Outlaws
Lori Wilde
Going undercover to catch the culprit in a rash of Manhattan burglaries, tall, dark detective Sam is forced to investigate saucy free spirit Cass.Yet the scorching-hot sex they share could put him in a compromising position – in more ways than one!
Angels and Outlaws
Lori Wilde
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
What if a legend-shrouded ancient amulet belonging to tragic star-crossed lovers and reputed to possess magical powers resurfaced in modern-day New York?
What if there are also dark forces, fuelled by a dangerous obsession, seeking the amulet for personal greed and satisfaction?
And what if six women, all pure of heart and ready for true love, get caught up in the hunt for this special object, only to discover that it will dramatically alter their lives forever?
This intriguing scenario provides the framework for an action-packed six-book mini-series that promises thrills, chills, twists and turns and, of course, lots of steamy, red-hot romance.
The action kicks off in Angels and Outlaws when The White Star amulet is stolen from the exclusive Stanhope auction house in Manhattan and Detective Sergeant Sam Mason is assigned to the case. What Sam discovers about The White Star shocks him and puts gorgeous public relations representative Cass Richards at the top of his suspect list. Will true love win out?
Don’t miss a single story in this series as it builds to an exciting and unexpected conclusion in Destiny’s Hand, available from Mills & Boon® Blaze® in August 2009.
Enjoy the ride!
Lori Wilde
To Kathryn Lye – thanks for all your incredibly hard work on this project. only you understand how much this means.
The Legend Begins
Thousands of years ago in a faraway desert kingdom lived two young princesses named Anan and Batu. Anan was the older sister destined to inherit the throne, but Batu was the prettier of the two with her dark, almond eyes and her thick black hair. While Anan was being groomed to take over her royal duties, Batu was allowed to play freely. Her favourite playmate was Egmath, the son of the bravest soldier in the king’s army.
Late one afternoon, as Batu and Egmath were frolicking among the cypress trees on the outskirts of the village, Egmath noticed the tiny buds on her chest blooming beneath her robe and began teasing her about them. Embarrassed by the odd changes in her body and by Egmath’s gentle jokes, Batu ran away and hid herself among the sand dunes.
She felt confused. Why had his comments upset her so? Until now, they’d joked and teased and poked fun at each other about everything. What had changed? Why did she feel so self-conscious? She ducked her head, crossed her arms over her chest, willed the strange bumps away and just kept running.
Alarmed that he’d hurt his best friend’s feelings and worried that Batu had gone out into the desert alone with no water, Egmath went in search of her. He walked through the heated sand, calling her name, calling out a heartfelt apology, pleading with Batu to show herself.
He crested one dune after another, moving farther and farther away from the village, but no Batu.
Evening crept over the horizon and young Egmath’s fear and guilt grew deeper with each darkening second. The wind buffeted him and blew sand in his face, tossing his pleas into the twilight. She would never hear him now. Time passed. Stars speckled the sky.
“Batu, Batu, where are you?” he cried.
He thought he heard a jackal’s low yipping, but he couldn’t be sure. Panic pulled Egmath faster into the desert night. He stumbled, fell on his face, got up and kept trudging up a high dune. When he reached the summit and peered down into the basin below, terror gripped his heart.
There stood Batu, surrounded by a pack of snarling, hungry jackals.
Egmath had no idea what to do. He had no weapon, and the village was too far away. If he left to go and find help, the jackals would surely attack before he could return. It was up to him and him alone to save her.
Batu hadn’t seen him. She stared at the horrible creatures, frozen with fear, trapped, unable to move. The jackals edged closer in a slowly advancing circle. Egmath swallowed hard, calling up every ounce of courage he possessed. His father had taught him there was nothing more important than honour and bravery.
But how could one young boy hope to fight off eight slobbering jackals? This then was his first test as a man. He would save Batu or die trying.
Armed with nothing more than his love for Batu,Egmath let out a fierce, angry scream, waved his arms wildly above his head and charged down the dune.
The jackals, frightened by the brave young warrior, turned and ran away into the darkness.
Egmath reached Batu. His heart was pounding and he could barely breathe. He was so scared.
“You saved my life,” Batu whispered.
He put his arms around her and held her close. “We must hurry to the village. Before the jackals come back.”
Batu was trembling so hard she could not walk.
“I’ll carry you,” Egmath said.
He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist and dropped her head onto his shoulder.
Their chests were pressed tightly together. She could feel the steady strum of his heart beneath hers. He was her saviour, her hero.
When at last they reached the copse of cypress trees, Egmath set her down, took her hands in his and under the starlit sky looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m so sorry for hurting your feelings,” he murmured. “I should never have teased you.”
“I should not have taken offence. I was silly. Thank you for caring enough to come after me.”
They stared into each other’s faces, and even though they were mere children they both knew they were fated to be together.
Egmath leaned in and tentatively, tenderly brushedhis lips against Batu’s for their very first kiss.
And in that same moment a falling star streaked across the sky, throwing itself like an angled spar – darting a brilliant white, yellow and blue. Sealing their kiss. Sealing their destiny.
Egmath and Batu, forever always.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Table of Contents
Cover (#u93d9b67b-c3e7-503a-997b-6116d7bfc7ab)
Title Page (#u8f330dbd-2dbb-56c9-afc3-e3bdacef6f56)
Dedication (#u32b0e8c0-a5f6-52e7-9656-a3bcba466f01)
Prologue (#ub743f22b-ea11-56b9-a41e-76306208b676)
Chapter One (#u175785b9-db5a-5d5a-8245-5a614f5447e4)
Chapter Two (#u2241963e-6c7f-533b-9ffd-1424d8164baa)
Chapter Three (#u13efbec5-8ace-5b28-93bb-522d210d8316)
Chapter Four (#uf1dde070-500f-56c0-b110-5b99925bf23f)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Stanhope Auction House Upper East Side, Manhattan 12:01 a.m.
RIGHT OR WRONG, he must possess her.
Stealthily, Jean Luc Allard, professional jewel thief, crept from the shadows of the silent auction house, intent on one thing and one thing only.
The surveillance camera mounted overhead whispered as it rotated to scan the perimeter, but Jean knew how to avoid detection. Strategically placed, a high- powered magnet would disrupt the camera’s feed.
For weeks, following the death of high-society heiress Zoey Zander, he’d researched every detail, learned every facet of the auction house’s routine, preparing for the moment when his target would show up for bidding as part of the vast Zander estate. His instructions were clear. He must not allow her to go up for auction, no matter what the risk.
And now soon, very soon, Jean would hold her in his hands.
Excitement trembled his fingertips, anticipation sped his pulse. Nothing thrilled him like a daring heist. Nothing, that is, except what she represented.
The key to his future as a very wealthy man.
It was the most lucrative job he’d ever taken. He was so close, Jean could taste the money.
He’d heard the stories about her. She was legendary in his small world. According to rumor, only those who were pure of heart could possess her without falling under the curse.
Laughable.
His whole life had been cursed. There was nothing she could dish out that would top what he’d already suffered. Besides, he didn’t believe in curses. Ruthlessness? Yes. Cruelty? Oui. Violence? A necessity in his trade. But fabled curses were no more real than children’s fairy tales.
Silently, he crept toward the vault, barely able to restrain himself from rushing forward, when he heard a noise somewhere down the corridor.
He stepped back, pressed his body against the wall, stood stock still in the darkness and willed himself to disappear.
Don’t move, don’t make a single sound, don’t even breathe.
Jean was dressed all in black from his black wool cap to his black leather sneakers. His hair was jet black and so were his eyes. Three days’ worth of beard growth shadowed his jaw. He was one with the darkness, owned it. Holding his breath, he waited.
Footsteps drew nearer, but it was not the sound of the security guard’s booted gait. The footfall was almost as furtive as his, sneaking quietly toward the vault without benefit of illumination.
Was someone else robbing the auction house?
Impossible.
Not on the same night he had chosen. Jean had discussed his heist with no one. A smart thief never talked about his jobs, no matter how tempting it might be to brag. Keeping his mouth shut was what had saved him from jail on many occasions and his ability to stay silent was the main reason his very wealthy, very well- connected employer had selected him for the job.
Could his enigmatic boss have hired someone else, just in case, to make sure Jean kept his end of the bargain? He ground his teeth, angered at his employer’s lack of trust. Was there truly no honor among thieves?
Then again, maybe he was jumping to conclusions. The contents of Zoey Zander’s estate had been extensively detailed in the newspaper. The woman had been wealthy enough to cause thieves on three continents to salivate, and the fact she had no immediate heirs made her fortune that much more enticing.
Jean watched as a broad-shouldered man loomed in the hallway. His mind shot back to an early childhood memory of his father stumbling through their house along a seedy stretch of the Seine. Come here, you son of a whore. Don’t hide from me. But Jean knew if he stayed hidden long enough his father would pass out in a drunken stupor and in the morning forget why he’d wanted to beat him in the first place. He’d learned to hide in plain sight, blending into the shadows, anchoring his fear down tight inside him.
When the stranger reached the door of the vault, he stopped and switched on a penlight.
Jean studied the man’s face in the gloom, but did not recognize him. He was younger than Jean and dressed casually, but elegantly. Like the son of a rich man. The interloper punched a number into the coded key pad and the vault door clicked open.
Interesting.
Where had he gotten the code? Did he work for the auction house? Jean had planned on sabotaging the mechanisms of the vault door and then disengaging the internal alarm with a special device designed by his employer. An anti-anti-theft apparatus. But this poser had simply obtained access to the deactivation code.
Specifically what had he come after?
The man disappeared inside the vault, but left the door ajar.
Jean hung back for a second and then edged forward. Cautiously, he peered through the opening. The man quickly skirted the antiques, memorabilia and other large items of the Zoey Zander collection and headed straight for a tall, upright safe at the back of the room.
Suddenly what had seemed like an imposing obstacle—the unexpected appearance of this stranger—became a blessing in disguise. Jean would let this man do the hard work.
His excitement was back. It tasted sweet and edgy against his tongue. His nose tingled with the smell of secrets, the tang of adrenaline.
The man stuck his penlight between his teeth and shone the thin beam on the lock. He spun the combination. The safe door popped open. Shoulders hunched, he dug inside, retrieved a fistful of jewels and stuffed them into a royal blue felt pouch he’d pulled from his jacket pocket.
Jean flexed his fingers, aching to touch her.
The man straightened, turned and for the first time saw Jean. He startled and then opened his mouth.
But he never got a word out.
Jean slammed the butt of his Luger hard against the side of the other man’s temple.
His eyes glassed over, his knees buckled and he went down.
Reaching out, Jean plucked the felt pouch from his hand as he fell. The penlight hit the floor beside him. Jean bent and picked it up, directed the light into the pouch. He ignored the rubies and emeralds and diamonds. His eyes were hungry for one thing and one thing only.
She smiled up at him, resplendent in the sliver of wan light. Smiled and winked and sparkled. She was perfect. Ivory in the shape of a five-pointed star with a hollow center.
He separated her from the other gems, but in the process, the pin of an onyx brooch pierced his thumb. He cursed softly, brought his thumb to his mouth and tasted blood.
He dropped the brooch and the rest of the jewels on top of the downed man. The interloper might as well have something for his troubles besides a throbbing headache when he awoke.
Jean’s eyes turned back to the amulet, now cradled in his palm, compelled by her allure. His breathing stopped. How could such a beauty be cursed?
Romantic rubbish.
Never mind the foolish legend. At long last she was his. And she was going to make him rich beyond his wildest imagination.
How he loved her.
His White Star amulet.
1
DON’T LOOK DOWN.
Cassandra “Cass” Richards, assistant public relations representative to the haute couture house of Isaac Vincent, stood trembling on a window ledge eight floors above Broadway in Manhattan’s garment district. One wrong move and she would plummet like a runway model’s weight two weeks before the spring collection debut.
Suddenly, shimmying after her Hermès scarf, which had caught on one of the brownstone’s grim-faced gargoyles, seemed more and more like a very bad idea. The brisk spring breeze had whisked it off her neck when she’d leaned out the open window to wave goodbye to her best friend, Marissa Suarez, who was heading off to the Caribbean with her boyfriend and had stopped by the office to leave Cass a key to her apartment just in case.
Wind whipped up her smart pink pencil skirt, sending a bone chill up her spine and causing her to realize that wearing a g-string thong today was probably not the brightest impulse she’d ever had.
And let’s face it, in her much-prized four-inch Manolo Blahnik pink patent leather Mary Janes that had set her back a full month’s salary, she was at a distinct disadvantage for navigating the eight- inch-wide cement outcropping.
How did she keep getting herself into these ridiculous fixes? She bit down on her bottom lip and eyed the traffic below.
Her head reeled dizzily.
Don’t look down.
She was pressed flush against the side of the building, arms splayed out at her sides, the coveted HermГЁs scarf clutched tightly in her right hand. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of what the dirty bricks were doing to her glamorous outfit.
When she’d first climbed onto the ledge it hadn’t seemed so scary because her attention had been fixed on the scarf. She had leaned out, never meaning to actually end up on the protrusion, but then she’d discovered her reach wasn’t quite long enough. She’d winnowed her hips through the window frame just to give her an extra couple of inches.
Close, but not close enough.
Don’t look down.
She’d held tightly to the frame, swung her legs around and then edged out onto the ledge. Two, three steps maximum was all it had taken to reach that first gargoyle.
Unfortunately, just as Cass had grasped for the recalcitrant scarf, the wind grabbed it again and fluttered it over to a second gargoyle a good four feet farther on down the ledge.
She hadn’t thought about anything except how many lunches she’d had to skip to afford the damned thing. Now, one wrong move and she wouldn’t have to worry about missed lunches or expensive scarves or passersby staring up her skirt ever again.
Please get me out of this alive and I promise, promise, promise I’ll be less impetuous in future, she bargained with the heavens.
She got her answer in the form of raindrops spattering on her head.
Terrific.
Apparently, there would be no divine intervention forthcoming today. Her salvation was up to her. Thank God her mascara was waterproof, but her hair was doomed to frizz.
“You can do this,” she told herself. “You got out here, you can get back. One step at a time.”
She made a tentative move toward the window she’d come out of, knees trembling with cold and fear. The heel of one stiletto hung on a crack in the cement ledge. Cass stumbled and for one horrifying moment she thought she was done for, but an updraft of wind pushed her into the brownstone instead of away from it.
Don’t look down.
Her heart pounded and her stomach roiled. She was never going to get off this precipice and all for a damned scarf.
Ah, but it wasn’t just any scarf.
She’d purchased the Hermès two days after her older sister, Morgan, had closed on a magnificent six-bedroom dream home in Connecticut that she planned on filling with children.
Cass had been happy for Morgan, who was married to the most perfect guy—the sort of down-to-earth, good-hearted man that Cass figured she’d never find for herself. Not that she was looking. Adam was a Wall Street investment banker with a flair for making money and a penchant for spending it on his wife, but Cass wasn’t jealous of her sister’s husband or their grand home or their affluent suburban lifestyle.
No, she’d maxed out her Visa on the scarf because wearing expensive, gorgeous things made her feel better about herself. With her parents bragging about Morgan and pointedly asking when Cass was going to settle down and get married and start producing grandchildren, she’d felt pressured and overshadowed.
And the HermГЁs had done its job, snapping her right out of her funk.
Truthfully, she liked her life exactly as it was. She wasn’t on the prowl for Mr. Right. She was having too much fun being young and single and dating in the most vibrant city in the world. She’d snagged her dream job at Isaac Vincent. She adored her fourth-floor walkup in Tribeca. Loved that she never had to cook. Treasured her freedom to come and go as she pleased and spend her money on whatever she wanted.
Including exorbitantly priced fashion accessories.
She wasn’t even sure that she ever wanted the husband, the kids and the house. Deep down inside, she doubted she could handle such an awesome responsibility as a family of her own. Best leave that to dutiful Morgan.
But still, sometimes…sometimes…she couldn’t help wondering what she was missing out on.
And when Cass got those itchy feelings, Cass went shopping.
Hence the HermГЁs.
Made from the purest silk twill. Paisley patterned and pleated and colored with the truest dyes. The hues in the scarf collaborated with a dozen different outfits and she wore it often. It wasn’t as if she’d bought the scarf and then shoved it in the back of her closet. That scarf made her feel rich and important and worthy.
Yet here she was, on the verge of trading her life for a scrap of fancy material.
What was wrong with this picture?
She hazarded another look down, saw that a knot of gawkers had gathered and were pointing up.
Oh, joy.
She groaned as fresh nausea rolled through her. And then she saw the television crew.
The wind gusted again, whistling around the side of the brownstone. Could people see up her skirt? Cass blushed.
Okay, it was official. Things couldn’t get any suckier. She was stuck out on a window ledge, in the rain, inches from death and after the noon news hit the air everyone in New York was going to know what kind of panties she wore.
DETECTIVE SERGEANT SAM MASON followed the collective gaze of the murmuring crowd, spied the woman clinging to the ledge of the building he’d been about to enter and his blood ran cold.
He counted the floors. Eight stories up. Bizarre. He’d been headed for the eighth floor.
“Jump,” hollered a punk kid in the crowd.
“Jump, jump.” Another snickering teen picked up the chant as if the possibility of someone’s death was just a big joke.
“Shut up,” Sam commanded, scowling then flashing his badge at the clueless teens. Had people lost all sense of common decency? “Or I’ll arrest you on the spot.”
The punks sobered and did as he said. Sam swung his gaze back to the jumper.
She’d picked a miserable day for it. The light sprinkles that had greeted him three blocks ago when he’d gotten off the subway had changed into a steady drizzle. The wind whipped wild and biting.
Honey, he thought, and mentally willed her back inside, whoever the guy is who’s driven you to this, he’s just not worth it.
She took a step sideways toward the open window several feet to her left. He prayed she was reconsidering her suicide bid. Then she stumbled and almost lost her balance.
The crowd gasped. By some hand of fate, she managed at the last moment to correct herself. Sam’s heart stilled and a flash of déjà vu fisted his gut. In his mind’s eye ten years dropped away and it was his second week on the job as an NYPD rookie beat cop.
That woman had been a jumper, too, distraught over the breakup of her marriage, perched precariously on the Brooklyn Bridge. Sam had sweet-talked, he’d cajoled, he’d made promises he couldn’t really keep and he had sweated it.
The woman seemed to calm down. To grow peaceful and quiet. Sam believed he’d won. He’d held her in his hands for a brief moment, arrogantly thinking that he had saved her. Then she’d met his gaze with her sad, soulful blue eyes that were too big for her face and she’d simply let go, taking that one fatal step backward into the black abyss.
He’d had nightmares about her for weeks afterward, waking in the middle of the night sweaty and guilty. Cringing, Sam briefly closed his eyes, blocking out the memory.
No. He could not, would not, let it happen again. This time he was older, wiser, more experienced, less full of himself. He was being given a second chance. This time he would save her.
He bound into the building, his brain speeding ahead of him, mapping out rescue strategies. One of the elevators was at the ground floor.
“Hold the door,” he shouted, but the doors bumped closed just as he reached the lift.
“Dammit,” he cursed, frantically jabbing the up button repeatedly. He swung his gaze to the lighted numbers above the remaining elevators. None of them were near the ground floor.
Swearing again, he tore around the corner in search of the stairwell.
“Sir, sir, excuse me, sir.”
The lobby receptionist he’d ignored came chasing after him, her heels striking snap-snap-snap against the cement floor. She caught him at the stairwell door.
“Sir, you must check in at the security desk before you can go up.”
“NYPD,” he growled at the woman. “You’ve got a jumper on the eighth floor.”
Startled, she raised a hand to her throat. “Oh my goodness.”
“Call the fire department and tell them what’s happening,” Sam ordered.
She stood there stunned.
“Now!” he shouted and shouldered through the door into the stairwell.
He took the steps two at a time, the vein in his forehead throbbing from exertion. Less than a minute later he burst onto the eighth floor, chest heaving, sweat on his brow. People in the hallway turned to stare, but he ignored them.
Gotta save her. Can’t let it happen again.
He had a chance for redemption. He wouldn’t let her slip through his fingers, wouldn’t be responsible for sending someone else over the edge.
Sam rushed past several offices that he knew weren’t in the right spot. He zipped through a great room thronged with ribbon-thin models in various stages of undress. Any other time and he might have been tempted to ogle, but not today.
Designers and tailors and seamstresses bustled to and fro. Bolts of lush colorful fabric littered tables, with bows and lace and sewing supplies scattered about. Sam’s eyes darted around the room. Clearly, no one realized that a young woman, quite possibly one of their coworkers, was perched on the window ledge preparing to take her own life.
This was taking too long. He had to get to her before she jumped.
He flung open the door of the next office he came to, angling straight for the window. The sign on the door identified it as Isaac Vincent’s public relations office. The person Sam had come here to interview about a string of high-end home robberies worked in this very office.
Weird coincidence.
Except Sam didn’t believe in coincidences. But he had no time to piece the puzzle together.
The office lay empty.
Sirens shrieked. Thank God the fire department was on the way.
Pulse racing, he rushed to the window and poked his head out, just as his old childhood fear blindsided him like a blow to the brain.
Sam Mason was terrified of heights.
2
“HI, I’M SAM. What’s your name?”
Excuse me?
Very carefully Cass turned her head to meet the astute dark gray eyes of the obviously insane man sticking his head out of her office window and chatting her up as if they were at a singles meet-and-greet.
“Um, Cass Richards,” she replied because she’d been raised to be polite. What she really wanted was to tell him to take a hike. Staying on the window ledge was chore enough—she didn’t need him distracting her.
“Cass Richards?” There was a strange tone in his voice.
“Yeah.”
“Cass, listen to me, whatever is driving you out on the window ledge is fixable. Suicide is not the solution.”
Suicide?
What on earth was he babbling about? He thought she wanted to kill herself? Well, that was just dumb. What she wanted was to get back inside, find a blow dryer and a hot latte.
Cass started to reach up a hand to push her damp hair off her face, but the movement made her teeter precariously on her high heels. She glanced down again, saw firemen running around blowing up one of those big inflatable jumpy thingies stuntmen used in the movies and positioning it directly below her.
The building seemed to sway.
Horns honked. The crowd was shouting up at her, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying above the rumble of the fire engines and the wind whistling around the corner of the brownstone.
“Look at me, Cass,” Sam said, his voice low and soothing.
She snapped her gaze to his rugged face, grateful to have something, anything to look at besides the traffic below.
He pinned her to the ledge with his eyes. They were solid and deep. How could she fall as long as he was looking at her like that?
You won’t fall, his expression declared. I won’t let you.
And for some unfathomable reason, she believed the promise on his face.
“Let’s talk about it,” he gently cajoled.
“Okay.” Why not? Anything to get her mind off the fact that she was inches away from cracking her skull into multiple pieces.
“Is this about a man?” he asked.
Wasn’t that just like a guy to assume she’d want to fling herself to the pavement over some man? She was half tempted to tell him it was about a woman simply to see surprise spark his eyes.
“FYI,” she said. “I have absolutely no intention of jumping.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s very good. So this is just a plea for help. To get someone to listen. To have your pain heard.”
“Nooo.”
Who was this guy? And where in the heck had he come from? She hadn’t ordered a touchy-feely buttinsky psychologist to go. What she wanted was some big, strong strapping hero to throw her over his shoulder and walk her safely off this damned ledge.
She eyed him.
Under the circumstances she shouldn’t have noticed his short sandy brown hair, obviously styled by a discount barber, but the fashionista in her wouldn’t be stilled. A great haircut would go a long way in accenting his interesting cheekbones and some blond highlights would coax a bit of color into his desert gray eyes.
He leaned out the window. His shoulders were broad and his chest strapping. No matter what idealistic sentiment he might have just expressed in order to keep her from jumping off the ledge, clearly he was not by nature the sort of man who got in touch with his inner feelings or indulged in hundred dollar haircuts.
The set of his shoulders, the nonchalant way he was dressed in rumpled khakis and an untucked button- down blue chambray shirt told her he was a working class Joe. Salt of the earth, this one.
“What is it about, Cass?”
She raised the hand she’d fisted around the scarf.
“Ah,” he said. “I get it. You’re up here for a cause. Taking a stand against some political or economical or social injustice.”
“Nooo.”
Boy was he off base. She would have shaken her head but she was afraid the movement would make her even dizzier then she already was.
“I’m listening, Cass. You can tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Well, gee thanks for the concern, Sam, but nothing’s bothering me.”
“Then why are you on that ledge?”
He looked so sincere, so worried for her safety that she felt a little silly saying it. “I came out for the Hermès.”
“Pardon?” He appeared confused and she realized the problem.
“I’m talking about the scarf.”
“What about the scarf?”
“It blew off my neck.”
As Cass watched, his face changed from earnest to perplexed. “Let me get this straight. You climbed out on a window ledge for a scarf?”
“Eight stories really doesn’t seem that high until you’re out here.”
He was looking at her as if she was the most foolish woman on the planet and actually right now, that’s exactly how she felt.
“It’s a Hermès,” she explained.
“For a scarf?” he repeated.
“A very expensive scarf.”
“Lady,” he growled, all trace of the understanding, considerate, suicide-jumper-talker-downer vanishing, “you’re nuts.”
“Gee, that’s not very nice.”
“What kind of shallow, narcissistic, materialistic, egocentric…”
“You can give it a rest. I get the picture. If I’m a jumper then you’re all sympathetic and helpful but if I’m just…”
“Blond,” he supplied.
She glared. “I was going to say rash.”
“This is way past rash and well on the road to foolhardy.”
Cass sniffed. He was right, but she didn’t have to admit it. “Apparently we don’t share the same value system.”
“Hell,” he said. “I don’t think we even share the same solar system.”
“Be that as it may,” she said snippily, “I did come out here and now I’m too nervous to climb back in, so if you’d be so kind as to please go find a nice fireman or policeman to come rescue me, I’d appreciate it.”
“I am a policeman.”
“You don’t look like a policeman.”
“I’m a detective. I don’t wear a uniform.”
She groaned inwardly and rolled her eyes. Just her luck. She’d drawn a cop who was a bad dresser with an attitude to match.
He held out his hand. “Come back in.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Every time I try to move I get dizzy and start to lose my balance.”
He eyed the ground and then cussed under his breath.
What? Panic shot through her. Did he know something she didn’t?
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why are you cursing?”
“If it weren’t for you I’d be having Starbucks and Krispy Kremes right about now.”
“Shoo,” she said, but didn’t dare motion with her hands. She’d already moved around too much. “Go on. Go shoot your cholesterol through the roof. Sorry to ruin your day.”
“Hang on. I’ll come get you.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Tough. You’ve got it.” With that, he grimly thrust himself out the window and onto the ledge.
She felt his movements vibrate straight up through the concrete precipice and she tensed. He had a pragmatic way about him, the aura of a man doing his duty whether he liked it or not.
She didn’t like being his duty.
He came toward her as casually as if he were walking his dog in Central Park instead of traversing a ledge no wider than a shoebox. She stood in awe. Where had he acquired such utter self-confidence? He looked as if he owned the world and everything in it.
Including her.
Hell, it had even stopped raining.
He wasn’t at all like the well-bred, well-dressed men she normally hung out with. Cass’s breath escaped her lungs in a sharp, inexplicable gasp. A shiver slipped down her spine and she had no idea if it was due to the danger she was in or to the man heading for her.
His face was rugged, chiseled. His mouth determined. His eyes incisive. He was the sort of man who made a woman feel safe.
Since when have you ever opted for safe?
Uncontrollably, her gaze fell to the street. Since now. Her knees weakened.
“Look at me, Cass,” Sam, the sexy detective, commanded.
The fire trucks were a swirl of red, the crowd a muddle of melted faces. Her fingers cramped from holding on to the wall and she felt as if she was coming unraveled at the seams.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, she raised her chin and met his eyes.
“Atta girl. Hold on. I’m almost there.”
She’d never been attracted to rough-hewn, macho types before. Give her suave and debonair any day. Except right now, she was mighty glad to have him.
To distract herself she imagined him in a tuxedo at one of Isaac Vincent’s exclusive parties, drinking champagne and making idle chitchat with supermodels and fashion designers.
Cass was creative, but no matter how hard she tried that was one image that refused to be conjured. This guy belonged at a bar called O’Malley’s or MacDougall’s with a mug of warm beer in front of him and a knot of buddies chalking pool cues and making off- color jokes about the waitresses.
But she could see him as a proud Scottish pirate at the bow of his sailing ship gazing out at the new land he was about to pillage. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she was a maiden in that faraway land being captured by her conqueror and made to service him in so many shameful, pleasurable ways.
A vision of their entwined bodies muscled out her fear. She pictured Sam’s heavy, potent hands caressing her heated skin with tender urgency…his clever gunmetal gray eyes assembling secret knowledge about her body. He noted what his touch did to her, what made her arch her back, what caused her to moan. In an intense and surreal flash of awareness Cass saw his hard-muscled body covering hers, guiding her to a fevered pitch time and time again.
A warm tingle gripped her and her mouth filled with moisture.
Was she perverted? Or was this a perfectly natural response to hovering on the verge of death? Perhaps it was preferable that one’s last thoughts should be centered on a marvelous sexual fantasy rather than the gruesome alternative.
By the time Sam reached her they were both breathing hard and when his eyes met hers, she could have sworn it was the devil himself peering deep into her.
The air around her solidified with a thick, masculine heat and Cass fought off the urge to squirm.
“Take my hand.”
She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to be rescued, but for a split second there, she didn’t know which was more treacherous. Touching him or staying out here on the ledge.
His grip was hot and reassuring. She looked him in the eyes. His smile was tight, the outline of his lips white. He’d made the trip down the rain slick ledge look easy, but it was not.
Her legs, strained by the high heels, the cold wet wind and a big dose of fear, quivered precariously.
“One step at a time.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
A fireman on the street hollered something up at them through a bullhorn, but Cass couldn’t hear anything except the voice inside her head telling her that it was all over, that she was going to die and she better make the best of the short time she had left.
What would Sam do if she asked him to kiss her?
“Ignore the guy with the bullhorn,” Sam said. “Listen to me. I’ll get you out of this.”
She looked down and immediately swooned. Her knees crumpled and if Sam hadn’t had his fingers locked tightly around her wrist she would have been lost.
“Close your eyes.”
“What!”
“Close your eyes and listen to me.”
But she couldn’t. She was too panicked, too scared to trust a man she didn’t know. She kept looking down and down and down.
Her vision swirled. She cried out and grabbed for Sam’s shirt.
“Cass, no,” he shouted. “You’ll knock me off balance.”
But his warning came too late.
Together they tumbled off the ledge.
HER BUTT WAS IN HAS PALM.
Something very akin to excitement stirred his blood, accelerated his breathing, hummed his heartbeat.
They’d fallen eight stories locked in each other’s arms and the only thing Sam could think about was Cass Richards’s butt.
That cute butt saved him from his fear of heights, from his fear of falling, from darn near the fear of everything.
Her skirt was hiked up and his palm was splayed across her bare bottom. Lord love her, she was wearing a thong.
And it was the softest, sweetest bottom he’d ever held. She was a slender woman, not supermodel slim, but not fleshy either.
Except for that glorious fanny. It was full and kneadable and splendid.
And his body responded in a solely masculine way. Talk about unprofessional.
They landed, with a tight controlled bounce, on the giant airbag the fire department had inflated underneath the eighth floor office. They were positioned squarely in the middle—a textbook landing—and still a good ten feet off the ground and Sam’s hand was on Cass’s delectable backside.
It was a sensation he knew he’d remember for the rest of his life.
“Get your hand off my ass,” she snapped, and rolled away from him.
So much for pleasant dreams.
“Sorry,” he said, but he wasn’t the least bit contrite.
He deserved some small compensation for battling his dread fear of heights in order to rescue her. She had no idea how much that little trip had cost him. How hard he’d had to fake his bravery in order to force himself out onto that ledge.
Or how much landing alive in the airbag with her meant to him. He’d faced his fear and in doing so he’d saved her life.
Well, okay, technically the fire department had saved her, but if he hadn’t told the receptionist to call the fire department they both would have been wearing halos and playing harps by now.
Or the way your mind is working, wearing horns and dancing with pitchforks.
Right.
A fireman was already at the edge of the airbag, reaching out, helping her slide off. By the time Sam worked his way to the edge, Cass was standing on the street, surrounded by reporters, looking like a princess holding court.
Sam rolled his eyes.
He should have known. Once upon a time he’d been married to a prima donna princess for nine, very long, miserable months. He knew far too well how the species operated.
No one gave him a second look and he found himself pushed back with the rest of the crowd, inconsequential as froth on a mug of beer. She was the consummate PR professional, making opportunity out of a mishap—milking the media coverage for all she was worth, smiling to the bystanders, flirting with the cameramen, poised as a movie star.
She craved attention. That much was clear. Question was, how far would she go to get it?
It was only after she’d been whisked away in an awaiting limousine—he had no idea where that had come from, but prima donna princesses did have their minions—Sam realized he’d never gotten to tell her why he’d come to see her in the first place.
Someone had been stealing valuable jewelry from Cass Richards’s circle of affluent friends and Sam had to question if Cass really had been on the ledge after a scarf. It was a thin story. Could a guilty conscience actually have been the driving force behind her impromptu perch instead?
3
“CASS, DID YOU HEAR what I just said?”
“Huh?” Cass raised her chin, looking up from the antique Christmas plates she’d been sorting in the basement of her older sister’s quaint and cozy antique shop in Fairfield, Connecticut. She wiped the dust off Ten Lords a Leaping with a damp cloth—wondering quite incidentally what all the leaping was about—and blinked at Morgan.
“Is something the matter? You’ve been distracted all morning.”
“Just thinking about that fall I took off the eighth- floor window ledge.”
And about Sam’s big masculine hand on my fanny.
Damn, the sexual drought she’d been in was wreaking havoc with her imagination. Truth was she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. That low, steady, horse-whisperer kind of voice he possessed made you feel as if you could trust every single word he said.
Morgan shuddered. “I’d think you’d want to forget all about that. Isn’t that why you volunteered to help me out this weekend? To get away from the city and being reminded of what happened.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right. So what was it that you just asked?”
“Are you still seeing Marcos? I’m having a dinner party Friday week and…”
“Dumped him,” Cass said quickly.
“Really? Already? You’d only been going with him what, a month?”
“Believe me, a month was enough.”
“But he seemed so nice and his family is in the social registry and he’s so good looking and so…”
“Clingy.”
“You think any man who wants to be exclusive is clingy.” Morgan took a box cutter, slit the tape on a large cardboard box, pushed back the flaps and began carefully taking out rare antique books.
“He was talking the m word after less than a month of dating and we’d never even slept together. Now that’s moving way too fast for me.”
“He asked you to marry him?” Morgan looked up in surprise.
“No, not that m word. He asked me to move in with him.”
“I see why you had to dump him. Can’t have a guy who’d actually want to be with you.”
“Ha, ha. And this is going to make you feel bad for making fun of me, but after the news coverage of my unfortunate window ledge episode, Bunnie Bernaldo told me Marcos has been spreading rumors up and down Long Island that he dumped me and I was so distraught I would have thrown myself off the Isaac Vincent building over the breakup if Sam hadn’t intervened. Of course anyone who knows me knows what a crock of bull that is. But can you believe that? I would never throw myself off a building over a man. The loss of a great pair of shoes, now maybe.”
“Sam?” Morgan arched an eyebrow.
“The cop that helped me down from the ledge the hard way.”
“You’re on a first-name basis?”
Cass shrugged. “Well, that’s how he introduced himself. As Sam.”
“You like him,” Morgan teased.
“Come on. I saw him once and that was under duress.”
“Still.” Morgan nodded. “You like him.”
“Not that much. He was kind of a smart aleck when he heard about the Hermès.”
“Is he cute?”
“Children don’t scream in horror when he walks past if that’s what you mean.”
“Cass’s got a new boyfriend.”
“Shut up, I do not.”
She wanted out of this conversation. The sooner the better. Cass spied a very old, ornately carved wooden box perched on a highboy in the corner. She got up, dusted off her hands and crossed the room to pick it up.
“What’s this?”
Morgan swiveled her head in Cass’s direction. “Intriguing, isn’t it. I found it hidden in a secret drawer of an antique dresser I bought along with the shop.”
The box was intricately hand-carved with various patterns. Cass traced a finger over the carvings. They may have been symbols, she wasn’t sure, though they looked as if they were some kind of ancient hieroglyphics.
Was it a code? The idea excited her.
From the box emanated the faint scent of some rich, exotic spice. She held the box to her ear and shook it but neither heard nor felt anything inside.
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s open it.” Cass loved secrets and surprises and encrypted code games and this was just the thing that she needed to take her mind off sexy Detective Sam.
“We can’t.”
“Oh, Morgan, don’t be such a party-pooper. It belongs to you. Why can’t we open it?”
“There’s no key.”
“Let’s jimmy the lock.” She turned the box over and realized there was no keyhole at all.
Strange. A box with no opening.
“Don’t you think I’ve tried? In fact I’ve developed a fascination with it. Who it belonged to, what happened to them, what’s inside. Adam says I’m obsessed.”
“Are you?”
Morgan shrugged, didn’t admit to anything. But Cass saw how her eyes gleamed when she looked at the box. “We could jam a screwdriver into it, pop it open like a clam.”
“The box is really old. Hundreds of years, maybe even more. I don’t dare risk doing anything that could destroy it.”
“Bummer.” Cass sighed, put the box back on the highboy and returned to sit cross-legged in front of the knickknacks she’d been cataloging.
They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes and then Morgan said, “You do realize that your longest relationship was with a guy who lived in London and you only saw him a few times a year.”
Cass smiled. “Oh yes, Nigel. He was the best of the lot.”
“Because he didn’t get in your hair. That’s the way you like them, tall, dark and absent. Admit it, Cass. You’re commitmentphobic.”
“Why do you consider me commitmentphobic simply because I’m not lining up to get married and have babies?” Cass asked. “I’m not commitmentphobic. I just haven’t found the right guy.”
“What was wrong with Gregory Henderson? He was really nice and smart enough to keep up with you.”
Cass waved a hand. “He had a high-pitched voice. Come on, could you face �til-death-do-you-part’with a guy who sounds like he’s constantly inhaling helium?”
Morgan tried not to smile. “What about Ross Roosevelt?”
“The man wore a size twenty-two shoe. And before you ask, no, the myth about men with big feet having other big parts is not true—in fact it seemed to be quite the opposite in his case.”
“Pete Kerns?”
“Pul-leaze, he talked with his mouth full.”
“You’re minimizing their good points and maximizing their bad.”
“What? I should marry the first halfway decent guy who crosses my path simply because he is halfway decent?” Cass shook her head. “Nope. Sorry. If I get married it will have to be to someone who blows my socks off with Fourth-of-July fireworks both in bed and out.”
“You’re romanticizing marriage. It’s not like that. You have to work at it.”
“That’s why I don’t want to commit. I don’t want to have to work at being happy. I’m plenty happy all on my own. Besides, you have to remember, not everyone is as lucky as you, Morgan,” Cass retorted. Her sister had been married for a decade. She had no idea what it was like trying to find a good man these days. “Not everyone snags the perfect guy right from the get-go.”
Morgan pursed her lips and dropped her gaze. “Adam’s not perfect.”
“Of course he is.”
Cass adored Adam. He was the big brother she’d never had. He was bright and polite and caring, made a great living and he was very good-looking. Her sister was so lucky.
“Nobody’s perfect.” Morgan’s tone of voice surprised her.
“Are you guys having marital problems?” Cass asked.
The idea shocked her. Sure, Adam and Morgan had been married for ten years, but they’d always been rock solid. As far as Cass knew they’d never even really had a serious argument.
“No, no. Nothing like that, it’s just…” Morgan let her words trail off.
“Just what?” Cass drew her knees to her chest and leaned forward.
“Adam’s so busy with work and I’ve been preoccupied with opening the shop and given his long commute we don’t have as much time together as I hoped when we bought this place.” Morgan sighed. “I’m beginning to wonder if we’re ever going to find time to start a family.”
Cass felt melancholy. See there. That was one of the main reasons she didn’t want a long-term relationship. The passion always fizzled. No matter how much two people loved each other. It was inevitable. But she wasn’t one to dwell on problems for long. She was an action-oriented girl. If something was broke, well then you fixed it.
“Why are you here with me? You should be spending your Sunday with Adam.”
Morgan sighed. “He’s golfing with an important client.”
“So why don’t you take up golf?”
Her sister shot her a withering glance. “Yoga is as physical as I get.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.” Cass grinned wickedly and started humming that old Olivia Newton-John song, “Physical.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re loaded with excess energy.”
“Sorry,” Cass apologized. “I didn’t mean to make light of it.”
“No, it’s okay. I need to lighten up. In fact, I’m really glad you’re here. You have a knack for making me see rainbows beyond the storm clouds.”
Cass smiled at the compliment. “Have you tried fantasy role-playing? Bedroom toys? Sexy videos? I don’t mean to brag but I could steer you in the right direction if you’re interested.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for sex toys and naughty movies. I thought maybe a vacation.”
“That’s a great place to start. Got any locales in mind?”
Morgan ducked her head and Cass was surprised to realize her older sister was feeling shy. She probably felt awkward discussing her sex life.
“Actually,” Morgan confessed. “I’ve been listening to French language tapes. I thought if I could speak a little French it might spice things up.”
“Oooh la la.”
“And then I saw this travel brochure advertising a week at a chateau in the Loire valley. The chateau used to be a military fortress. It has a drawbridge and a moat and everything. It’s situated along the banks of a river. There’s lush gardens and rolling woodlands. Cass, you should see the pictures. It’s breathtaking and so romantic.”
“Sounds to die for.”
“I just hope it works,” Morgan fretted.
“Things have gotten that stale?”
Morgan nodded and looked away, but not before Cass saw the darkening of concern in her eyes.
She gulped. Her big sister was always the one to comfort her. Now that the shoe was on the other foot she really didn’t know how to reassure Morgan that everything was going to work out okay. Rather than deal with the awkward silence, Cass started rooting around in the stack of books Morgan had taken from the box, looking for something, anything to make her sister laugh.
“Hey, what’s this?” Cass picked up a dusty old tome. It was just the sort of book Morgan would love, ancient and lore-riddled. “Look, it’s in French.”
Her ploy worked. Morgan glanced up, curiosity replacing the worry.
“Think you can translate it?” Cass passed the book to her.
Morgan took the thick volume, traced a finger over the aged lettering. “I’ve just started my lessons.”
“Yeah, but you’re a fast learner, Miss Top Ten Percent of her NYU graduate school class.”
Morgan smiled. “All right. I’ll give it a go.”
Cass changed positions, scooting around until she was sitting knee to knee with her sister. They used to sit this way when they were kids, telling each other romantic fairy tales about stalwart knights and fair maidens and true, undying love. It felt good to sit with Morgan like this again. To remember what their relationship had been like before life had gotten in the way.
As a kid, Cass had always looked up to Morgan and tried to emulate her. But later, as her parents inevitably ended up comparing her to her older sister and she continually came up short, Cass found herself rebelling. She could never be Morgan, so why try?
Maybe that was one of the reasons she wasn’t so keen on long-term relationships.
Morgan opened the cover and carefully thumbed through the pages. “It appears to be a text about ancient myths and legends.”
“Ooh, what kind of legends?” Cass rubbed her palms together. This was getting intriguing.
Morgan frowned and studied the words. “I think it’s got something to do with star-crossed lovers, but I can’t say for sure. I’ve only started basic French.”
“Excellent.”
Morgan flipped more pages, and then stopped. “Hey, this looks familiar.”
“What does?”
Morgan turned the book around so Cass could see the illustration of an elaborately detailed five-pointed star with a hollowed-out center. “Where have I seen this drawing before?”
Cass recognized it immediately, because the article had appeared in the fashion section of that morning’s edition of the Sunday New York Times, right next to an ad for a deadly cute pair of boots on sale at Bergdorf Goodman’s. She hadn’t read the article but she had noticed the sale was going on through the following weekend.
“Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
She dashed upstairs to the antique shop where they’d had bagels and cream cheese for breakfast while reading the newspaper. She snatched up the arts and entertainment sections and hurried back down to the basement.
After spreading the newspaper out on the floor, Cass took the book from Morgan and laid it open next to the drawing in the paper.
They were identical.
The caption underneath the photograph read Archaeological artifact, the White Star amulet, was listed among items stolen from the Zoey Zander estate after a midnight break-in at Stanhope’s auction house.
As Cass looked at the picture of the amulet, something warm tugged at her solar plexus. Inexplicably, she started thinking about Detective Sam again.
“It’s the same amulet,” Morgan said, running a finger along the lines in the book. “I do recognize the words �white star’ in this French text.”
“Très cool.” Cass grinned impishly. “We’re involved in a jewel heist.”
“We’re not involved.”
“We’ve found a mysterious old book just at the very same time the amulet is stolen.”
“Slow down, Harriet the Spy, you’re making grand leaps of logic.”
“Still, you never know. The book might be helpful to the investigation. Maybe someone should take it to the police.”
“Someone meaning you?”
“Sure. I could pop in the police station on my way to work tomorrow morning, leave the book with them. Do my civic duty.”
“See that sexy detective who went out on the ledge for you.”
“There is that.” Cass grinned and snapped the book closed.
“ANY NEW LEADS on the Stanhope auction house robbery?” In the main corridor of the 39th Precinct, Sam caught up with his colleague, Carl Weston, one of the outgoing night shift detectives. Sam was on his way into the briefing room for Monday morning roll call, a cup of strong, black coffee clutched in his hand.
“You look like hell, bloodhound.” Weston winked. Sam had earned the nickname for his acute sense of smell that had actually helped him solve a case once. “Must have been some wild weekend. Got any details for us married guys who live vicariously through you bachelors?”
Sam had spent the weekend babysitting his youngest sister Beth’s hellions so she and her husband could have a getaway weekend at the coast, but he wasn’t about to tell Weston that. Playing uncle to three kids under the age of eight had worn him out more completely than a two-day partying binge in Atlantic City. When he’d called his mother to grumble how tough it was, she’d had little sympathy.
“You were twice as challenging as Beth’s kids. You couldn’t sit still for five minutes. Always on the go, always asking a million questions. You know all these gray hairs I have? Your fault,” Louisa Mason had said. “I can’t wait until you have four or five boys of your own, the spitting image of you.”
“Mom, that’s just evil.” He’d chuckled.
Sam smiled at Weston, remembering his wild weekend. “Sorry, I’m not the kind of guy who kisses and tells.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Get your jollies somewhere else. Whatcha got on the Stanhope case?”
Weston shook his head. “Not much. Scuttlebutt in MI-6 is sending an agent over from London.”
“MI-6? Why are they interested?”
“Apparently MI-6 believes the Stanhope break-in could be the work of an international jewel thief they’ve been tracking for years. Goes by the name of Joshua Benedict.”
“What about our case, the Blueblood Burglar, got any new leads on that?” Even though the NYPD had tried to keep the socialite party larcenies quiet, the media had gotten wind of the crimes and dubbed the thief the Blueblood Burglar. So far, there had been a total of seven robberies over the course of the past three weeks.
Sam had been asked to track down a couple of leads on the Stanhope case, so the Blueblood Burglar had had to wait.
“Hey, Mason,” one of the rookies hollered down the hallway at Sam. “There’s some uptown hottie at the front desk asking to see you.”
Uptown hottie? For no good reason at all Sam thought of Cass Richards. Even though she lived in Tribeca, she looked like an uptown hottie, with her regal air and her elegant ways. But why would Cass come here to see him at seven o’clock in the morning? He suspected she wasn’t an early riser. In his experience, pampered women rarely were.
“I knew it.” Weston broke into a grin and rubbed his palms together. “You’ve got a new woman. I havta see this.”
“Weston, don’t make me hose you off,” Sam threatened. “Do us all a favor. Go home and make love to your wife, for crying out loud.”
“That’s no fun,” Weston sulked, but thankfully did not follow him.
Even though Sam had immediately pictured Cass when the rookie had said “uptown hottie,” he hadn’t really expected her to be waiting for him at the front desk.
But there she was. Looking more beautiful than anyone had a right to look.
She was casting nervous glances around his less than glamorous work environment and carrying a book underneath her arm. Funny. He’d never have pegged her for a reader.
Several of the guys were giving her the once-over and Sam was startled by the unexpected urge to punch out their lights. Damn, what a bunch of horn dogs. Was he going to have to issue drool bibs? Then again, he could hardly blame them. Cass was serious eye candy.
She was dressed in a simple black blouse and a black and white floral skirt with a swingy hem but there was nothing simple about the way the clothes clung to her curves. She personified elegant sex appeal.
The minute she saw him, relief washed over her face. “Hi,” she chirped and wriggled her cute little fingers at him.
“Hi,” he said, feeling as loopy as he did when his niece Amanda gave him that gooey, big-eyed “you’remy- hero-Uncle-Sam” smile of hers.
“Woooo,” one of the rookies teased. “Mason’s got a girlfriend.”
He snapped his head back around and glared at the rookies gathered at the front desk, shooting them his dirtiest, deadliest look usually reserved for hardened criminals.
“Roll call. Now,” he barked.
Their smug grins evaporated, as did they, vanishing down the corridor like ghosts fleeing an exorcist.
“Wow,” Cass said. “Impressive show of authority.”
“Don’t be too impressed. They’re just rookies. Easily cowed.”
“Ah,” she said, “And here I was thinking you were the great and powerful Oz.”
“If you recall, the great Oz had his bluff in on the whole of the Emerald City.”
“So he did.” She tilted her head and shot him a flirtatious glance.
Don’t fall for it. She’s a master at getting men to do her bidding.
“I’m glad you came down,” he said.
“Oh?” She batted her eyelashes provocatively. “Why’s that?”
Sam realized the desk sergeant was about to tip over in his chair he was trying so hard to eavesdrop. “Why don’t we find a more private place to talk?”
He took her by the elbow and guided her into an empty interview room. In a totally feminine gesture, she smoothed down her hair.
“Is this where you grill criminals?” She glanced around, clearly fascinated. “Is that one of those two- way mirror thingies like you see on television cop shows?”
“Have a seat, Cass.” Sam reached over and pulled out a chair for her.
“Thank you.”
She plopped her delectable butt down in the chair and his hand tingled with the memory of how that butt had felt cupped against his palm.
He hauled up a chair beside her. The scent of her perfume took hold of him and refused to let go. Sam wasn’t a fanciful man by nature, but his heightened olfactory sense made him more sensitive to aromas than most. Her fragrance provoked poetic comparisons. Realizing he’d made a mistake scooting up so close to her, he leaned away, trying to distance myself.
But it was no use. He was ensnared.
Cass smelled of lightning the instant it struck a purple mountain orchid. No, no. Her essence was more like the taste of crème caramel eaten with a platinum spoon. No, that wasn’t right either. Her fragrance embodied the sweet melody of a lover’s sated breath after a long night of excellent sex. No, that was too elemental. Her smell was lighter than that, softer.
Forget it.
There was no pinpointing her, but Cass’s scent created a sharp yearning inside him. She was a sultry wind fit to keep him stark awake and plotting midnight indiscretions.
“Listen,” they said in unison and then both gave a nervous laugh.
“You go,” she said.
“No, no, ladies first.”
He didn’t mind letting her start. He wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news that she was considered a person of interest in the Blueblood Burglaries. Her name was the only one that had appeared on all seven guest lists and it had been his reason for going to see her last Friday.
“Okay.” She placed her book on the table.
The binding had cracked and it smelled old, moldy. She flipped the brittle yellowed leaves open to a page bookmarked by a folded piece of newsprint. The book was in French.
When Cass unfolded the sheaf of newspaper article and he saw the photograph of the White Star, his cop instincts prodded uneasily. Something was fishy here, but he wasn’t sure what.
Cass tapped a long slender painted fingernail against the illustration in the book. “Look at this.”
Sam looked. The photograph of the White Star amulet stolen from the Stanhope auction house three days earlier identically matched the drawing in the French text.
His uneasiness escalated. Why had she come down here to show him this? Until that precise moment he hadn’t considered that the break-in at the auction house was even remotely related to the house-party thefts. The modus operandi in the two cases was very different. But now, he had to wonder.
“Where did you get this book?”
Pink lips parted, her pearly whites flashed provocatively. “My sister just bought an antique store in Connecticut and this weekend I was helping her unpack some boxes. We found this book inside. We’d read about the robbery at the Stanhope and I thought maybe the book might have some bearing on your case.”
Sam sent her a long, assessing glance. His instincts told him that it was no coincidence that she’d shown up here with this particular book and the article, especially when she was already a possible suspect in seven other jewel heists.
But again, his logic found no clear connection between the two cases, nor could he reconcile why Cass would sashay into the police station and throw more suspicion on herself.
Unless she wanted to get caught.
And then there was his damnable heart that didn’t want to believe anything bad about her.
“So what do you think? Does it help?” Face tipped up to his, she leaned in closer.
“Hard to say.” Play it cool. She’s trouble, Mason. “Do you mind if I keep the book, have some other people look it over?”
“Oh no, not at all.” Earnestness perked her blue eyes. He reached for the book, but she put her hand over his to stop him before he could pull it away. “There’s just one catch.”
Wasn’t there always?
“Catch?”
“You’ve got to promise to keep me informed about your progress in the case. I love mysteries and legends and stolen artifacts and exciting stuff like that.”
A lightbulb switched on in his brain. Sam understood the real reason she’d come down here to show him the book and he hardened his heart against her bedazzling smile.
God, but she was ballsy. What a cool customer. Strolling in here, flashing that sly grin, batting those baby blues, offering up the book—which wasn’t enough to prove or disprove anything, but it was enough to whet his interest—simply so she could find out what the police knew about the thefts.
She must think he was the dumbest cop ever to lumber on the face of the earth.
Okay, fine, he would oblige her curiosity. On his own terms. He could string her along, give her just enough information to hang herself.
He would turn this around to his advantage. He’d been trying to figure out a way to finagle an invitation to one of the most anticipated social events of the year. If the thief was going to strike again, he or she was bound to do it at Bunnie Bernaldo’s party.
He’d done his research and learned Bunnie’s father had made his fortune importing French cheese before he and his wife had been killed in the crash of their private plane. Bunnie had inherited millions. In the ensuing years since their death, the Bernaldos’ only child had become famous for her extravagant taste in jewelry, her cutting- edge parties and her laxness with personal security.
A jewel thief’s trifecta.
Sam had also done his research on Cass. On the surface, she seemed innocent enough. She’d been born twenty-nine years ago to James and Victoria Richards from Brookline, Massachusetts. The second of two daughters, making her the baby of the family. Normal childhood. She had lots of friends and even more acquaintances and never seemed to miss whatever good time was going on around her. Fun-loving and likeable, she had a penchant for living beyond her means.
And that was what concerned him most.
“You’ve got your stipulations,” he said, placing his other hand on top of hers. “I’ve got mine.”
Their gazes locked. The air crackled with tension.
“Yes?” She sat up straighter, her eyes brighter and her smile wider, playing the game.
If he hadn’t been so pissed off at being manipulated he would have admired her spunk. “You work at Isaac Vincent. I’m assuming that you know Bunnie Bernaldo personally.”
Bunnie, Sam had discovered in the course of his investigation, had bought herself a job as a fashion columnist for Moment magazine, the trendiest fashion rag in print.
“Of course I know Bunnie. She and I were at Vassar together, although she was a couple of semesters ahead of me. Why?”
Sam had a sudden idea. And he would execute it on his own time so he wouldn’t have to run it by the brass, but he had to play it just right.
Think on your feet. Keep your head in the game.
“Let’s just say the NYPD considers Bunnie a person of interest.” He threw the idea out there, not sure where it had come from, with no guess as to how to use it. He was simply going to see if she’d take the bait.
He’d only get one shot at this.
“In the Stanhope robbery? No way!”
“You don’t think she’s capable?”
Cass waved a hand. “Are you kidding? Bunnie likes the limelight too much for a clandestine career as an auction house bandit. Besides she’s loaded. She has no reason to steal.”
“It might not be Bunnie herself, but someone within her sphere of influence.” Like you.
“Could it be her boyfriend, Trevor Moon?” Cass whispered. “I’ve never liked that guy. Smarmy. It’s him, isn’t it?”
Sam shrugged, gave her a noncommittal look.
“Right,” she said. “You’re not at liberty to divulge that much information.”
He nodded. “So do you think you could rangle me an introduction?”
“I can do so much better than that,” Cass said, glee dancing like sunshine in her blue eyes. “How would you like to go to the event of the season?”
“And that would be?”
“A weekend party at Bunnie’s house in the Hamptons this Friday night.”
“Ms. Richards,” Sam said, “you’ve got a date.”
4
SAM WAS JUST A REGULAR GUY, born and raised in Queens, New York. He’d never had a good excuse to venture out to Long Island and he was feeling decidedly fish-out-of-waterish. What if he embarrassed Cass by eating with the wrong fork or mispronouncing foie gras or spitting out the damned foie gras into a ten- dollar linen napkin if it tasted as gross as it sounded?
Maybe he’d get lucky and Bunnie Bernaldo wouldn’t serve foie gras.
Why the hell are you worrying about this stuff? You’re here to catch a jewel thief. Who cares about impressing a bunch of snobby socialites?
He didn’t care about snobby socialites. What he cared about was how he’d look in Cass’s eyes, and that was a dangerous thing, especially if she turned out to be the thief.
He told himself that his fascination with her stemmed from having touched her bare butt. If he hadn’t touched her bare butt he wouldn’t be this enchanted.
Ah, there was the rub. He had touched it. Soft and round and malleable. He hardened, remembering.
Stop thinking about her butt!
That was just it. He couldn’t stop thinking about her butt. Or those big blue eyes. Or that flirtatious smile. Or her evocative scent.
He was in serious trouble here.
Sam had dressed carefully for the party, choosing navy blue slacks and a black polo shirt. He didn’t own any dress shoes—having thrown away the pair by some fancy-schmancy shoe designer that his ex-wife had given him years ago—and opted for the black Doc Martens half boots he wore to work. He packed his overnight bag with similar clothing for the remainder of the weekend, leaving his holey Levis and Hard Rock Café T-shirts at home. He’d thought he’d done well.
Until Cass opened her front door and gave him a quick once-over. To her credit, she quickly hid her disappointment, but for a split second he spotted the oh-my- God-he’s-got-the-fashion-sense-of-a-serial-killer look in her eyes. He’s seen that same disappointed expression before, on Keeley’s face.
Cass looked like something straight out of a fashion magazine. She wore a sea-green dress that put him in mind of a Grecian goddess and gold-and-green-striped pointy-toed shoes that looked as if they must be pinching the blood out of her feet, but she didn’t seem to care.
Her cleavage was on full display and he liked what he saw. Draped around her slender, swanlike neck was the scarf she’d gone out on the ledge for and she’d twisted her hair up off her shoulders, anchoring it in place with a sparkly hair clip.
He stared at her, unable to believe he was escorting this gorgeous babe. You’re not escorting her, you’re investigating her. Never forget that.
Her apartment was just as sophisticated as she. Sleek European-style furniture. Simple tasteful designs. Understated, elegant colors. Funky modern artwork on her walls. Way over his head and his budget.
He tried to imagine her in his living room with his brown plaid couch and his coffee table with the wood worn smooth where he propped up his feet and his plasma screen TV he’d spent too much money on, but admitted it was worth every penny during football season.
It was a vision too incongruous to conjure.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Do you live here alone?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t afford this place by myself. My roommate, Elle, is an actress and she just left on the road for four months with the touring company of Mamma Mia. I’m thinking about taking on a temporary roomie in the meantime. If you know anybody who’s looking for a short-term housing solution, send them my way. I could sorely use the cash.”
Sam wasn’t paying much attention to what she was saying because he was too busy letting his gaze rove over her long lean legs. “You look great. Really, really great.”
“Why, thank you.” She smiled coyly. “The dress is Alberta Ferretti.” “That’s an expensive fashion designer?”
“Right.”
“How do you afford clothes like that on an associate public relations specialist’s salary?”
“How did you know that I’m a PR specialist?”
“Detective. I detect.”
“Well, Detective.” She pressed a delicate forefinger against her full, glossy red lips. “Shh, don’t tell anyone, but I get a big discount.”
The five-fingered discount? Sam wondered and his stomach soured.
“The next Jitney leaves in half an hour,” she said, turning her wrist over to consult her watch. “We could catch the subway to 86th Street. It would be faster than a taxi in Friday evening traffic.”
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