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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.”
