Читать книгу Short, Sweet And Sexy - Cara Summers - Страница 9

“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.