Читать книгу Angels and Outlaws - Lori Wilde - Страница 9

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.”