bolted from the room. The dog let out a cacophony of barking and chased after her. Tara made it only as far as the door to the hallway before she felt sharp little teeth slide down the back of her right calf. She choked on a scream and braced herself against the doorjamb to shake her leg. The nasty little dog wrapped itself around her calf and held on, bouncing up and down.
“No!” She swatted at it with the hand that held the Rose. “Stop it! Let go!” Then she let out a low, agonized cry as she lost her grip on the stone.
It sailed off somewhere into the shadows gathered in the corners of the library near the window. There was a soft thud as it hit the wall. Then, only then, did the dog let go of her leg.
Tara heard a steady thumping sound. The Chihuahua was wagging its tail! From the front of the house, she heard a sharp male voice.
“Hello? Police!”
Tara knew she could talk her way out of this. She could talk her way out of anything. It was her gift. But she knew better than to try when the stakes were this appalling, this high. This, she realized, feeling sick, was one of those situations where the less that was said, the better—at least until she called her lawyer.
So she ran.
Out in the foyer, at the very front of the house, she heard the steady tap of heels. Tara sprinted fast and silently through the shadows gathered in the hallway. She hit the swinging door to the kitchen just as she heard the officer call out again. She was running out of time. She’d never get out of here free and clear. She would have to hide.
The pantry! Tara dove for the white-painted door just beside the stove. Behind it was a trapdoor and a small space that one of her nannies had once shown her. As a child, it had been her special hideout from Stephen. If he had never discovered it in all the years since then, if he hadn’t boarded it up…
Tara dropped to her knees and crawled beneath the lowest shelf. She pushed hard against the rear wall with a trembling hand.
It creaked and opened.
The bartender had just brought a second round of drinks when Fox spotted Raphael Montiel over the blonde’s right shoulder. He put his drink down without tasting it.
If Rafe had come looking for him here, then it was purely bad news. They were partners with the Philadelphia Police Department’s elite Robbery-Homicide unit. They never worked at night—unless someone had the audacity to get killed or to steal something noteworthy after regular business hours. Fox pushed back from the bar and waved Rafe down. They met halfway to the door.
“How’s it going?” Raphael asked dryly as his gaze fell on the blonde.
“She has potential.”
“Don’t look now, but I think your Georgia’s showing again.”
“Leave my Georgia alone.”
Fox was transplanted from Savannah. Northern women tended to have an aggressive edge that he had never quite gotten used to…with the single exception of Adelia. She’d been sweet and soft, demure and fragile. Too fragile. He’d lost her to leukemia six weeks before they were to be married.
The grief had ebbed and flowed through him sporadically for ten long years, then it had finally settled into something distant and bearable. Now Fox was determined. It was time to start over. Somewhere in Philadelphia, he thought, there was another gentle, quiet woman meant to be his wife.
“We’ve got to go,” Rafe said. “We’ve caught a stiff up in Chestnut Hill. A nice, fat rich one. There are officers there now, waiting for us. Seems a ruby the size of Mount Rushmore has disappeared as well.”
Translation, Fox thought—his night was over.
He returned to the bar and paid the tab, then he snagged his jacket from the back of his stool. On impulse, he caught the blonde’s hand and kissed it, a gentle touch that was gone before it started. Her eyes widened and she sighed. When he straightened, he saw Rafe roll his eyes.
Five minutes later, they were in Fox’s vintage Mustang, a 1968 Shelby convertible, heading north. Raphael filled him in on what he knew so far.
“We got an anonymous 911 call. A female. The call was traced to the home. She seemed to indicate that Carmen—that’s Stephen Carmen—was killed for a gem he had in his possession, but I haven’t heard the tape yet. Officers arrived and yeah, there was a body in the library but no apparent jewels lying about. The missing stone is a Burmese ruby, uncut, twenty-four carats. It’s called the Blood of the Rose.”
Fox frowned. The name tickled his memory. “I’ve heard of it.”
“If you’ve read the papers lately, you’d have to. Stephen Carmen and his stepsister—name of Tara Cole—have been tying up the probate courts over this baby for something like four years now. The ruby belonged to Cole’s mother, Letitia Cole Carmen, who apparently willed it to her stepson.” He paused for effect. “The court returned a ruling today—Carmen’s will was up to snuff. They gave him the gem.”
“So let’s find the lady and have someone take her down to headquarters.” Fox reached automatically for the radio handset on his dashboard.
“Not likely. I already put the word out for some officers to pay a visit to Ms. Cole. She doesn’t appear to be home.”
They pulled up in front of a house awash with lights. Brilliance glittered from three floors’ worth of windows. The front door was wide open. Fox cut the engine.
“So do you want to take care of the body or do the scene this time?” Rafe asked.
“I’ll handle the scene. You wouldn’t know a gem if you fell over it. You can’t tell rock salt from diamonds.”
Raphael frowned. “I was distracted during that case.”
“Yeah? How’s Kate?” He’d been distracted, Fox remembered, because he’d met his wife on that one.
“Pregnant,” Rafe reminded him.
“Read cranky between the lines.” Fox had four sisters back in Savannah. During his visits home, he’d noticed the trend. “Fear not, pal. It gets worse before it gets better.”
Raphael looked at him sharply. “You’re just busting my chops because I pulled you away from Bambi.”
“Her name was Candy.”
“Whatever. Aren’t you? Busting my chops?”
“Nope.” It was Fox’s turn to grin.
They got out of the car. Fox moved up the sidewalk at a stroll, a few steps behind Rafe’s more rapid pace. An officer stepped into the door as they reached it. Fox read his name tag when he joined them. “Hey, McGee, what’s the story?”
McGee thrust a thumb over his shoulder. “The vic’s in the library. Through those doors there and down a bit to your right.”
Fox stepped into a marble-floored vestibule. There were French doors at the back. Odd architectural touch, he thought. That was a Yankee for you. In his humble opinion, they weren’t long on welcoming hospitality. This effect made it look as though they were trying to keep guests
