that she had perfection sewn up by any means. Deep down she suspected the man didn’t exist who could make her fall so far in love she’d forsake all others. Though on some level, however shallow, she did love all the men she dated, from the bottoms of their feet to the tops of their enormous, fragile egos. She loved how they looked at her, how they made her feel. Loved the power she had to entice or amuse or excite them. The only thing she’d ever really been good at. Like an alcoholic or a smoker, she was addicted. To men.
But real take-over-your-soul love? She doubted she was capable of it. Her personal fatal flaw, perhaps.
Rose wiped away the last tear from her cheek and drew aside the white lace curtain to see if the van across the street was still parked there. Before the break-in and before that horrible threatening letter, her addiction had seemed harmless. She got everything she wanted. The men got most of what they wanted. Now someone wanted more from her than a good time. And she hadn’t a clue who it was or what it was all about. Someone stalking her? An angry ex-beau? A few men had protested when she’d ended their relationship, but most had parted on friendly terms and gone off on their next hunt.
Maybe it was something in the apartment. She’d gotten plenty of gifts over the years. Maybe some guy had given her heirloom jewelry by mistake and Mama wanted it back.
She could only hope it was that easy.
The van sat across Garden Street, as usual. Ted’s TV Repair. She shivered and swallowed more threatening tears. Call her paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her from that van. She ought to call the police and ask them to check it out. Of course, it could be the police, keeping close tabs since the break-in. Either way, police or criminal, Rose felt threatened, claustrophobic.
So much for her Total Relaxation Saturdays.
Her phone rang; she jumped and pulled her bathrobe more tightly around her. People she loved knew Saturday was her no-phone, vegging day. The day she always refused invitations, in some perverse homage to the dateless Saturdays she’d suffered in high school. It was her day to sit home in her pajamas with the frogs on them, watch bad TV, eat chocolate, write letters the nurses could read to her mom…. Her day of regression. No social responsibilities. No cleaning. No makeup. No men.
The machine picked up the call. Clicked. Clicked again. Senator Alvin Mason’s patrician voice played on the tape. “Come on, Rose. I know you’re there. Pick up. It’s important.”
Rose’s brows drew down. He sounded strange…strained. Unusual for Mr. Hearty-Sound-Bite. They’d dated for a few months, a year or so ago, before he decided he’d have more political success as a married man, and had gone hunting for a suitable wife.
She picked up. “I’m here.”
“How are you, Rose?”
Rose frowned. He didn’t sound like he gave a rat’s ass how she felt. And she could have sworn she heard a truck go by in the background. Was one of Massachusetts’s most illustrious politicians calling from a pay phone? “I’m okay. You sound horrible. Where are you calling fr—”
“I heard about the break-in.” He nearly shouted to be heard over another engine. “They didn’t take anything.”
“No.” She wrapped the phone cord around a tight fist. How did he know that? “I got a letter, too, two days ago. Telling me to watch out.” Massachusetts’s Senator-for-the-Wholesome-Family swore obscenely. For one sweet moment, Rose allowed herself to feel pleasure at his protectiveness. Then scoffed at her own Cinderella-bullcrap mentality.
“This wasn’t supposed to—” He swore again.
Rose held absolutely still. The phone cord swayed gently against the wooden end table her great-great-grandmother had brought over from England. Oh, God. He was part of it. “You know something about this?”
She barely recognized her own voice. Not the sweet, sexy girl everyone thought she was, but harsh, hard-edged. A grown woman afraid for her life.
The senator took a deep breath, audible even over the traffic noise. “Rose…”
She closed her eyes; her body began to shake.
“Rose…” His voice was quiet, calm, deadly serious. “I think you should go away for a while.”
1
RILEY ANDERSON LOWERED himself into the grimy booth opposite Charlie Watson, captain in the Boston Police Force and primary supporter of the city’s greasy spoon establishments. Hands folded on the table, Riley greeted him and sat straight, regarding Watson evenly so as not to betray either interest or suspicion. Cops didn’t summon private investigators to out-of-the-way burger joints unless they were in deep.
“Thing is…” Watson tossed back the last French fry and looked wistfully at his empty plate. “Thing is, I wouldn’t come to you unless it was an absolute last resort. We’ve got plenty of people on the force who could handle this.”
Riley nodded, not rising to the bait, not moving, though the booth hit his back in uncomfortable places. Holding still and watching went a long way toward making people reveal things they weren’t planning to—if they were hiding anything in the first place. The jury was still out on the captain.
Watson took a gulp of soda from a gargantuan cup and plopped it down in what he probably thought was a powerful gesture. He narrowed his eyes, which were an incongruous shade of ice-blue against his pale, flabby face. “Truth is, we have a situation. Involving important people. Very important. Another situation at the station. Very bad. I can’t risk—”
“Captain.” Riley lifted one eyebrow a fraction, all he’d allow to show of his impatience. “The point. Get to it.”
Watson crushed a burger wrapper and tossed it onto his tray, pale eyes never leaving Riley’s face. “Okay, you want it straight? I’ll give it to you straight. I don’t like having to come to you—don’t like it at all. But we got a leak at the station. Someone has developed a big mouth, and his big mouth is jeopardizing the investigation. I can’t trust anyone. You, I trust. I don’t like you, but I trust you.”
Riley nodded. He didn’t like or trust Charlie Watson, but now was probably not the best time to say so. “What’s the job?”
“It involves the apartment of a certain woman named Rose. Just Rose. Like Cher is just Cher.” He pushed back a few combed-over strands of hair that had broken free of whatever glue he used to hold them in place. “We think she might have received stolen property, possibly unwittingly. Property we are anxious to return to…the previous owners. She reported a break-in recently, nothing taken. Someone knows or suspects she’s got the goods. We’re watching the place in case someone makes another move, but I don’t want my detectives poking around until I know who I can trust.”
Riley clenched his teeth. Getting information out of the captain was like playing twenty questions. He leaned forward and fixed Watson with an even stare. “What would I be looking for?”
“Art.” The captain groped in his pocket and came up with a roll of antacids, avoiding Riley’s eyes. “An antique miniature portrait. Jeweled frame. Supposed to be worth a ton, what the hell do I know about it? But it’s more than that. We want you to be Rose’s special new friend, and figure out what the hell she knows.”
Riley relaxed his jaw, willing himself to be
