no university would give her a grant if she failed in her current research project. Forming a good rapport with potential subjects at The Jungle would be crucial to that success.
If Samantha let her borrow that skirt…
Claire’s skin prickled at the possibilities. If she could elicit even half the reaction she’d just seen in Tavish, finding volunteers to take part in her research project wouldn’t be any problem. And she could use the opportunity to study the skirt’s effect at the same time. Especially on a man like Mitch Malone, who had been totally oblivious to her only a few hours ago.
Maybe she could turn the world on with her smile after all.
3
THE NEXT DAY, MITCH STOOD outside St. Luke’s hospital, wondering if he should have listened to his grandmother and entered the priesthood instead of pursuing a career as a cop. She’d worried about the dangers of police work, but Mitch had never suffered more than a few bumps and bruises on the job.
He only wished he could say the same of his partner, Elaine O’Brien.
Mitch had found excuse after excuse to avoid visiting Elaine since she’d been brought here by ambulance a week ago. He’d called almost every day, but he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing his partner confined to a hospital bed.
Because of him.
Mitch had replayed that terrible morning over and over in his mind. They were supposed to meet an anonymous informant who promised to give them a lead in the Vandalay case. Dick Vandalay, owner of The Jungle nightclub, was suspected of trafficking in illegal substances. Specifically, bootleg Viagra and various imported animal parts, like rhinoceros horns, that were purported to increase a man’s sexual prowess.
The Jungle had been struggling to stay in business, with singles’ bars becoming passé in this age of personal ads and Internet dating sites. So Vandalay definitely had motivation to cater to customers who were desperate for love. As well as the opportunity.
What the police lacked was hard evidence. They knew the stuff was flowing out of the nightclub, they just didn’t know how it was coming in. Vandalay’s record was squeaky clean, but he was still the most likely suspect. His family tree read like a Who’s Who of drug dealers and other assorted felons. Now they just needed to find the right limb to hang him from.
The informant had promised to do just that, the morning of June first. But Mitch had been late, thanks to a woman he’d met the night before. He rubbed one hand over his jaw, still unable to believe she’d turned off the alarm without waking him.
Elaine had finally given up on Mitch and gone on to meet the informant by herself. Only the informant must have panicked, because when Mitch finally arrived at the abandoned building that had been preselected as their meeting place, he’d found Elaine at the bottom of a staircase with a concussion and a shattered hip.
Now she was in this place, recovering from the hip injury that might keep her off the vice squad and tied to a police desk for the rest of her career. But Elaine didn’t know that yet and Mitch wasn’t about to tell her. She loved investigative work too much to give it up. That’s why she’d practically set up a command post from her bed, calling him with all the background information she’d gathered and any possible leads on the case.
Maybe she sensed it would be her last one.
He took a deep breath, realizing he’d been a coward long enough. Then he walked through the automatic doors of the hospital and into a booby trap—also known as the gift shop. He didn’t want to come into his partner’s room empty-handed, but his gift-giving record was pretty bleak. It had started when he was fifteen, the time he’d given his first girlfriend a pet rat for Valentine’s Day. She’d screamed, dropped the rat, and her parents had been forced to call an exterminator to catch it. Then they’d sent his grandmother the bill.
The first of many disasters.
Mitch turned in a slow circle around the gift shop, waiting for something to call out to him. A set of ceramic clowns? A jigsaw puzzle? A book of brain teasers?
“May I help you?”
He looked down to see a tiny silver-haired lady standing in front of him. She wore a salmon-pink frock and a pair of bifocals.
“I’m looking for a gift for a colleague of mine.”
“Male or female?” the woman asked with a toothy smile.
“Female.”
She motioned to the counter behind her. “We have some lovely potpourri.”
“You mean those bags of dead flowers?”
“They’re very fragrant,” she said, handing one to him. “This one is called Spring Blossom.”
He held it up to his nose. “Nice. But what are you supposed to do with it?”
“You can place potpourri in a bowl or other decorative container to give the room a nice, fresh scent.”
He scowled down at the price tag. Twenty bucks for stuff he could rake up in his backyard? “I don’t think this is what I’m looking for.”
“Well, we have some nice jewelry.” She pointed to another shelf. “Perhaps a bracelet?”
His last girlfriend had hated those glow-in-the-dark earrings he’d given her. Then his gaze fell on a small box shoved toward the back of the top shelf and he knew he’d found the perfect gift.
Mitch pointed up to it. “That’s what I want.”
The clerk stood up on her tiptoes, then her forehead crinkled. “Are you sure?”
He grinned, already imagining the expression on Elaine’s face. “Positive.”
Ten minutes later, he stood outside the door to her room, the gift bag in his hand and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hated the smell of hospitals. Maybe he should have bought her that potpourri after all. Mitch half turned, ready to head back to the gift shop, but he knew he was just delaying the inevitable. Raising his fist, he rapped on the door.
“Come in.”
He pushed the door open and saw Elaine seated in a chair by the window, wearing bulky gray sweatpants and a Yankees T-shirt. She was ten years his senior, but the freckles on her cheeks made her appear younger. Her ash-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she looked thinner than she had a week ago. He forced his stiff lips into a smile.
Her green eyes lit up when she saw him standing in the doorway. “Hey, stranger!”
“You’re out of bed.”
“As much as possible. I make a lousy invalid.”
“You look good.” Then he awkwardly stuck out the gift bag in his hand. “I brought you something.”
“Please let it be a six-pack of Moosehead,” she implored, taking it from him.
“I didn’t think you were supposed to drink in here.”
She
