time in his life, he was about to betray a client to save an old friend. Pierre Rabaut had been like a second father to him, especially during the days after his mother had died and then again later when his father had met and fallen in love with Isabelle Sheridan, a woman who hadn’t been willing to become a part of his father’s life. Pierre had always been there for him, and Sam was going to see that he didn’t go to jail.
If a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well.
Sam’s lips twisted wryly. That piece of advice had come from Pierre, too. But this was the first time that doing his job well had put him between a rock and a hard place. He’d been hired to make sure the Abelard necklace wasn’t stolen. He intended to do just that. But making sure that Pierre Rabaut wasn’t arrested—that might cost him his job.
Flexing his fingers to ease a fresh wave of tingles, Sam stifled the urge to glance at his watch. His disguise as one of New York City’s homeless would be worthless if Pierre happened to glance out of one of the museum’s windows and catch him checking the time.
Instead, Sam shifted his gaze down 75th Street. Two taxis, horns blaring, squeezed their way through the intersection. Halfway down the block a delivery man dropped a case of soft drinks on the cement and then let out a stream of curses. Over them, Sam caught a snatch of lyrics from a rap song pouring out of the open window of a pickup truck double-parked across the street.
And there was still no sign of the tiny blonde.
Not that he should be even thinking about her. He needed to keep all of his attention focused on Pierre. But for the life of him he hadn’t been able to get the woman out of his head. She just didn’t…fit.
He could recall in great detail that first time he’d seen her walking toward him. He’d pegged her for a rich socialite—the kind of woman he always steered clear of. Still, she’d been worth a second glance and the stakeout was proving to be long and boring. A nice fantasy always made the time go faster. So he’d begun to indulge in one.
The easy way she’d swung her briefcase had told him she worked out regularly in a gym. He’d pictured that compact little body of hers in designer workout clothes that clung to every curve, her fair skin slick with sweat. He hadn’t a doubt in the world that she would attack each and every piece of equipment in the gym, one by one, with the same energy and concentration that she exuded when she left her building and headed toward the subway each morning.
Would she make love with that same intensity and passion? The question had barely slipped into his mind when she’d stopped and tucked a twenty-dollar bill into his cup. Startled, he’d glanced up and met her eyes, and for one moment he could have sworn his mind had gone blank. By the time he’d recovered, she’d been halfway down the block, and he’d nearly gotten up and gone after her. Sam shook his head at the memory. He’d nearly blown his cover and gone running down the street after her! No one—man or woman—had ever made him forget he was on a job.
The second day she’d stopped, he’d had his wits about him until she’d surprised him again by speaking to him. She’d asked him if he was interested in getting a job. When he’d said yes—hell, he’d felt compelled to when he was staring into those eyes of hers—she said she’d look into it. Then she’d dropped another twenty into his cup. Thoroughly bemused, he’d gazed after her wondering if she were some kind of blonde, violet-eyed guardian angel sent down from on high to look after the homeless.
The last two days had followed the same pattern. She’d stop, tuck money into his cup and give him little updates on how her job search was going.
Sam frowned as he switched his gaze back to the museum doors. He just couldn’t figure her out. Rich socialites didn’t stop to chat with homeless people, and they certainly didn’t try to find jobs for them.
“Any sign of movement, Mr. Romano?”
Luis Santos’s voice, carrying clearly through the wireless device in his ear, had Sam ruthlessly reining in his thoughts and focusing on the museum. He had two young men, Luis and Tyrone Bass, stationed at the back and side doors of the building Pierre had entered. Luis and Tyrone were P.I.s in training, or so he’d told the judge when he’d arranged to supervise the community service they’d been sentenced to. He hadn’t told either of them yet what he intended to do today.
If he did it right, he would never have to tell them. But the timing had to be perfect.
“Everything’s quiet here,” he said. Except for the rap song, he thought as he glanced at the pickup truck. The driver was reading the morning paper and sipping coffee, seemingly oblivious to the racket his radio was making.
Once more Sam flexed his fingers to ease the tingling. “You got the time?”
“Seven-twenty,” Luis said. “He’s been in there fifty minutes.”
“He’ll be walking out the front door in ten,” Sam predicted.
He didn’t have a doubt in the world that his godfather was going to walk out the museum door with the Abelard necklace. He’d researched the man thoroughly when he was a kid, and there’d been no jewel thief in Europe to match him when he’d decided to retire forty years ago.
The problem would be to convince his godfather to put the necklace back before anyone knew it was missing. It was a task that required his full attention. He certainly didn’t have time to think about the tiny blond woman who wanted to save him from a life on the streets.
“LET’S JUST SEE,” A.J. said as she slipped the skirt over her head and pulled it down. Then she studied her reflection in the mirror. What it looked like was any other black skirt. She had one she’d bought from Bloomingdale’s hanging in her closet just like it. Almost. The thing was—this one might look like the other one, but it felt…silky…and light…almost as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all. And it fit perfectly.
If it had been too big or too tight, she would have had an excuse to call the whole experiment off. “It feels sort of—different.”
“Isn’t that the whole point?” Samantha handed her one of the three mugs of coffee she was juggling. “If you’re going to get the men at your law firm to start thinking of you as something other than a research nerd, changing your dress style is an excellent first step.”
“The skirt shows off your legs much better than those slacks you always wear,” Claire pointed out.
A.J. studied herself in the mirror. She wore slacks and jackets because in a law firm that had only a few token women on its roster, she felt she fit in better. Behind her, she could see her two roommates studying her as closely as she was studying herself. It was hard to believe that she’d known Samantha Baldwin and Claire Dellafield for less than two months. In the short amount of time since they’d rented Tavish Mclain’s apartment, she’d begun to feel as if she’d known them forever. She shifted her attention back to the skirt. “Don’t you think it’s a little short?”
“It’s much shorter on me. I was thinking you could tape up the hem a little. All the better to wow those stuffed shirts with,” Samantha said with a wicked grin.
“I think it’s fine,” Claire said.
“I don’t know. I just don’t feel quite myself in it.”
“That’s perfectly normal,” Claire said. “You put on a skirt that’s supposed to have the power to draw your true love to you—that’s a scary step.”
A.J.
