“You’ve got my hands.”
Glancing down, A.J. saw that her hands were indeed clasping his tightly—right there in her lap—right on top of the skirt!
“Sorry.” She released him immediately, and together they eased the older man into a sitting position. Then Cleo offered her a welcome distraction by moving onto her lap and licking her face.
“We’ve got to be fast, Pierre.” The street person’s voice was low and urgent. “Give me the Abelard necklace.”
A.J. managed to peer around Cleo to see that the homeless man was patting down the Frenchman.
“You are mistaken. I don’t have the necklace, Salvatore.”
“Salvatore?” A.J. glanced from one to the other. “Pierre? You know each other?”
“Yes,” the Frenchman said, turning toward her with a smile. “Salvatore’s father and I were old friends. Salvatore works for a security firm now, and he’s made a little mistake.”
“The name is Sam,” the street person said. “Turn over the necklace, Pierre. I can’t let you do this.”
A.J. cut Sam off by grabbing both of his wrists. “You don’t have any right to search this man.” She turned to Pierre. “Insist that he stop.”
“I insist that you stop.”
“I insist that you stop also,” A.J. said.
Sam lifted both of his hands in the air, palms out. “Fine. But the police will be here soon.” He paused so that the sirens in the distance could emphasize his point. Then he met A.J.’s eyes.
“If you want to help my godfather, you’ll let me handle this.”
She lifted her chin. “Really? And I’m supposed to trust the word of a thief?”
“I’m not a thief,” Sam said, fishing out a card and handing it to her. “I’m a licensed private investigator and I work for Sterling Security.”
“S. Romano,” A.J. read aloud. “Well, Mr. Salvatore Sam Romano, no matter who you work for, you’re a thief. You stole twenty dollars from me each time you let me put money in your cup.”
Fishing a card out of her purse, she turned to the Frenchman. “You shouldn’t say one more word to anyone until your lawyer is present. If you want, I can represent you until then.”
“I would like that very much, madame—or is it mademoiselle?”
Scrambling to her feet, she helped the older man to his.
The mistake Sam made was looking at A.J. again. The thigh-high stockings had not been a figment of his imagination. The hem of her skirt had hiked up so that the lacy border of the stockings was quite visible along with a narrow expanse of smooth skin…
A.J. hurriedly pulled the skirt down, but not before Sam felt his throat go dry.
Pierre captured her left hand. “Ah. No rings. It’s Mademoiselle Potter then, I presume?”
Sam stared at Pierre. He had some smooth moves for a man who had to be in his seventies.
A.J. frowned a little. “I’m not married, if that’s what you mean.”
“Excellent,” Pierre murmured, raising her hand to his lips. “The gods have smiled on me twice today. Perhaps they will smile a third time, mademoiselle. Tell me that you are free, that there is some hope of my winning your hand.”
“I hate to interrupt the romance, Pierre,” Sam said. The sirens were growing closer. “But we don’t have much time. When the police get here, they’re going to invite you down to the station to take your statement. A man stabbed you and another one nearly ran you down. We have a very small window of opportunity here to put that necklace back. I don’t want you to go to jail.”
Pierre waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture. “What matter is that? The important thing is that I have just fallen in love with Mademoiselle Potter.”
A.J. and Sam were still staring at Pierre when the first patrol car, sirens blaring, screeched to a halt at the curb.
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