Short, Sweet And Sexy

He had to wait to make his move. He couldn’t allow Pierre any possibility of escaping. If he were going to save his godfather from going to jail, he had to get him to replace the necklace immediately—before anyone knew it was gone.

The mistake he made was in glancing at the blonde. The moment he did, he felt his mind empty and his stomach tighten as if he’d just sustained a swift, hard blow.

He was deadly certain that he’d never seen legs quite that…for the life of him, he couldn’t find a word to describe them. He could only stare at her as she moved toward him with that quick, sure stride.

The skirt—what there was of it—clung to her hips and thighs like a second skin. Except that skin wasn’t transparent. Or was he merely fantasizing the thigh-high stockings trimmed with a band of lace?

“Good morning.” She swung her purse off her shoulder and reached into it at the same moment that a motor revved loudly and the poodle began to bark. Sam tore his gaze from the woman to Pierre, but, even then, it took a moment for the scene in front of him to fully register.

Pierre stood in the middle of the street with the thin, bearded man in a green jacket at his side. One of the man’s hands was gripping Pierre’s arm, the other held a knife. Neither of them seemed to be aware of the pickup truck, gathering speed as it barreled toward them.

Sam’s heart somersaulted, but the blonde reacted first. One minute she was standing beside him and the next she was sprinting toward the two men with the poodle at her side.

Sam sprang to his feet and leaped toward the curb, but she was ahead of him by two lengths. He was going to be too late. The truck was going to hit her—it was going to mow down all three of them. The dead certainty of that struck him, just as he saw something flash. Then two things happened simultaneously. The woman leapt toward the two men, using the impact of her body to shove them backward. And the truck swerved in his direction.

Fear fisting in his throat, Sam pivoted and threw himself at the hood of a parked car. Metal screeched against metal and sparks flew as the truck sideswiped the car and sent him rolling onto the sidewalk.

Scrambling to his feet, Sam placed a hand against the car for balance and managed to get the plate number before the pickup took the corner on two wheels. Then he shifted his gaze to the two figures lying in the street.

They were still, both of them, and the dog was racing around them in circles, barking.

Both…?

Glancing down the street, he spotted the thin, bearded man racing down the sidewalk.

“Stop!” His voice sounded raw and thin, and the man paid him no heed.

“Mr. Romano? What’s going on?”

“I wish the hell I knew,” Sam replied to Luis’s voice in his ear. “There’s a bearded man running down 75th Street. Luis, you take him. Tyrone, you call 911. I’m staying with Rabaut.”

It wasn’t until he reached his godfather and knelt down that he saw the blood. It was smeared on the woman’s hand, but it seemed to be coming from a thin surface wound on Pierre’s arm. Even as he found the blonde’s pulse she was pushing herself up.

He was gripping just her wrist when his eyes met hers, and his last coherent thought was that he’d never seen eyes that color. They reminded him of violets, the kind his brother grew in pots on the roof of the hotel. The punch he felt in his gut was stronger this time and set off a flood of feelings. For the life of him, he couldn’t have named any of them. Because his mind, suddenly blank as a slate, had room for only one thought.

This is her.

THIS IS HIM.

The moment the thought slipped into her mind, A.J. tried to shove it out. But the words became a permanent chant in her brain, low and thrumming.

This is him. This is him.

Even then, she might have been more successful in dismissing the thought if it weren’t for the feelings tumbling through her—delight, terror, recognition.

This just couldn’t be him—the person that was supposed to be drawn to her by the skirt. But Claire’s words flooded into her mind. “Perhaps it will get you a date with a tall, dark, handsome stranger.” The description had made her think of this man—a street person. He did have dark hair and eyes, both the color of dark chocolate. And he was handsome all right. She’d noticed that the first time she’d seen him. It would have taken more than a few days’ growth of beard to disguise the lean handsome features, the strong jaw. And the mouth. The lips were thin. They wouldn’t be soft when they pressed against hers. They would be hard and demanding.

And it was absolutely ridiculous to be thinking of that. Her only thought when she’d slipped money into his cup and tried to find him a job was to help him. What in the world was wrong with her? Blinking hard, she tried to drag her gaze away from his.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” she managed, shocked to find she had to work to form the words.

“That pickup nearly hit you.”

The pickup. Images suddenly began to flood back into her mind—the two men had seemed so far away, the roar of the engine so close. There’d been no time to calculate the distance, to even know if she had a chance. She could still recall the impact as she’d hurled herself against the two men, and then they’d tumbled to the pavement and the breath had suddenly left her body.

That had to be why she’d suddenly felt so strange, why looking into this man’s eyes had affected her in such a strange way. Relief surged through her.

“Adrenaline rush,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“I felt a little strange there for a moment. Adrenaline rush. I’ve read that it can have a very strange effect on one’s system. But I’m recovering.” And she was. She even finally managed to drag her eyes away from the stranger’s. And, for the first time, she saw the blood on one of the men she’d launched herself at. “You’re bleeding,” she said as she met the older man’s eyes.

“It’s just a scratch,” he said, smiling up at her. “It will heal…unless I am dead and I’m staring into the eyes of an angel.”

“No, you’re not dead.” She noted that he had a French accent and the kindest blue eyes. They were clear and focused on hers. No adrenaline surge this time. “But you took a pretty hard fall.”

“I’m fine,” the older man said. “It’s even better if you’re not an angel.”

A.J. blinked. Could he be flirting with her? No. Quickly, she made herself look back at the street person. “We should help him sit up.”

When he grinned at her, she began to feel another pump of adrenaline surge through her system. He had the kind of smile that made you want to smile right back.

“I’d be happy to help you with him if you’d let go of my hands,” he said.

“What?”

“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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