Sheerly Irresistible

Which just made it all the harder to prove herself in the anthropology world, though not impossible. But first she had to find a place to stay.

Maybe she should accept Samantha’s offer of the free hotel room, then move in with Petra when she returned from Bermuda. Unfortunately, Claire had no idea when that might be. Knowing Petra, it could be next week or next year.

“What’s your name?”

Claire blinked, then noticed both women looking at her. She’d completely lost track of the conversation. “Claire Dellafield. Why?”

Samantha gestured to her. “Get with the program. We’re forming a rental coalition. You want in?”

Claire rose off her suitcase, sensing her luck was about to change. “You mean we’d room together?”

“Mental functions appear to be intact,” A.J. said. “You smoke?”

Claire shook her head. “But I can learn.”

Samantha laughed. “She’s in for the entertainment value alone.”

Claire looked at both of them, realizing it would be the first time in her life she’d ever lived with women close to her own age. As much as she’d loved her father, she couldn’t help but feel that sometimes her life had been laid out like a map, with all the routes already chosen for her. Now she was charting new territory. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

“How much can you contribute to rent?” A.J. asked.

Claire did a quick calculation of her bank account. “Eight hundred.”

“That’s forty-six hundred,” A.J. exhaled. “Surely the rent won’t go as high as that.”

The door opened and the crowd turned in unison to see two men walk into the room.

Several people cried out a name. “Tavish!”

“Let’s play this out,” A.J. advised under her breath.

Claire noticed several of the blondes adjusting their blouses as Tavish moved to the center of the room. He reminded her of a medicine man she’d seen once in Central America. He’d worn a putrid green robe, almost the same shade as Tavish McLain’s faux leather vest. They both shared the same cocky walk, too. As if they believed they controlled the universe. Or at least their own small portion of it.

“Stand in front of me,” Samantha ordered, suddenly reaching around her back to unzip her skirt.

Claire watched in disbelief as the woman shimmied her skirt down her legs. “What are you doing?”

“I think I may have something that will persuade Mr. McLain to give us anything we want.”

“What?” A.J. asked. “A gun?”

“Even better,” Samantha replied, unwrapping the package in her arms, then pulling out a wad of silky black fabric. “A magic skirt.”

Claire and A.J. exchanged skeptical glances. Then Claire cleared her throat. “Did you say a magic skirt?”

“I know it sounds crazy.” Samantha shook out the wrinkles. “But it’s a man-magnet. The skirt apparently originated from the Caribbean, where there’s a special fibrous root that the native women spin into a thread. That thread runs through this skirt. Men will do anything for the woman who wears it.”

“You’re kidding,” A.J. said, looking like Claire felt. Maybe Samantha wasn’t such a great choice for a roommate after all. Unless you were a mental patient at Bellevue. Samantha pulled on the black skirt. “Look, I don’t believe it, either, but it can’t hurt.” She handed her jacket to Claire, then smoothed the black skirt over her thighs.

Claire had to admit it looked nice. The fabric had a very unusual sheen, but she certainly didn’t see anything magical about it.

“Follow me, ladies,” Samantha said, then moved toward Tavish.

A.J. looked at Claire, then shrugged. “What can it hurt?”

“True,” Claire replied, as they walked behind Sam. “And if it doesn’t work, we can always resort to Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?” A.J. asked.

“We hang Tavish out his window by the ankles until he agrees to sublet us his apartment.”

A.J. smiled. “So it’s a win-win situation. If we drop him, another vacancy opens up.”

But amazingly enough, the skirt did work. Claire watched in sheer disbelief as Tavish’s jaw sagged when he caught sight of Samantha. His gaze became slightly unfocused and he stared unblinking at the skirt. It was as if he’d been drugged.

The next thing she knew, A.J. was handing over a check for two thousand dollars.

Tavish smiled. “So you want to pay all the rent up front?” He stuck the check in his vest pocket. “The perfect tenant, wouldn’t you say, Roger?”

“I’d say so.” The broker sidled closer to Samantha.

Something didn’t add up. “But wait,” Claire interjected. “I thought that was just for…” A warning pinch on her arm cut her off in midsentence. “Ow!”

“That should be tenants.” Samantha motined to A.J. and Claire. “My roommates.”

Claire smiled tightly at the man as she rubbed her sore arm. There was no mistake. Tavish was giving them his apartment for the entire summer. For only two thousand dollars. Claire glanced down at the skirt Samantha wore, no longer a skeptic.

While A.J. and Sam finalized the deal with the broker, Claire helped herd the disappointed bidders out of the apartment before Tavish had a chance to change his mind. Then she returned to the circle with her new roommates, Tavish and the broker just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation.

“Cleo’s the poodle,” the broker said. “Lives in 6B. You’ll have to walk her. It’s part of Tavish’s arrangement with his neighbors.”

“No problem,” A.J. said, quickly scribbling her signature beneath Samantha’s, then handing the pen to Claire.

“I can’t believe you did it!” A.J. exclaimed to Sam after everyone had left. Then all three of them began to high-five each other.

“That skirt did it,” Claire murmured to herself, enthralled by what she’d just seen. She’d traveled enough with her father to know several cultures believed certain objects and plants had aphrodisiac powers, but she’d never witnessed an actual demonstration before.

She made a mental note to research the skirt on the Internet tonight. Perhaps she could find the country of origin. Then another thought hit her. What if she did her next research project on aphrodisiacs and their effect on different cultures around the world? A study she could call all her own.

But 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 smiled. “Since when do you ever follow the rules, Malone?”

“Okay, I’ll sneak in some beer on my next visit.”

“Promise?” she asked, pushing the tissue paper aside and reaching into the gift bag.

“Promise,” he replied, waiting to see her reaction.

She stared at the box for a long moment. “A beach ball.”

“Inflatable. I thought it would be good exercise for you to bounce it around the room.”

One corner of her mouth twitched. “Gee, Mitch, I…don’t know what to say.”

“Want me to blow it up for you?”

“Sure.” She tossed him the box.

He removed the flattened plastic ball from inside, then flipped open the air valve and began to blow.

“So what’s new on the case?”

He lifted his head. “I’m working undercover as a bouncer at The Jungle.

Her eyes widened. “I thought the captain nixed that idea when we proposed it three weeks ago.”

“That was before you got hurt.”

She nodded, understanding the intense emotions that surfaced when a fellow officer was injured in the line of duty. Their captain was now committed to solving this case, no matter how much manpower or how many resources it took.

So was Mitch. He’d even temporarily sworn off women—his penance for letting himself be distracted by a pretty face. Although his resolve had certainly been tested yesterday with that hot little number coming onto him in the back alley of The Jungle. He could still see that snug white tank top she wore, damp with perspiration, clinging to her chest in a way that left little to the imagination. But he’d passed the test and was determined to pay more attention to his job and less attention to his hormones until they closed this case.

“Earth to Mitch.”

He blinked, then saw Elaine watching him. “Sorry.”

“What’s her name?”

He puffed a few more times into the beach ball. “Who?”

“The current dish on the Malone buffet.”

“I’m not seeing anyone.” He clamped his mouth on the rubber tube and blew until the ball was fully inflated. Then he pushed the cap in to seal it.

“How is that possible?” she teased. “Women have been falling at your feet since you took your first baby step. I’m married to a wonderful guy, so I’m immune to it, but I’ve seen the effect you have on the female population.”

And she’d paid for it, thanks to that damn alarm clock. He tossed the beach ball to her. “I thought we were talking about the Vandalay case.”

She caught the ball with both hands. “A case that’s been going nowhere. But that might change now that you’re working at The Jungle.”

Mitch nodded. “All we need to do is identify Vandalay’s supplier. Then we can nail the guy and bring the entire operation down.”

He made it sound easy, but Mitch knew all too well how complex a drug ring could be. Growing up on the streets of New York, he’d met his first drug dealer when he was six, and been recruited as a courier a year later. His parents were two of the dealer’s best customers. When they’d been arrested, he’d gone to live with his maternal grandmother. An arrangement that became permanent when his parents jumped bail.

They’d never come back.

Mitch assumed they were dead and he truly believed he might have been too if his grandmother hadn’t stepped in and helped set his life straight.

“I’ll keep working from it on this end,” Elaine promised, breaking into his reverie. “It’s that or go stir crazy in this place. I can’t wait to get back out in the field.”

He couldn’t look at her. Not when he knew her career might never be the same again. It made him more determined than ever to bring Vandalay to justice. To do something, anything, to assuage this guilt roiling around inside of him.

“Hey.” She bounced the beach ball off his forehead. “You keep drifting off on me.”

He stood up. “Sorry. It’s been a long week. One of the bartenders at The Jungle quit, so I’ve been pulling double shifts until Vandalay hires a replacement.”

“The joys of undercover work.” She reached for a file folder on the table beside her. “The other employees at the nightclub check out, by the way. No felony records. No connections with any criminal activity.”

He nodded, then glanced at his watch. “I’d better take off. The Jungle opens in less than an hour.”

She shifted on the chair, a spasm of pain crossing her face. “Okay. Keep me posted.”

“Absolutely,” he said, then waved to her before he walked out the door. Out in the hallway, he sucked in a deep breath of air. So far, this investigation was going nowhere. But Mitch refused to let his partner down again. He’d find a break in this case even if it killed him.

And if he had to resist the charms of another woman like the one in the tank top this afternoon, it just might.

TWO WEEKS AFTER HER arrival in New York City, Claire walked awkwardly into the living room of her apartment, teetering on the three-inch strapless black heels A.J. had lent her for the biggest night of her life. This was to be her first foray into The Jungle, on the hunt for volunteers for her research project.

“Wow,” Sam observed from the sofa, “Franco was right. Rose really is your color.”

Franco had done the girls’ colors a few days ago, announcing that Claire was a soft autumn and must wear rose, turquoise and jade from now on.

Claire glanced down at the rose silk camisole she’d bought on a shopping spree with A.J. this afternoon. They’d also found black skirts at Bloomingdale’s by a designer named Daryl that were identical to the one Sam owned. But Claire needed the real thing tonight, so she’d left her skirt in the closet and borrowed Sam’s, along with a pair of gold hoop earrings.

“Am I missing anything?” Claire asked.

“Birth control?” A.J. quipped. “After all, you are conducting a study of human mating behavior.”

“I will simply be an observer,” Claire replied, “not an active participant.”

“Speaking of mating behavior,” Sam chimed, “Mrs. Higgenbotham brought over Cleo’s appointment calendar so we can coordinate the walking schedule. Her poodle sees a therapist twice a week for canine intimacy dysfunction.”

“She also has to appear in small claims court,” A.J. added. “I’m representing her.”

“Mrs. Higgenbotham?” Claire asked, adjusting the waistband of the skirt. The fabric was oddly warm to the touch.

“No, Cleo. Mrs. H has been trying to breed her, but it seems the poodle isn’t interested in romance. When one of Cleo’s suitors got too amorous, she bit him in a…sensitive place.” A.J. grinned. “You might want to keep that strategy in mind, Claire, in case any of those men get too frisky with you tonight.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Claire said, grabbing her purse off the sofa. “Once I explain the reason I’m there.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t your research be more effective if no one at the nightclub knew you were watching them?”

“It’s not that kind of study,” Claire explained. “I’ll be recording general observations about The Jungle, as well as studying the dating habits of some of its regular patrons. I’ll need to schedule in-depth interviews and ask questions about the average duration of relationships, the elements of physical, sociological and spiritual attraction, verbal and nonverbal interaction…things like that.”

She saw Sam and A.J.’s eyes glaze over and a prickle of apprehension skittered down her spine. Even Claire was bored by the subject. So how could she possibly succeed?

Then Sam blinked. “Oh, I almost forgot! I finally located Kate Gannon’s e-mail address. It’s on a sticky note by your computer.”

“Who’s Kate Gannon?” A.J. asked.

“She’s the woman who owned the skirt before Sam.” Claire looped the purse strap over her shoulder. “I want to find out more about its origin for my next research project.” She took a deep breath. “But first I have to make it through this one.”

“Knock ’em dead,” A.J. said as Claire moved toward the door.

“And tell us all the juicy details when you get home,” Sam called after her.

Claire just hoped there was something to tell. What if wearing the skirt had no effect on the men around her? What if they were all as oblivious to her as Mitch Malone had been? What if this research project was an abysmal failure?

Then the elevator doors opened on the main floor and Franco whistled at her.

“Be still my heart,” he cried, clasping his hand to his chest. “Damn girl, you almost make me wish I was straight.”

“So I look all right?” she asked, performing a slow twirl around the foyer.

“There’s only one thing missing.” Franco picked up a small shopping bag next to the door and handed it to her. “Here.”

Claire pulled out a rose silk scarf. “It’s beautiful.”

“The perfect finishing touch,” Franco replied, taking it from her and tying it in a jaunty knot around her neck. Then his gray eyes got misty. “I feel like Glinda the Good Witch, ready to send you off on the yellow brick road.”

“I’ll settle for a yellow taxi,” she replied, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Franco.”

“Off with you now, Dorothy.” He pushed her out the door. “And watch out for those flying monkeys!”

MITCH SMELLED TROUBLE.

He stood at his post near the front entrance of The Jungle nightclub, his eyes slowly scanning the large room. The place was filling up fast tonight, with the men outnumbering the women two-to-one. White wicker ceiling fans stained to a dull brown from thirty years of smoke whirled overhead. The slight breeze they gave couldn’t counteract the humid night air that blew inside every time the door opened.

Like most nightclubs, the lights in The Jungle were dimmed low enough to obscure facial features and the music was loud enough to prevent in-depth conversations. A few people danced on the wood parquet floor and the bartenders kept up a stream of steady business.

Mitch could sense the restlessness in the crowd tonight. Typical for a Friday, when everyone was ready to blow off steam after a long workweek. The man he’d been assigned to watch, Dick Vandalay, stood behind the bar training a new bartender. A young kid who looked like he might wet his pants if Vandalay yelled at him again.

A heated expletive shifted Mitch’s attention to the dance floor, where a scuffle had just broken out. By the time he got there, the two women had each other by the hair. The man they were fighting over just stood off to the side with a drunken grin on his face.

“Break it up,” Mitch said, pulling the women apart.

“Hey, keep out of this,” the man said. “I was just starting to have some fun.”

Both women lashed out at each other with skinny arms and bony fists. Mitch held them just far enough apart to keep them from doing any serious damage.

“If this is the kind of fun you want,” Mitch told the man between clenched teeth, “then go somewhere else to have it.”

The man took a step toward him. “Make me.”

The unmistakable challenge in his tone made both women stop struggling and shift their focus to Mitch. He let go of them and faced the man on the dance floor. “If you’re smart, you’ll just turn around and walk away.”

But Mitch knew there was little chance of that happening. This guy was like too many of the men he’d seen while living on the streets. Too macho to keep out of trouble until they were in it neck-deep. He glanced over at the bar and saw Vandalay nod.