Silk, Lace & Videotape

by Joanne Rock

  The heated sensations came flaming back to life.

  Was Blue Eyes following her? She needed to put an end to this before she did something she’d regret. Like hustle the man into a broom closet and not come out for a week or two. “Yes. We are practically engaged,” she returned, pretty sure that Victor wouldn’t let anyone call him “Vic.”

  “That’s too bad.” He shook his head. “I didn’t realize you would be here at this early hour or I would have waited to come by.”

  Maybe the man did business with Victor. “It’s okay. I don’t usually bother Victor during his business hours, but—”

  The door to apartment 10G swung open. Only the person standing there was not the man who’d practically begged Amanda to marry him.

  No.

  The person in Victor’s apartment was an exotic dark-haired beauty with bed-rumpled hair, smeared lipstick and a man’s bathrobe.

  Confusion warred with shock. Surely Amanda had the wrong apartment….

  Then Victor’s voice shouted from the back room. “Who is it, Cindy?”

  The woman in the entryway flicked her gaze over Amanda and seemed to dismiss her. She licked her lips while ogling Mr. Necktie, however.

  Cindy didn’t bother to greet them. She turned to shout over her shoulder. “It’s for you.”

  Amanda’s confusion turned to anger as she watched the woman’s bold-as-you-please bare feet pad their way across the parquet floor to Victor’s kitchen. The interloper’s generous curves clearly swayed beneath the bathrobe, highlighting the woman’s lack of undergarments.

  Humiliation burned Amanda’s eyes then singed its way through the rest of her. If not for the sudden sensation of Mr. Necktie’s bracing touch at her back, she might have whipped her secret weapon across the room straight into the woman’s sashaying butt.

  Her elevator companion leaned close to whisper in Amanda’s ear. “Maybe you should come back later.” He nudged her slightly, unaware her feet were frozen to the floor.

  Amanda’s good-girl instincts might have won out. She might have turned and walked away from what would no doubt be an ugly scene if two-timing Victor hadn’t stepped into the hallway at that moment.

  “Who is it, babe—” he started before halting in his equally barefoot tracks to gape at Amanda.

  How could she have ever thought she might love this man? His precisely creased pants were fastened but his belt had not yet been buckled. A silk Armani shirt fluttered at his sides, unbuttoned to reveal a sprinkling of dark chest hair and an abdomen honed to perfection at a posh gym.

  How ironic that this was the most she’d ever seen of his body.

  Even when he was caught in an act that revealed the blemished nature of his soul, the man had the nerve to look like an airbrushed advertisement.

  His betrayal slammed through her, reminding her that no matter how successful her designs became, she’d never truly fit in her father’s glamorous world. Once again, Amanda Matthews had been the outsider, only this time she hadn’t even been aware of it—until now.

  Her inner fury sprung to life and effectively un-froze her from her shock. That had paralyzed her. Her feet flew in Victor’s direction. “You no-good, lying bastard—”

  Blue Eyes slid in between her and her target. “Maybe we’d all better sit down here and sort this out.” He gripped Amanda by the shoulders, his unwavering gaze fixed on her alone.

  Rage burned through her, seeking any target in her path, even an undeserving one. She spewed some of that hurt anger onto Mr. Necktie.

  “Who the hell are you?” Amanda’s words mirrored Victor’s.

  Blue Eyes withdrew a small leather case from his coat pocket and flashed a shiny badge in both of their directions. His eyes remained on Amanda, however. “Detective Duke Rawlins, NYPD, at your service.”

  A cop?

  She’d been fighting an attraction to a cop? Amanda’s anger ebbed just a little as a wave of fear took its place. In the background she heard Victor and his trollop both start talking at once, but all Amanda could think about was getting hauled off to jail. The detective had followed her into the building and right into Victor’s apartment. Obviously she had more trouble on her hands than a lying, cheating boyfriend.

  Had she committed some violation of the indecent exposure code? Had that gust of wind revealed more than she’d realized? What if he frisked her? Or heaven forbid, searched her? A strip search wouldn’t play out well at all. She tugged her coat tie tighter.

  And if she got booked as a common flasher… Amanda didn’t think she’d survive the embarrassment. Her father provided more than enough Matthews family gossip for the tabloids. Her recent accolades as an up-and-coming designer in her own right would be meaningless in light of such a scandal.

  Detective Rawlins pointed toward the couch. His whole demeanor had changed. The cheeky grins from the elevator had vanished. He seemed utterly at ease taking command of the room. “Ladies, I’m going to need both of you to take a seat for questioning while I take care of Mr. Gallagher.”

  Cindy harrumphed her way over to the couch, no longer flirting with Blue Eyes now that she knew his identity. The woman glared at Amanda, as if the morning’s events were somehow her fault. Amanda ignored her, too worried about how she would explain jail time to her father to let Victor’s other girlfriend rattle her. Amanda carefully seated herself in a wingback chair, making sure her coat remained plastered to her thighs.

  Detective Rawlins walked around the living room, his gaze seeming to absorb every detail of Victor’s sparsely decorated apartment. “Vic, you’re already looking at three to ten for helping your drug importer friends. If you start talking to me about your business partners, maybe I won’t call the IRS about all your undeclared income.”

  Relief poured through Amanda as the cop read Victor his rights and arrested him on a string of charges Amanda didn’t really understand. What was criminal facilitation anyway?

  All she could think about was maybe she wouldn’t face flasher charges now.

  Amanda whispered a quick prayer of thanksgiving that she wasn’t going to jail. All she had to do was keep her coat firmly cinched, answer the detective’s questions, and not allow his sexy smile to unnerve her again.

  Then with any luck, she could limp out of here in her fuchsia heels and go back to her safe—but respectable—existence.

  2

  DUKE SAVED AMANDA Matthews for last.

  Not because she looked like a fifties movie star in her pink shoes and Grace Kelly hairdo. He was too professional to base his work decisions on personal lust. Besides, he knew society types were out of his league.

  Instead, Duke kept Amanda waiting past noon because of her infamous last name. He thought she could be the key to important information for his case and it might help loosen her lips to let her worry a bit.

  The notion teased his sex-starved senses.

  Poor choice of images.

  Duke looked around Victor Gallagher’s apartment in an attempt to pull himself together. His thoughts—and his eyes—had strayed to the curvaceous knockout seated primly in a leather wingback chair all morning. Now, he forced himself to run through a mental checklist of police procedure to be sure every facet of the search, questioning and arrest had unfolded according to regulation.

  Duke’s partner had taken a rare sick day today, forcing Duke to be all the more thorough. The last thing he needed was for Gallagher to walk on some bogus technicality and blow this case for him.

  Clyde Matthews’s fabric supplier would be the first of many arrests in the Garment District in the next few weeks if Duke’s case progressed as planned. Duke had worked for eight months gathering evidence of shady dealings in the fashion world, and starting today, he would reap the unique satisfaction of restoring justice in his backyard. Not only would he clean up the tenth precinct considerably, he would also be up for a promotion to Detective, First Grade.

  Another bad guy behind bars. Another proverbial star on Duke’s chest. His grandda
d would be proud.

  Only two uniformed officers remained on the scene collecting and labeling evidence from the search. Gallagher had been carted off nearly an hour ago, and Duke had just dismissed the gold-digging tart who’d been wearing the bathrobe.

  He couldn’t put off questioning Amanda any longer.

  She looked more vulnerable in person than in her file photo. Her fingers twisted white-knuckled around the cinched tie of her trench coat. She was obviously cold from the inside out after what had happened today.

  No damn wonder.

  A few hours ago she’d been “practically” engaged to an industry insider who looked like a walking fashion ad. Now she had a two-timing boyfriend facing at least three years in jail.

  No sense feeling sorry for her. Duke knew from experience how women from her world operated. The darlings of New York’s social pages could shake off a bad relationship. By noon tomorrow she’d probably be ready to have a power luncheon with her rich girlfriends to pinpoint the next ideal candidate for engagement.

  Duke had been taken in by pearls and good breeding at one point in his life. He’d been left with the retreating tread marks from the designer high heels, too.

  Steeling his libido for the next round with those sheer pink stockings, he approached the wingback chair. “Excuse me, Ms. Matthews?”

  She started at the sound of his voice. One hand flew from her lap to her chest, as if to still her heart. Or perhaps to clutch that damn coat more tightly to her neck. What on earth was she wearing under that trench coat anyway?

  As if in answer to his question, the bunched coat fabric on her thighs slid slightly open, revealing two more inches of stocking and no sign of a skirt hem.

  For one riveting moment, Duke thought he spied the top of a stocking. His body stirred in wholly inappropriate ways, even after she secured the folds of the trench coat in her lap again.

  Damn. Just how short was her skirt?

  “Yes?” She looked up at him with wary hope in her dark brown eyes. “May I go now?”

  “I’m afraid not. I need to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Victor Gallagher.” Of course, any information she wanted to volunteer about Gallagher’s business or her father’s mob connections would be helpful, he thought, taking a seat on the couch across from her.

  “He’s in serious trouble?” Concern knitted her brows.

  “Felony charges with a penalty of three to ten. I’d call it serious.” Did she really care after discovering him in such a compromising situation? The notion bugged Duke. Amanda had a gentle air about her, despite the killer outfit she must be wearing under that trench coat. She seemed too refined to be connected to a criminal like Gallagher. Despite his gangster reputation, her infamous father had obviously sheltered his only daughter.

  She rubbed her upper arms as if to ward off a chill. “What exactly did he do?”

  “A number of things. He’s been helping to import drugs into the States, using his fabric business as a cover.” He tried to keep the explanation simple, not wanting to dissuade Amanda from cooperating. What if she still carried a torch for the guy?

  She looked surprised. And frightened.

  “I had no idea.” She worried the fullness of her lower lip with straight, white teeth. “He seemed so…cultured. He doesn’t seem like a street thug.”

  Duke wondered if she knew the extent of her father’s business dealings. He’d be willing to bet the elder Matthews didn’t seem like a street thug, either, but he rubbed elbows with the oldest—and toughest—gang in the city. “You’re a window dresser, Ms. Matthews?”

  “I create windows for my father, but I’ve started my own design business as well,” she corrected him, then smiled. “I make the distinction so my father doesn’t slip back into thinking I’m his personal maid and secretary. How did you know what I do?”

  “You’re a line item in Gallagher’s file. I only checked into the basics though.” Her ritzy address, her perfect education, her relationship with Victor—which had seemed fairly superficial from the reports Duke had received. Now that Duke had met Amanda, he couldn’t imagine why Gallagher wouldn’t have claimed her already. The guy had made a colossal mistake as far as Duke could see.

  “You were planning to arrest him from the moment I first saw you this morning, weren’t you?”

  Duke thought it wise not to reveal the exact nature of his thoughts when he’d first seen her this morning. Purely carnal. “Sorry I couldn’t have spared you the inconvenience, but—”

  “It’s Amanda. Please.” She smiled at him in a way that managed to be both warm and distant. She apparently couldn’t shake her boarding school manners even in the event of police questioning, no matter how much the proceedings disrupted her day—her life.

  Duke would have preferred to maintain as many social barriers between them as he possibly could—especially with his mind straying back to that tantalizing glimpse of stocking every other minute. He wasn’t about to be rude, however. “Amanda.” The name pleased him as it rolled off his tongue. “Could you tell me why you were visiting Victor Gallagher today?”

  She blanched. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She might as well have shouted through a megaphone that she was about lie to him. “It was just a simple…social call.”

  Duke hadn’t suspected Clyde Matthews’s daughter of anything save poor judgment in boyfriends, but now he began to wonder. She looked as guilty as a sinner on Sunday. “Apparently you were going to surprise him…?”

  She adjusted the coat over her lap for the tenth time. “What makes you say that?”

  “If he knew you were on your way over, don’t you think he would have showed his lady friend to the door?”

  Her cheeks grew as pink as her stockings. “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t tell him I was on my way, isn’t it? I never would have known.”

  God knew he could relate to how she felt. He’d learned quickly that the cop groupies he’d dated when he first arrived in New York weren’t picky about which detective they slept with. Duke’s attempts to be selective since then had left him with long dry spells. In fact, his current dry spell had him drooling over Amanda Matthews’s trim calves beneath those sheer stockings, and wreaking havoc on his concentration.

  Duke squelched his sympathy, needing to focus on his job. “So your visit today was social?”

  She nodded, looking a bit calmer now.

  Duke moved on, filing away her reactions along with her answers. He would uncover Amanda’s secrets sooner or later, even if he had to keep her and her very short skirt here for another hour.

  Heaven help him.

  He withdrew a pen and paper to give himself something to do, a way to distract himself. “And how would you characterize your relationship overall? Is it mostly social, or do the two of you discuss business when you spend time together?”

  Amanda heard the detective’s question, but she didn’t want to answer it. She watched his pen seesaw back and forth over his thumb, mesmerized, and tried to think of a way around the question. She didn’t need another cop nosing into her family’s business. Her father might look like a favored son of the mob, but he only made suits for them. The association had troubled her for years, but she had yet to talk her father out of his bigwig clients.

  “Victor and I rarely discussed business,” she replied, shifting her position in the gray leather wingback chair.

  Her limbs were stiff with the tension of her rigid posture, but she refused to unveil another millimeter of stocking. Had it been her imagination, or had Duke Rawlins’s eyes widened at the revelation of so much thigh a few moments ago?

  Had he been admiring her stockings or contemplating indecent exposure charges?

  “When you did discuss business, what sorts of things would come up?”

  “Victor is not on the creative side of my business, so there wasn’t really much for us to discuss. He’d encourage me to find out what kinds of fabric I thought my father might want for his next collect
ion ahead of time so that Victor could be first in line to give him good prices on it.”

  The pen stopped seesawing. “Did you?”

  His intent look made her wonder if she should have called a lawyer. But then, what did she have to hide?

  Besides the obvious.

  “Would it be a crime if I did?” She would brazen this out.

  “No, Amanda.”

  Why had she asked him to call her that? Her name on his lips had a way of slithering over her like a slow caress. As if in response, the ties on her merry widow began to unravel from their loose knot, threatening to leave Amanda as unbound and jiggling as that hussy Victor had been sleeping with. She sucked in her belly, hoping to ease off any extra pressure from the garment.

  This particular article of clothing was not designed to wear for more than five minutes anyway. It was intended to drive a man wild in thirty seconds flat. No wonder she was springing out of it. “Well, I have never been able to anticipate my father’s creative direction, so I never supplied Victor with any inside information. He found out what Clyde Matthews wanted when the rest of us did.”

  Her father thrived on the aesthetic of a successful artist—the lunches in trendy cafés, the shows in Paris and Milan, the endless parade of up-and-coming designers, artists and models that peopled his studio at all hours. It didn’t seem to bother him that his artistic immersion had never left time in his life for anything else, including his only child.

  Duke Rawlins cleared his throat and set aside his hyperactive pen. “So how long have you known Gallagher?”

  Something in his demeanor, the way he leaned forward slightly, made the question sound personal.

  The silk lining of her coat teased the tops of her breasts with every breath she took. The fabric would be teasing a whole lot more if her merry widow sprung loose and wound up around her ankles. “For almost a year.”

  And Victor had never given her more than a good-night kiss in all that time. Obviously, he’d had a more pleasing partner to fulfill his other needs.

  The dog.

  “Has he ever offered you illegal drugs?”