Mad About You

by Bond, Stephanie

  Moisture welled up in Beaman's eyes.

  "Okay...okay. I left w-with a man. I'll give you his name, but you have to promise not to go to his house." A tear slid down his rouged cheek. "His wife doesn't know and neither does mine."

  "Don't even think about skipping town," Tenner warned, shaking the wig at him. "If we've been on a damned wild-goose chase and it turns out you're the bird, your wife's reaction to your sideline will be the least of your worries, Tina."

  Gloria Handelman, dressed in a painful-looking sling of black leather, lifted her hand in a little wave from the bar as they made their way toward the door, then added punctuation by giving Tenner the finger.

  "I think she digs me," he said as they walked outside.

  The man was as smart as a tree, James decided. "Maybe you should join her," he suggested. "That is, unless we can come up with just one more lead suspect before midnight," he added sarcastically.

  The detective snorted. "Think it was Beaman?"

  James shook his head slowly. "I'd be surprised, although he could have been in on it with someone else."

  "Ms. McKray," Tenner said, turning toward her. "Do you have any theories?"

  Kat jerked her head up. "Are you saying, Detective, that you no longer think I’m involved?"

  He gave a curt nod. "We might never catch the person who staged that break-in, but I'm not interested in putting an innocent woman in jail. I'll make a call to Ms. Pena's office in the morning to ask her to drop the charges."

  Relief flooded James's body at the same time Kat's face erupted into smiles, her openmouthed laughter music to his ears. Yet even as he gave her shoulders a squeeze, James felt his chest constrict. Should he leave now? The letter wasn't any closer to being found, yet somehow he felt as if his duty had been done. So why did he feel torn?

  "Come on, I'll give you both a lift," Tenner said, taking Kat's elbow. "His hotel and your apartment are on my way."

  "Well, actually," Kat said, biting her lower hp, "I'm staying at the Flagiron."

  Tenner lifted an eyebrow.

  "In my own room," she added hurriedly. "And just until I get the locks changed on my doors tomorrow."

  "Good idea," Tenner said as they stopped by his faded car. "Considering someone was able to waltz in and out of there like they knew the place."

  James held open the front passenger door for Kat, then claimed the seat behind her in the boat-size, four-door sedan. The inside smelled moldy and he was rather glad the interior light had expired so he couldn't see what scuffed and rattled beneath his feet.

  The detective rolled into the front seat. "So, Agent Donovan, when is a good time tomorrow for me and you to question this guy who's supposedly fooling around with Beaman?"

  James realized with a start that at some point, the detective had passed him the lead in handling the investigation. Just when he was thinking of making his escape to New York...his escape from Katherine McKray. "I'm not sure of my schedule at the moment," he said vaguely. "I'll call you, Detective."

  The ride to the hotel seemed interminable to James. Kat was talkative, no doubt buoyed by news of her impending freedom, and Tenner apologized for his men making such a mess of her apartment. When she responded that she would be moving soon anyway, James pursed his lips in thought. So she had decided to take the job in Los Angeles. Well, jolly good for her.

  He sat back against the seat and crossed his arms, frowning as something crunched beneath his left hip. Now when he remembered their brief time together in San Francisco, he couldn't picture her moving around in her apartment, or listening to the jazz band at Torbett's, or leaning over the side of a trolley car, smiling into the wind.

  Instead she'd be in Los Angeles breathing smog and getting shot at on the crowded roadways. He scoffed silently. Foolish woman—didn't she know how dangerous it would be to live there alone?

  "L.A is terrific," Tenner said. "Lots of nightlife, and celebrities everywhere. Young, pretty girl like you will love it—might even marry yourself a movie star."

  While Kat murmured her thanks, James resisted the temptation to lean forward and bop the man on the top of his round head.

  "Here we are," the detective said cheerfully, throwing the car into park with a lurch.

  "You don't have to get out," James assured him, scrambling out to open Kat's door.

  But Tenner emerged and walked around to the trunk, holding up a key. "Don't forget about your boxes—I wouldn't want my wife to think I'd bought her a gift or something." He laughed and slapped James on the back.

  James couldn't hide his surprise. "You're married?"

  "Hell, yes. Eighteen years. Three great kids—all girls." He pulled up his polyester pants and rocked back on his heels.

  Good God, out of all the women in this gigantic country, how had Tenner managed to bumble onto the one girl who was desperate enough to marry him? And worse—James gulped—sleep with him, at least three times.

  "Most wonderful woman on the face of the earth," Tenner said, his voice growing uncharacteristically warm. "Can't wait to get home—she always has a nice cup of hot chocolate waiting for me. 'Night, folks."

  Kat shifted the box she held to her hip and watched Tenner drive away. "How sweet."

  James grunted, realized he sounded like Tenner, then said, "Some people thrive on domesticity." He hadn't meant to sound quite so disdainful, but there it was and he couldn't take it back.

  Kat tipped her head back and looked into his eyes. "And some people thrive on arrogance." Then she turned and marched toward the hotel entrance.

  James followed, feeling grumpy, and caught up with her at the elevator. "I apologize," he said, suddenly feeling tired. "Perhaps the time change is affecting me after all."

  She was quiet for a full minute, the tension crackling across the few feet between them. "Perhaps you just can't understand how a man could be happy going home to the same woman every night." The elevator door dinged open and she stepped in first.

  When she turned around, he grinned. "That's true."

  But she obviously didn't share his humor. Blocking his entrance, she said, "No, James, that's sad."

  Then she pressed a button and the doors slid shut.

  James scowled at the closed steel door, then stabbed at the up button to retrieve another empty car. When he unlocked his door, he found the box she'd carried upstairs sitting inside the connecting door—the panel on his side was standing open, hers was closed. And locked, he'd bet. The saleswoman had printed "Woman" and "Man" on the respective boxes. He exhaled noisily and carried his own Man box over to the desk, then stored his sister's gift.

  As he removed his jacket and retrieved the television remote, his ears strained for sounds coming from her room. Nothing. James stacked the four bed pillows against the headboard, then slipped off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.

  His muscles sighed in relief and various joints popped and cracked as he sought a comfortable position. He was getting old, he thought wryly. Old and crotchety.

  He clicked through the channels, stopping briefly at an adult movie before frowning and going on to the news. It would do him good to be reminded that more important things were going on in the world, that he had isolated himself, making this little burglary case—and Kat—seem more significant than they really were. After all, in the scheme of things, it was one nonviolent crime, and she was one woman.

  To prove his point, he reached for his phone and booked a first-class seat on a direct flight to New York Monday night at eleven-thirty. He hung up with a smile of satisfaction on his face, but it was short-lived.

  His traitorous eyes strayed to the Woman box on the floor. Females were such complex creatures—changing moods at the drop of a hat, first giving, then withholding, seductive one minute, uptight the next—how did any man stick it out? The ones who did, didn't know any better, he decided, nodding to the Man box on the desk for support.

  They didn't know there was a world out there to travel, full of beautiful women and goo
d food and wonderful adventures. Didn't know that admitting vulnerability to a woman meant transferring the power to her—the power to woo or wound, as she saw fit.

  He glanced back to the Woman box, remembering her curvaceous lines with a rush of pleasure, then bit down on the inside of his cheek. Kat's naked image rose up to mock him, the involuntary hardening of his sex a taunting reinforcement of his earlier observation of power flow between the sexes. The Maker had tempered a woman's package by coupling a vexing will with a tantalizing body. Which was the bottom line, really. Their trump card. They had what men needed, and all the cat-and-mouse games in between revolved around it.

  James dropped his head back on the pillows and admitted defeat to the ceiling fen. Then he pulled himself up, retrieved Woman and sat her on the desk next to Man. "They've got us, but good," he mumbled to his jade counterpart.

  He stepped back into his shoes, then walked to the door connecting their rooms and, after a few seconds' hesitation, knocked.

  It was nearly a minute before he detected movement on the other side. "Who is it?" she asked.

  Case in point, James noted wryly. "An arrogant man bearing apologies."

  Silence, then, "Apology accepted."

  He closed his eyes in frustration. "I'm leaving tomorrow night, Pussy-Kat."

  Several seconds of tense silence passed, then the lock on her door made a thwacking sound and she pulled open the door.

  James blinked. She wore a long, white sleeveless gown of thin knit, reminiscent of a floor-length fitted T-shirt. Except the innocence of the fabric and the demure neckline was corrupted by the deep armholes and thigh-high slit on either side. Her hair was captured in a low side ponytail, loosely gathered beneath her ear.

  "I was ready for bed," she said, her smile a bit shaky.

  All moisture had left his mouth. "So I see," he managed to croak.

  "So you're leaving tomorrow," she said, suddenly fascinated with the doorknob she held.

  He cleared his throat. "Yes, I, um...I'm no longer needed here."

  She glanced up, and he tried desperately to read her eyes. "You're not going to try to find the letter?"

  "Our friend in Chinatown will stand a much better chance than I."

  "And if it isn't located?"

  He shrugged. "Then Lady Mercer will collect a few thousand pounds from the insurance company and perhaps an asterisk next to her name in a book someday."

  Kat inhaled deeply, straining the nearly transparent fabric. Her nipples were clearly outlined, pebbled from the room's chill, he supposed. His body, indifferent to the cold that had triggered her reaction, began to harden in response to something else.

  She laughed softly. "This has been the most eventful three days of my life."

  His, too, but in a different way. James reached for her hand and twined her warm fingers with his, then leaned close, his body surging with desire, and whispered, "Let's top it off with an eventful night, shall we?"

  After a heartbeat's hesitation, she nodded and opened her mouth to accept his kiss. Within moments they were on her bed, tearing at each other's clothes. James told himself to wait, to love her with steeping slowness, a memory to savor in the months to come. But when she lay bare against him, beneath him, astride him, his restraint fled. Her mouth, hands, and silken passage tore the energy from his body with staggering speed and intensity. He gathered her against him and gasped, "Kat...Kat...."

  She quieted and was soon breathing evenly beside him, her head tucked beneath his arm. Exhausted, but wide awake, he stared at her incredible breasts rising and falling until he felt the beginning of another erection and decided to get a drink of water.

  After easing from the bed, he padded across the room, retrieving his clothing on the way back to his room. There he tossed the garments on the bed, ran a glass of water in the bathroom, and drained it. When he emerged, he decided it would be a good time to call Lady Mercer and tell her of his plans to leave the city. He felt sure she would agree there was little more he could do.

  Squashing the nagging thought that he was running away from Kat more than the investigation, he punched in her number and waited for the connection.

  "Lady Tania Mercer's residence."

  James recognized the sleepy voice of Tania’s personal assistant. "Mary, this is James Donovan. I’m sorry to call at this hour, but I need to speak with Tania—is she available?"

  "She left for the London cottage, sir, and she has yet to install a phone there. You can try her cell, but she rarely has it turned on. "

  "I know," he said. "When you talk to her, please tell her I've left the matter of the missing letter in the hands of the San Francisco police and I'll be traveling to New York Monday evening. I'll call her when I get settled."

  "Fine, Mr. Donovan, I'll tell her."

  James ended the connection and briefly wondered if he were letting Tania down by not trying to locate that damned silly love letter. Glancing toward Kat's room, James wondered at what point his mission had shifted from solving the crime to seeing her cleared.

  When she'd asked him to get her father's humidor, he decided. He would never forget the panic in her eyes when she thought she might lose something so precious to her. James walked over to his closet, then knelt and dialed in the combination of the wall safe. The door popped open, revealing a cavity not much larger than the humidor itself. The rich scent of the mahogany tickled his nostrils as he carefully withdrew the box.

  Since he'd be leaving tomorrow, he would check the water one last time and place the humidor in Kat's room. He lifted the lid and noted on the barometer that the moisture level had dropped just below the proper level of seventy percent He removed the soapsize sponge from a vented cavity and wet it under the faucet. That done, he couldn't resist fingering the wonderful cigars again.

  He chose one and twirled it between thumb and forefinger, loving the feel of it, the flash of the gold band, the colorful label. Which seemed to be loose, he noticed, then stopped when something fluttered to the carpet.

  James bent over to pick up the tiny square of paper, realizing when he turned it over that it was a stamp. A very old stamp. And he recalled Guy Trent's words when the man had implied that Kat was responsible for items disappearing from the gallery.

  Katherine's father found the stamp...bought it for fifteen dollars, and it was worth around fifteen thousand...then a few weeks after he died, it vanished.

  Chapter Twelve

  KAT STIRRED, feeling a delicious sense of contentment. The sheets were warm, the pillow was comfy, James was—she opened her eyes and glanced toward his pillow...James was gone. As she stared, the digital clock on the nightstand went from two-twelve to two-thirteen.

  Frowning, she sat up in near complete darkness, holding the sheet to her breasts. "James?" she whispered.

  "I'm here." His voice came from the direction of the armchairs.

  She squinted until she discerned his outline, black on black, sitting with his long legs propped on the ottoman. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

  "I'm asking myself the same question," he said, his voice low and rumbling. "Considering I'm not the one who should have a guilty conscience." She heard a click, then the bulb of a small reading lamp illuminated him in a yellow haze. He had donned his slacks, but they gaped unzipped around his waist, revealing his pale underwear.

  He was barefoot, his legs crossed at the ankles. On the tip of his large forefinger dangled a stamp. Her father's stamp.

  Her heart jumped to her throat. "What do you mean?"

  His mouth tightened. "I mean Guy Trent told me a valuable stamp disappeared from the gallery shortly after your father was killed—he implied that you had taken it, but I didn't believe him."

  She pulled the sheet higher, covering herself from his incriminating gaze. Her mind raced. Would he understand why she had taken it? He seemed to dodge emotional involvement but if he had been close to his parents—

  "Say something!" he barked, pounding his fist on the padded arm of the cha
ir.

  Kat jumped, inhaling sharply. Then anger sparked within her, and she pushed herself up and walked across the bed on her knees. "Don't you dare speak to me like I've done something to you! Those jackals at the gallery never gave my dad credit for anything!" Her voice and hands shook violently. Hateful, bitter words that had been festering in her stomach for years bubbled up and out of her mouth, like a cleansing regurgitation.

  "For years, my father begged Mr. Jellico to build a restoration center, only to be told it was a foolish idea. Then Guy Trent arrives and reads an old memo my father wrote and presented it like it was his sudden inspiration. Not only was it built, but Guy received national recognition for his innovative concept of assembly-line-style restoration teams—an idea he stole from my father's notes."

  She stepped to the floor and walked closer to him, leaning forward, shaking her finger. "My father bought that stamp one day on his lunch hour—I had convinced him to leave Jellico's and he said we'd use the money to start our own antique furniture business. Instead, Guy told him he'd bought it on the gallery's time, and bullied my dad into giving it to him."

  To her horror, tears blurred her vision. "My dad was so naive, he just...handed it over." She stopped and straightened, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to calm down. "After he died, I actually forgot about it until I went into Guy's office to fetch something he was too lazy to get for himself, and there it was, lying on his desk in a mailing case, next to a sales order. The bastard had sold it for eighteen thousand dollars." Her laugh tasted bitter on the back of her throat. "I couldn't let him do it, so I stole the stamp." She sniffed mightily. "Go ahead and call the police if you feel like you have to."

  Except for his eyes, he had barely moved during her outburst. Setting her mouth, she refused to drop her gaze, refused to back down.

  He pressed his lips together and held up the stamp. "So this is why you failed the polygraph?"

  She nodded, wary.

  "And you had nothing to do with the disappearance of the letter?"