by Nora Roberts
“Oh, I recognized Captain Skimmerhorn.” Ashley held out a hand, waiting until Jed had juggled the plate back to Dora. “I should say, the elusive Captain Skimmerhorn.” Her fingers glided over his. “It’s so rare that we’re able to tempt you to one of our little affairs.”
“I don’t find little affairs tempting.”
This time Ashley’s laugh was low and throaty. “I prefer long, steamy ones myself. And how do you two know each other?”
Dora picked up the ball to save Ashley from one of Jed’s nastier comments. “Jed and I share a passion,” she said, and took a slow, deliberate sip of champagne. “For pincushions.”
Ashley’s avid eyes went blank. “For—”
“Jed has the most incredible collection. We met at a flea market, when we both reached for the Victorian blue-satin-and-lace heart-shaped—pins included.” She gave a fluttery, romantic sigh.
“You collect . . . pincushions?” Ashley asked Jed.
“Since I was a child. It’s an obsession.”
“And he’s such a tease.” Dora gave him an intimate look over the rim of her glass. “He keeps dangling his horse’s hoof with plated mounts under my nose. And he knows perfectly well I’d do anything—anything—to have it.”
“Negotiations . . .” He trailed a fingertip down the line of her throat. “Are open.”
“How fascinating,” Ashley murmured.
“Oh, it is,” Dora agreed. “Oh, there’s Magda and Carl. Excuse us, won’t you? I simply have to catch up.”
“Pincushions?” Jed muttered against her ear as they lost themselves in the crowd.
“I thought about sardine dishes, but they seemed so pretentious.”
“You could have told her the truth.”
“Why?”
He thought about it. “Simplicity?”
“Too boring. Besides, if she knew you lived across the hall from me, she’d start hanging around my apartment, hoping to seduce you. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Lips pursed in consideration, Jed glanced over his shoulder to give Ashley a thorough study. “Well . . .”
“She’d only use you and toss you aside,” Dora assured him. “I see your grandmother over there. Should you join her?”
“Not if you’re going to grill her about candleholders.”
That hadn’t been her intention—exactly. “You’re just afraid she’ll make you dance with me again. Tell you what, I really will go talk to Magda and Carl, and you can catch up with me later, if you like.”
He took her arm, frowned down at his own hand and removed it. “Stick around.”
“What a charming invitation. Why?”
“Because if I’m going to be trapped in here for a couple more hours, it might as well be with you.”
“Poetry, sheer poetry. How can I resist? Let’s go see if your grandmother wants some nibbles. I promise not to bring up candleholders unless it seems appropriate.”
“Jed.”
A hand clamped on his shoulder. Jed braced, turned. “Commissioner,” Jed said, both his face and voice neutral.
“Good to see you.” Police Commissioner James Riker gave Jed a quick but thorough study. What he saw obviously pleased him as his thin, dark face creased in a smile. “You’re keeping fit, I see.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you were overdue for a vacation, God knows. How was your Christmas?”
“Fine.” Because he couldn’t ignore Riker’s pointed look toward Dora, Jed did his duty. “Commissioner Riker, Dora Conroy.”
“Hello.” As both her hands were full, Dora beamed him a smile instead of a handshake. “So, you’re in charge of keeping the law and order in Philadelphia.”
“I’m in charge of keeping men like Jed on the job.”
If Riker couldn’t feel the tension shimmering off Jed, she could. The need to protect clicked in. Dora smoothly changed the course. “I suppose most of your work now is administrative.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you miss the action?” She smiled, handing Jed her empty glass. “In fiction cops always miss the action.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. From time to time.”
“I have to ask. I have this bloodthirsty nephew who’ll want to know. Were you ever shot?”
If the question surprised him, Riker covered it well. “No. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. I’ll lie.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Miss Conroy, but I need to steal Jed for a minute. The mayor would like a word with him.”
Dora gave way graciously. “Nice to have met you, Commissioner Riker.”
“My pleasure. I’ll only keep Jed a moment.”
Trapped, Jed handed her back her empty glass. “Excuse me.”
Oh, he really hated this, she mused as she watched him walk away. It hadn’t shown, not in his face, not in his eyes, but he hated it. A man faced a firing squad with more enthusiasm.
When he returned he’d be simmering with fury or tight-lipped with guilt or simply miserable. Feeling for him, Dora wondered if she could find some way to distract him, to turn whatever emotions the commissioner and the mayor managed to stir up into a different channel.
Joke him out of it? she mused as she wandered over to get a refill on her champagne. Irritate it out of him would probably be easier. It wouldn’t even take much effort.
“I would think they would take more care as to who attends these affairs.”
The gravelly voice was instantly recognizable. Dora turned with a bright smile on her face. “Mrs. Dawd, Andrew. How . . . interesting.”
Mrs. Dawd drew air fiercely through her nostrils. “Andrew, fetch my club soda.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Mrs. Dawd, with her bulky frame draped in black satin, leaned forward, close enough that Dora saw the few gray hairs stabbing out of her chin that her tweezers had missed. “I knew what you were, Miss Conroy. I warned him, of course, but Andrew is as susceptible as any man to a woman’s wiles.”
“I had all my wiles surgically removed. I could show you the scars.”
The woman ignored her. “But what would you expect, bred from a family of actors?”
Dora took a careful breath, a careful sip. She would not, absolutely not, let this idiotic old woman make her lose her temper.
“Those acting families,” Dora said lightly. “The Fondas, the Redgraves, the Bridges. God knows how they can be permitted to taint society.”
“You think you’re clever.”
“Mother, here’s your drink.”
Mrs. Dawd swept Andrew and the club soda back with a violent gesture. “You think you’re clever,” she said again, her voice lifting enough to have several onlookers murmuring. “But your little tricks didn’t work.”
“Mother—”
“Be still, Andrew.” There was fire in her eyes now. She was the mama bear protecting her cub.
“Yes, Andrew, be still.” Dora’s smile was tiger sharp. “Mother Dawd was about to tell me about my little tricks. Do you mean the one when I told your slimy son to get his hand out from under my skirt?”
The woman hissed in anger. “You lured him into your apartment, and when your pathetic seduction failed, you attacked him. Because he recognized you for exactly what you are.”
There was a laser gleam in Dora’s eye now. “Which is?”
“Whore,” she hissed. “Slut. Floozy.”
Dora set down her glass to free her hand. She balled it into a fist and gave serious consideration to using it. She settled for upending her plate on Mrs. Dawd’s heavily lacquered hair.
The resulting screech should have shattered crystal. With salmon mousse dripping into her eyes, Mrs. Dawd lunged. Dora braced for the attack, then gave out a howl of her own as she was snatched from behind.
“Jesus Christ, Conroy,” Jed muttered as he dragged her toward the ballroom doors. “Can’t I leave you alone for five minutes?”
“Let me go!” She might have taken a swing at him, but he loc
ked her arms at her sides. “She had it coming.”
“I don’t feel like bailing you out of jail.” He strode toward a sitting area with cushy chairs and potted plants. He heard the orchestra strike up “Stormy Weather.”
Perfect.
“Sit.” He punctuated the order with a shove that had her tumbling into a chair. “Pull yourself together.”
“Look, Skimmerhorn, that was my own personal business.”
“You want me to have the commissioner haul you in for disturbing the peace?” he asked mildly. “A couple hours in the tank would cool you off.”
He would, too, she thought viciously. Dora huffed, tapped her foot, folded her arms. “Give me a—”
He already had a cigarette lit and was handing it to her.
“Thanks.” She fell into silence.
He knew her routine. She would take three, maybe four quick shallow puffs, then stab it out.
One, he counted. Two. She shot him a furious glare. Three.
“I didn’t start it.” Her lips moved into a pout as she crushed out the cigarette.
Jed decided it was safe to sit. “I didn’t say you did.”
“You didn’t threaten to have her arrested.”
“I figured she was going to have enough problems picking pimentos out of her hair. Want a drink?”
“No.” She preferred to sulk. “Look, Skimmerhorn, she was insulting me, my family, women in general. And I took it,” she said righteously. “I took it even when she called me a tramp, a slut, a whore.”
A great deal of his amusement faded. “She said that to you?”
“And I took it,” Dora barreled on, “because I kept telling myself she was just a crazy old lunatic. I was not going to cause a scene. I was not going to lower myself to her level. Then she went too far, she went one step too far.”
“What did she do?”
“She called me a—a floozy.”
Jed blinked, gamely struggled to swallow the tickle at the back of his neck. “A what?”
“A floozy,” she repeated, slapping her fist on the chair.
“Let’s go take her down.”
Dora’s chin came up, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I’m not. Who’s laughing?”
“You are, damn it. You’re biting your tongue right now to hold it back.”
“I am not.”
“You are too. You’re slurring your words.”
“It’s the scotch.”
“Like hell.” She turned her head away, but he’d caught the quiver of her lips. When he brought her face back to his, they grinned foolishly at each other.
“You made it an interesting evening, Conroy.”
“Well.” Her temper spent, she giggled, then leaned back to rest her head on his shoulder. “I was trying to think of some way to distract you so you wouldn’t be upset from the mayor and Riker.”
“Why should I be upset?”
“They were pressuring you, weren’t they?” Though he didn’t move, she felt a part of him shift away. “Lucky for me, Mrs. Dawd came along so I didn’t have to invent something.”
“So you dumped food on her head to lift my spirits.”
“No, it was strictly a selfish act, but it did have a nice side benefit.” She turned her head. “Give me a kiss, will you?”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like one. Just a friendly one.”
He put a finger under her chin to tip it up, touched his lips to hers. “Friendly enough?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She started to smile, but he shifted his hand, cupped it around her throat. With his eyes open, he lowered his mouth to hers again, teased her lips apart with his tongue and tasted the arousal on her first shaky breath.
It was like water, pure, sweet water after an agonizing thirst. He sipped easily.
She felt the rush of need, the hard, sharp-edged wave of it that left her limp. He didn’t bring her closer, nor did he deepen the kiss. Instead it was slow, cool, devastatingly controlled.
When he drew back, she kept her eyes closed, absorbing the flood of sensation. Her heart was still pounding in her ears when she opened her eyes. “God,” was all she managed to say.
“Problem?”
“I think so.” She pressed her lips together. She could have sworn they were vibrating. “I think . . . I think I’ll go.” Her knees wobbled when she stood. It was very difficult, she thought, to be in charge of a situation when your knees wobbled. She pressed a hand to her stomach where the hard ball of need had hotly lodged. “God,” she said again, and walked away.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The new security system on Dora’s building brought DiCarlo a great deal of irritation. The extra time needed to bypass it, and to get through the sturdier locks, completely wrecked his schedule. He’d hoped to get in and out of the storeroom by midnight. For surely if the Conroy woman had bought the damn painting, the damn painting was inside, regardless of what the idiot redheaded clerk had told him on Christmas Eve.
Now he’d be lucky to be inside by midnight. And worse, a nasty sleet was beginning to fall. His surgeon’s gloves were hardly adequate protection against the cold.
At least there was no moon, he thought as he worked and shivered. And there were no vehicles in the graveled lot, which meant no one was home. Despite the complications, he could still be in New York by morning. He’d sleep the entire day, then catch a late flight to the coast. Once he’d handed over Finley’s toys, accepted the gratitude and a generous bonus, he’d fly back to New York for a rollicking New Year’s Eve.
DiCarlo shivered as the cold snuck under his collar like frigid little ants.
When the final tumbler fell, he gave a little grunt of satisfaction.
In less than fifteen minutes he was certain that the painting was not in the storeroom. Using self-control, he curbed the urge to wreck the place. If the painting was going to cause a problem, it would be best if no one knew there’d been a break-in.
He did another thorough tour of the shop, automatically picking up a few small trinkets as he went, including the jade Foo dog Terri had tried to sell him.
Resigned, DiCarlo headed upstairs. He cursed, but without much heat when he encountered the lock on the door at the top of the steps. This one was basically for looks, and he was through it quickly.
He listened, heard nothing. No radio, television, conversation. Still, he moved silently down the hall, peering out the door to be certain the parking lot was still empty.
Three minutes later he was inside Jed’s apartment. That search was over almost before it had begun. There were no paintings on the wall, none tucked into the closets. He found nothing under the bed but a dog-eared paperback copy of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and a balled-up sock.
He did find the .38 in the nightstand of some interest, but after a brief examination, replaced it. Until he’d found the painting, he couldn’t afford to steal anything noticeable. He gave the bench press and weights in the living room a quick glance on his way out.
He was in Dora’s apartment in a matter of seconds. She hadn’t bothered to lock it.
The search here was a different matter. Where Jed’s apartment had held a minimum of furniture, Dora’s was packed. The clutter in Jed’s came from carelessness. In Dora’s it was a lifestyle.
There were several paintings. A watercolor still life, two oval portraits, one of a stern-faced man in starched collar, one of an equally stern-faced woman. Other art ranged from signed lithographs, advertising posters, and pen-and-ink sketches to the finger paintings stuck to the refrigerator. But the abstract wasn’t on the wall.
He moved into the bedroom to search the closet. Because he, too, had left the door unlocked, he barely had time to react when he heard it open. By the time it slammed, DiCarlo was deep in the closet hidden behind a colorful assortment of outfits that smelled erotically of woman.
“I have to be crazy,” Dora told herself. “Absol
utely crazy.” She peeled out of her coat, laid it over the back of a chair and yawned hugely. How did she let her parents talk her into it? Why had she let them talk her into it?
Still muttering to herself, she walked straight to the bedroom. Her plans for the evening had been so simple, she thought. A nice, solitary meal of grilled chicken and wild rice; a long, fragrant bath with a glass of chardonnay as a companion. She’d intended to top it all off with a good book by the bedroom fire.
But no, she thought, and switched on the Tiffany lamp beside the bed. Oh, no, she had to fall into that old family trap of the show must go on.
Was it her fault that three stagehands had come down with the flu? Was it her fault she’d let her father badger her into joining the union?
“Absolutely not,” she decided, tugging her tight-fitting black cashmere sweater over her head. “I didn’t give them the damn flu. I didn’t have to feel obligated to jump into the void just because I have an IATSE card.”
Sighing, she bent over to unlace her black Chucks. Instead of a quiet, relaxing evening at home, she’d answered her mother’s frantic call for help and had spent hours handling props and hauling scenery.
She’d even reluctantly enjoyed it. Standing backstage and listening to the voices echo, rushing out when the lights dimmed to make a scenery change, feeling a vicarious pride when the cast took their curtain calls.
After all, Dora thought with a yawn, what’s bred in the bone . . .
Through the two-inch crack in the closet door, DiCarlo had an excellent view. The more he saw, the more his annoyance at being interrupted faded. The situation had possibilities, previously unexplored ones.
The woman who was bending and stretching at the foot of the bed had performed a very intriguing striptease and was now wearing only a couple of very tiny, very lacy black swatches. DiCarlo studied the smooth curve of her bottom as Dora bent to touch her toes.
She was beautifully built, in a firm, compact style. And from the way she was moving, it appeared she’d be very, very agile.
She’d changed his plans, but DiCarlo prided himself on creative thinking. He’d simply wait until the very pretty, very alone lady had gotten into bed.