# It's All About Eve

Tracy Kelleher

Eve Cantoro's hot lingerie shop in the middle of quaint town, U.S.A., is causing quite a stir. She's not worried, however, because despite the gossip, the silky, satiny unmentionables are flying off her shelves. Some have even been stolen. After the second theft, Eve refuses to back down–it's time for action! So she calls in the cops…well, one cop. And an amazing one, at that.Carter Moran doesn't know tap pants from a sink tap, but after one look at the shop's sexy owner, he's willing to learn. And investigate. Though he's the one with the secret. Carter's hoping it won't get in the way–he and Eve can't get enough of each other. Together they've become inseparable in every way…in every room. He can't not be with her. Something about her speaks to him and it's shouting sex, sex, sex!And suddenly tap pants aren't the only lingerie going missing.…

“Trust me. Your technique leaves nothing to be desired.”

Eve breathed in deeply.

Carter leaned into her. “Now that we’ve established that, maybe it’s time I seized the opportunity.”

“Seized the opportunity?”

“To have my way with you.”

Oh. His offer should have sounded tacky. Instead, because it was offered in such a lighthearted, self-mocking tone, it sent shock waves of desire through every fiber of her being. “Do you have a habit of saying things like that to all women?”

“No. Never. It must be something you bring out in me.” He gave her a little squeeze.

She worked her lower lip. She wasn’t the kind of person who could ignore the obvious. Yes, she wanted Carter. She looked up into his face, noticing for the first time that he had a freckle half-hidden in the hairline at his temple. It looked entirely kissable. And that‘s what scared her silly.

Dear Reader,

Lingerie is one of the few things a woman can indulge in that doesn’t add extra pounds to her hips. Besides, as we all know, it’s also a necessity. Whose mother hasn’t advised her to always wear good underwear in case of an emergency?

And speaking of indulging, what better profession to give my newest heroine, Eve Cantoro, than owner of an upscale lingerie shop? After years of being responsible for four unruly younger brothers, Eve finally achieves blissful independence and a chance to focus on her professional ambitions. But her successful business attracts trouble, starting with a serial lingerie thief. Enter Carter Moran, a police detective with a seriously sinful smile and a passel of secrets all his own. The solution to the crimes, as well as true happiness, means they both need to learn a few things along the way. Not surprisingly, a silky little camisole comes in handy on the journey.

So curl up with Eve and Carter and indulge in your own silken fantasies. After all, your mother was right about some things.

Many thanks to Anne Zuckerman for teaching me the finer points of the lingerie business.

All the best,

Tracy Kelleher

Books by Tracy Kelleher

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

908—EVERYBODY’S HERO

It’s All About Eve…

Tracy Kelleher


www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my parents, with much love.

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

## 1

IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE RED tap pants, Eve Cantoro never would have known that she had problems.

Of course, problems—like underwear—came in all shapes and sizes. And one thing Eve knew was underwear.

Men, especially relationships involving men, were another thing. Take the man standing next to her.

“You say they were here?” Detective Carter Moran pointed his index finger dangerously close to the hairless, triangular juncture of the model’s legs. He hesitated, then dropped his hand abruptly. “I mean, there?”

Eve nodded. “Yes, there.” She looked at the stylized, gray mannequin and sighed.

Why was it that when confronted with women’s lingerie, men inevitably fell into two categories? The first were the sniggering lechers who sounded off about “some women always wanting it,” implying they could easily supply the “it.” The second were the embarrassed types who, in contrast, seemed incapable of saying or doing anything beyond spouting beads of sweat along their upper lips and getting a petrified look in their eyes.

Detective Moran stood there—on the verge of jumping into one or the other category. He stared at the model in the store window and rubbed his jaw. A very nice, square jaw, Eve noted. “Give me a second, will you?” he said slowly. “I’m trying to be cool here—not make some tasteless comment or drool out of the side of my mouth. Either would, I’m sure, be totally offensive to you and—at least in terms of my fragile male ego—absolutely mortifying. I’d be forced to find the nearest brick wall and bang my head against it repeatedly.”

My God, the detective was different after all. What a surprise.

Eve didn’t normally like surprises. They tended to mean extra work, extra time, even extra pain. The one and only time she had submitted to getting her legs waxed was in the throes of an unrequited infatuation with her car mechanic. Well, the man did know his way around her carburetor.

But it wasn’t very often that a surprise came so neatly packaged, and rarely had a male specimen done so much to promote a positive image of law and order. At least, not in Eve’s thirty years of experience. At well over six feet, Detective Moran’s broad shoulders very nicely filled out the jacket of his charcoal-gray suit. And while fine tailoring seemed to be the order of the day, Detective Moran didn’t appear to need any added padding, thank you. If it weren’t for the high price tag—presumably beyond a cop’s salary—she would have sworn the glad rags had the definite look of Paul Stewart, traditional but definitely more stylish than Brooks Brothers. Just look at the trousers.

Yes, look at them, Eve thought. Most conservative trousers were usually cut so generously that there was enough material to fashion a spinnaker for a forty-foot yacht. But Detective Moran’s trousers, on the other hand—or on his particular legs, to be more precise—discreetly highlighted the well-developed muscles of his thighs.

But she was digressing. Eve crossed her arms. “Not your typical stolen property case, is it?” Eve was the owner of Sweet Nothings, the only lingerie shop in town. It was a recent addition to the high-end clothing stores, stock brokerages, independent bookstores and designer coffee shops.

Detective Moran slipped a hand in a vent pocket of his pants. “Frankly, we don’t get many robberies in these parts. Thefts of mountain bikes are more the norm. Sometimes purses left in unlocked cars. Occasionally, someone walks off with a Rolex watch from one of the jewelry stores.” He looked at her slender wrist.

“I’m more a Swatch-kind-of-girl,” she said. “Good price, good lines.”

His eyes traveled from her watch, slowly up to her face. “I can see what you mean by good lines.” Almost as a quick afterthought, he ran his hand through his hair.

Wet, Eve noted. At eleven o’clock in the morning, it was a little late for shower time. Still, it showed a high regard for cleanliness. Something greatly appreciated in a tidy little town like Grantham.

Not that Grantham ever considered itself little in the most essential way—prestige. Think the sophistication of Soho but with a real supermarket. Home to an elite university, this exclusive enclave in central New Jersey was known for its appealing colonial architecture, skyrocketing real estate prices, and high SAT scores among its above-average public and private school population—Lake Wobegon had nothing on Grantham. Needless to say, nothing was left to chance. Volvo station wagons defined the parking space dimensions, and even the azaleas and magnolias coordinated their spring blooms in socially acceptable colors

But now that it was the beginning of June, the heat had turned up a notch, and the start of the summer’s humidity produced a certain lassitude in the air. Big Daddy would have felt right at home.

“It’s highly unusual, to say the least, to have cases being reported of, of—what do you call these things again that you said were missing?” Detective Moran nodded toward the mannequin, then looked at Eve.

“Hmmm?” she said absentmindedly. Eve noticed that his wet hair was a dark, reddish-brown. She had always had this thing for men with dark red hair. And his was finger-combed, pushed straight back from a broad, intelligent forehead. Actually, maybe it was the intelligence rather than the hair color that really got her. That—and his eyes. They were an exotic, hunter green. Talk about a jolt straight to the heart.

“I’m sorry, what do you call those?” He pointed—this time keeping his extended index finger at a discreet distance.

Eve focused. “They’re called tap pants, or at least they were called tap pants until a few minutes ago.” She looked in the direction of his extended left hand. She couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

He followed the direction of her gaze with his own eyes—those Emerald Isle babies. “Yes, well.” He nervously wiggled his fingers, then lowered his arm to his side. “That’s when you noticed they were gone?”

“Actually, my assistant Melodie noticed they were gone and let me know. I was with a customer, a young woman. She was buying an item for her honeymoon. A thong, to be exact.” She folded her arms across the front of her black top.

The policeman frowned. “A thong?”

“Underpants. They’re the little small ones.”

He blinked. “Oh?”

“Yes, they don’t leave any visible panty-line.”

“Hey, I’m all for practicality, especially in a woman.”

“Really?” Eve asked.

“Really.” They studied each other in silence.

Eve slanted her head. “Would you like to know the color, practically speaking, of course?”

“Of course—practically speaking.”

“This particular thong was midnight-blue.”

“Midnight-blue?” He left his mouth slightly open.

“Almost black.”

“Almost?”

“Yes, it’s very popular with new brides.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and their husbands as well.” She raised her chin and did her best to look down at him, virtually impossible, since he had almost a foot on her five-foot-two frame. As it was, she had a prime view of stubble. The kind that would abrade the soft skin of a woman’s breast. “For all the practical reasons, of course,” she added.

The detective breathed deliberately. “Of course. I mean, I can imagine.”

Eve tilted her head. “Can you now?”

He paused before replying, concentrating his full attention on her face—and an interesting face it was. From her thick, shoulder-length black hair and her strong Roman nose, to her peaches-and-cream skin and raspberry-pink lips. When he finished his thorough examination above the neck, he said slowly, “You’d be surprised what I can imagine.”

Eve gulped. Enough was enough. This wasn’t a social call. Which didn’t explain at all why she was wondering if the lipstick she’d applied early in the morning was still on or not. Eek. Sometimes she amazed even herself.

She yanked her hair behind her ear. “Yes, well, I’m sure in your line of work, you’ve had the opportunity to witness all sorts of goings-on and as a result, can imagine all sorts of things.” She was all business now.

The detective looked at her closely and waited a beat before replying. “So why don’t you tell me more about the missing garment?”

“The garment we’re talking about is a pair of tap pants—you know, loose-fitting panties,” she explained. He frowned. “Detective Moran—”

“Carter,” he interrupted with a smile, a dimple appearing low on his cheek. “It’s a relatively small town. We like to think it’s possible for everybody to all know each other.”

She held up her hand in acknowledgement. “Carter. Anyway, we get occasional shoplifting, and granted one pair isn’t such a big deal. But this is now the third time we’ve had this particular item disappear from the window.”

He nodded. “They must be pretty hot.”

“Maybe you’d like to see for yourself?” Without waiting, she marched from the front of the shop with its collection of nightgowns and robes to a small room housing undergarments. Three small, brushed aluminum tables held artful arrangements of intimate ensembles. Along the outer wall, an almost industrial-looking rod with giant hooks displayed colorful bras and bustiers. Shelves and drawers with high-tech handles lined the inner walls. The remaining surfaces were painted a discreet shell pink, and the wood floors were stained a rosy blond. The total effect was understatedly feminine without being cutesy-wutesy. Eve didn’t go for frou-frou.

She went behind one of the display tables—the variety of garter belts, including one pair with fur straps, was really quite amazing—and bent over to slide open a drawer. “Here’s a pair just like the ones that were in the window.” Eve turned around.

The policeman’s eyes quickly shifted from her backside. He raised his hand to his mouth and coughed.

She straightened up, running one hand down the black material of her slacks, and held out the garment. “Keep it—for reference.”

Carter lowered his hand and reached for the tap pants—a naturalist getting his first glimpse of a rare species. “So these are tap pants.” He inspected the price tag dangling from a string. “I can see that there’s a profit to be made. And I take it this size eight would also fit—” he looked around the garment and studied Eve’s hips “—someone of your size?”

Eve frowned.

“Just think of all this as purely information gathering.”

“You don’t say?”

He gave her an exasperated smile. “You know, sometimes an observation is merely an observation. Well, maybe not all the time, but some of the time, at least. At least, I think some of the time it is. Like now, for instance.” He rubbed his forehead, that very nice, intelligent forehead. “Actually, the truth is I’m not sure of anything at the moment.”

Aw, thought Eve. She wanted to take his hand, tell him not to worry. Offer him a cappuccino. No, maybe her shoulder. Maybe more than her shoulder. Maybe say something like, “I don’t usually do things like this, but would you like to spend a weekend at a little B&B in Bucks County, the kind of place with floral wallpaper, tasseled throw pillows and bowls of potpourri?”

Did people really say things like that?

Carter held up a hand. He looked like he was about to speak.

Maybe they did.

“You know, one thing I am sure of, I’m here on official duty. Right?” He looked like he was asking for confirmation.

Eve swallowed hard. “Right. Absolutely.” Where were her thoughts wandering at a time like this? Tasseled pillows, my God. She hated tassels. “Actually, for the record, those tap pants happen to fit the mannequin in the window.”

Carter slowly walked back to the front of the shop and stared at the display window. “Was the mannequin disturbed in any way?” There were three mannequins on view: one had on a slinky negligee, a second wore flannel pajamas with ducks swimming in what looked like bathtubs, and the third—in the middle—featured a strapless, red lace bustier and a decidedly naked bottom. Carter Moran didn’t appear to be staring at the ducks.

Eve paused midstride. The way a man walked could definitely be attractive in a way that had never occurred to her before. “What was that?”

He turned around and looked at her. “Was the mannequin moved or knocked over?”

Eve lifted her head upright and squared her shoulders. “No, the mannequin was completely in order. Just as if nobody had touched it.”

“Well, don’t touch it now,” he said. “I’ll have somebody come by to dust it and the immediate area for prints. Not that I can promise anything.” Carter looked around. A few customers had drifted into the shop, including a couple of Grantham University coeds who were looking at black silk boxer shorts. He frowned and leaned a little closer to Eve. She could smell a light citrusy scent, along the lines of grapefruit, pink grapefruit.

“Are they for women or men?” He nodded toward the boxers.

Eve glanced over, thinking of vitamin C in ways she never dreamed of. “Both. Maybe you’d like to see a pair?”

“No thanks. I’m strictly a white cotton Jockeys guy.”

“Hmm-mmm.”

He looked a little taken aback. “Is that a hmm-mmm good or a hmm-mmm bad?”

“Just a hmm-mmm,” she said. “As someone in the business, I try not to be judgmental when it comes to a person’s choice in underwear.”

“That’s nice to know.” He smiled and thought. “Of course, it leads to the assumption that you’re judgmental about other things.” He paused. “Are you?”

Eve considered the question. “Champagne—I definitely like it very dry. And fireworks—I like them really loud. Then there’s perfume—I like it clean, fresh.” Citrusy, she thought. “I don’t like it when it’s too strong, kind of drippy—you know, gardenias mixed with Spanish moss.”

“Hmm-mmm.” His voice was playful.

She smiled. “Is that a hmm-mmm good or a hmm-mmm bad?”

Carter smiled wider. “Just a hmm-mmm.”

Eve pursed her lips. “I’m glad we’ve cleared up that.”

His eyes danced. “Me, too.”

They stood there smiling at each other until Carter cleared his throat again. “Yes, well.” He looked over toward the counter. Eve’s assistant was ringing up a purchase for a woman in a gray, pinstripe pants suit. Her face was turned away from them. “You said this isn’t the first time that a pair of, uh, tap pants have disappeared?”

“That’s right. We’ve been open—about three months now—but all the thefts, three in total, occurred in the past two weeks.”

“And again, no sign of anything being moved or anything else missing in the other two instances?”

“No. Nothing. Just the tap pants.”

“And always during store hours?”

Eve nodded. “As far as I know. Usually lunchtime, when we’re busiest.”

“Figures.”

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier though, does it?”

“No.” Gee, she was a sucker for sympathy.

“Carter. Fancy meeting you here.” A tall blond woman—the one who had been at the cash register—grabbed his upper arm and gave it a squeeze.

“Hey, what a surprise.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, catching the corner of her mouth. “We still on for tonight?”

Eve felt the back of her throat constrict.

“You bet.” The woman winked. Her deep-blue eyes matched the sapphire studs in her earlobes. “And speaking of tonight, I came in for a sports bra, and I somehow managed to walk out with this. Take a look. I couldn’t resist wearing it.” She leaned over and pulled out the neckline of her jacket.

Carter craned his neck. “Sorry, I can’t quite see.”

The woman pulled at his arm. “Well, don’t be shy. Come on over to the dressing room, and I’ll show you.”

“You think that’s wise?”

“God, Carter, you’d think I was going to show you something you’d never seen before.” She dragged him toward the dressing rooms. This was clearly a woman who didn’t take no for an answer.

“If you insist.” He looked back at Eve. “I’ll just be a sec.”

“Hmm-mmm,” Eve responded. He didn’t seem to put up much of a struggle, she noticed.

“Is that a hmm-mmm good or a hmm-mmm bad?” he called out.

“Oh, you know me. I’m nonjudgmental when it comes to underwear.” But not when it came to hot local cops.

## 2

EVE TURNED TO HER ASSISTANT Melodie. “Maybe we should rope off the back section and give them a little more privacy? Though, on second thought, I’m not sure we’re zoned for that type of activity.”

Melodie, a twenty-something with a Jennifer Anniston-style haircut, shrugged her shoulders. In the quest to emulate the casual coiffure of her favorite Friends actress, she religiously forked over outrageous sums to her stylist in Hamilton Square. “Jeez, Eve, don’t get in a snit. She bought a black camisole, not nude pasties. And frankly, it covers more skin than my tank top.”

Eve eyed Melodie’s skimpy, canary-yellow stretch shirt. She had been meaning to mention that wearing a top that seemingly defied the use of underwear was not the best look in a lingerie establishment. Still, in her riotous teenage years, Eve had been known to wear bib overalls over nothing but some well-placed Vaseline Intensive Care Body Lotion. Of course that was before responsibility had been thrust upon her. She didn’t even own bib overalls anymore.

Eve shrugged and looked toward the dressing rooms. “All right. It’s just that I was under the impression we were in the middle of a crime investigation.” Her tone sounded shrill, even to her.

Melodie straightened the pens in the canister by the cash register. “Well, it’s not like he had any choice in the matter.”

“She’s right, and I apologize profusely.” A confident female voice sounded, coming closer. “I didn’t realize Carter was here on business—though why he would be here otherwise might be just as fascinating.” She shook her head, causing her chin-length hair to shake perfunctorily. “Never mind.” She stuck out a large, very capable-looking hand. “I’m Simone Fahrer.”

Melodie announced from behind Eve, “Why don’t I go over and help those girls choose at least six pairs of boxers apiece? You can fill me in later.” She waggled her pencil-thin eyebrows and sashayed toward the front of the store. She was about as subtle as Betty Boop.

Eve sighed and stepped away from the counter. She put out her hand and shook Simone’s. The woman had a grip strong enough to be a teamster—though Eve couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a teamster in pinstripes, if you discounted Jimmy Hoffa, that is. “Eve Cantoro, I’m the owner.”

Carter stepped next to Simone. “Simone is an attorney in town.”

“Don’t let that prejudice you,” Simone assured her. “I’m really a very nice person.”

“No you’re not,” Carter said.

Simone made a face. “Maybe you’re right. But that’s beside the point. You have a duty to do.” She pointed to Eve. “Fix up whatever’s wrong with this lady, okay?”

“I’m trying to, provided I don’t get dragged into any more women’s dressing rooms.”

Eve cocked her head. “You found that unpleasant?”

“Well, actually, I always did kind of wonder,” Carter admitted.

Eve looked at him closely. “You realize you’re blushing, don’t you?”

Simone looked, too. “He is blushing.”

“You know, a less secure man might take offence,” Carter said.

Simone raised a skeptical eyebrow. “There’s no such thing as a totally secure male.” She looked to Eve. “Don’t you agree?”

Eve glanced at Carter Moran. The slight rosiness to his cheeks seemed to have abated, leaving a healthy tan and the dark stubble in its place. Some things he looked—in-secure wasn’t one of them.

She turned back to Simone. “In my experience, the only time a man is ever truly secure is sitting on a couch with the button of his jeans undone after eating a whole large pepperoni pizza and watching his favorite football team trounce their hated rival.”

Carter held a hand to his chest. “What? Women don’t feel that everything’s right with the world at moments like that?” He sounded deeply offended. He only looked more charming.

“Women don’t eat pizza with pepperoni,” Eve replied.

“A fear of nitrates?”

“Fear of all streams of orangey grease dribbling down at inopportune moments in all sorts of embarrassing places.” She licked her bottom lip, unaware of the implications until she saw Carter gulp.

Simone eyed Carter before addressing Eve. “I can see you’ve expanded his horizons. And I must say, it’s been an all around fascinating experience.” She came down heavily on the “fascinating.”

Eve plastered on a toothy smile. Unfortunately, one of her upper incisors was slightly crooked, so it didn’t have such a dazzling effect—at least, in Eve’s view. Growing up, orthodontia had been a luxury out of her family’s price range. “I hope you gave Melodie your address so that we can put you on our mailing list. We’ll let you know about our sales and special events.”

“You bet. This is my first time in, but you can be sure I’ll be back. Finally a place to find things to make a woman feel special.”

“Are you taking notes?” Eve asked Carter. “This could prove handy.”

“Sorry? I’m still a little stunned by whatever it was that Simone flashed me in the changing room.” Carter waggled a shaky finger in the general area of her torso.

Simone shrugged. “If I had only known that that was all it took. On the other hand, why am I surprised? Men are so predictable.”

“If we’re so predictable, why bother?” he asked her.

“Because it’s not just about you,” Eve answered emphatically.

“Precisely,” Simone said. She turned to Carter, her chin held high. “You should definitely be taking notes. And you know what I mean.”

“Not really,” Carter said.

“Don’t play dumb. It’s out of character.” She patted Carter on the cheek. “In any case, I’ll see you later this evening.” She waved goodbye and marched briskly out the door. It wasn’t often that such a purposeful stride caused parallel pinstripes to curve in so captivating a fashion.

Eve watched, impressed. “Some woman.”

“That’s for sure, though sometimes she scares me silly,” Carter said.

Eve turned. “And you don’t like that?”

He rubbed the underside of his jaw. “Let’s put it this way—it’s kind of like eating Brussels sprouts. I know it’s good for me, but it still doesn’t make it any easier.”

Which could make for a somewhat tortuous relationship.

“Why don’t we get back to the case? I take it you’re an independent?” he asked.

“What? Oh, yes, I’m not a franchise or anything. I’m independent—totally.”

Carter suppressed a smile. “So, tell me, is your success ruffling any feathers? Have you received any complaints?”

“So far all the neighborhood shopkeepers have been very friendly. It’s a very cooperative community—one of the things that attracted me to Grantham in the first place.” She stopped. “Actually, now that you bring it up, there was one incident. An older woman came in last week—with her young grandson. She was upset when the boy asked what the bustier in the window was for.”

Carter didn’t bother to suppress his smile this time. “Seems like a reasonable question.”

“And, I think, an indication that the kid has a real aptitude for spatial relations. His grandmother didn’t think so though. She said my display was indecent, or words to that effect.”

“Words to that effect?”

“She said, and I quote, ‘It defiles the moral sensibilities of the community.”’

“All that from one bustier, huh? And what did you reply?”

“I said that her grandson was probably just your normal, curious boy, and given that he looked about eight years old, I thought he was probably far more interested in baseball cards than bustiers. She didn’t look like she agreed, but she didn’t say anything more.”

“Did you get her name?” Carter pulled a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. When Eve shook her head, he changed tack and looked around the store. “Is there any other entrance to the store besides the front door?”

“There’s a back door at the end of the dressing rooms that has access to the rear parking lot, but it’s always locked except for deliveries. And there’s the door to the stairway for the apartment upstairs, but again that’s always locked.” Carter lifted his notebook. “I’m the tenant,” she said before he could ask. “I rent from Bernard Polk.” Polk was old-moneyed Grantham. His mother had maintained the family’s social standing by being a devout member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, while he’d done his darnedest to uphold the family stature by playing polo and going through a series of Palm Beach debutantes. The older he got, the younger and more vapid they seemed to get as well—the debs, not the ponies. It was probably just as well that he was hard of hearing but too vain to wear a hearing aid.

Carter jotted down the information. “And you live alone?” He looked up. “Just trying to find out how many people regularly come in and out.”

“No roommate, no pets—no dog, no cat. I live alone.”

“And you like that?” He didn’t bother to pretend to write.

They had strayed from the purely professional again, but Eve didn’t feel troubled. Instead, she closed her eyes and sighed, thinking of his question. “It’s blissful living alone.” For the first time in her life, she didn’t have to look to see if the toilet seat was up or down. She wondered if Simone had to remind him about the toilet seat. Having met Simone, Eve knew she’d only have to ask once.

She opened her eyes and noticed the detective’s puzzled expression. “And your assistant, Melodie is it?” he asked. The pen was at the ready again.

“Melodie Benjamin. She’s my only employee, and she works part-time, fitting her hours around classes. And, yes, she came with excellent references, which I checked out before hiring her.”

“As I would have anticipated.”

His comment pleased her. Maybe a little too much.

“What about your customers?”

“Customers?”

“Who are they? Mostly women?”

“Mostly. Though we occasionally get men coming in—some cross-dressers.” Carter didn’t blink. “But in general, if men come in, they’re here to buy gifts for wives or girlfriends.” She hesitated. “Perhaps there’s something you’d like to purchase? Women cannot live by camisoles alone, you know.”

“They can’t? I learn something new everyday.” He flipped his notebook shut, opened up his jacket and slipped it back in the inside pocket, his particularly taut waist allowing for an uninterrupted motion. “I should also probably talk to Ms. Benjamin, if that’s all right with you?”

Eve shouldn’t have felt a letdown, but she did. She dropped her arms to her sides. “Of course, I’ll just take care of those two customers she’s with. That way you can talk to Melodie and check out the back door and staircase at the same time—not that I’m suggesting how you should do your job.”

“I could talk to her after you show me the exits, if you prefer?”

She did, but that sounded petty. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she protested. “Melodie is perfectly capable of showing you the store’s layout, really.”

“But can she expand my horizons about underwear like you?” His grin was tempting.

She ignored it and walked over to Melodie, nodding back in the direction of Carter. Melodie flexed her shoulders and stood up straighter. All smiles, Eve faced Carter. “Melodie can help you now.”

Eve shifted her attention—well, her partial attention—to the two young women. With graduation scheduled for the coming week, they were looking for a present for their roommate. “What about this pair of boxers with the lips? Too obvious?” she asked. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Melodie leaning more closely than was strictly necessary. Her hips, in her black stretch pants, were slung so far forward Detective Moran could have done a pelvic exam.

She focused even harder on her customers. “Maybe your roommate is more the playful type? Yes, I know just the thing. Look, these elephants sniffing petunias are great. And they’re the same red as the university’s colors. Or how about the tropical fruits? Very Carmen Miranda.” It was only a matter of time.

A few minutes to be exact. As she finished gift-wrapping the sale—the elephants won out—Melodie joined her behind the counter.

“Just a box is fine,” Carter said, reaching in his back pocket and pulling out his wallet.

Eve watched Melodie fold tissue paper around a champagne-colored silk teddy. It was virtually unadorned except for a small satin bow at the center of the neckline. Something she would have picked out—for herself. She craned her neck to try to get a glimpse of the size.

“Do you approve?” Carter asked her.

Eve hastily readjusted her posture. “I approve of all purchases made in my store, not that you should have felt obligated to buy something.”

“Just trying to expand by horizons.” Carter winked and handed over his credit card to Melodie. He pulled out a business card and offered it to Eve. “Don’t forget, someone will be around to dust the mannequin for prints. But if you think of anything else or have any more problems, give me a call at that phone number. My pager number’s there, too.”

“Thanks.” Eve took the card. It felt warm from being in his wallet. She absentmindedly rubbed it, then looked up. He was watching.

The cash register printed out the credit card slip. “Here you go.” Melodie fished a pen out of a cup.

Carter signed and reached to put the shell-pink pen back.

“Keep it,” Eve said. “It’s got the store’s phone number on it.”

“Thanks.” He slipped it into the side pocket of his pants, near his holster. “The color goes with everything.”

Eve watched, fascinated and somewhat put off by the gun.

He watched where her eyes had moved. “So,” he said.

She shifted her gaze back to his face. “So.” She offered her hand. “Thank you for coming in so promptly, and thanks for all your help.”

His hand met hers. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

But he had. Or rather, he was. True, the handshake itself was brief, one solid up-and-down motion, very brisk. But the separating of flesh—now that seemed to linger a fraction too long to be kosher. And was she mistaken, or had his thumbnail inadvertently—or maybe not so inadvertently—trailed along her palm when their hands parted?

Eve inhaled sharply and lowered her hand to her side. The skin felt hot, tingly hot, as if she’d licked her index finger and stuck it into a light socket. And the line where his thumb had grazed—well, that was like dropping a clock radio into the shower with Howard Stern on the air.

Eve didn’t know what to say. The brief contact had been wildly arousing. Yet surprisingly intimate. Definitely secret. But completely out in public. Had it provoked some latent sexual fantasy she never knew she possessed? If so, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to go there.

Melodie came out from behind the counter and handed Carter his purchase in a pink Sweet Nothings shopping bag. “I hope we see you again.” She seemed blissfully unaware that she was standing perilously close to a surging electromagnetic field.

Not so Carter. Frankly, he looked a little shocked—and by more than 110 volts. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, thank you.” He reached for the bag, and slowly turned and walked out the door.

Melodie slanted her head, angling for a better view. “Oh, my God. I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. No check that. The way I’m feeling I’ve definitely gone to hell.”

“If you go for the type.” Eve aimed for blasé. What a joke.

“Eve-y, you’d have to be dead not to go for the type.”

How true. Still, dealing with the opposite sex was like taking on a second job. And it entailed far fewer guarantees of a profitable payoff than starting up a new business—a pretty scary thought, especially when you considered that fifty percent of all new businesses failed after one year. Since Eve had no intention of being anything but a success, all her attention had to be focused on that goal. Daydreaming of true love—or even true lust—was out. Definitely out. Especially when the current object of desire appeared to be already attached to one very nice but very scary lady.

Eve walked to the counter. “Did you call in his charge card to make sure his credit was good?” She looked at Melodie who had moved closer to the door.

Melodie didn’t bother to turn around. “Eve, he’s a cop.”

Eve straightened a pair of satin traveling slippers that sat on the glass top. “You can never be too safe.” She paused. “Who picked out the teddy anyway? You or him?”

Melodie had her nose practically stuck to the glass front door. “He did.”

“Hmm-mmm,” Eve murmured—and she wasn’t sure if it was a hmm-mmm good or a hmm-mmm bad. “Who’d have thought Detective Moran had such good taste. I figured he’d do the typical male thing and pick some red negligee with a plunging neckline.” She thought a moment. “You should have shown him the leopard-print pajama ensemble, bottoms for him and top for her.” The top portion didn’t showcase many spots since the amount of skin it covered was less than two whiskers.

Melodie stepped back from the door. The entertainment must have been over. She didn’t bother to wipe away the nose print on the glass either. “Why? You think they’re more his style?”

“I wouldn’t know. But they’re definitely more expensive.”

## 3

SIMONE HELD OUT a gin and tonic to Carter. “So, what did you think of the lingerie lady?”

What didn’t he think about the lingerie lady?

Not that Carter was about to admit his fascination with Eve. Instead, he rested his tennis racquet against the picnic table and lowered himself gingerly into an Adirondack chair. “I don’t know what’s going to kill me first—the thought of Eve Cantoro’s tap pants, your gin and tonic, or your husband’s kick serve into my body.” His old Grantham University T-shirt was soaked. “But since we all have to die of something, pass that drink over here.”

Ted Daniger, Simone’s husband and old friend of Carter’s, sat in a nearby chair, slouching as comfortably as if he owned the place. Which, in fact, he did. The Daniger family mansion was a tidy Georgian brick pile that oozed the right mixture of substantial wealth—hand-carved moldings, crushed-stone circular drive, servants’ quarters—and laid-back bonhomie—a horseshoe pitch in the backyard and holes in the window screens from rambunctious Labradors. A descendant of one of those canine forebears lay panting at Ted’s side, a wet tennis ball at his feet—Buster the dog’s, that is. “You’re getting old, Moran. I’ve never beaten you in straight sets before.”

“You’re the same age as I am, Daniger.” Which was thirty-four to be exact. “It’s just that you weren’t up all night on a domestic violence case, followed by a double shift.” Carter had filled in for a fellow officer who was on his honeymoon in Cancun. Carter had felt like telling him to take the money and invest it in CDs—the financial sort—rather than blowing it on a week in Shangri-La. In his experience, paradise was greatly overrated.

He watched Simone hold the tray of drinks toward Ted. “And besides, you’re constantly reenergized by the love of a good woman,” he added. Well, maybe some kinds of paradise lasted beyond a few spectacular sunsets.

Ted beamed up at Simone, who was perched on the arm of his chair. “And don’t I know it.” He reached over and took a glass, but not before offering her a full-blown kiss.

When they broke, Simone sat back with a pleased look on her face. Her own drink had sloshed on the tray during the embrace. “It must be true love. Why else would I allow your sweaty body to get this close to mine?”

“Because you love my sweaty body getting this close to you.” Ted raised his head for another kiss.

Having grown more than a little cynical and detached over the years, Carter normally would have snorted at this overt display of affection. But the thing of it was, it was genuine. And it was between two of the nicest people he knew. Check that, maybe the only genuinely nice people he knew well.

Carter and Ted had been roommates at Grantham University. Talk about opposite ends of the spectrum. Ted, the easygoing product of good taste and old money, was the archetypal scholar-athlete, a high-scoring lacrosse player who was content to graduate with respectable grades.

Not Carter. Driven could have been his middle name. He’d migrated to the elite Eastern college from just outside of Dayton, from a family that tenuously clung to its lower middle class status. His father drifted through a variety of blue-collar jobs. His mother, a homemaker, had resigned herself to maniacally vacuuming their ever-diminishing apartments and clipping coupons for Hamburger Helper.

Carter had determined not to be resigned to anything. He worked his butt off to get good grades, get into a prestigious college, and win a full scholarship to boot. He was eager to prove that he had what it took to succeed.

Did he ever. In four years, he earned a combined bachelor’s/master’s degree in economics, graduating with highest honors, while serving as editorial page editor of the student newspaper. He wasn’t sure about a career in journalism; but he knew the post was a great contact for after graduation.

He was right. One phone call, one interview, and he was fast-tracked into investment banking in New York City. Carter didn’t stop there. He became one of the youngest mutual fund managers in his firm, regularly racking up double-digit annual growth figures, even when most stocks and bonds slipped badly after the high-tech bubble burst. The “Financial Wunderkind,” Fortune Magazine had dubbed him. And he was scrupulously honest, publicly denouncing companies whose CEOs were greedy for Learjets and lackadaisical when it came to corporate accounting factors. “The Conscience of Corporate America,” declared The Financial Times.

Not surprisingly, his personal portfolio bulged as well. He acquired tidy holdings in stocks, bonds and real estate. The garage space for his Porsche Boxster cost almost as much as his penthouse overlooking Central Park. Then there was the vacation “cottage” in the Hamptons. And who could forget the tall, willowy wife with a degree in art history and a deep-seated ability to spend money—lots of money. After all, he was too hot a catch to escape the matrimonially inclined junior members of the Save Venice Society and other like-minded causes.

Not bad for a boy from Dayton.

The only problem was, Carter never saw his apartment, his country house or his wife, who he seemed to have forgotten somewhere along the way, after all. And when his wife divorced him, taking both the apartment and the summer house—not to mention a Lhasa apso he never knew he had—Carter suddenly realized he might have had it all, but so what?

And that’s when he ran into Ted, standing on a subway platform, waiting for the E-train. Ted had suggested that Carter visit him in Grantham, where he had moved back into his parents’ old place; they had retired to warmer climes and better golf courses in Scottsdale.

Carter thought of the good times he had shared with his former roomie, and he took him up on it. And he’d stayed. Quit his job and moved into the chauffeur’s apartment over the garage. First, he sat around and drank beer, swam in the pool and played tennis with Ted. Ironically, now it was Ted who was putting in the long hours building up a practice, while Carter was perfecting his two-handed backhand and sleeping in.

But retirement soon proved boring for someone who had always been a confirmed overachiever. Carter thought of joining a local investment firm, but decided that making money no longer held that much charm. In any case, he was comfortably set for life if he didn’t do anything foolish. Forsaking his Porsche had caused only momentary regret.

So, as an alternative to adding yet another zero at the end of his holdings, he worked out daily at a local gym, took an adult education course in Italian, and read the complete works of Charles Dickens and Elmore Leonard. But that was simply a way to fill in time.

And then it hit him. After years of being totally self-centered, he would help others. He no longer craved fast cars and gold watches. He created a foundation out of most of his investments, and with the aid of a local law firm—run by the husband and wife team of Ted Daniger and Simone Fahrer—he anonymously supported needy causes. He even went back to college, the state university this time, taking courses in law enforcement. He passed the state exam, and applied and got a job on the local police force.

And he loved it. Even liked the paperwork. Well, sometimes he liked the paperwork. Mostly, he liked being part of a community without having to make a personal commitment to anyone in particular. Interaction from a distance was the ticket, he decided as he contentedly sipped his gin and tonic. Secure in his new world, he admired his friends’ affection but didn’t have to feel guilty about wives he neglected or Lhasa apsos he had never known he had.

Ted, after all, was the one who had made the turnaround in Carter’s lifestyle possible, and if he and Simone wanted to smooch to their hearts’ content, so be it.

Then Carter remembered. “Actually, talking of underwear, sorry, lingerie, how’s that little number you bought?” he asked Simone.

Ted looked interested. “And what little number would that be?”

Simone grimaced. “Aw, Carter, now you’ve ruined my surprise. I was saving it for later tonight, after pizza at Tonino’s.” Tonino’s was a Grantham institution; a pizza parlor/bar that attracted adult league baseball teams and families with armies of kids. The decor was early fifties—tiny, mirrored tiles on the support columns and pink Formica on the tabletops. The waitresses had big hair and little aprons. They didn’t slop the beer, and they always remembered the ketchup for the fries.

Ted held up his glass. “Ah, the anticipation is killing me. Please, everyone, drink up, so we can move on to dinner, and get to the quote-unquote dessert as quickly as possible.” The dog, Buster, took that moment to thump his tail.

Simone beamed at Ted. “Eagerness is one of your more endearing traits, you know.” She patted him on the arm, then turned to Carter. “Speaking of eagerness, I was pretty sure I detected a certain, what you might call tension in Eve Cantoro’s store today.”

“That’s only because I’ve never been surrounded by so much black lace and sheer stretch material in my entire life,” Carter said defensively.

Ted kicked the tennis ball, and Buster lumbered across the grass to retrieve it. “You must have had an interesting day. Tell me more.”

Simone patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a new lingerie shop in town—Sweet Nothings. And it’s run by this woman, Eve Cantoro, who seems to have a good head on her shoulders.”

Carter could easily have added that she had a few other good things close to her shoulders.

Simone gave Carter the evil eye. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“So, Carter, what brought you to the land of lace and fantasy?” Ted asked. Buster returned, and Ted leaned over and picked up the ball. He threw it farther. Ted clearly was well trained.

“I was there in a professional capacity,” Carter said.

“A little fieldwork in garters and nighties?”

“Very funny.” Actually, not funny at all. The thought of Eve Cantoro, surrounded by all those sexy little under-things, was driving Carter crazy. He remembered her description of a thong. And there definitely hadn’t been any visible panty-line showing under her black slacks.

Carter sipped his drink a little unsteadily, sloshing it down his chin and onto his wet T-shirt. “Jeez,” he wiped his front. “What a waste of good alcohol.”

“So?” Ted asked again.

“I was responding to a call about a reported theft.”

Simone sat up straighter. “Theft?”

“Seems that a person or persons has a thing for red tap pants.”

“Come again.” Ted frowned.

“Apparently, that’s just what the person or persons may have done. Three times, in fact, a pair of red tap pants has gone missing from the display window.”

Ted whistled. “Three times. A regular crime spree. Next thing to disappear will be push-up bras. And who knows, from there—girdles.” He turned to Simone. “Do women still wear girdles?”

Simone swatted him on the shoulder. “Stop it. If it were a cell phone or a wallet you’d show concern. Just because it’s women’s lingerie, you feel free to mock.” She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Red tap pants. I find that very interesting.”

“As a lawyer who handles criminal cases?” Carter asked.

“No, as a woman. Not my style, at all.”

“Not mine, either,” Carter admitted.

Simone perked up. “So tell me, speaking of style, did you succumb and end up buying anything?”

“Why would Carter buy anything?” Ted asked.

Carter reached over to rub the dog under his chin.

Simone pounced. “You did. You bought something. I knew it. Well, fess up. What was it?”

Carter sat up. Buster gave him a droopy smile. “Some one-piece thing called a teddy. Kind of beige. Nothing too fancy, pretty tame really.” The price tag, on the other hand, had been eye-popping.

Simone raised an eyebrow. “I know the one you mean. It’s the type of thing that doesn’t look like much on a hanger—but put it on a woman’s body and ooh-la-la.”

Carter could easily imagine just which woman’s body. Only too easily.

“Pretty good taste, Carter.”

Carter raked his fingers nervously through his hair. “It’s for my mother.”

“Now as a criminal lawyer I find that very interesting.” She studied Carter carefully. “And as a woman, I would have thought it would have looked much better on someone younger, say late twenties, slim build, with dark hair and an attitude.”

“Speaking of women with attitudes.” Ted leaned over and whispered something into Simone’s ear. He saved Carter from having to respond.

Simone smiled knowingly and rose, wiggling her fingers goodbye to Carter.

Ted stood up. Buster did as well. “Sorry, Carter. You’re going to have to fend for yourself at Tonino’s tonight. ’Fraid the surprise just can’t wait until later.”

The dog wagged his tail. And he wasn’t the only one who was happy.

CARTER SHOWERED AND DROVE to Tonino’s. As soon as he opened the bar door, the air-conditioning hit him with the impact of a Minnesota blizzard. If he weren’t careful, his damp hair would form icicles.

Subarctic temperatures aside, life could be a lot worse. A baseball game was showing on the television, and beer was within striking distance. He commandeered a red leatherette stool and dug into a bowl of peanuts.

“Hey, Carter, What’ll-it-be? The usual?” The young bartender came over.

Carter nodded. “Thanks, Dave. And a large pepperoni pizza.” He suddenly thought of Eve Cantoro and her comment about secure men. He found himself smiling as he grabbed another handful of peanuts and turned his attention to the ball game, or at least his partial attention. The dark-haired storekeeper seemed to be occupying a significant portion of his thoughts, kind of like Otis Red-ding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” insinuating itself agreeably into his psyche, so he went through the day with his eyes half-closed and a devilish smile on his lips.

Still, women—even intriguing ones—came and went, and some, like Three Musketeers bars, melted in the heat of the summer. Baseball, on the other hand—and here, Carter munched philosophically on a peanut—went on forever. He studied the screen. It was an inter-league game—the Phillies playing the Yankees. This part of central Jersey tended to have divided loyalties, with the old-timers favoring the Philadelphia teams and the transplanted residents looking to New York. When the two teams mixed, Jerseyans tended to clash—loudly. Carter had grown up in Ohio with the Indians, so he couldn’t possibly root for another American League team, especially the Yankees. That meant he was a Phillies fan by default.

He tossed a peanut up in the air and caught it in his mouth as the popular Yankee second baseman came to the plate. Just don’t throw it high and outside, he thought. He tossed another nut in the air, catching it easily again.

About as easily as the batter met the high, outside pitch that the Phillies pitcher delivered. A lead-off homerun. Carter shook his head. This is what baseball taught you—humility, and the fact that you paid for your mistakes.

“All right,” a female voice shouted in triumph.

Carter reached for the bottle of Rolling Rock that Dave planted in front of him. “It was a lucky hit,” he muttered.

“Oh, p-lease. Even his grandmother could have hit that high, outside pitch,” the woman’s voice responded.

Carter smiled as he gulped his beer. Ah, a woman who knew something about baseball. Definitely a pleasing discovery. Turning, he sought out the voice, almost willing to forgive her misguided allegiance to the Bronx Bombers. It came from two seats down.

And he almost didn’t recognize her at first.

With her wet hair combed back straight from her forehead, wire-rim glasses slipping down her nose, and smooth skin devoid of any makeup, she could have been eighteen years old. In which case, she had no business sitting at a bar in New Jersey, a state with a minimum drinking age of twenty-one.

But no eighteen-year-old had a cotton shift that stuck to curves quite that way. And this time, she wasn’t wearing basic black.

“Lingerie and the Yankees. There must be a connection somewhere,” Carter said.

A burly middle-aged man with thinning hair, a skinny ponytail and a large tattoo on his upper arm, stared at Carter. “You say something?”

Eve looked over. She raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry, I was talking to the lady.” Carter indicated Eve with the tip of his chin.

The dark-blue entwined snakes on the stranger’s arm moved as he clenched and unclenched his own bottle of Rolling Rock. “As long as that’s the case. I don’t mind the part about lingerie.” He pronounced “lingerie” as “Lon Jerry.” “It’s the idea that you thought I was a Yankees fan. Can’t stand them. A bunch of overpriced prima donnas.”

Carter nodded. “Couldn’t agree with you more.”

“It just goes to show, not everyone can appreciate how ordinary things can be art forms,” Eve said.

The ponytail swerved, and Eve got an eyeful of disdain. She backed off. “I was talking to him—” she pointed to Carter “—about lingerie. Mentioning underwear and America’s pastime in the same breath is practically a desecration—to baseball, that is.”

Ponytail looked to Carter. “What the hell is she talking about?”

Carter shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve got me. She’s new around here and doesn’t know any better.”

The man growled softly and turned his attention back to the screen.

Eve leaned back on her stool and made a face at Carter. He leaned back, too. Don’t cause any trouble, he mouthed silently.

Actually, trouble was staring at him straight in the eye. He would have had to be cryogenically frozen not to notice two enticingly damp spots, located right where her breasts strained against the light-blue fabric of her sleeveless dress. He also saw thin straps from an electric-orange bathing suit tied behind her neck. The combination of strategically placed wetness, skinny straps and scrubbed face produced a kind of girl-next-door/bondage look.

Carter concentrated mightily on making sure his beer bottle reached his mouth. Swallowing came next—he nearly choked to death.

Eve leaned around the large Phillies fan and pounded Carter on the back. Hard. And a very solid back, she couldn’t help noticing.

He held up a hand to indicate he was all right, then covered his mouth and swallowed slowly. “Thanks. Must have gone down the wrong way.” He shifted on his stool and leaned forward. Say something clever, he told himself. “Did you just go swimming?” He groaned inwardly. This was like the cafeteria in high school.

She leaned forward on her elbows to try to talk to him directly. “Swimming? Yup. Across the street at the community pool.”

The man in the middle peeled his eyes off the game. “You two going to keep this up?”

“Yes,” Carter said. “No,” Eve answered.

“Well, maybe I should move?”

“That’s not necessary.” Carter looked at him. “That’s very nice,” Eve replied.

Ponytail looked at them both in disgust.

“We could wait until the seventh-inning stretch, if that’s any better,” Carter offered.

Ponytail harrumphed. “You sure she’s worth it?” He glanced over at Eve, then sat up straighter. The wet spots must have registered. Now he started leaning—toward Eve. And the snakes started dancing.

Carter stood up. “Would you mind?”

The snakes went still as their owner assessed his chances. Even a Phillies fan with a tattoo and ponytail apparently knew when to say no—it must have been the wisdom of his middle-aged years. “If you put it that way.” The man used two fists to heave himself away from the counter and off his stool.

“Thanks.” Carter seated himself next to Eve and slid his beer over. His adrenaline was pumping in a highly juvenile but thoroughly satisfying way. And the wet spots and the curves were that much closer. “Now what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, the pool.”

Eve looked to where their friend had banished himself to the end of the bar. She started to say something but thought better of it. She turned back to Carter. “Yes, the pool. It’s great, especially with the heat. It’s a good way to relax after work, and besides, I get to wear my merchandise.”

Carter sat up straighter. “Merchandise?”

“We sell swimwear as well as lingerie.” Eve pointed to herself. “I’m wearing one that we offer—a two-piece, really more of a bikini. You know, cut high on the leg, halter top.” She leaned forward to grab a peanut. The neck of her dress gaped open.

Carter looked. Well, he kind of looked without looking like he was trying to look. He cleared his throat. “I can see where that could be a good advertisement for your merchandise.”

“I like to think so.” Eve studied the bowl of nuts. “You’ve been swimming, too? Whenever I see you, you seem to have wet hair.” She reached for a peanut and popped it in her mouth, licking the salt off her fingertips.

Carter grabbed his beer bottle. “Ah, no, I was playing tennis.”

“Tennis? You don’t look like a tennis kind of guy.”

He looked at his clothes. “Not dressed for the country club, huh?”

Eve looked, too,—what woman wouldn’t?—at his ratty Cape May T-shirt and cargo shorts. “I suppose there’s that. But it’s more like you don’t look like someone who’d stay on his side of the net.”

Carter considered his beer bottle. “I think I like that comment, but I’m not totally sure why.”

“Well, you think about it.” Eve smiled. She saw the way his green eyes danced with an emotion that could in no way be classified as disinterest. She felt a sudden tightening between her legs. And she couldn’t blame it on her wet bathing suit riding up, since she only sold items made with the best fabric and stitching.

No, she was attracted as well. But that didn’t mean she was going to do anything about it. She quickly avoided his eyes and focused on his nose. How could an olfactory organ be so dangerous? Dumb question. “Did you lead with your nose in a fight?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“Your nose looks like it was broken. It’s got this bump and it’s a little crooked.” A decidedly sexy bump and a delightful crookedness.

“You’re right. Happened back in high school. I was under the mistaken impression I could play football. A lines-man from an opposing team taught me otherwise.”

Eve scrunched up her face. “Ouch.”

“My feelings exactly. Interestingly enough, the injury seemed to skyrocket my stature among my female classmates. Here I thought proving my manhood on the playing field would get me to first base and maybe beyond. Little did I know that pain and suffering were far more likely to generate sympathy.” He smiled.

She smiled back. And felt the tightness escalate within.

“You got a bump, too.” He playfully pushed up the bridge of her glasses with his index finger and tapped the small protrusion on the side of her nose. The tip of his finger rested lightly on her skin.

It was just a slight touch. Really. Her throat constricted. Really.

Then he lowered his head. A fraction closer. Slid his finger down her nose, skirted her top lip, and rested it on her full lower lip. It was damp from the beer. Damp and inviting. And for a frantic moment, Eve was sure he was going to kiss her.

He almost did. Almost. Instead, he drew his hand back, clenched his fist, and quickly turned to search for his beer. He took a gulp. “So, did you play football in high school, too?” He motioned to her nose, only this time with a lift of his chin.

“Oh, no. I tried to break up a fight between my brothers.”

“Brothers?”

“Yup, four of them, all younger. This time it was the twins. What am I saying? It was just always the twins.” She looked heavenward, realizing that she hadn’t seen acoustic tiles quite like that in a long time. She turned back to Carter. “They were arguing over something completely stupid, like who was supposed to take out the garbage, when they started cuffing each other. I couldn’t take it anymore, so like an idiot, I stepped in.” She pointed to the bump. “I got bopped. Swelled up like a goose egg, and I had raccoon eyes for a good week.”

A collective shout went up from the bar, echoed by equally loud groans. Eve looked up at the television set to see what all the fuss was. An instant replay showed the Yankees’ third baseman had just clobbered a homerun.

“Looks like my team is once more showing its true colors.” She glanced at Carter and found him studying her.

Dave set a pizza in front of Carter. “Why is it every time I go to the kitchen to get a pizza, someone hits a homerun and I miss it? Oh, man, a grand slam!” He put the metal tray down.

“Maybe I should keep ordering more?” Carter offered. “That way, it’ll guarantee you a victory.” He looked at Eve. “You hungry? How about sharing my pizza? There’s more than enough.”

Eve frowned in thought.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about the pepperoni thing you were talking about earlier? Because really, I don’t mind a few well-placed dribbles.”

Eve smiled. A man who listened. “It’s not the thought of drips exactly.”

It was Carter’s turn to be confused.

“My suit.”

“Your suit?”

“Yes, my bathing suit. I liked the style so much I grabbed it, but it’s actually a little small for me.”

“That’s bad?”

“Let’s just say it’s not exactly built for any extra pressure. And the pizza, well, it might just put it over the top, or off the top, actually.”

Carter suddenly looked very alert. “You don’t say?”

“I do say.”

“What do you know? The things one can learn about your merchandise.” He pushed the pizza in her direction. “In the interest of personal research, why don’t you test it out?”

The pepperoni did look very tempting and the smell of spices and unadulterated fat was almost overwhelming. Was it worth it? She looked at his taunting little grin. The man knew he was irresistible. Was he worth it?

Worth it? The man was already taken. Now that had her sitting up straighter. “So, did she enjoy it?”

“Who? What?” Carter asked.

“Simone. What did she say about the camisole?”

“Oh, Simone.” Carter shook his head. “You don’t want to know what she said.” He held up some paper napkins. “You want some pizza or not?”

Eve shrugged. A woman had to live dangerously sometimes, especially when she was wearing a cover-up anyway. She reached over and took the napkins. “Self-discipline was never one of my strengths.” Actually that wasn’t true.

“I wouldn’t have thought that was true at all,” he said, watching her slip off her glasses and hook them over the neckline of her outfit.

She saw Carter notice the gesture. “Oh, I only need them, the glasses that is, for distance—you know, driving, television.” She reached over and broke off a piece of the pizza. A bit of mozzarella stubbornly held on, forming a slippery strand that finally broke off when she tugged at the slice. Holding the slice above her head, she tipped her chin upward and thrust out her tongue to catch the end of the cheese. She sucked in, swallowing the strand whole. Her eyes narrowed in deep pleasure. She inhaled slowly and turned her head toward Carter.

He held a slice of pizza in his hand. It was suspended halfway between the counter and his mouth—which had dropped wide-open. Dazed appeared to be the operative description.

“You okay?” she asked.

He blinked a few times. “Okay isn’t exactly how I’d describe what I’m feeling at the moment.” He blinked again. “Do you always eat pizza like that?”

Eve smiled. “Really, Detective.” She patted the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Sometimes a piece of pizza is just a piece of pizza.”

## 4

EVE WAS GOING TO EAT TWO pieces. But there was something about drippy cheese and oregano, and just sitting and talking with a really cute guy that whetted the appetite. How many men actually admitted—albeit sheepishly—that they knew all the lyrics to the Sound of Music?

So she managed to stop at three.

Carter had five. And it didn’t look like his waist—definitely flat and not a love handle in sight—had anything to worry about.

“So how do you like Grantham?” Carter asked, after she mentioned moving to town only three months ago.

“It’s a beautiful place, but different—that’s for sure. I mean, how many towns can boast that they give Nobel Prize winners parking tickets?”

The corner of Carter’s mouth turned up, producing that sexy little dimple. “On the other hand, you don’t have any parking tickets.”

Eve pulled back, surprised. “You checked?”

“You lodged a complaint. It’s all part of the routine.”

“So other than my life according to the police blotter, the DMV and the Better Business Bureau, what else do you know about me?”

“That you moved from Poughkeepsie and you’re single.”

She sat up straight. She found she was mildly annoyed and not sure why. “So you figured out I come from the land of vinyl siding and dine on Healthy Choice frozen dinners?”

“Hey, I come from Dayton, Ohio and I’m a whiz with the microwave, too. You’ve got nothing on me. Not everyone who lives in Grantham was born to the manor with a dedicated staff ready to whip up a crème brulée at a moment’s notice.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions.”

He waved off her apology.

No, but she was, sorry, that is. She was also nervous as hell. And attracted to him like crazy. And she couldn’t stop dwelling on the fact that he had mentioned she was single.

“You know—” He scratched at the label on his beer bottle, then looked at hers. “You want another?”

She shook her head. “I’ve had plenty. But you were saying…”

“Yeah, I was saying—” he paused in thought or indecision, Eve wasn’t quite sure which “—that, um, if we started to probe further—” the word “probe” leapt out in Eve’s mind “—we’d probably find we have more in common than merely an intimate knowledge of the frozen-food aisle.”

She cocked one eyebrow. “You think?” She wondered where this was going.

He took a sip of beer and wet his lips. Very nice, full lips, Eve noticed. “I’m pretty sure if we questioned each other, we’d find that to be the case.”

“Really? And you’ve figured this out because of some great intuitive powers or something similar?”

He shrugged. “Call it a cop’s instincts.” She looked dubious. “I tell you what, I’m so sure that I’m willing to make a friendly wager.” He held up his hand before she could protest. “Let’s say, we ask each other questions. How about a total of six? That’s a nice round number—not too many as to cause confusion, but sufficient enough to flesh out the facts. You have to admit that sounds fair, right?” Carter asked.

Eve thought that fair was a relative term here.

“And if we agree on all six, why—” a lazy smile stretched across Carter’s lips “—I get to collect.”

Now she was really dubious. “And what exactly are you planning on collecting?”

He paused. “A kiss.”

Eve raised her eyebrows and blinked ever so slowly. “A kiss? As in on the lips?”

Carter thought a moment. He really didn’t need to. “As in on the lips.”

“What about Simone?” she asked.

“What about Simone?”

“You don’t think she’d mind?”

“I think you’ve misjudged our relationship.”

Had she? Eve wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not. Either way, the tingle in her throat just kicked into a higher gear.

“So, care to take me up on it?” he asked.

Eve thought a moment. She really didn’t need to. She nodded carefully. “Okay, but no hands either.”

“No hands? Any particular reason?”

“Just think of it as my contribution to the bet,” she answered. That, and a matter of self-preservation. She could already imagine how it would feel to have Carter’s hands running up and down her back. She set her mouth and looked at him with her best poker face.

He stared back, unfazed. Never try to draw an inside straight against this guy, she thought. “All right. You’re on,” Carter said, pushing his beer aside. “But I get to start.” Clearly the man played to win.

Well, she wasn’t exactly a pushover. Eve sat up extremely straight, arching her back strategically. Then she slowly rolled her neck a couple of times and looked over. His eyes were transfixed on her actions. She smiled—all innocence. “I’m ready.”

Carter cleared his throat. “All right. We’ll start with an easy one. Do you take your coffee black or with cream and sugar?”

“Milk. No sugar.”

He nodded.

“You, too?”

He nodded again.

Eve rolled one shoulder. It produced an immediate reaction on his part. It was almost too easy. “As you said, that was an easy one. Now my turn.” She thought. “Harpo, Chico or Groucho?”

“Harpo.”

Eve frowned. “I was sure you’d say Groucho.”

“Nah, I always liked Harpo’s horn.” So did Eve.

“I take it you agree?” he asked. Eve nodded. “My turn then.” Carter narrowed his eyes. “Gel or paste?”

Eve scrunched her forehead.

“Toothpaste,” he clarified.

“Oh-h. Definitely gel, cool mint. And you?” He flashed a toothy grin. “I see I have a fellow believer.” She leaned forward. “Now we get to the real nitty-gritty. Window open or shut?”

“When sleeping you mean?”

Eve nodded.

Carter frowned. “Depends on the season.”

“I see. A relativist.”

“Whatever you say. And you?”

“The same,” she said reluctantly, puckering her lips. She was supposed to be pouting, but since she had never had the time or the inclination to pout before, it looked more like she was making a fish-face.

Carter leaned toward her and whispered, “You’re making a fish-face.”

Eve cleared her throat. “I believe it’s your turn, unless you want to call off the wager?”

Carter gave her a noble profile, complete with square chin and resolute stare. “Never. Especially when it’s just getting interesting.”

“Please.” Eve rolled her eyes.

He put his elbows on the bar and leaned toward her. “Left side or right?”

That had her wondering.

“Of the bed? Which side? Left or right?” He raised his chin to look down through slightly slitted eyes.

She didn’t flinch. Though it took a superhuman amount of self-control just to remember to exhale. “Looking at the bed or in it?” she mustered with the aplomb of a French Foreign Legion officer facing the firing squad. The analogy wasn’t bad either.

“Looking at it for now. We’ll deal with in it in a moment.” He leaned closer on his forearm.

“Oh.” Eve gulped. Moments like these she wished she smoked. Barring that, maybe she would have another slice of pizza after all. “Let me see.” She did a mental check of her sleeping position. “Right side, I guess, though, I tend to hog the middle. And you?”

“I’m a left side person myself.”

“Ah, hah. We are different,” she said triumphantly.

He held up his hand. “No, complementary.”

She looked confused. “There’s a difference?”

“A big difference.” He paused. “And I find that sorting out possession of the middle of the bed can actually be a highlight—given the right circumstances.” He looked down his eyelashes, very long, thick lashes.

Eve tried not to squirm.

“Naked or clothed?”

She gulped. “Wait a minute. Isn’t it my turn?”

“This is a two-parter.”

“Since when do we have two-parters?” she protested.

“All’s fair.” He shrugged, unperturbed.

Eve quickly did the mental math. “But that makes six questions in all.”

“Naked or clothed?” He didn’t back down.

If she answered the question, they’d complete the terms of the bet. She hedged. “I own a lingerie shop. What do you think?”

Eve really wished she had asked for another beer. She could have used something hard to grab on to. She shook her head. No, banish that thought. Hard was definitely not where her brain should be going right now. She swallowed with difficulty. “I tell you what. You answer first.”

He smiled, feeling pretty confident. “All right. But what do you think?”

She looked at him. Those terrific emerald eyes had turned a darker shade—a verdant, forest-primeval green. She felt like she had stumbled into uncharted territory. Eve inhaled deeply. “Naked. You definitely sleep naked.”

“Correct,” he said softly. “Now your turn.” His voice was barely a rumble.

Eve’s insides were in shambles. She looked around. And saw Dave heading their way to check on things. Thank God. She turned to Carter. “Did you want any more? Otherwise I think it’s time I got out of this bathing suit.”

Carter raised an eyebrow. “Don’t think you can wriggle out of it that easily. To quote a famous baseball sage—a Yankee, I might add—‘the game’s not over until it’s over.”’

“I think Dave’s waiting.” She pointed to the bartender.

Carter crossed his arms. “Don’t think this means we won’t settle up—at the right time.” It didn’t sound like an idle threat. He looked at the remaining slice. “I’ve had enough, thanks, unless you want more?”

Eve patted her stomach. “If I had any more, I’d burst.”

“You sure? I’m asking purely in the interests of science.”

Eve gave him a long-suffering look. “Please, Dave, take it away.” She pushed the pizza in his direction.

Dave scooped up the tray in one hand and the empty bottles in the other. “I’ll wrap up the leftovers for the dog and be back with the check.”

“You have a dog?” It was the first she’d heard of it.

“No, a friend does.”

“Oh.” And she was pretty sure that friend was Simone. Maybe she hadn’t misjudged the relationship? A guy, a dog, leftover pizza and a camisole. She could picture it now. The giddiness of a few minutes ago suddenly vanished. She made a show of following the ball game, even though the outcome was already a foregone conclusion.

Dave returned a few minutes later. Eve reached for the check. “Here, let me.” Paying the tab might help to erase her guilt at poaching another woman’s man.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Carter signaled the bartender with his index finger.

“No, I insist.” Eve bent down to reach the nylon satchel at her feet and set it on the counter. She pulled out a beach towel, a racing cap, goggles, a glasses case, sunscreen.

Carter eyed the growing pile. “I see you like to travel light.”

Eve found a tortoiseshell barrette. “So that’s where that disappeared to.” She stuck her nose back in the bag and foraged some more. “Ah hah!” She held a black wallet aloft.

Dave looked at the small mound in front of Eve. “You planning a garage sale or something?”

“Or something. Here, I’ll take that.” Eve motioned to the bill in his hand.

“No, it’s my treat,” Carter countered and took the bill from Dave.

“That’s crazy.” She looked at Carter and realized immediately he wasn’t going to budge. “Well, at least let’s split it.” She held her hand up. “Let’s see the total.”

“Please, Phillies fans never go halvesies.” He held the check tight to his chest.

“Halvesies? You sound like you’re playing jacks.” She waggled her fingers toward the bill.

“Jacks? Are you questioning my manhood?”

No, there was no question about his manhood. Eve hesitated. What was really at stake here? Twenty bucks? Her pride? Her sense of guilt? Not to mention an unresolved wager. “Well, if you put it that way.” The check was the least of her worries. “Thanks.”

Carter turned to Dave and handed him some bills. “Keep the change.”

Eve slipped down off the stool and scooped everything into her bag, careful to retrieve her glasses and put them in the case. She stood for a moment, watching Carter fish his keys out of his shorts and stand up. This was it—the end to her evening with Carter Moran. He stepped forward. She cleared her throat. “Well, thanks again.” She turned to head for the front door.

“Ah, Eve?”

She swiveled around.

“It’s getting dark. I’ll walk you across the street to the pool parking lot.” He grabbed the pizza box off the bar.

“No, that’s all right. I walked.”

“Then I’ll give you a lift. I’m parked out back.” Carter pointed with his thumb toward the door at the rear of the bar. His green eyes beckoned.

And Eve wondered why this seriously sexy man was offering to drive her home, rather than rushing back to a beautiful woman with a brand-new sheer camisole. Maybe it was just the Good Samaritan attitude that went along with being a small-town cop? It must be hell on a love life, she thought. “You sure it’s not out of your way?” Even though the sun was going down, it would still be a hot mile-or-so walk home.

“I live in town, too, so it’s no big deal.”

“You sure? First a free meal. Now a ride. I’m overwhelmed.” She fell in step as they walked to the exit.

“Don’t be so hasty. You haven’t seen my car.” Carter held open the back door.

She felt the temperature difference as soon they stepped outside. From arctic air-conditioning, they’d entered a tropical soup. She wiped the beads of sweat that instantly formed on her forehead. “If it’s got four wheels and air conditioning, I’ll take it.”

“On a good day I can guarantee the four wheels.” Carter stopped in front of a decrepit Toyota truck.

Eve dubiously surveyed the vehicle. She thought it was red, but given the rust, she wasn’t sure. It looked as if duct tape and supreme intervention were the only things holding the bumper to the front end. “I take it this is not an official cop car.” She gingerly pushed down on the handle to the passenger-side door. Nothing happened.

“It’s this cop’s car. And give it a good yank,” he said as he bounded into the driver’s side.

Eve gave it a good yank. The door gave way. So did the handle. She shook her head and stepped tentatively on the running board. “Is this thing going to hold me?”

“Maybe I should have warned you to stop with two pieces of pizza.” He leaned over and scooped a copy of the New York Times and a cell phone off the seat. He threw them in the bed of the truck, which was covered by a white truck cap.

Eve looked at the cracked seat. “Do I need to get shots before entering?” She clambered up and looked for the seatbelt shoulder strap. She wasn’t taking any chances.

“Hold this on your lap, would you?” He passed her the pizza box.

Eve scrunched her face at the thick layer of dust covering the dashboard. “I can see why you don’t want to put it on any available surface.” She gave him the door handle in exchange for the box.

He threw it in the back along with the newspaper and the cell phone.

Eve turned around, but decided not to investigate too closely. “Handy filing system you got there.”

Carter put his keys in the ignition and stopped. “On second thought. Hand over the pizza.” She did. He tossed it in the back where it thudded silently. “There. It’s now filed under ‘B.”’

She was confused. “‘B’? I would have thought ‘P’ for pizza.”

He turned and grinned at her sideways. “‘B’ for ‘bet.’ And I think it’s time I collected.”

## 5

“YOU THINK SO?”

“I know so.”

“I’m not sure we ever resolved the last question?”

Carter tilted his head at an angle. “You and I both know the answer.”

Eve hesitated.

“You’re not the kind of person who lies, Eve.”

She shook her head.

“So?” He leaned one forearm across the steering wheel and waited.

“What about the dog, Simone’s dog? And the pizza? And even more important, what about the camisole?”

“I’m sure the dog will like the pizza very much. I’m not so sure he has any opinion about the camisole.”

“But what about you?”

“You need my opinion on a camisole?” He looked puzzled, and then the light dawned. “I get it….” His voice trailed off and then he laughed. “Listen, I can assure you, Simone and I are just friends. Anything more would be seriously bad for my health, trust me. Okay?” He solemnly held up his left hand. “Scout’s honor.”

Eve coughed. “It’s the right hand.” She pointed to his raised salute.

He exchanged hands. “It’s the thought that counts.”

She looked out the side window. What was she getting herself into here? She looked back at him. A lock of hair had tumbled forward across his brow. The contours of his strong shoulders strained against the fragile seams of his shirt. She wet her lips. His seams weren’t the only fragile things in the truck cab. “No hands.”

He nodded slowly. “A deal’s a deal. If it makes you feel any better, there’s probably a set of handcuffs in the glove box that you could use.”