A drop of water slowly wound its way down Jack’s chest

When it finally disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, Corie’s mouth went dry. She was suddenly aware of his scent—sunshine, sweat and something very male. She tried to turn her eyes away, to gather her thoughts. But it was useless.

“What are you doing here?” Jack asked.

Staring. That’s what she was doing, and her imagination kicked into overdrive, picturing what might happen if she had the courage to go to him now and with her hand, her tongue, follow the path that drop of water had taken.

“I thought…” In a minute she’d be able to speak coherently. But first she had to get her eyes off the waistband of his pants. Dragging her gaze up to meet his, she said, “You said we’d talk in the morning.”

“Talk. Yeah. What do you want to talk about?” he asked awkwardly.

Narrowing her gaze, Corie studied Jack, and for the first time noticed that he looked a little dazed. Could he possibly be feeling even a fraction of what she was experiencing? The possibility gave her courage. Tell the man what you want. Her friend’s words became a chant in her head.

Corie cleared her throat. “Well, I was thinking…I’d like to have hot, wild sex with you.”

Dear Reader,

Being a part of Temptation’s SINGLE IN THE CITY miniseries has been such fun. First the man-magnet skirt took Manhattan, and now it’s causing havoc in one of the most romantic cities in the world—San Francisco.

Small-town librarian Corie Benjamin wants to change her life! All she has to do is give in to temptation.

Temptation #1—Jack Kincaid’s offer to fly her to San Francisco. If she goes, she can kill two birds with one stone. She can meet the man Jack claims is her father and find out why her mother lied about his death, and she can turn herself into a whole new woman.

Temptation #2—a man-magnet skirt. Wearing it will supposedly increase her ability to attract men. Corie figures it’s just the ticket she needs to get everything she’s looking for.

Temptation #3—Jack Kincaid, who is exactly what she’s looking for, the perfect man to have a fling with in San Francisco.

How can a girl possibly say no?

I hope you have fun watching Jack and Corie struggle against temptation and their hearts’ desires. And if you want to discover how the man-magnet skirt got its start, visit eHarlequin.com and read my online story Single in San Francisco. For contests and excerpts of my upcoming books, visit carasummers.com and singleinthecity.org.

Happy reading,

Cara Summers

Flirting with Temptation

Cara Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Heather MacAllister and Kristin Gabriel, my two writing cohorts in this Single in the City adventure. I have learned so much from working with the two of you. Thanks for the inspiration and the fun!

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Dear Mrs. H,

Spectacular! That’s the only word that I can think of to describe your wedding photos. Green was the perfect choice for the bridesmaids’ dresses. But then our tastes always did coincide.

My research for my screenplay is going well. The two young women who have rented my apartment on a time-share basis are giving me lots of ideas. I’ve lent the man-magnet skirt to each of them, and the “adventure has begun”! The skirt hasn’t lost a bit of its power since you gave it to me. You wouldn’t believe some of the male visitors these two women have—from hunky construction workers to alien-abductee investigators. I kid you not! And I thought I’d seen everything while I was living in Manhattan.

I’ve already accumulated copious notes. The path of true love never runs smoothly—even when it has a little help from a man-magnet skirt.

As I mentioned in my last letter, I’ve had a devil of a time finding a third tenant, thanks to all the construction work on the other buildings on the block. And I do need the money. With any luck my old college roommate, Jack Kincaid, will come through for me. He has a line on a third young woman—a college librarian from Fairview, Ohio. If he can convince her to fly out here, I may have my best research subject yet. Her story has the potential for an Oscar-winning screenplay—murder, mayhem, old secrets from the past and, of course, true love.

More later. Give my best to Pierre—and to Cleo and Antoine and their new litter of puppies. And let them know that the urban legend of the skirt is living on in San Francisco!

Ta!

Franco Rossi

1

SAN FRANCISCO, HERE I COME…

As she pulled her car into her driveway, Corie Benjamin tried to ignore the little tune that had been playing in her head all day. The moment she turned off the ignition, her gaze strayed to the overnight delivery envelope on the passenger seat. Inside was a plane ticket to San Francisco. Even though she hadn’t yet agreed to use it, Jack Kincaid had still sent it to her. The man knew how to tempt a woman.

She picked up the envelope and traced her finger along his name on the return address. The first time she’d heard from him, he’d left a message on her answering machine, telling her his name and how to reach him at the San Francisco Chronicle. Of course, none of the details had registered until she’d replayed the message. The first time she’d listened to it, she’d been totally absorbed in his voice. Soft velvet with sandpapery edges was the only way she could describe it, and each time she heard it, a tingle of awareness went right through her. She’d called him back, and what he’d told her had set her head spinning. If she would fly to San Francisco, he would help her meet her father.

Her father. Jack Kincaid couldn’t have said anything that would tempt her more. All her life she’d wondered about the man her mother would never speak of. Was she like him? Was he the reason she felt so…restless, so unsatisfied with her life in Fairview, Ohio? She tightened her grip on the envelope, and, for the first time, she understood how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden—irresistibly drawn by the promise of knowledge.

But knowledge could be dangerous, she reminded herself as she hugged the envelope to her chest. She might not like the answers she would find.

And she had obligations at the library. Dropping everything and flying off to San Francisco would be irresponsible…and wild…and wonderful…

“Never act on impulse.” In her mind, Corie could hear her mother reciting her most frequently repeated commandment as clearly as if she were sitting right next to her in the car. The first time Isabella Benjamin had said those words, Corie had been six. After reading Peter Pan for the first time, she’d climbed onto the roof of the house and tried to fly. Six weeks in bed with a broken leg had given her ample opportunity to reflect on the virtue of being cautious. Not that she’d learned her lesson. Being cautious just didn’t seem to be part of her nature. She had to work at it constantly.

A glance at her watch had her slipping out of the car and racing up the flagstone path. In less than fifteen minutes, Jack Kincaid was going to call and ask if she was going to use the ticket. The moment of decision was upon her.

“Yoo-hoo! Corie!”

Busted, Corie thought as she hit the top step of the porch and turned. “Afternoon, Ms. Ponsonby.”

Since Corie’s mother had died two months ago, Muriel Ponsonby, Fairview, Ohio’s town crier, had made it her mission in life to watch over Corie.

“You’re home early.” Eyes narrowing, Muriel moved to the steps of her porch. “You feeling all right?”

Corie beamed a smile at Muriel. “I’m fine. It’s such a lovely day, I just decided to leave work early.”

Muriel frowned. “You’ll make bridge club tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Muriel had seen to it that Corie had been invited to take her mother’s place in the bridge club, the quilting circle and the Friday evening book-discussion group. Corie tightened her grip on the airline ticket. If she stayed in Fairview, her life was all safely mapped out for her. She would turn into her mother.

“Heard you got an overnight delivery letter at the library today. From San Francisco. Not bad news, I hope.”

Corie had often thought that the U.S. government should have the kind of spy network that Muriel seemed to have in place. For one wild moment she was tempted to wave the envelope and say, “Just a little note from a lover I met on the Internet. I’m going to fly out and meet him on Wednesday.”

But if she did that, Muriel and the entire quilting circle would probably rush to her house to do an intervention. Ever since her failed attempt to fly off the roof, she’d had a reputation for acting recklessly, and in Fairview a reputation stuck.

Stifling the impulse to mention an Internet lover or any other kind, Corie backed toward her door, but she couldn’t resist saying, “It’s just an article I ordered for Dean Atwell—something on poisonous mushrooms.”

“Poisonous mushrooms?” Muriel said, looking for all the world like a dog picking up a new scent. “Why would he want something like that?”

Muriel didn’t seem to expect an answer. She was too busy backing toward her own front door. In a few minutes, the phone lines would be buzzing since everyone in town knew that Dean Atwell’s divorce was not going well. Any twinge of conscience that Corie might have felt at her lie was eased when she pushed her key into the lock and escaped into her house. She’d come home early to gather her thoughts. A quick glance at her watch told her that she now had less than ten minutes to finalize her decision.

To go to San Francisco or not to go—that was the question. Placing the ticket on the small table next to the phone, Corie sank down into a straight-backed chair and fished her notebook out of her bag. From the time she’d been a little girl, doodling had always helped her to see things more clearly. Quickly, she sketched a huge Y. It was the same one she’d been drawing at the library all week. Following the right-hand prong of the Y would keep her trapped safely in her present cocoon as a college librarian in Fairview, Ohio, population eight thousand and dropping. She drew a little circle to represent a cocoon at the end of that path. Following the other path would offer her the chance to escape. To become a butterfly. Quickly, she sketched wings at the end of the left-hand prong. More important, she would get the opportunity to meet the man who could very well be her father and perhaps discover why her mother had kept his existence a secret all these years. Maybe she could figure out why she couldn’t be happy with the life her mother had chosen. And maybe, just maybe, she could figure out who she really was.

Just the thought of that had a mix of anticipation and fear forming a tight, hard knot in her stomach. Placing her notebook on the table, she reached out and ran a finger down the envelope that contained the ticket. The choice should have been a no-brainer, and it would have been if it weren’t for the promise she’d made over and over again to her mother.

Shifting her glance, Corie met the eyes of the woman in the small ivory-framed picture next to the phone. Her mother’s eyes were so serious, her mouth just hinting at a frown. Isabella Benjamin had worn the same expression on her deathbed and she’d made Corie promise one last time…

Drawing in a deep breath, Corie said, “I know I promised you that I would never leave Fairview.”

Deathbed promises should be binding, but it wasn’t fair. She would have promised her mother anything during those last days. The illness had come so suddenly, a bad cold that had spread to the lungs, and by the time the doctors had tried to treat it with antibiotics, it was too late. Corie touched her mother’s face in the picture. “I want to fly to San Francisco on Wednesday.”

Though silence filled the hallway, Corie could hear the echoes of old arguments in her mind. Ever since she could remember, she’d wanted to leave Fairview, to see the world. Her mother had always argued against it. You’re much too impulsive to be on your own. She did have a tendency to leap before she looked—and the leaps often ended in disaster. There was the time she’d climbed a tree to rescue a cat, and the fire department had had to come for both of them. Of course, she hadn’t leapt that time; clearly, she’d learned her lesson that she wasn’t Peter Pan. Corie sighed and doodled some more. The biggest disagreement she’d ever had with her mother had been when she’d wanted to go away to college. In the end they’d compromised. She’d gotten to go to Ohio State, but she’d had to live at home and ride the bus to classes. And she’d had to promise to take a job at the small liberal arts college in Fairview when she graduated.

As she studied her mother’s picture, Corie felt the familiar wave of frustration and love move through her. “I’m not like you.” Not yet.

“I know a promise is a promise. But you lied to me about my father.” There she’d said it out loud. “You told me my father was dead.” And there was a very good chance that he was alive and kicking—running a very successful winery and health spa in the Napa Valley. She glanced at the cluster of stick figures she’d also drawn at the left-hand end of the Y. If Benjamin Lewis was her father, she had other family, too—two half-bothers and an Uncle Buddy. She’d done as much research as she could on them. Then with her pencil, she retraced the other stick figure she’d drawn a short distance from the cluster. If she flew out to San Francisco, she would also get to meet Jack Kincaid.

In the past two weeks, she’d done research on him, too. Currently, he was writing feature articles for the San Francisco Chronicle. Before that, he’d spent eight years working his way up through various news services by covering hot spots throughout the world, and he’d written a Pulitzer prize-winning book based on his experiences. After pulling it out of her bag, she set it on the table next to her mother’s picture. She’d read every word of it, and it had held her spellbound. He’d traveled to all the places that she’d only dreamed about.

Drawing in a deep breath, Corie shifted her gaze back to her mother’s picture. “It’s not like I’m acting on impulse. I’ve given the idea some careful thought, and I think we should work out a compromise. I’ll spend one week in San Francisco, and then I’ll come back.” She tried to tell herself that she wouldn’t be breaking her promise, just bending it.

The silence that greeted her proposal nearly deafened her. Then the shrill ring of the phone made her jump.

Corie glanced at her watch. She still had five minutes. She needed five more minutes.

The phone rang again. The number on the caller ID box told her it was Jack Kincaid. She had to pick it up. What in the world was the matter with her? Was she as afraid of the world as her mother had been? She grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“Corie, did you get the ticket?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’ll leave Columbus at 7:15 a.m. on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow, change planes in Chicago, and touch down in San Francisco shortly before noon.”

As Jack spoke, Corie tried to resist the effect that his deep, baritone voice always had on her, but the tingle of awareness began to slide through her.

“I’ve found you a place to stay. The owner of my building, Franco Rossi, was my roommate in college, and he has an apartment you can use. Two other women are using it on a time-share basis, but it’s all yours for the time being. And if you decide to stay on in San Francisco, he’s sure that you can work something out with them.”

Corie closed her eyes as the tingle reached her toes and she felt them curl.

“How does that sound?”

“Perfect.” And Jack Kincaid was almost perfect, too. Opening her eyes, she turned his book over and studied his picture on the jacket. Besides the voice that she was sure could charm snakes, he had dark, unruly hair, the darkest gray eyes she’d ever seen and a dimple in his chin that tempted her to touch it. Unable to resist, Corie ran her finger over it. He was making things so easy for her.

Another of her mother’s commandments had been “Never trust a charming man. He’ll lie to you and you’ll believe him.”

Corie suppressed a sigh. Jack Kincaid had already lied to her—or at least lied by omission. Not once during their conversations had he ever told her that the man who might very well be her father had at one time been connected to an organized crime family in New Jersey. Of course, Benjamin Lewis’s businesses were supposedly on the up-and-up now. Indeed, according to Jack, he’d become a pillar of the community. On Friday he was going to be honored for building the new children’s wing at San Francisco Memorial Hospital.

“Then I’ll pick you up at the airport Wednesday morning?” Jack asked.

Corie’s gaze slipped to her mother’s picture. “I didn’t agree to come yet.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Corie closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. What was the matter with her? She wouldn’t blame him if he gave up on her entirely.

“Corie, you are a very tough sell.”

She opened her eyes in surprise. It wasn’t anger or impatience she heard in his voice. It was patient amusement.

“The problem is if you don’t come, you’ll never know if Benjamin Lewis is really your father. Can you live with that question nagging at you for the rest of your life?”

The man sure knew how to hit the nail right on the head. If she didn’t go, she’d always wonder about the man who might be her father, wonder what he was like, wonder if she was like him…

A knock at the door had her whirling around. She spotted Muriel Ponsonby through the glass, and, for one brief moment, she was tempted to duck under the table and hide. Too late. Muriel was already waving at her.

“Hold on a minute,” she said to Jack. “Someone’s at the door.” She no sooner pulled it open than Muriel beamed a huge smile at her and said, “Missy La Rue had to cancel for bridge tonight, and Harold Mitzenfeld has agreed to fill in. I’m going to make sure he’s your partner.”

For a moment, Corie was sorely tempted to fake a faint. It couldn’t be all that difficult. All she would have to do was close her eyes and slip bonelessly to the floor. Then Muriel would have to find someone else to be Harold’s bridge partner. Middle-aged and portly, Harold Mitzenfeld was a recently widowed geology professor at the college. The few times she’d run into him in the library, his conversation hadn’t strayed beyond rocks.

“You’re speechless,” Muriel said, rubbing her hand together. “I knew you would be. I just had to let you know. Eligible bachelors are so hard to come by in Fairview, but I know your mother would expect me to do my best for you. And she would have approved of Harold. Now, don’t you be late.” With a wave, Muriel turned and hurried off.

Corie stared after her, but she wasn’t seeing Muriel. All she could see was her life in Fairview unfolding before her—an endless sea of bridge clubs, quilting circles, book discussion groups…and Harold Metzenfeld!

Whirling, she closed the door and marched back to the hall table. Jack’s face smiled up at her from the book jacket—pure temptation. Then she met her mother’s steady gaze—pure guilt trip.

In desperation, she glanced up at the mirror that filled the wall above the table. The person staring back at her did not look like she belonged in San Francisco. Plain brownish blond hair was slipping out of the bun she wore it in. Even at twenty-five, she looked to be exactly what she was—a plain-looking, boring college librarian. In short, she was the kind of woman that her neighbors thought was a perfect match for Harold Metzenfeld.

She did not want to be that woman!

Panic and frustration bubbled up inside of her. She’d felt just this way the day that she’d stood on the roof and wanted so much to fly. She did not want to be Corie Benjamin, drab librarian. And if she went to San Francisco, for seven whole days, she could try her wings and be someone else.

Grabbing the phone, she drew in a deep breath and said, “All right. Yes.” The moment the words were out, she felt her knees give out and she sank onto the nearest chair.

“Yes, you’ll come?” Jack Kincaid asked slowly.

Corie drew in a deep breath. It had to be easier to say the second time. “Yes. I’ll catch the seven-fifteen flight on Wednesday.”

“That’s great. I’ll meet you at the airport in the baggage claim area. I’m going to bring a friend with me. You won’t be able to miss him. He has very odd taste in clothes.”

Clothes! Corie’s eyes widened. If she was going to be someone totally different, she was going to need some new ones. And her hair—it was going to need some work too. “I just have one request. You said you’d do anything to help me make this decision.”

“Yes?”

“Before I make contact with…Mr. Lewis, I’d like a makeover.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “A makeover?”

“Yes.” She very nearly smiled. It was the very first time she’d heard surprise in Jack Kincaid’s voice. “I’m sure you’ve seen them on TV—on Oprah? They take someone fairly…drab and ordinary and completely redo her hair, makeup and clothes. I’ll pay for it, of course. I just want to look my best if I’m going to meet my new family.”

“A makeover,” Jack repeated. “I’ll look into it. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Anything else?”

Corie narrowed her eyes as she stared once more at her reflection in the mirror. Was it her imagination or did she look different already? There was certainly a touch more color in her cheeks. And her eyes were brighter.

“No.”

“Good. You won’t regret this, Corie. I think you’ll find the evidence I’ve gathered very compelling.”

Corie sat right where she was for a few minutes after Jack broke the connection. In the two weeks since he’d contacted her, informed her of his theory and set her life spinning, she’d searched the house for some clue that what Jack had told her might be true, and she’d uncovered some compelling evidence of her own. Rising, she now went to the closet and pulled the box down from the shelf. She’d found it under a loose floorboard in her mother’s bedroom.

Removing the lid, she picked up the brown envelope and drew out her birth certificate. On it, her father’s name was Lewis Benjamin. Not Benjamin Lewis, but it was very suggestive. Replacing it in the envelope, she stared down at the bundles of letters. They’d been written over a period of twenty-six years and they chronicled every important event in her life. There were photos of everything—from her first bath to her first date. There was even a picture of the birthmark on her right arm—the one that her mother had always said was a mark of her heritage. The envelopes were stampless and unsealed. The letters were all written by her mother and addressed to a man named Benjamin Lewis. But they’d never been mailed. The “Benny Letters” was what she’d dubbed them since they’d all begun with “Dear Benny.”

Was Benjamin Lewis the charming man who’d lied to her mother? Corie suspected that he was. And that was just the first of many questions. If Benny was her father, why had her mother run away? Corie had only had to read the letters to know that her mother had loved the man she was writing to, so why hadn’t Isabella mailed them? And why had she kept “Benny’s” existence a secret?

Reaching beneath one of the packets of letters, Corie drew out the only other item in the box, a menu from Edie’s Diner, a restaurant in the same town that the Lewis Winery was located in. By calling directory assistance, she’d learned that the diner no longer existed. But when she contacted the chamber of commerce, they’d informed her that Edie’s place was now called the Saratoga Grill. She hadn’t called, but she intended to go there in person. Perhaps someone could tell her more about her mother.

As she closed the box, Corie wished it were just as simple to put a lid on the feelings rushing through her. Tomorrow she would take the first step on a journey that could lead her to her lifelong dream of having a real family. Tomorrow was the beginning of a whole new life—even though it might only last a week.

So why did she feel so…guilty? Placing the box back in the closet, she walked down the hall to the kitchen, passing by the living room she and her mother had used only on holidays and the dining room table that had never been set for company. How many years had she waited, hoping to break free of this house?

If her mother hadn’t died so suddenly two months ago, she might never have been able to leave. She might never have found out that she had a father and a family outside of Fairview. Instead, she might have ended up married to Harold Metzenfeld. Corie shuddered at the thought. Then she glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror and shuddered again. Maybe she wasn’t that woman who was staring back at her. Didn’t she deserve the chance to find out?

And she wanted to find out the answers to her questions. She was enough of a realist to know that she might not like the answers. But she owed it to herself to find out why her mother had spent so much of her life as a recluse—and why she wanted Corie to do the same thing.

She’d made the right decision.

If only she could get rid of the nagging voice in the back of her mind that was chanting her mother’s third commandment: Be careful what you wish for.

JACK ROUNDED THE CORNER, drew in a deep breath, and steeled himself for the final sprint that would take him to the end of Pier 39. At 6:00 a.m. the Fisherman’s Wharf area of San Francisco was one of his favorite spots. Later the stores and walkways would be thronged with people. Boats would be blowing their whistles, announcing departures to Sausalito or Alcatraz, and there would be ample evidence that only Disney World and Disneyland surpassed Fisherman’s Wharf as a tourist attraction.

But right now, there was silence except for the occasional sharp call of a seagull. Sprinting up a flight of wooden steps, Jack welcomed the burn in his shins and lungs. This morning he’d doubled the length of his run, hoping to ease his tension, but so far it hadn’t worked.

He should be feeling relieved and elated that he’d persuaded Corie Benjamin to come to San Francisco today. Instead, he’d spent two sleepless nights, and even now he had that anxious feeling deep in his gut, the one he always had when he was pursuing a lead and something was about to go wrong.

The moment the end of the pier came into view, Jack began to slow his pace. Sun glared off the water, and cars streamed steadily across the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. “San Francisco at its best,” his Aunt Mel would have said.

Just thinking about his aunt had his lips curving. He’d been five when his parents had died in a car crash. His father’s sister, Melanie Kincaid, had been in the navy at the time, and it had taken her six months to free herself up to take him in. The months in foster homes had given him the worst memories of his life. His years with his Aunt Mel had given him the best.

“We’re the last of the Kincaids, kid,” she’d said. “We’ve got to stick together.” And stick they had—until he’d gone away to college.

“Why in hell would you want to go a whole continent away? What’s New York got that you can’t find right here in San Francisco?”

Everything, Jack thought. Or at least that’s what he’d thought at the time. His smile faded as he reached the end of the pier and planted his hands against the railing. He hadn’t come here today to rekindle old feelings of guilt. He’d come here because he needed his aunt’s advice, and he always felt close to her here.

He glanced at the rows of shops and restaurants. She’d brought him here to celebrate every good report card he’d ever gotten. Since her disappearance twelve years ago, he’d come here whenever his work schedule permitted. Dropping his gaze, Jack watched the dark water swell and push against the pilings. “I was right to talk her into coming out here, Aunt Mel.”

Corie Benjamin was his ticket to finding out what had really happened to his aunt when she’d disappeared twelve years ago. He’d been sure then, and he was sure now, that Benny Lewis had been behind his aunt’s disappearance. Melanie Kincaid had been working as the Lewis family’s personal chef, and she’d discovered something about the family that disturbed her. She wouldn’t tell him what, only that she was going to check it out. Later he’d learned that she’d disappeared within hours of calling him that day.

If only he’d been closer, he might have…

Impatiently, Jack pushed the thought away. Wallowing in guilt wouldn’t change the fact that he’d been a whole continent away, and by the time he’d made it back to San Francisco, the trail was cold, and no one would listen to his theory of foul play. Even then, Benny Lewis had established a reputation of being a leader in the wine-growing community and a philanthropist. The police had even located a witness who’d seen a woman matching his aunt’s description jump off this very pier.

What Jack knew for sure was that his aunt would never have taken her own life. The fact that the Lewis family had insisted on holding a memorial service for their late chef had infuriated him. Hotheaded and grief-stricken, he’d driven to the Lewis estate that day and accused Benny of having his aunt killed. From that moment, he’d been a persona non grata at the Lewis Winery, and a recent article he’d written, part of a series called “Crime Families in the Twenty-first Century,” had rekindled the old animosity.

The cry of a gull overhead brought him back to the present. Shading his eyes, he watched the bird circle and then light on a second-story railing. For years, he’d nurtured a hope that his aunt might be alive. To this day, he was sure that he’d caught a glimpse of her at his college graduation ceremony. His roommate Franco had told him that it was just some kind of wish projection, but Jack hadn’t been entirely convinced. Then there’d been the anonymous fan letters that he’d received during the eight years he’d spent abroad, covering stories and writing the articles that would become his first book. At times, he could have sworn he heard his aunt’s voice and phrasing in them. But none of them had been signed, and the postmarks had all been from different places.

Turning, Jack glanced down at the dark water as it pushed against the pilings. It had been twelve years, and it all came back to the same question. If his aunt was alive, why hadn’t she ever contacted him in person? One thing he was sure of—Benny Lewis held the key to answering his questions.

With Corie at his side and the threat of scandal if the story of an illegitimate daughter wasn’t handled “properly” in the press, Benny Lewis would have to finally grant him an interview. Then he could complete his work on crime families and send it off. His publisher was already pressuring him to think about a series of articles on the Middle East, so the clock was ticking.

Jack pushed himself away from the railing and began to pace. Why in hell wasn’t he celebrating the fact that he’d convinced Corie Benjamin to fly out here?

“You got a problem, you face it head-on.” That’s what his aunt’s advice would have been. Well, his problem was Corie Benjamin. He’d never before been so curious about a woman. The more he got to know her, the more puzzling she became.

There was her voice for one thing. At times, there was a shyness in it that went hand in hand with the image he’d formed of her in his mind—mousy hair tied into a bun, a baggy sweater worn with a shapeless dress and sensible shoes.

Frowning, Jack gazed out across the water. But at other times there was a hint of steel beneath the soft tone. He’d heard it loud and clear when she’d demanded that makeover.

“What in hell do I know about arranging for a woman to get a makeover?” He couldn’t imagine any other woman in his acquaintance admitting that they even wanted one.

“She’s different, Aunt Mel.”

And that was part of the problem. Corie Benjamin was different. And he hadn’t been completely honest with her. If he had, she probably would have stayed in Fairview. So maybe that was why he felt so…protective of her.

“But I was right to persuade her to come out here.” He had to believe that. Lifting his hands from the railing, he rubbed them over his face. What was the matter with him? Corie Benjamin was going to be perfectly safe. Benny Lewis certainly wasn’t going to jeopardize his reputation as one of San Francisco’s leading philanthropists just because his long-lost daughter showed up, not when the mayor was going to honor him for the new wing that was being dedicated at the San Francisco Memorial Hospital this coming Friday.

“There isn’t a safer time for her to make her appearance in his life.” Even though he’d been over and over it in his mind, it helped him to say it out loud. “And everything should run like clockwork.”

Jack lifted a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck to ease a prickling sensation. He felt as if someone was watching him. As his heart began to race, he whirled and scanned the pier.

Empty—except for a man tapping a white cane along the wooden planks on the lower level. A blind man taking a morning stroll with his dog. So much for the strange feeling he’d had that he was being watched. Jack frowned again. He was going to have to get a grip on his nerves. A good reporter always kept a cool head.

He pushed himself away from the pier and started a slow jog back to his car.

2

JACK PULLED INTO HIS SLOT in the underground garage of his apartment building and opened the door. Before he could close it, Franco Rossi, his old college roommate and current landlord, hurried toward him.

“Well, do you think she got on the plane?”

During his globe-trotting years, Jack had met his share of colorful and eccentric characters, but Franco still remained at the top of the list. For the past eight years Franco had lived in New York City, subsidizing his acting career with a job as a doorman at a posh Central Park West apartment building, and he’d acquired an…unusual wardrobe.

“She told me she was coming, and I have a feeling that once Corie Benjamin makes up her mind, she sticks to it.”

“Wonderful!” Franco rubbed his hands together. “Wonderful!” This morning he was wearing a bright red kimono, a souvenir from his performance in an off-Broadway production of Tea House of the August Moon. Beneath the spiked hair and the orange-rimmed sunglasses, who would suspect that there lurked a man who was a black belt in karate? And Jack was pretty sure no one would guess that Franco owned the apartment building he lived in. The lovely old Painted Lady had been his sole award in a palimony suit against his former longtime lover.

Franco whipped a notebook out of his pocket. “What else do you know about her? I’ve decided she’s the perfect heroine for my screenplay.”

Jack urged Franco back into the building. “You say that about every woman you meet. Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” Franco said, glancing at his watch. “My Monday-Tuesday tenant hasn’t moved out yet. Besides, you have better coffee, and I just French-pressed a pot of your Arabica.”

“Make yourself at home,” Jack said dryly as Franco used his passkey to let them in. Until he sold his screenplay, Franco had decided to live as frugally as possible. Therefore, he was presently renting out his second-floor apartment on a per diem basis to two women who lived there on different days of the week while Franco had moved into the old maid’s quarters in the basement.

Franco poured two cups of coffee and settled himself on the couch that swept around two walls of the sunny living room while Jack filled him in on what he knew about Corie Benjamin.

“So, the opening scene is eleven-fifteen at the airport. I can see it now. Sun pouring down through all that glass as our heroine walks wide-eyed through the gate into a brave new world.” Grabbing the notebook that was never far from reach, Franco began to jot down notes.

“This isn’t a movie,” Jack said.

“It will be. Corie Benjamin’s perfect—a shy little country mouse coming to the big city. My agent will be very excited about it.”

“I thought he was interested in the other two plots you’re hatching,” Jack said.

“Those too.” Franco waved his hand, then continued to scribble notes.

Jack moved to the window. Across the street, the construction workers were taking their places on the scaffolding that decorated two houses. In a matter of moments, a cacophony of ear-numbing noises would begin.

Turning back to Franco, he said, “I told her that she could use your apartment for the entire week and perhaps more, if she decides to extend her stay.”

“No problemo. I spoke with the two women who use the apartment now on different days, and I’m sure she can work something out with them.”

“There’s just one more thing.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. “She wants a makeover—the kind they’re always doing on TV talk shows. Do you know what she’s talking about?”

Franco glanced up. “A makeover! That will be perfect. It’s just what I needed—a Pygmalion theme. Eliza Doolittle meets Vito Corleone! That is sooo high concept! My agent will definitely be able to sell it!”

Jack crossed to the couch and sat down. Sometimes his friend needed a firm hand. Taking Franco’s notebook and pen, he then set them on the table. “Forget about the screenplay for a minute. Can you handle the makeover for me?”

Franco’s brows shot up. “Is rain wet? Do flowers bloom in the spring? When my mother first read me Cinderella, I didn’t want to be the prince. I wanted to be the fairy godmother. I’ve always wondered why I wasn’t born with a magic wand in my hand.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to do it yourself?”

“Heavens no. I’ll be her advisor, but I’ll probably enlist the help of Lorenzo. He’s currently doing my hair.”

Jack frowned. “I don’t think she is envisioning spikes.”

“Relax. Lorenzo is one of the top hair designers in San Francisco. He does all the movie stars when they visit. Our little Corie will be in good hands.”

Jack’s frown deepened. “That’s just it. She’s not our little Corie.”

Franco studied Jack for a moment. “For someone who spent the past two weeks convincing our little Cor—librarian to board that plane tomorrow, you don’t look very happy.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack began to pace. “If there was some other way that I could gain access to the Lewis family, I wouldn’t have involved her.”

“You worry too much.”

“Maybe I haven’t worried enough. I still don’t know who sent me the anonymous e-mail, telling me about her and where to locate her.”

“Why don’t you ask your friend at Cop Central to help you out?”

Jack had thought about that. His friendship with Captain D. C. Parker went back to their high school days. “I couldn’t ask D.C. to do anything illegal. He’s on the political fast track in the department.”

Franco shrugged. “Who says he’d have to get involved? All you need is a name—someone who’s had a few brushes with the law….”

Jack paused in his pacing to study his friend. “You know, with a devious mind like yours, you’d make a good journalist.”

Franco threw up his hands. “Not on your life! I’ll stick to my screenplay, thank you. And I think you really ought to relax about this. Even if all your suspicions about Benny Lewis turn out to be true, he’s worked too hard to build his reputation as a pillar of the community and a philanthropist to risk even the barest hint of scandal at this point. Our little Corie is going to be perfectly safe.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” But… Jack barely kept himself from saying the word out loud.

Franco leaned back against the cushions on the couch. “You know, I’ve never seen you this concerned about a woman before.”

Jack considered that for a moment. He made a point of never becoming too involved with a woman. He’d always told himself that it was because he was never in one place for long, and he had no business taking on the responsibility. But he didn’t have to go to a shrink to figure out that he didn’t trust long-term relationships. He’d lost his parents when he was five and his aunt when he was eighteen. Nothing lasted. Therefore, it was just…easier not to get involved. And he didn’t intend to get involved with Corie Benjamin. It was just that… “I’ve never met anyone like her before. She’s different. And she wouldn’t be coming out here to meet her father if I hadn’t called her.”

“Is she pretty?” Franco asked.

“How would I know? I’ve never seen her.” But he wanted to. For the first time, it occurred to him that he was looking forward to meeting Corie for reasons that had nothing to do with his pursuit of the truth surrounding his aunt’s disappearance. Suddenly, he frowned.

“Well, well, well. I never thought I’d see the day that a woman would tie you up in knots,” Franco said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Corie Benjamin is not my type.”

“Anything you say.”

“I’m just feeling a little guilty because I never told her about Benny’s early connections to the mob.”

Franco’s eyes widened. “That’s a biggie.”

“I kept telling myself that I’d do it as soon as she got out here. And now I feel responsible for her. If something should happen…”

“What could happen? You have labored under the suspicion that Benjamin Lewis had something to do with your aunt’s disappearance far too long. The man’s a pillar of the community, for heaven’s sake. Sure, he supposedly had past mob connections, but not since he moved his family out here almost thirty years ago.” Franco rose from the couch. “But just in case our little librarian is in any danger, I have the perfect backup plan. I thought I would store it here while my apartment is in use.” Rising, he strode to the hall closet and drew out a hanger. “This,” he gave the hanger a little shake and for a moment the black skirt hanging from it seemed to catch the light, “will protect her.”

Jack shifted his gaze from the skirt to Franco. “That’s a skirt.”

“Indeed, it is—but it’s a very special skirt. The fiber was woven from the lunua plant that grows only on this one island, and whoever wears the skirt has the power to draw men like a magnet. I’m trying to get in touch with the original owner, Torrie Lassiter. She lives here in San Francisco and I’m trying to track her down for an interview. Supposedly, she started everything by tossing the skirt instead of her bouquet at her wedding. Since then, this little skirt’s become an urban legend.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Jack asked.

Franco raised his right hand, a solemn expression on his face. “I would never joke about this skirt. I’ve seen it in action. Since I’ve moved out here to San Francisco, I’ve given some thought to wearing it myself. Getting back into the dating scene is tough. It’s a real wasteland out there.” Franco shifted his gaze to the skirt. “Still…I’m not sure I’m ready. The skirt comes with a little catch.”

“Most things do.” Jack studied the skirt. It looked ordinary enough—simple, black, basic.

“Whoever wears this skirt will draw her true love to her,” Franco said.

Jack studied his friend. He’d known Franco long enough to know when he was joking. But he was serious. And he was sober. “Just how is a man-magnet skirt supposed to protect Corie Benjamin? She isn’t coming out here looking for a man.”

Franco held up a hand. “On the contrary. She is looking for one—her father. And the interesting thing about this skirt is that it has different effects on different men. It’s been known to get some of the women who’ve worn it out of very tough scrapes—including ones involving guns and knives.”

Moving forward, Franco spread the skirt out on one of the couch cushions. “I was going to talk Corie into wearing it anyway. Now I’ll just fit it into the makeover. The skirt is the hook I’m using in my screenplay.”

“Franco, I don’t know…”

“What can it hurt?”

Reaching out, Jack fingered the material. For a moment, he was almost sure he caught a scent that reminded him of the kind of exotic flowers that would only grow on a tropical island. That was almost as ridiculous as the feeling of being watched that he’d gotten on the pier earlier.

Outside on the street, there was a loud sound like a gunshot. Dropping the skirt, Jack whirled back to the window in time to see a large black car give one lurch, then, tires squealing, race toward the corner.

Franco patted him on the shoulder. “That car was just backfiring. You should take something to calm your nerves.”

But it wasn’t the car or the backfiring that bothered Jack. It was the man he’d caught a glimpse of in the front seat of the car. A man wearing a hat and sunglasses with a dog on his lap. For a second, he was almost sure that it was the blind man he’d seen walking his dog at Fisherman’s Wharf.

CORIE STEPPED OUT of the jet way and blinked at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows that ran along both walls of the airport. Well, she was here. Too late for regrets, she told herself as she pressed a hand against the mix of nerves and excitement bubbling away in her stomach.

Tightening her grip on her duffel bag, she glanced at the overhead signs and followed the arrows toward baggage pickup. Jack Kincaid would be there, and her San Francisco adventure would begin. She was determined to make the seven days count.

Eagerly she studied people around her, noting the tiny Chinese woman in the slim black pants and sandals, the Indian woman in a colorful sarong, a luxuriously built redhead in pencil-thin heels and a blue silk business suit that Corie bet cost more than she made at the library in a month. Only by force of sheer willpower did she keep herself from glancing down at her shapeless navy dress and serviceable shoes. In Fairview, she fit right in. In San Francisco she was a walking, breathing 9-1-1 fashion emergency.

Straightening her shoulders, she stepped onto the escalator that promised to take her to baggage claim. She was going to change her image as soon as she could, but for now, she had to focus on meeting Jack Kincaid and his friend with the unusual wardrobe. As she scanned the heads popping into view, she spotted the man who had to be Jack’s friend.

Skimming her gaze over the lime-green walking shorts, orange polka-dot T-shirt and orange-rimmed sunglasses, Corie couldn’t prevent a smile. The whole outfit seemed to work somehow. Then she shifted her attention to Jack Kincaid who was taller than his companion and dressed more conservatively in jeans and a tan linen sport coat. The two men made a very odd couple indeed. The shorter man placed a hand on Jack’s arm, and Jack leaned closer to listen.

For the first time, it struck her that they might be just that—a couple. Jack had said he was bringing a “friend” to the airport, and this was San Francisco, after all. As she watched, Jack grinned at something his companion was saying. Then the dimple that she hadn’t been able to keep from touching on his book jacket was there, too, appearing and disappearing as his grin deepened or faded. What would it feel like to press her finger into that dimple?

The thought had her stopping dead in her tracks.

It wasn’t wise to be thinking about touching Jack Kincaid. Especially since it appeared that he already had someone to touch his dimple. Besides, hadn’t she decided that Jack was just the kind of man her mother had warned her about? “He will lie to you, and you will believe him.”

Well, she wouldn’t believe him—not entirely. In the two days since she’d made her decision to use the plane ticket Jack had sent her, Corie had clarified her goals, and she had a notebook full of doodles to prove it. The library had given her one week off, and she was determined to make the most of it. Not only was she going to meet the man who might be her father and find out why her mother had run away to hide, but she was also going to live it up while she was in San Francisco. She was going to do things she might never have the opportunity to ever do in Fairview—not with Muriel Ponsonby and the quilting circle hovering over her. One thing she was sure of. When she returned, no one was ever going to even think of her in the same sentence as Harold Mitzenfeld again.

Moving forward, she caught what the two men were saying.

“You’ve got to tell her,” the man with the green shorts was saying.

“I’m going to just as soon as I find the right time—after she settles in a bit,” Jack replied.

Corie saw the other man’s brows rise above the orange-framed sunglasses. “There’s a right time to find out your family has a lurid past?”

Corie stepped forward. “Why don’t you tell me right now?”

For a moment, the two men stared at her, and Corie had the sensation that she was being studied as thoroughly as a biologist might study a smear on a slide. No one had ever looked at her quite this closely back in Ohio. It made her wonder it she’d put her dress on inside out.

And then she made the mistake of looking into Jack’s eyes directly. They were steel-gray, cool and very intent. Where in the world had she gotten the idea that he was charming? Without the dimple and the smile to distract her, she could see that this was an intense and driven man who watched and measured everyone. He reminded her a little of a Brontë hero—Rochester right after he’d nearly run Jane Eyre down with his horse.

Jack’s friend was the first to recover. Holding out his hand, he said, “Franco Rossi, at your service. I’m Jack’s landlord and yours, too. Welcome to San Francisco.”

Pulling her gaze away from Jack’s took some surprising effort, but Corie managed it, then beamed a smile at Franco. “Thank you, Mr. Rossi.”

“Franco, please. We’re going to be neighbors.”

The moment Franco released her hand, Corie extended it to Jack. “What is it that you should have told—” The minute his hand clasped hers, her heart felt as if it had turned right over in her chest. Perhaps it was because she was drowning in those eyes. The longer she stared into them, the more they reminded her of fog hanging thick and dark over the cornfields in Ohio. It wasn’t until he released her hand that she felt the weakness in her knees.

“Are you all right?”

It took her a moment to realize that Franco had asked the question, and another minute to grab on to a thought. Those Brontë heroes might have been short in the charm department, but she was sure her mother would have included them in her first commandment.

Gathering her scattered wits, Corie managed to drag her gaze away from Jack’s and smile at Franco. “It must be jet lag. I felt a little dizzy there for a minute. But I never faint.”

“Good to know,” Jack murmured.

She risked a quick look at him and was pleased to note that this time her heart stayed right where it belonged. “What was it that you were going to tell me, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Jack, please.” He smiled at her. “It’s just some of the evidence that I told you about. We can talk about it over lunch.” He glanced at the nearby beltway that had begun to move. “If you’ll just point out your luggage, we’ll be on our way.”

Very smooth, Corie thought but she knew it was a lie. She was almost sure that Franco had been pressing him to tell her about Benny Lewis’s past.

“This is my luggage,” she said, indicating the duffel she was carrying.

Franco took it from her. “Then we’re off to lunch and after that to Lorenzo’s. He does my hair.” He gave her a little shove into the revolving doors.

When Jack joined her on the street, he said, “Franco says Lorenzo is the top choice of the Hollywood starlets when they come to town. And I told him that if you end up with spiked hair, I’ll have to kill him.”

She couldn’t prevent the laugh. And this time when she met his eyes, it was her stomach that seemed to lurch and then tighten. She threw all her effort into dragging her gaze away from his, and that was the only reason that she saw the man with the gun.

Later, she would recall the other details—that the man holding it was standing by the open door of a car, that he wore a hat and dark glasses and a dog sat patiently next to the white cane he was holding in his left hand. But, at the moment, all that fully registered in her mind was the gun.

A woman screamed. “He’s got a gun!”

“A gun!”

There was another scream and people at the curb began to scatter. As they cleared, Corie had enough time to see the man raise his hand and point the gun into the air. Then someone pushed her into Jack. It was like colliding with a brick wall.

“Get down,” she said.

The sound of the shot split the air, drowning out her words, but Jack was already shoving her to the ground.

3

“LORENZO WILL SQUEEZE YOU IN AT TWO,” Franco announced, closing his cell phone and signaling a waitress. “When Cameron Diaz was late for an appointment, he made her wait three days before he rescheduled.” Pausing, he leaned closer to Corie. “Thank heavens I knew him when he was Billy Lawrence from Trenton.”

Jack leaned back in his chair as a waitress slapped down three menus.

“Three Irish coffees,” Franco ordered before anyone could speak. Then he turned to Corie. “It’s the house specialty. They claim credit for originating the drink here in the U.S., and a shot of strong Irish whiskey will do us all good after that unfortunate incident at the airport.”

Unfortunate incident? Jack studied the two people at the table and stifled the urge to pinch himself. Franco punched more numbers into his cell phone, and Corie stared out the window of the café, looking for all the world like Eliza Doolittle getting her first glimpse of Henry Higgins’s world. Was he the only one who was worried about the “blind” gunman who had shot at them at the airport?

Both Franco and Corie had gotten a look at the shooter. Franco had noticed that the shooter had been wearing a fedora and a tan trench coat. Corie had described the gunman as an older man wearing sunglasses with a white cane and she’d caught just a glimpse of a small, fluffy dog.

The moment she’d spoken the words white cane and dog to the policeman, the hairs on the back of his neck had sprung to attention. Could it have been the same man he’d seen earlier at Pier 39—and later in the car that had backfired in front of his apartment building? That was the question that had been plaguing him as Franco had bundled them into his SUV and driven them to Fisherman’s Wharf. Jack wished that he’d gotten a look at the shooter, but he’d been so focused on getting Corie out of the line of fire, he hadn’t been any help at all. What were the chances of seeing two older men with sunglasses, white canes and dogs in one morning? Ordinarily, Jack didn’t believe in coincidences, but in this case the incident was so…bizarre.

And it had all happened so fast. Even now, his memory of the shooting came in flashes—the deafening sound of the shot, the fear he’d felt when Corie crashed into him, screams and then the screech of tires. He hadn’t seen the gunman at all.

Was he crazy to think that the “blind” man had been shooting at Corie? She’d told the police that the man had fired straight into the air, and several other witnesses had corroborated her account. However, his instincts—the ones that seemed to be operating overtime when it came to Corie—told him not to exclude the possibility that Corie might be in danger. But he didn’t have one shred of evidence, and the police were going with the theory that the gunman was a crackpot who’d fired blindly over the heads of the crowd. That was the slant that Jack had taken when he’d phoned the story into the Chronicle. The afternoon headline would read Blind Gunman Causes Havoc At Airport.

Franco flipped his cell phone closed with a flourish. “Mission accomplished. Marlo, my friend at Macy’s, is rescheduling your fashion consultation for five. That will put a little pressure on Lorenzo, but he’s a genius.” He beamed a smile at Corie. “By tonight, you won’t recognize yourself. We’ll go out on the town to celebrate. There’s a great new place in the neighborhood, Club Nuevo. Lots of singles hang out there.”

“Maybe Corie would like to rest,” Jack said.

“Nonsense.” Corie and Franco spoke in unison and then grinned at each other.

Jack found that the exchange made him feel like an outsider. More than that, it made him feel…jealous?

That was ridiculous. But perhaps not as ridiculous as the fact that he was attracted to Corie Benjamin. The moment that he’d taken her hand and looked into her eyes, he’d felt the pull—basic, elemental. And he’d wondered what it might be like between them. Hell, he was wondering what it might be like to make love to her right now. And that was more than ridiculous. It was impossible. He was responsible for her now that he’d gotten her to come to San Francisco. And she might be in danger. He was definitely not going to act on any attraction he felt for Corie Benjamin.

“Look, Corie.” Franco pointed to the bar. “You don’t want to miss the way they make the Irish coffees here.”

Corie turned in the direction that Franco was pointing. The bartender had a row of glass cups in front of him. With one hand he added whiskey to each and with the other a dollop of whipped cream. She might have enjoyed watching the ritual more if she hadn’t been so aware of Jack sitting next to her. Every time he looked at her, prickles of heat raced along her skin and triggered a strange and rather pleasant tightening in her stomach. The sensations were even stronger now than when she’d first looked into his eyes at the airport. She’d never experienced anything like this before.

Jet lag. That had to be it. But she couldn’t help remembering what it had felt like to lie beneath him for those few moments on the sidewalk at the airport. The press of his body against hers, as impersonal as it had been, had set her mind wondering and her body wanting.

Definitely jet lag. He’d never given her any indication that he was attracted to her. As a ripple of applause began at the bar, she stole a quick look at Jack. Up close, he was much more attractive than he’d been on his book cover. Though it shocked her, she found that she couldn’t look at that longish dark hair without wanting to run her hands through it. And she had to clasp her hands tightly in front of her to control the urge to touch that lean, tanned face.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. His lips were thin, masculine, and set in a grim line. Something tightened inside of her, and she could almost feel what it might be like to have those lips pressed against hers. They would be hard, demanding…

Wrenching her gaze away, Corie stared out the window until her heart slid back out of her throat and stopped beating like a bass drum. If she’d been alone, she would have taken out her notebook and tried to doodle her way to some understanding of what she was feeling. Then again, if she were alone, she wouldn’t be feeling this way, and she was beginning to like it. The man she’d had an affair with in college hadn’t even once made her feel the way she did when she just looked at Jack Kincaid. She risked another quick glance, but Jack was looking at Franco. Her heart sank. Could Jack be having the same thoughts about Franco that she was having about Jack? When a strange bitter-tasting flavor filled her mouth, Corie blinked.

Could it be jealousy she was feeling? Ridiculous. There wasn’t a chance in the world that Jack Kincaid could be attracted to her. Besides, hadn’t she read somewhere that all the best men were gay? So it was hopeless anyway.

“Enjoy,” the woman said as she delivered their coffees and hurried on to the next table.

“To Corie’s San Francisco adventure,” Franco said, raising his glass.

Jack didn’t lift his. “We have to talk.”

Corie and Franco both turned to him.

“Am I the only one who’s at all worried about the shooting incident at the airport?”

Franco’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t like the timing.” Pausing, Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking it over, and it’s possible that the shooter was aiming at Corie.”

Franco whipped out his notebook. “A blind hit man. What a plot point!”

Corie set down her coffee. “He fired the bullet into the air. I saw him and so did several other witnesses. The police concluded he was just some crazy person.”

Jack gave Franco an annoyed look before returning his gaze to Corie’s. “I have a feeling—the same one I get whenever something I’m working on is about to go bad. And I just want to cover all the possibilities so that we can take precautions. It’s possible that someone in the Lewis family might not be too thrilled that you’re here.”

Corie’s expression became thoughtful as she considered it for a moment. “True. But how did the Lewis family know I was arriving today?”

“The person who e-mailed me your whereabouts could also be feeding the Lewises the same information,” Jack said.

“Okay. But if they’re so worried, why did they send a blind hit man to shoot at me?”

“Good point,” Franco said and made a note.

“Okay,” Jack raised both hands, palms out. “You’ve got logic on your side there. But what if the white cane and the dark glasses were a disguise? Maybe he could see perfectly well, and he just dressed that way to get close to you or to make sure that he couldn’t be identified.”

“He’s got a point,” Franco remarked as he scribbled on the page.

“Let me get this straight. He could see perfectly?” Corie asked with a smile. “So perfectly that he aimed his bullet into the air and completely missed me.”

“Now, she’s got a point. I feel like I’m at a tennis match.” Franco’s pen never stopped moving on the page.

A tennis match where he wasn’t scoring many points off his opponent, Jack thought. She had a sharp mind, and at any other time he would have enjoyed matching wits with her. “Look. It’s just possible that I might have seen the shooter this morning when I was running at Pier 39. I saw a blind man there, too, and he was walking his dog. I can’t be sure it was the same man, but later I thought I saw him again in a car that backfired in front of our apartment building. He could have followed me there and then out to the airport.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And there’s something else I haven’t told you about Benny Lewis.”

Corie nodded. “You’re referring to the fact that Benny Lewis used to have mob connections.”

Jack stared at her. “You know about that?”

Franco flicked a glance at Jack. “She’s not the naive little librarian we thought she was.”

Corie’s brows shot up as she shifted her gaze from one man to the other. “It would be a rare librarian indeed who could still be naive with the information highway at her fingertips. I researched everything about the man who might be my father. One of the most informative articles I found was written by one Jack Kincaid for the San Francisco Chronicle. It traced Benny Lewis’s family back to one of the first organized crime families in this country.” She met Jack’s eyes steadily. “And it revealed that you are not welcome on the Lewis estate. I figure that’s one of the reasons you invited me out here. I’m your leverage to get an interview, or whatever it is you’re after.”

“Busted,” Franco murmured.

Jack felt the heat rising in his neck. “I was going to tell you. I just didn’t want to do it over the phone.”

“In your article, you also said that the Lewis Winery and the Crystal Water Spa are legitimate businesses, and that Benny Lewis cut all ties to his organized crime confederates over thirty years ago when he moved out here. Do you have any reason to believe otherwise?”

“Just a feeling.”

“It’s a feeling that Jack’s been nursing for twelve years or so—ever since I’ve known him,” Franco put in. “He’s got nothing to substantiate it.”

Corie frowned thoughtfully. “But if you could connect the gunman at the airport to Benny, then you’d have something more than a feeling, right?”

“The plot thickens,” Franco said.

Jack glared at him. “This isn’t a screenplay.”

Corie took a sip of her Irish coffee, then looked at him. “We should get going right away.”

“You want to go back to Fairview.” Jack didn’t blame her.

“Of course not,” Corie said taking another sip of her coffee.

Jack stared at her. He couldn’t quite keep up with her. She wasn’t angry that he hadn’t mentioned the Lewis family’s early organized crime connections, nor did she seem to be frightened. “Let me get this straight. You’ve known all along that Benny Lewis had mob connections in his past, and now you know that I think he still might. Aren’t you worried at all?”

“Not really. But I didn’t come out here with blinders on. If Benny Lewis is my father, then twenty-six years ago something happened to make my mother run away and live the life of a recluse. I took two weeks to decide whether or not I wanted to come out here and open up that can of worms. And I do. So let’s get started. If there is a connection between that blind gunman at the airport and the Lewis family, then it might have something to do with why my mother hid away all these years. What’s your plan?”

“Plan?”

“Plot point number two. Hero and heroine join forces to solve the crime,” Franco said as he scribbled. “Shades of The Thin Man.”

Corie turned to Franco. “I just love those movies. Nick and Nora Charles were the perfect partners.” She turned back to Jack. “When can we get started?”

Jack frowned. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t work with a partner. I work alone.”

“But you invited me out here, and you need me to gain access to Benny.”

In the short beat of silence that followed, Franco cleared his throat. “She’s got you there.”

Then Corie and Franco merely waited, watching him expectantly. The shy little librarian had a mind like a steel trap and a dogged determination that surprised him and drew his admiration at the same time. Until he figured out how to handle her, his best strategy was to distract her.

“My plan is simple. I’m going to take you to a party Friday night—a reception following the dedication of the new children’s wing at San Francisco Memorial Hospital. It’s being held at the Monahan House, one of San Francisco’s newest and most exclusive hotels. A close friend of mine, Jake Monahan, owns the hotel, and so he’s going to see that we get into the reception.”

“Why can’t I meet Benny sooner?” Corie asked.

“He’s out of the country visiting a new winery that he purchased in southern Italy. He’ll be flying back on Thursday evening specifically for the party on Friday. He and the whole family will be there. It’s a public affair. I figure it’s your best scenario for meeting him.”

“And you’re just going to walk up to Benny and introduce me as his long-lost illegitimate daughter?”

“No. I’ll introduce you as Corie Benjamin.” He drew a photo out of his pocket and placed it in front of her. “Since you look almost exactly like your mother, I’m assuming that he’ll agree to speak with you in a more private arena.”

Corie stared down at the old picture. The first thing that struck her was that the woman sitting in the restaurant booth next to the darkly handsome man could have been her twin sister. Over the years, she had grown used to comments that she and her mother looked alike, but now she was facing concrete evidence of it.

“You’re sure this man is Benny Lewis?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jack said. “I’ve got several other photos of him from that time period.”

Corie felt the prick of tears at the back of her eyes. The man in the picture was so handsome, and the charm was so evident in his smile. Her mother looked so young, and so happy. She touched a finger to the woman’s face and for the first time she let herself believe that the man in the picture might indeed be her father. A rush of feeling moved through her, tightening her throat and squeezing into a little band around her heart. She would be meeting him in a little more than thirty-six hours.

Raising her eyes to meet Jack’s, she said, “I was hoping, but I didn’t really believe it before.”

He reached out and took her hand.

Linking her fingers with his, she met Jack’s gaze steadily. “I do now. I really think he’s my father. And I’m not going to let some crazy man at the airport scare me away.”

“Here! Here!” Franco said as he raised his mug in another toast.

Corie took a sip of her coffee and then said, “But Friday is two days away. Shouldn’t we be investigating something in the meantime? We could go out to the winery and look for a man with a dog wearing sunglasses and a fedora and carrying a white cane.”

Jack bit back a grin. Not only was Corie smart and determined, but she wasn’t going to be easily distracted. “If he was wearing a disguise, he won’t be wearing it the next time we see him.”

“Good point,” Franco said. “You two are about even right now.”

“And you have an appointment at Lorenzo’s at two o’clock,” Jack added.

Franco raised his glass again. “To the new Corie Benjamin.”

Jack took a long swallow of his Irish coffee. While Corie was safely occupied at Lorenzo’s, he was going to modify and expand his plan. First, he was going to have a heart to heart with D. C. Parker down at the homicide division. He needed to know exactly who was e-mailing him. Fast.

Mrs. H,

Just a little update on my research…

I have another great idea—and another great heroine for my screenplay. Renting out my apartment has not only been a financial boon, but it has also increased my creativity. Scenes are just flowing into my mind. Corie Benjamin, my latest tenant, is a whole lot more than the shy little librarian I was expecting. I have a feeling she’s more than my friend Jack was expecting, too! When they met for the first time at the airport, it was as if they were the only two people in the baggage claim area! I’m thinking West Side Story, the dance at the gym—when Tony and Maria meet for the first time and for a moment time stands still.

And it’s my job to give the little librarian a makeover. We’re at Lorenzo’s salon as I’m writing this, and then we’re off to see a personal shopper at Macy’s. Picture the shopping scene from Pretty Woman.

And she hasn’t even tried on the skirt yet! I can’t wait to see what happens when Jack sees her in it! Picture Sabrina when the chauffeur’s daughter comes back from Paris totally transformed! My agent is going to go ballistic!

Ta,

Franco

THE WAITING ROOM of Lorenzo’s salon offered a view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. Corie might have enjoyed it even more if it hadn’t been for the tight knot of nerves in her stomach.

She’d never experienced anything like the salon, from the red-and-gold brocade drapes and Persian rugs to the exotic scents wafting into the room at regular intervals. But Corie had a hunch that the real cause of the nerves was the fact that Jack Kincaid had taken his leave of them and headed to the Chronicle office. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Silly to feel so alone just because a man she’d met only a few hours ago had left her.

At Franco’s request, Nadia, a pencil-thin girl who had at least seven earrings in each ear, had brought her a glass of white wine. Noting that her knuckles had turned white from gripping the stem, Corie concentrated on relaxing her fingers. She had to get a grip.

At Jack’s request, Rollo, the doorman at the salon, had agreed to watch out for her and, if the need arose, ward off any blind gunmen, until Jack could return. A huge barrel of a man with a shiny bald head, Rollo had stood blocking the doorway ever since Jack had left. But it wasn’t the threat of blind gunmen with dogs that had her stomach doing flips.

“Drink up,” Franco said, clinking his glass to hers. “There’s no need to be nervous. Lorenzo had incredible talent even when I first knew him back in the Big Apple. He took a couple of acting classes with me at New York University. Lorenzo and I were theater majors. Jack was taking writing and journalism classes, so I’m not sure he would even remember Lorenzo.”

“You’ve known Jack for a long time then?” Corie asked.

“Since our first year in college.”

“Were you and Jack…” She hesitated. It really wasn’t any of her business. “Were you involved even then?”

“Involved?”

Whatever else Franco might have said was cut off as a tall, golden god swept into the room. For a moment all Corie could think of was Ian Fleming’s Goldfinger. The man—Lorenzo, she assumed—looked as if he’d been literally dipped in a rich shade of coppery gold—from the tone of his skin to the flow of hair that he wore swept back from his wide forehead. Even his eyes were a deep shade of amber.

“Lorenzo!” Franco rose and within seconds he all but disappeared into the folds of the large man’s flowing caftan.

“And you.” Lorenzo released Franco and swept down on her, grasping her hand and drawing her to her feet in one smooth motion. Then, tipping her chin up, he studied her. “You must be the little librarian.”

Corie would have nodded, but his grip on her chin was firm.

“Nadia?” He snapped the fingers of his free hand, and the pencil-thin woman whipped out a notebook. “The bones are good.” He paused to trace a finger down Corie’s cheek. “The skin is flawless. But the hair.” He lifted a strand and shuddered, sending a rippling wave through his caftan. “It will have to go.”

Corie felt the arrow of panic shoot right through her. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“How much time do I have, Franco?”

“I’ve pushed back the appointment at Macy’s until five.”

“I have only three hours?” Lorenzo drew in a deep breath. Out of the corner of her eye, Corie saw Franco and Nadia both take a quick step back. She might have herself, but Lorenzo had never released her chin.

“Well! It’s a good thing I’m a genius. Prep her, Nadia.” Dropping his hand, Lorenzo whirled and sailed from the room.

“If you’ll follow me, Ms. Benjamin?”

Corie raised a hand to her hair. She didn’t think she could move.

Franco grabbed her arm and urged her toward the door that Lorenzo had disappeared through. “He likes you.”

“He likes me?” Corie asked. “He wants to scalp me.”

“No, no, no,” Franco patted her arm as he pulled her past a long row of curtained booths. “He’s talking about a color and styling, and he’s the best.”

“Franco, I don’t think—”

He pushed her into a chair. “And you shouldn’t think. Just relax and put yourself in the hands of a master. Nadia, we need more wine.” The moment the girl disappeared, he continued, “You have that party Friday night. You do want to look your best when you meet your family.”

Corie faced herself in the mirror and barely kept herself from wincing. Even scalped, she had to look better than the way she looked now. The boring librarian look had to go. But even as Nadia reentered and pressed another glass of wine into her hand, her mother’s words echoed in her ears.

Be careful what you wish for.

4

JACK PUSHED THROUGH the doors and strode into the large room that housed San Francisco’s homicide detective division. Past the collection of desks in the bullpen area and down the corridor to his left, he found the door with D. C. Parker’s name on it. He knocked once before he entered, then trained his best smile on the small but stout dragon who guarded the entrance to Captain Parker’s lair.

“Ms. Abernathy.” He whipped out the bunch of daffodils he held behind his back. “I saw these and thought of you.”

Lydia Abernathy sniffed audibly, but she took the flowers. “Softening me up will get you nowhere, Mr. Kincaid. Captain Parker won’t see you unless he wants to.”

“I don’t want to,” growled a voice from the adjacent room. “Protect me, Ms. Abernathy. Throw the man out.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, and Jack winked at her as he moved smoothly around her desk and through the half-open door. “He’s a little grumpy because I won fifty bucks from him at poker last night,” Jack told her. “It’s a good thing for you he’s better at police work than he is at cards.”

“You were just lucky,” D.C. complained.

“Yeah.” Jack grinned at him as he turned a straight-backed chair around and straddled it. “I was.”

“I hear you were lucky again at the airport,” D.C. said.

“Yeah.”

D.C.’s office was small and ruthlessly organized. File drawers were closed, and not even a stray pencil lay out of place on the gleaming mahogany desk. He’d known D.C. since their days in high school and he hadn’t changed one bit. Jack thought briefly of his own office, cluttered with files and old notebooks filled with interview notes, and decided he hadn’t changed much either.

“If you came to pump me for information about the blind shooter, everything I know is either in the papers or on CNN, thanks to you damn reporters.”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t think we’ve got everything. I’ll bet what you lost at poker last night that you know the breed of the dog by now.”

“Shit.”

Jack grinned at him. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

D.C. sighed in disgust. “This is not for publication.”

“Agreed.”

“We just identified the breed from a sketch one of our artists made. It’s a shih tzu, and we’re trying to trace local owners through breeders. We’d like to keep it out of the press coverage for now.”

“No problem. You got anything else?”

“Shih tzus are not bred as Seeing Eye dogs.”

“So the cane and the glasses were likely a disguise.” Leaning back in his chair, Jack studied his old friend. There was something else. He could tell it by the expression on D.C.’s face. “What else?”

“One witness swears that she saw a tall man, maybe in his late thirties, and he wasn’t wearing a fedora or a trench coat. Nor did she see a dog. She says he pocketed a gun and ducked into a car right after the shot was fired.”

“Two shooters?” He didn’t like the sound of that at all.

“That’s the million-dollar question, and the answer is up for grabs. Eyewitnesses are never reliable, and there’s always the witness who’ll embroider a story just for the extra attention. But I’ve got some calls into informants. Nobody likes guns anywhere near airports. If there were two shooters, the two-million-dollar question is who were they shooting at? You got any idea?”

“Maybe. But I need two favors.”

“Yeah, like I didn’t know that when you walked through that door.”

“First, I’d like to know who owns that dog as soon as you get it.”

D.C. studied his friend. “You know something, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

D.C. pulled out a notebook. “Fill me in.”

Jack did, beginning with the first e-mail message he’d gotten from his anonymous informant and ending with the shot at the airport and his gut feeling that the Lewis family was involved.

D.C. was frowning when Jack finished. “You’re big on theory and short on evidence.” He raised a hand to ward off Jack’s comments. “First of all, there’s nothing that links either gunman to the Lewis family.”

“Yet,” Jack said. “I’m hoping the dog will.”

For a moment, D.C. said nothing. He was a man who made a point of not wasting words, and he’d said it all before, beginning when they were eighteen and D.C. had stood at Jack’s side during the memorial service for his aunt. D.C. had never been as convinced as Jack that the Lewis family had had something to do with his aunt’s disappearance.

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