“You want inside the house, right? Maybe we can make a deal.” Dario’s voice was husky.

Cassidy couldn’t hide her desperation to search for the jewels. “Yeah.”

“And my dad wants you to drop your claim on the place.”

“True,” she said, wondering where he was headed with all this.

“Sex.”

She blinked. “Sex?”

He nodded. “You can stay in the house all week and search to your heart’s content, but only on the condition that you’ll be my love slave.”

Her heart was beating a fast tattoo, and it had very little to do with the fact that the world’s best-looking man was standing a mere foot away. “Are you serious?”

“There’s one more thing.”

His gorgeous dark eyes had settled on the bed. The hotel room seemed dimmer now, but only because night had fallen. Moonlight was streaming through the windows.

“What’s that?” she asked in a whisper.

“The sex starts now.”

JULE McBRIDE

is a native West Virginian. Her dream to write romances came true in the nineties with the publication of her debut novel Wild Card Wedding. It received the Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best First Series Romance. Since then, the author has been nominated for multiple awards, including two lifetime achievement awards. She has written for several series, and currently makes her happy home at Blaze®. A prolific writer, she has more than thirty titles to her credit.

Dear Reader,

I admit to being a fan of stories about cold cases. The older the mystery and colder the trail, the more intrigued I get. A second thing I love is reading about sexy cops, so it was only natural that I’d eventually put these two things together for Blaze®.

Oh, and before I forget – a third thing I love is a super-hot romance! So, quite simply, the idea for Cold Case, Hot Bodies came to me when I put all my favourites into one steamy love story. When an old case involving a haunted property is reopened, a descendant of the harmed party finds herself wrapped in the strong arms of the law. And what could be better than that?

Enjoy!

And thank you so much for reading! It’s what keeps me writing.

Very best wishes,

Jule McBride

COLD CASE, HOT BODIES

BY

JULE MCBRIDE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Kathryn Lye, editor extraordinaire,

for helping me mind my p’s and q’s,

and for knowing how to wrestle commas,

semicolons and everything else, too.

Prologue

December 1890

GEM O’SHEA GLIDED her hands beneath her lover’s shirt, feeling his nipples contract. It was exactly the kind of well-made shirt she’d sewn in sweatshops when she’d first come from Ireland, and her lips curved into a smile against the linen. “Do you remember when you first…bought me, Nathaniel?”

He grinned, his eyes catching light through the carriage window, from one of the gas lamps lining the dark river road. “I don’t believe I do.”

But he couldn’t have forgotten the night she’d presented herself at Angel’s Cloud, in New York’s notorious Five Points neighborhood, determined to sell herself to the highest bidder. “Should I remind you?”

“Of every detail.” He urged her closer, between his legs, and the satin dress she’d worn to the wedding bunched between them, an unwanted barrier. She brought her mouth to his, and the taste of wedding cake invaded her senses.

“I had too much champagne,” she whispered.

“You won’t hear me complaining.”

Heat surged through her limbs despite the cold. Everything but passion vanished as Nathaniel deepened the kiss—the pounding hooves on the cobbled road, the rushing of the East River’s wild currents, the crack of the driver’s whip. Hungrily, her fingers opened the studs of his shirt. Just as quickly, his tongue swept inside her mouth. Heat exploded as she stroked his chest hair, and she felt it catch on the backs of her rings—beautiful rings that were gifts from him, just a few of the countless jewels he’d given her over the years.

As desire took her, Gem thought of another kiss, the one they’d just witnessed at the altar between her and Nathaniel’s son, Mark, and his young bride, Lily Jordan. With the memory, her arms swept around Nathaniel’s neck, and she wished with all her heart she could marry him. How many nights had she lain awake, knowing her heart’s deepest desire would remain an impossible dream?

She dropped down, moaning against his chest, her tongue searing a nipple, his answer a sound of need as he grasped her hand, urging it into the folds of his trousers. Soon they’d be at Angel’s Cloud, where countless warm beds waited—either in the hidden rooms, or in the bawdy house, or in the rear building where she’d lived—but she wanted Nathaniel now. Her body was burning all over, just as it had the night they met.

She’d been desperate then, still speaking with a brogue so thick that most American natives couldn’t understand her. She’d rarely even kissed a man, but she’d heard other, less reputable girls talk at the sweatshop, claiming men paid them for sexual favors, and because she’d been determined to earn her mum’s passage from Ireland, she’d soon found herself standing on the shell-strewn floor of a Five Points bawdy house.

“Two hundred dollars,” a man had called.

She’d nearly fainted. When he’d stepped from the shadows, his sparkling blue eyes had captured hers, then she’d recognized Nathaniel Haswell. He’d gotten his start as a self-made, import-export man, a buyer and seller of whatever prospered, and he owned acres of real estate on Manhattan Island. His picture was always in the papers. Without ceremony, he’d grabbed her hand and hauled her toward the stairs, and she’d foolishly blurted the first thing that had come to mind, “You’re married!”

He’d turned to stare, the set of his mouth incredulous. “Don’t tell me that bothers you?”

“Of course not,” she’d managed quickly. All the men in Angel’s Cloud were probably married. “In fact,” she’d added brazenly, “I do prefer it, sir.”

He’d continued toward the room. “And why might that be?”

“No messy attachments. I’m a professional, you know.”

“I see,” he’d returned as they reached the bedroom. “Experienced at this sort of thing, are you?”

“Indeed,” she’d enthused, the pulse at her throat ticking madly as he’d shrugged out of his jacket.

She’d been trembling all over, still scared of the rowdy men downstairs, her head pounding from cigar smoke. Her throat had tightened as Nathaniel undid his trousers, and she’d considered running, but she’d thought of circumstances in Ireland, and of her mum, then of the poor girls still working in the sweatshop, scarcely earning a wage to buy adequate food. Her stomach growling, she’d taken a deep breath, stared boldly in the general direction of Nathaniel’s private parts, then she’d plunged on. “Why, I’ve been to Angel’s Cloud many a time, sir.”

With a yank, he’d brought her against his chest. “You’re a virgin if I’ve ever seen one.”

“No, sir!” she’d protested, tears stinging her eyes.

“What are you doing this for?”

She’d been so surprised at his demanding tone that she’d started crying, then the whole story had tumbled out. She’d lost her father in Ireland, and her mum had been left behind, trying to work land that could no longer grow potatoes, much less anything else.

Nathaniel had comforted her, and she’d cried harder, then his lips had settled on hers, nibbling at the beauty mark beside her mouth, and within the hour, they’d made love. Ever since, she’d been his mistress, and his alone. He’d arranged for her to keep accountancy books for Angelo Donato, at Angel’s Cloud, earning far more than she had making shirts, and for her to live on the upper floor of a building behind the bawdy house, removed from the rowdy clientele. She’d benefitted from being Nathaniel’s lover in other ways, too. He’d given her jewels, and most important, brought over her mum who’d died due to natural causes on American soil. He’d given her a son, too. Twenty-three years ago her reputation may have been lost, but she’d fallen in love.

“Can you stay tonight, darling?” she whispered.

When he didn’t respond immediately, Gem imagined trouble was brewing on the home front. Long before she’d met him, he’d been carousing in Five Points, searching for the love his wife withheld. He was an honorable man, though, and did as Isme wished by maintaining separate bedrooms and attending public functions together. Isme had borne him one son, just like Gem, a boy the same age as Mark, named Dirk. The young man was reputed to be wild, even dangerous, and Gem suspected it was due to the loveless bond that had created him.

Suddenly feeling furious with herself, she shook her head in self-admonishment. “Never mind. I’ve no claim on you. I shouldn’t ask—”

He tilted back her head, to look into her eyes. “We have a son…”

She craved more of him, though. He rarely shared a bed with Isme, but they did share a home. A real home. He could come and go in sunlight, not under a cloak of darkness. Why can’t you let this be enough? she thought. Nathaniel escaped to her bed at every opportunity. He loved her. He adored their son. But she wanted times to be different! Codes of morality to change…wanted their passion to have full rein.

Something broken came into his voice. “How could you believe I’d leave you on our son’s wedding night? Damn it, Gem. You’re the one I love.”

“Kiss me,” she whispered, the depth of their passion drawing them together. Like the current of a river, it ran between them—reliable and unstoppable, so when his lips found hers once more, an arrow seemed to pierce her heart. He would leave in only a few hours! His tongue thrust deeper. She met the thrust, pushing back. The carriage was flying, bouncing on cobbles, throwing her into his arms. His hands raced down her sides, flesh seeking flesh. He moaned when his fingers stroked the smooth skin of her thighs. Grasping a garter, he opened it. As he pulled down the stocking, she gasped.

“Let’s recreate the night we made our son,” he murmured.

He was rocking her against his hips now, making her feverish. She shuddered from the heat in the wandering caresses of his hands. When he squeezed her thighs, she thought passion had seized him, but no…he was alarmed! Abruptly, he broke the kiss, and she craned to stare through the carriage window, but she saw only the black winter’s night.

“What was that?” she whispered, hearing a rattle as she fumbled with her clothes, in case they needed to get out of the carriage.

“The wheel,” Nathaniel returned hoarsely.

The carriage was wobbing, but the horses continued to run. If the carriage overturned, she hoped no reporters would find them…a town father with a woman associated with Angel’s Cloud. Nathaniel drew back the curtain and leaned his head through the window to shout. “Something’s wrong with—”

Before he could finish, the wheel spun away. The rear of the carriage dropped and the driver screamed. Gem thought he’d been thrown. The horses reared, rising on their hind legs, then hooves came down hard, clattering on cobbles as the animals galloped, dragging the carriage. Gem’s head slammed into the seat. She could hear metal dragging on stone, then through the window, she saw sparks from the friction.

“Oh, God,” Nathaniel muttered hoarsely. He was trying to grasp her waist, but his hands couldn’t find purchase. Neither could hers. They were being tossed like weeds in wind. Pounding hooves raced on, and as the sound diminished, she realized the horses had broken free. The carriage was flying on its own momentum, careening toward the river.

Nathaniel reached past her for the door handle. “Somebody’s tampered with the carriage. Jump!”

Had their carriage been sabotaged? If so, who had done it? And why? His words were in her ears as she realized the carriage was rushing down the riverbank. She tried to jump, as he’d commanded, but her dress caught, holding her back. Just as they plunged, she heard the fabric ripping, and as her dress gave away, Nathaniel pulled her through the open door, into the dark currents.

He was her hero. Her only love. He was trying to save her, but the water was too cold, and she was sure they were going to die. Not on our son’s wedding day, her mind shrieked in protest as her fingers laced with Nathaniel’s. Stay with me, my love, she thought, but then she felt his fingers slip away.

1

Five Points, 2007

“CAN YOU BELIEVE somebody called and complained about me and Sheila Carella?” Dario Donato asked as he strode through Police Plaza toward the courthouse, his long, jeans’-clad legs eating up the pavement. Realizing he was a half hour late for court, he uttered a soft curse. It was the wrong day to have to help his landlord dad straighten out legal matters about a rental property. Clapping a hand on his chest, over his heart, as if wounded, he said, “I mean, who would do something like this to me, Pat?”

“A taxpayer?” his partner suggested as he ran a hand over his buzz-cut red hair. “Or maybe you just pissed off the Fates. Anyway, the chief wants you to lay low until the complaint blows over. Pick up a couple cold cases.”

“Budweiser or Rolling Rock?”

“You know those aren’t the kind of cold cases he means.”

No, Dario was supposed to rot behind a desk while an arsonist got away, and all because he hadn’t kept his pants zipped. “You know we’re going to wind up arresting a land developer on the arson case,” he mused. Ever since plans had been underway to develop Manhattan’s riverfront, properties near the water had started going up in smoke, then the land was sold for a relative pittance. Relative for Manhattan, anyway.

“I’m thinking Ralph Stone or Chuckie Haswell,” said Pat.

They were the biggest players. Trump was too smart to get his hands dirty with arson. Dario nodded. “Seriously, are we on for a cold case later? Now I’m talking brewskies again.”

“Tomorrow’s good, but tonight I’ve got a date with Karen.”

“Ah. The girl next door.”

“Not every woman can live up to Sheila Carella.”

“She does set a high bar.”

Dario had met Sheila a month ago, when he’d busted her for unpaid parking tickets. She had big hair, bigger breasts, and always wore fishnet stockings with miniskirts and spike heels. She was kinky as hell, too, and liked to play all kinds of sex games, which meant things had been going extremely well. At least until Dario had taken her home to meet his folks. Not that he’d expected Sheila to blend seamlessly, but his mother, Bianca, had kept crossing herself and whispering, “When’s my only boy going to grow up and meet a nice girl he can marry?” It didn’t help that Dario knew she lit candles each morning at mass, in front of whatever saint presided over philandering sons. On the night of Sheila’s visit, Dario’s sister, Eliana, had kept rolling her eyes and mouthing, “It’s her brains you like, right?” Fortunately, Sheila’s main concern had been her lipstick, so she hadn’t noticed. Or else Dario’s dad’s meatballs and red sauce had distracted her. Beppe Donato was one of the best cooks in Little Italy.

“I like Sheila,” Dario defended as he and Pat started up the courthouse steps. When they reached the top, they flashed their badges at a security guard.

“The only kind of man who wouldn’t like Sheila,” said Pat as they headed inside, “is in the morgue.”

“True,” Dario agreed, now walking down a hallway. “But I don’t like Sheila enough to have to lay low for a couple weeks. Another ten buildings could burn. I just don’t get it. Who could have complained about me dating somebody I arrested? Who cares?”

“Maybe Sheila called the boss. Did you two have a fight?”

“You have a devious mind.”

“Of course. I’m a cop.”

Dario thought back to his and Sheila’s last date, when they’d skipped dinner and headed straight to bed, then he shook his head. “Last time I saw her, I put a smile on her face. She could have done a toothpaste commercial. She claimed multiples.”

“Personalities?” Pat joked.

Dario shook his head. “Orgasms.”

“Then I’m out of suspects. But don’t worry. I’ve got the arson case covered, and I’ll call if anything happens. Meantime, do what the boss ordered, and rustle up some cold-case files to keep yourself company.”

“Will do.” Dario splayed a hand on the courtroom door and prepared to push. “See you around, partner. And watch out for Karen. The glint in that girl’s eyes says she’s got diamonds and wedding cake on the brain.”

There was a long pause. Then Pat said, “Uh…I have something to tell you. I proposed last week.”

Dario’s jaw slackened. “To Karen?”

“Yeah.”

“Congratulations,” Dario managed, but he felt hurt. Pat had been his partner for two years. They’d double-dated, played ball. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to…”

But he didn’t think Dario would understand. Not Dario, who was still chasing women like Sheila Carella. “That’s okay, partner,” he said quickly. “I forgive you.”

“Good. Because you’re going to be my best man.”

Even so, Dario was still reeling from the news as he entered the courtroom. Everyone was getting married. Even his sister, Eliana. She’d fallen for the nephew of a man reputed to have mob connections, but who was legitimate, according to Dario’s sources at the precinct. Not that the information had calmed their mother’s fraying nerves. For months, his parents’ Mulberry Street apartment had been “wedding central,” and in three weeks, Dario and Eliana’s other six siblings—all sisters—would arrive from around the country for the wedding.

Now, Eliana’s diamond engagement ring flashed as she waved from the front of the courtroom. With bright red lipsticked lips she mouthed, “Where have you been? Ma’s freaking out!” Before Dario could respond, his sister turned to face the judge again, her black hair swirling around her shoulders like a cape.

Great. They’d drawn Judge Zhang, one of the most ponderous deliberators in the history of New York courts, which meant this informal hearing might drag on. Judge Zhang was so small that his robes seemed to swallow him, and his hair and eyes were as shiny and black as the cloth itself.

As his family scooted to make room for him, Dario noticed Brice Jurgenson on the other side of the courtroom, flanked by Beppe’s furious tenants. Skinny and bespeckled, Brice had only a few wisps of white blond hair left. An attorney, as well as a tenant, he’d convinced the others to put their rent into escrow until Beppe finished repairs to the building.

Luther Matthews, a museum curator, was present, as Dario had anticipated, and he was delivering a speech about preserving the property for historical reasons. But why was Chuckie Haswell here? Because he was a prime suspect in Dario’s arson case, Dario did a double take. Chuckie was short, with sandy hair and assessing brown eyes, and his suit probably retailed for Dario’s annual salary. Was the realty mogul present because Beppe’s property was on the waterfront? Did he know Beppe was desperate to sell, and that Luther Matthews was determined to declare the property a historical landmark, which would sour their chances of selling?

“Mr. Matthews,” Judge Zhang said. “Would you mind starting from the top? We’ve had a disruption.”

“Sorry,” Dario murmured.

“No problem,” returned Judge Zhang. You’ve come before my court many times, so I know you’re a busy man, Officer Donato.”

“Busy giving Sheila Carella parking tickets,” Eliana muttered.

“At least I’m not marrying the mob,” Dario shot back, before turning his attention to Luther.

“I’m from the Centuries of Sex Museum,” Luther began again, using a forefinger to push horn-rimmed glasses upward on his nose. “As we all know, the geographical area in question, not just Mr. Donato’s building, is of significance.”

“Go on,” urged Judge Zhang.

“The intersection where Orange, Cross and Anthony Streets once met, and where Mr. Donato’s building stands today, used to be called Five Points. It was synonymous with vice. Tap dancing originated there, as well as our city’s most notorious gangs. Famous travelers such as Abraham Lincoln were given tours of the neighborhood’s crowning jewel, Mr. Donato’s property, which was a brothel called Angel’s Cloud.”

“After Angelo Donato,” Beppe put in, losing his patience. “My ancestor. We all know this. It’s why I own the property. And since it’s mine, I don’t see why other people are allowed to turn it into a historical landmark so I can’t sell it.”

Dario’s mother, Bianca, crossed herself. She felt the family’s long-time connection to a house of sin was tantamount to a curse. “If you don’t sell, Beppe,” Dario had heard her vow many times, “your only son is never going to settle down with a nice girl. Due to this legacy, he’ll be a womanizer his whole life, just like Angelo.” To whatever extent this was true, Dario hadn’t minded.

Luther continued, “When Angel’s Cloud was first built, nearly every house radiating from Five Points was a brothel. So-called panel games were invented at establishments such as Angel’s Cloud, where women would remove panels in the walls and rob male clients while other women kept the men…” Luther smiled “…shall we say, occupied.

“These were powerful men, too. Lawyers, doctors and town fathers. Many wives, under the guise of temperance societies, tried to shut the places down. Because of morals, yes.” Luther flashed another smile. “But also because their husbands were having such a good time.” Stepping forward, Luther lifted some folders and began handing them out. “I’ve put together a package of pictures, to illustrate why Mr. Donato’s property must be declared a landmark.”

“Ridiculous,” insisted Beppe.

“As curator of the Centuries of Sex Museum,” Luther continued, “I’ve learned a great deal about life at Angel’s Cloud. Of particular interest is the possible murder of a woman named Gem O’Shea. Recently, her ancestors have been in contact with me, but before I say more about that, I’d like to acquaint everyone with the O’Shea family tree…” After pausing to catch his breath, he rattled off names, then listed Angelo Donato’s relatives, including Dario’s great-grandfather, Enrico, and his grandfather, Salvador.

“My predecessor acquired many items from Angel’s Cloud through the Donato family,” Luther continued. “For years, the museum has owned all the original furniture, as well as portraits of the women who worked for Angelo. Replica rooms are roped off in our museum, preserving rooms exactly as they once were. I think this proves that our relationship with the Donato family has been excellent, but now that Mr. Donato has voiced intentions to sell, we have to try to save the building itself.

“While an old bawdy house may not seem a national treasure, Judge Zhang,” he concluded, “Angel’s Cloud is one of the only original Five Points buildings still standing today.”

“I have to sell,” Beppe muttered, twirling the end of his inky black mustache anxiously. “The taxes are through the roof! Besides, I’ve been renting to tenants for years!”

“But now the area’s been rezoned, and if the property winds up in the hands of a developer—” Luther stared pointedly at Chuckie Haswell “—a high-rise will appear in its place.”

“This is what the Donato family gets for being patrons of the arts,” fumed Beppe.

“Patrons of the arts?” whispered Eliana. “By contributing to a sex museum?”

“Shush,” commanded Bianca.

“Of course Mr. Donato wants to sell!” Brice Jurgenson burst out, rising to his feet and shaking his fist. “On behalf of the few remaining tenants, I’m here to say the place is unlivable! Overrun with mice! Every Donato slumlord has renovated it, breaking it into ever smaller rental units, and now it’s full of architectural oddities and tenants can’t—”

“I’m no slumlord!” said Beppe in shock. Noticing how his father’s liver-spotted hands were starting to shake, Dario felt a surge of protectiveness. His folks had wanted a son desperately, so they hadn’t quit having kids until Dario came along; he’d been a late baby, behind seven sisters. Now his dad was too old to keep up with a rental property full of disgruntled tenants.

“There are strange sounds in the hallways late at night,” Brice pressed on. “Very strange sounds. Loud music. Footsteps. Some tenants believe the place is haunted, and—”

“It may well be!” added Luther. “That’s exactly my point. We must preserve this piece of history.”

“This isn’t about history!” protested Beppe. “Just mice. And that’s why my son, Officer Donato,” he emphasized, “has agreed to move in, starting tonight. He says he’s going to take care of everything.”

Inwardly, Dario groaned. “What?”

“I already told them,” assured Beppe under his breath. “Before you came. You’re a police officer, so you can fix anything.”

He was hardly a miracle worker. “I’m on an arson case.”

“Nope,” countered Eliana. “I tried to call you earlier, and wound up talking to Pat. He said you got bumped down to desk duty because you were dating criminals, and I told Pop.”

Chalk one up to sibling rivalry, but Sheila Carella wasn’t exactly a felon. “She forgot to pay her parking tickets,” Dario reminded in a hushed tone.

“A hundred of them?” returned Eliana.

Then Luther captured their attention. He was speaking again. “Gem O’Shea may have been the madam of Angel’s Cloud, but no one’s sure. We do know that her death in a carriage accident was rumored to have been a murder. She was believed to have a son, but he vanished, the father unknown. We have found a record of his son, however. He married a maidservant named Bridget in 1910. She had a daughter, Emma, who had Fiona, who had Erin, who—”

“Should be none of my business,” Beppe finished.

“Not so,” countered Luther. Erin is the mother of Cassidy Case.” Approaching the bench, he showed a letter to Judge Zhang. “Cassidy forwarded a copy of this letter to the museum. As you can see, it indicates that a will existed, giving Cassidy’s ancestor, Gem, all rights to the property in question.”

Beppe gasped. “Who wrote the letter?”

“Clearly, the owner of the property,” said Luther. “But it’s signed only, ‘your beloved.’”

“The property has been in the Donato family for over a century,” countered Beppe.

“Cassidy will be in town next week, with part of the actual will, as well,” Luther went on. “Legally, Mr. Donato may have only squatter’s rights to this property, Judge Zhang.”

“You say…” Judge Zhang stared down at his notes “…Mr. Case is going to be here next week, with the documents?”

“On Tuesday,” Luther confirmed.

“We’ll reconvene then,” said Judge Zhang. “Ten o’clock.”

“There’s just one problem,” said Chuckie Haswell, speaking for the first time. “Because my firm, Haswell Realty, had hoped to make Mr. Donato an offer on this property, we’ve been doing our own research.” Heading to the bench, he put a folder in front of Judge Zhang. “As these documents prove, the property was owned by my ancestor, Nathaniel Haswell. Even if Angelo Donato had wished to will the property to Gem O’Shea, it wasn’t his to give. He was a front man for Nathaniel Haswell. To protect his reputation, my ancestor only used Angelo Donato to conceal the true ownership of Angel’s Cloud—”

“Used Angelo?” Beppe shook his head. “The first guy wants to declare my building a landmark, so I can’t sell it, and now this one’s saying I don’t even own it.” Hearing his father’s disbelief, Dario winced. Beppe had hoped to use proceeds from a sale to pay for Eliana’s elaborate wedding.

“As you’ll see,” continued Chuckie, “Nathaniel Haswell willed the property to his son, Dirk, and his wife, Isme. The original records, of which you now have copies, are still on file at the courthouse.”

Judge Zhang said, “This is all the more reason to reconvene next week. Then we can take a look at whatever documentation Cassidy Case is bringing to town.”

“Next week!” exploded Brice. “On behalf of the tenants, I have to protest! We’ve already had a cold snap, and the boiler didn’t come on. And like I said, there’s something fishy happening. We hear music late at night. Sounds of dancing. I’m a reasonable man, Judge Zhang, and I don’t believe in ghosts, but—”

“Apparently, Officer Donato has promised to oversee the property during this upcoming week, as a favor to his father,” Judge Zhang said. “That means you’ll have on-site police protection until the matter is resolved.” The judge’s dark eyes landed on Dario. “Am I right?”

Dario bit back a sigh of annoyance. He hadn’t anticipated the dovetailing cases to entail him moving into an old brothel. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Then I’ll see you next week. Mr. Matthews, you may inform Mr. Case.”

A second later, Bianca said a quick goodbye and forced Beppe toward the door, clearly fearing he’d unleash his temper on Chuckie, Brice or Luther, and Dario took the opportunity to open the folder Luther had given him, feeling glad he wasn’t going to have to hunt for a cold case to work on. He’d never heard of Gem O’Shea, much less her possibly unsolved murder, but now it looked as if he could both help his dad and appease his boss by delving into the matter.

He surveyed a picture of the bawdy house, then a photocopied daguerreotype of his own ancestor, Angelo. His hair was wild, and his piercing dark eyes held a devilish glint. Often, Dario had been told he was the spitting image of the man. When he moved on to the next picture, his heart missed a beat. Gem O’Shea, he thought, feeling a tug at his groin. God, she was hot. Untamed waves fell over her shoulders, and the ends of the curls looked like flaming tongues. They licked an ample chest that spilled from a laced-up dress that was sexy as hell. Lots of cleavage.

The picture was black-and-white, of course, but Dario would bet her hair was flame-red. Her eyes would be blue or green. But which?

Eliana chuckled. “And they say normal men only think about sex sixty times a day.”

Dario blinked. “Huh?”

“What’s this for you? Six hundred?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she chuckled. “Since you’re going to be staying in Dad’s building, maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe Brice will introduce you to that woman’s ghost. But be careful, little brother.”

“Because?”

“Sheila Carella might get jealous.”

“Who?” he teased, still staring at Gem O’Shea’s picture. “I don’t remember any woman named Sheila.”

“You’re incorrigible,” his sister muttered, rising on her toes to peck-kiss his cheek. “But be forewarned. When guys like you fall, they fall hard.”

Dario held up Gem’s picture. “Let’s just hope when I fall, that it’s right on top of a woman who looks like this.”

Eliana hooked her arm through his. “You really are impossible.”

“But you love me,” he guessed.

“In exactly the way all women love guys like you,” she assured.

“How’s that?”

“Completely against my will.”

2

“GEM, YOU’RE A HOTTIE,” Dario said late that night as he tossed back a shot of whiskey, drinking from the bottle. He’d showered in a cramped stall down an unlit hallway, deciding against using a tub in the empty apartments upstairs, then he’d put on briefs, gotten into bed and opened the file, mostly so he could look at Gem’s picture again.

Her finger was crooked and her mouth was pulled into a sexy pout. She would have looked frivolous, but her eyes held too much awareness. Pain, maybe. Something that hinted at emotional depth. According to his information, she’d survived a famine and fled her country. She’d crossed the Atlantic, only to find herself in one of the world’s worst slums, but she’d made a decent life, anyway.

Dario felt a magnetic pull, a sense of impending fate. Plain old lust, too. Or else maybe he’d just had too much to drink. Whatever the case, he was fantasizing about playing out the age-old cliché about hookers and cops. It had been a long night, and he was desperate for release. Pat had called about another arson case, and although Dario was supposed to be laying low, he’d visited the scene. Then, because Beppe’s tenants had waylaid him to air their grievances as he was leaving court, Dario had wound up hauling in surveillance equipment to appease them.

Now cameras were arranged strategically around the premises. At least, by the end of the week, Dario would be able to prove his pop’s building wasn’t haunted. When he glanced at the tripod-mounted camera placed discretely in a corner, his lips stretched into a slow grin.

With this camera, he was going to catch a woman, not a ghost. As soon as he’d called and told Sheila about the history of Angel’s Cloud, apologizing since he’d be busy and unable to meet her this week, she’d said she’d never had sex in a haunted house and wanted in on the action.

“It’s different,” Dario had assured playfully. “And not something I can just tell you about. You’ll have to come over and experience it yourself.”

“See you at eight,” she’d said.

But eight had come and gone. Typical Sheila. Punctuality wasn’t her strong point. It was nearly midnight, and anticipation had left Dario as horny as the men who used to patronize the room where he was about to sleep.

To keep his mind occupied, he’d interviewed tenants. There was a middle-aged woman who ran an Italian ice stand, Carmella Liotella, and Chinese sisters, Zu and Ling, who shared an apartment on the otherwise vacant third floor. Brice, whose law office was around the corner, lived in the attic. Rosie, a liberal-looking single mom, was on the first floor, just beneath Carmella and opposite the apartment where Dario had set up camp. She had a crush on Brice, and an alarmingly flirtatious thirteen-year-old, Theresa, who’d been wearing skintight jeans, a midriff exposing a fake tattoo, and enough makeup that she could have been applying for a job as a madam herself.

Dario had moved in opposite them because everybody said that’s where the noise was coming from. The previous tenant had left in a hurry—supposedly due to the haunting—which meant the apartment had ramshackle furnishings. Shirts were still in the closet. The tenant had been a big guy, almost Dario’s size, so it was hard to believe he’d been scared off.

There were nine empty units, three per floor, discounting the attic where Brice lived—and that seemed weird, too, since Beppe was a soft touch and the rent was low. Ghost sightings increased whenever he made moves to sell, but Dario had always figured people would lodge complaints, no matter how absurd, to discourage the building’s ownership from changing hands.

Still, people had left despite having rent-stabilized leases, when they’d have difficulty finding similar bargains, and the place was creepier than Dario remembered. While in the basement, putting out environmentally friendly mouse traps Eliana insisted he buy, he could have sworn the air temperature dropped abruptly. Shrugging off the event, he’d spent an hour trying to fix the boiler before realizing he’d have to buy a new one. The whole time, he’d felt as if somebody were watching him. Most disturbing, the tenants seemed genuinely scared.

“The sounds started about two weeks ago,” Zu had reported. “We hadn’t heard anything in a long time, about six months, but then all of a sudden…”

“Gem O’Shea is walking the halls at night again,” Ling had added in a hushed tone. “Luther Matthews came by. He has a key to the place, you know. And he told us about Gem O’Shea. That she was murdered. I’m sure she’s haunting us.”

“Maybe trying to tell us who killed her,” said Rosie.

“The music’s, like, really loud,” added Theresa.

“Here,” Brice had added angrily, coming from the attic, and dumping a box of papers at Dario’s feet. “This is everything I was able to find out about the place. Something fishy’s going on. You should take a look.”

And Dario had. Apparently, these old walls had absorbed plenty of lovers’ whispered secrets, and many illicit backroom deals. The old news clippings collected by Brice jibed with records Dario had found in cold-case files at the precinct, as well as family materials related to the property that Beppe had kept, and that Dario had brought with him. A sheet in the police file indicated Gem had stashed jewelry in the house; an inventory list had been submitted in case of theft.

Definitely, the tenants hadn’t lied about the shoddy workmanship. It was Dario’s grandfather’s fault, since he’d hired bad contractors. The original bar, which had been about fifteen feet long, was still in Zu and Ling’s apartment. Someone had renovated it as a kitchen island. Brice’s shower stall was in his kitchen, and because his wiring was inadequate, he’d run an extension cord to an outlet in the hallway.

Outside, Dario had stood on the sidewalk, surveying the exterior, and something had niggled, but he didn’t know why. The building was tall and skinny, with a sharply graded roof and louvered windows. The bricks crawled with ivy, and a downstairs back door led into unkept gardens. The rear building, where Gem had lived, had been torn down long ago.

His cell rang. He clicked on. “Yeah?”

“Sorry I’m late.”

Sheila sounded tipsy, a good sign. “Are you coming now?”

“There’s more than one way to take that.”

“Not once you get here.”

“On my way,” she said, giggling. “Keep the bed warm.”

“I’m getting sleepy,” he returned with mock grouchiness. “Are you sure you’re going to show?”

“Put a key under the mat, sailor, and let Gem O’Shea wake you up.”

Not a bad idea. “Done. Two pots on the porch are planted with ivy. The key to the lobby doors will be in the one on the right. I’m the first door on the left—I’ll leave it ajar.” Maybe that wasn’t the brightest thing to do, but the neighborhood was relatively safe nowadays, and besides, he’d put his gun under the bed.

“Given what I’m going to do to you,” she was saying, “you’ll think you’re dreaming.”

“So you have plans for the bawdy house?”

“Just call me Gem O’Shea.”

She ended the call, and he grinned. “My kind of girl.”

Yawning, he thrust his legs into jeans, took the key to the planter and returned. Then he found a pen, scrawled “I’m in here, babe,” and taped it to the door, drawing an arrow toward the bed. The tenants were tucked in for the night and wouldn’t see it. Absently scratching his chest, he stared into the open folder before transferring it to the floor, suddenly glad Eliana had reminded him to bring sheets, a blanket and towels. Without a boiler, the steam heat hadn’t come on.

Where the hell was Sheila? He could sure use some body heat. After taking another swig of whiskey, he set the bottle on the nightstand, along with his wallet and badge. Checking to make sure his gun was under the bed, he switched on the video recorder.

Sheila was going to love his surprise. Pat would get a kick out of the story, too. Suddenly frowning, he thought about Pat’s engagement, then pushed aside the thought. Everybody he knew might be settling down, but Dario wasn’t going to let it get in the way of his own lifestyle.

Rummaging in his jeans pockets, he put some open condom packages and a twenty-dollar bill on the nightstand. Since Sheila was intent on playing Gem O’Shea, he’d pay her. As soon as she got here, he’d turn on the light, then they could make the homemade movie while polishing off the rest of the whiskey.

He smiled. He was glad he’d met Sheila. All she cared about was sex. She was like a female version of him. His other half. Taking off his briefs, he tossed them to the floor. Might as well be ready when she gets here, he thought.

A second later, he was out like the light.

“WAKE UP, SAILOR.”

Husky murmurings sounded beside Dario’s ear. Hot breath tickled his earlobe. His head was pounding, and he groaned when he realized he must have had way too much to drink last night. The warm whiskey had tasted great going down, burning a path from his mouth to his belly, just as surely as a kiss, but now…

Fingernails raked upward on his bare chest, then stopped to trace circles around his nipples. He groaned again, arousal catching him unaware. Music was playing, sounding faraway. Probably coming from one of the other apartments, he thought, but who was up so late? Zu and Ling said they went to bed early. Brice and Carmella had to work. And Rosie had a kid. Maybe he’d just drifted, and it was still only a little after midnight.

Weight was bearing down on him. Sheila, he guessed. He’d tossed and turned, so the sheet had tangled around his legs, and now, even if she hadn’t been on top of him, he couldn’t have moved. Opening his eyes a fraction, he saw only vague shadows, enough to know he wasn’t dreaming. A woman was definitely straddling him.

“Finally,” he whispered. Shutting his eyes again, he lifted his hands, curving them over hips. Nice, plump womanly hips. Not too skinny—he hated women who starved themselves—but not too padded, either. Just right. It was one of the many things he liked about Sheila. After uttering a lusty sigh, he smiled. Her muscles flexed beneath his fingertips as she rocked against him, her inner thighs squeezing.

She was so responsive. That was another thing he liked. Now, if she’d only move upward a tiny inch. She was a hair’s breadth from where he was aching for her. So close.

Please. He thought the word as soft hands curled around his shoulders, then dug deep—now exploring dips and crevices around his collarbone. After a moment, flattened palms pressed down hard on his pectorals, feeling like heaven.

“What time is it?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over all the racket. It was hard to believe somebody thought whatever was playing was music. He slitted his eyes open, but again, saw only inky darkness. The music sounded like show tunes, maybe something from Broadway.

“Three,” she whispered.

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

No wonder he felt like hell. “Better late than never.”

“Do we still have time?”

He didn’t have to be at work until nine. “We can get a lot done in six hours.”

“Sorry I didn’t make it earlier, the way I promised.”

“Me, too.”

“You feel sorry,” she whispered, the brush of her belly making clear what she meant. He was as hard as a rock. Her voice sounded deeper than usual. So husky that she didn’t even sound like Sheila. She must have felt as sex-crazed as he, waiting all day for this. That’s why she was talking like a sex siren from an old movie. She sounded like Bette Davis, Lana Turner and Marilyn Monroe all rolled into one. All shivery and whispery, as if she’d had way too much to drink and had just smoked cartons of cigarettes, and was offering him something forbidden. He imagined her in a black-and-white picture, wearing a slinky gown, and holding a highball glass and a long black cigarette holder.

Then he remembered she was pretending to be Gem O’Shea. That’s why she’d worn a wig, too. Long strands of hair were brushing his face, teasing his cheeks and shoulders.

He rubbed her thighs, stroking them with the backs of his hands and shifted his weight, straining unsuccessfully to feel the crushing pressure of her pelvic bone against his erection. When she just missed the magic spot, he uttered a frustrated sigh. She was still in outerwear, a jacket and tight leggings, no shoes. “That’s the great thing about clothes…”

“What?”

“We can get rid of them.”

“That’s why I came over.”

Cold insteps with high arches were molding his calves, warming themselves. Threading fingers into her hair, he explored the wig and chuckled. Sheila really was great. She’d do anything to please a guy. What an imagination. “Are you ready to make up for lost time?”

“If you can forgive me for being late.”

“Kiss me and I’ll think about it.” Splaying his fingers, he dragged them through her hair, using the strands to pull her face down to his. Her mouth was open, and it melted against his as their tongues meshed, sparking electricity that began dancing wildly down his nerves, making them sizzle at the ends. Rushing between his fingers, tendrils of hair felt like palm fronds under water, softer than anything he’d ever felt, even softer than her mouth. His hands found her waist again, guiding the movements of her lower body, urging her closer, as he brushed his kiss-dampened mouth across hers.

When the friction turned maddening, he feathered, then nibbled. Judging by her soft whimper, it was working, really turning her on. She whispered, “What do I have to do to make absolutely sure you forgive me?”

“This.” He arched his hips, his body surging.

She pushed back, her thighs quivering, the inner flesh shaking deliciously as she scooted into the cradle of his legs and settled on the hard ridge of his sex. He gasped, a shiver ripping through him. Something in the back of his throat caught, and he said, “I’m glad you made it.”

She was panting softly, rolling her hips with the dexterity of a belly dancer and grinding herself against his groin. “I can tell.”

As she undulated, waves of need lapped through him. Pliable, ready lips fit to his again. Wet and promising, they clung as if she didn’t want to let go. His sentiments, exactly. Tonight, she didn’t even taste like Sheila. Her usual mint flavor had been replaced by chocolate and coffee, and the lipstick he’d eaten off was raspberry. Not a hint of alcohol, which was what he’d expected, given how tipsy she’d sounded on the phone.

“I tried to hurry,” she murmured.

“You’re here now,” he whispered back.

Against his, her cheek still felt cool from the night air, making the spear of her tongue seem even hotter. It was warm and runny—like hot honey or butter or molasses. It was like lazy sunshine on a Sunday morning, streaming through a window. And it was climbing, too, just like the sun, its radiance gaining intensity and heat.

Every time she licked the inner recesses of his mouth, renewed fire ignited in his abdomen. Warmth was pouring through her leggings, like jets of liquid joy, and when she started nuzzling the stubble of his beard, roughening her rel atively tender skin, Dario tilted back his head, simply reveling in the feel of her—her long legs bracketing his, her ample breasts cushioning his chest.

“Don’t stop.”

“Does it seem like I’m stopping?”

“No,” he murmured. “But you could.”

“I could do a lot of things.”

“Then do them.”

As she swirled hot saliva down his neck, in sloppy, looping kisses, the scratchy fabric of her jacket further aroused his nipples, chaffing until they were raw and painfully aroused. Merciless, she languidly licked his skin as if they had eternity, not just a night, then she dipped until a taut nipple was firmly in her mouth. Quick suckles made his mind fog….

He was sure he’d drifted again. He didn’t know for how long. He was floating in bliss. Sheila felt so good…impossibly good. Every time they got together, sex just got better. Tonight it was excellent. Better than ever before. Right now, the touch of her mouth was torture. Every fiber of his being was starting to sing for release. Slowly, he caressed her bottom, thrilled when she kept playing with his nipples…

Then, from somewhere far off, he heard another song start, and strained his ears. He heard piano music and stomping feet. Clapping hands. A hoot of merriment.

“Give me another pint of ale,” someone yelled.

“A pint for the whole house,” another hollered.

He must be dreaming. Or else someone was playing an old dance hall recording. He felt unbelievably hot. Sweat prickled his nape as he shook off sleep once more, and opened his eyes. Still, only darkness. What was happening? He felt almost as if he’d been drugged. “You feel so good,” he whispered.

“You’re not bad, yourself.”

As he inhaled sharply, Sheila’s scent settled in his lungs. It wasn’t the musky perfume she usually wore, but something lighter that evoked coy flirtation. As the music climbed toward crescendo, she continued nibbling that one nipple, making the other yearn for the ministrations of her mouth. She was raking teeth against the sides until fever took him, and the fire raging beneath his naval turned more fluid. A coiled spring of swirling lava became more diffuse, prickling through his veins, lazily roping into all his extremities.

“Are you going to wake up for me, sailor?”

Yawning and stretching beneath her like a huge jungle cat, he lifted his hips, the muscles of his buttocks straining. Between his legs, his heavy erection felt more than bother-some, an irksome annoyance that needed to be dealt with soon. Frustration surfaced in his husky growl. “Where have you been, anyway?”

“I got tied up.”

He imagined her naked, and strapped to a bed with long silk scarves. “I like the sound of that.”

“You would,” she teased.

“Damn right I would,” he whispered.

His eyes had adjusted, but it was too dark to see her features. He imagined her high cheekbones, the long, straight patrician nose. He wanted to see her undressed, her breasts swinging free from the restrictive jacket and whatever she wore beneath. He could see them softly bouncing as she rode him. “Oh, yeah,” he whispered, another swift pang claiming his groin.

He reached to turn on the lamp, but her hand glided over his, stopping him. It was just as well. He could tape them later. Maybe the camera was even picking up some of the action, anyway. After all, he could see shadows, and it was motion activated.

He grasped a lock of hair and chuckled. Had she really rustled up this wig just for him? This was almost as good as the time she’d let him arrest her in the shower. Or when she’d handcuffed him to bed. Or when she’d come over, wearing nothing under a raincoat.

“It feels so real.”

“Of course it’s real.”

He rubbed the strands between his fingers, his loins still firing. As he brought silky waves to his face, another series of jolts pulsed into his bloodstream. He breathed in, finding the scent was more like shampoo than the neutral scent he’d expected from a wig.

“You’re good,” he murmured in admiration. She must have brought a boom box, too. That’s why the bawdy-house music was playing. It wasn’t coming from another apartment, after all. It was all part of Sheila’s act. Slowly untying the belt of her jacket, he flicked open buttons, then pushed the garment off her shoulders and down her arms, exposing what felt like a tight cotton blouse. “I almost believe you’re Gem O’Shea.”

“You had doubts?”

“In my line of work, we’re not known for our trusting natures.”

“Can you trust me to give you the ride of your life, sailor?”

“I think I can manage that.”

She started unbuttoning her blouse. In the darkness, he sensed, rather than saw, the edges open.

“You didn’t take the money from the table,” he murmured, his voice low.

“Paying me, are you?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Clasping his hands, she brought them to her chest and placed them on her breasts. Slowly, he traced the lace edges of the bra cups she swelled to fill. She was spilling out, and thrusting her chest, too, as if begging for his touch. Her quickening breath urged him on, making him want to touch between her legs to make her climax.

As he opened her bra’s front clasp, his own chest constricted. Light-headed, he swallowed against the sudden dryness of his mouth and pushed aside the cups. After licking his own fingers, he trailed slippery swirls of saliva on the distended tips of her breasts. Capturing one with his mouth, he squirted wet heat until she muttered something senseless. Her hips suddenly wrenched. As he sponged her, he lifted his hips, rubbing her until she was bucking. Her hands flattened on his chest, as if to slow him down, and her long delicate fingers curled, tugging wildly at strands of his chest hair. He leaned back on the pillow.

Her voice was husky. “How much are you paying me?”

“Not nearly what you’re worth.”

“Is this your first time on Angel’s Cloud?”

“Yeah.”

“And did you request me? Or was this just luck of the draw?”

“Absolutely intentional.”

“You heard good things about me?”

“I heard you’re the best.”

“Hearsay’s of little matter. Am I the best?”

He was about to explode and he wasn’t even inside her yet. “You’re convincing me of it right now.”

“I didn’t expect to find you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Naked. In bed. And…so hard.” She shivered as if to emphasize her point.

“Is that a crime?”

“Do you want me to arrest you?”

“You can keep me locked up for a long time.”

The music seemed to surge then, and he gasped in protest as the heat of her lower body left his, at least until he realized she was only stripping off leggings. As soon as her legs were bare, his hungry hands sought flesh. Disappointment filled him when he found her panties still on. By the feel of it, it was a tiny silk thong with a string waistband. She straddled him again, her knees on the mattress. Just her scent was enough to make him beg for mercy.

Overcome, he grasped her back, hugging her, then nuzzled her face. The music seemed to be coming right through the walls as his tongue stroked the scanty fabric. When she flung back her head to take the pleasure, long hair whipped behind her, and when her back arched for the intimate kiss, his rigid tongue dove for her clitoris, soaking it. Using a hand to steady her, he pressed his mouth to her, making her writhe.

Not even air passed between them as his tongue did its magic, vibrating. Under damp panties, her cleft opened all the way, and both her hands raked into his hair, digging into his scalp. She moaned, then shuddering cries came in a steady stream. She was wet, his kiss was wetter, and in a second, her panties were drenched, but he didn’t think she’d come yet. She was holding back.

“Come.” He murmured the word against the silk. “Now.”

But she only cradled his head tighter. No wonder it had taken her so long to get here, he thought vaguely. Where had she found dance hall music on such short notice? And whatever equipment she’d brought, so she could play it? She’d done all this for him—the wig, the music, the late-night rendezvous. And now he was going to make the effort worth it for her.

Curling his fingers over the string waistband, he fisted his hand, yanking her nearer. Then he ripped the waistband. He was still tearing the panties when his mouth fell to her flesh, covering her completely. She was creaming, hot and slick, and she gasped.

Thighs braced his sides, shaking uncontrollably, her knees threatening to buckle as he tongued her, but she was still holding back. This really wasn’t at all like Sheila. What had gotten into her tonight?

“What do you want?” he whispered hoarsely. “What’s going to make you come?”

“You…inside…” Her utterance was broken. “I want…I want…”

He couldn’t wait for her to spell out the rest. He was too swollen. Painfully thick, his erection was pulsing, and just a hair-trigger touch would make him explode. Blindly reaching, he grabbed a condom and roughly kicked away the sheet. A moment later, he grunted softly, voicing the agony only she could relieve. Quickly wrapping his arms around her, he urged her to lie beside him. She was naked and quivering, burning up.

“What?” he whispered raggedly, dragging kisses across her cheeks, willing to give her anything.

“Fuck me,” she whispered softly, the words barely audible.

It was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. At first, he wasn’t even sure he’d heard right, but now his heart hammered with increased desire. The words hadn’t sounded dirty at all, not like a curse, just needy. Even sweet. He’d never heard so much frustrated desire in a woman’s voice. Hell, the more he knew Sheila, the more he discovered vulnerability he’d never have guessed was there, and it was starting to get to him. She was like a difficult case that never seemed to add up. This really didn’t seem like the same Sheila he’d had sex with before, and it was intriguing him.

Maybe he was falling in love with her after all.

Mutterings emanated from nowhere as she molded to his body. He whispered sweet nothings in return, then peppered kisses into the wig. Urging her onto her back, he kneeled, turning her so he could gain the deepest possible access. Silken thighs parted, and his heart stuttered. Burning and throbbing, he teased her, parting the cleft with his erection. Catching drops of her natural lubrication, he stroked, wishing his own sex wasn’t sheathed.

When he could take no more, he placed his hands on her thighs, parting them farther still, wishing the light was on so he could see everything. Crooking a hand under her knee, he raised a shapely leg, then everything seemed silent. It was as if the music had stopped, although it hadn’t, or as if their panting breaths had calmed, although they were both breathing harder than ever.

She arched, silently begging.

He thrust hard, and she parted like a river, much tighter than he remembered. He’d never felt so big, thrusting harder and filling her. She sobbed as she stretched to take him, flinging her arms around his neck. When he was in all the way, he rocked his hips, then he rested and just felt the bliss, sighing.

Her heart was hammering against his heart. Her breath mingled with his breath. After a long moment, he withdrew and thrust again, staying skin to skin.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered as something primal grabbed hold of him. Her possessive nails were dragging down his back now, and her claiming lips, teeth and tongue were suckling his neck. She was pulsing all around him, and with her first orgasm, she cried out, a wrenching twist of her body coming in tandem with a sob that shook his emotions. Her second orgasm sent a shudder through him, then palpitations. By the third, he was putty in her hands. She was cooing like a dove as he went over the edge, gasping once, his mind losing itself to darkness.

He’d never know how many seconds had elapsed. But when consciousness came again, she was still there, wrapped tightly in his arms, making sweet, soft sounds. Slowly, their breathing evened. Multiples, he thought. Now that was like Sheila. After a long moment, a smile tugged at his lips. “I think my hangover’s gone,” he whispered.

But she was fast asleep.

He laid in the dark for a long time, only now realizing that the music she’d brought had switched off. He hadn’t even noticed. As a cop, he was usually very alert. On the job, he had one of the highest arrest records at his precinct, but when it came to sexy women, he always lost his head. He might be a cop, but he was a man, too.

He glanced down, unable to see her in the dark. Hair had fallen over her face, obscuring it, and since the wig wasn’t bothering her, he let it lay. Maybe it was time to fess up, he thought. After all, he had taken Sheila home to meet his folks, hadn’t he? And he didn’t do that with every woman. Oh, maybe he and Sheila hadn’t seemed to have much in common at first, but if sex was this good, surely they’d find areas of compatibility, wouldn’t they?

He couldn’t believe how content he felt right now. As if all was right with the world, and he’d arrived exactly where he was supposed to be. As if he was home. He didn’t remember Sheila fitting quite so perfectly into the crook of his shoulder. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

His smile broadened, turning whimsical. Maybe Gem O’Shea’s ghost had a hand in this. Maybe Sheila wasn’t the brightest, maybe she didn’t get most of his jokes, and she’d never be able to keep up with him in a verbal sparring match. But that didn’t really matter, did it?

Of course it didn’t, he thought now. It was amazing how only an hour of sex could change a man’s thinking about a woman. Earlier tonight, before he’d gone to bed, he hadn’t even been thinking of Sheila as a potential mate. But now…

With her, sex was hotter every time. Tonight had been the best by far. She’d gone to so much trouble to please him. She had to be crazy about him. In the morning, he’d make a huge move and tell her he felt the same way, he decided.

And then he slept.

3

DANCE HALL MUSIC was playing again. As soon as Dario registered it, he bolted upright. “What time is it?” he asked, glancing toward the beside clock. When he saw only a whiskey bottle, he realized he was at his pop’s building, not in his apartment in Battery Park. As he registered that the sunlight from a front room looked bright, the events of the previous night came rushing back in a barrage of hot images, but the bed was empty. The doorway to the outer hall, which he’d left ajar for Sheila, was wide open. “Sheila?”

As he stared toward the shut bathroom door, he heard a soft whirring sound. The camera was working, which seemed impossible at first, then he recalled that it was motion-activated. This and the other cameras he’d borrowed from the precinct were used on stakeouts, so maybe it had recorded last night’s activities, after all. He hoped so. Even shadows of what happened between him and Sheila would be worth watching this morning. His sitting up in bed must have activated the camera again. He’d never have heard the soft whir over the music.

“Sheila?”

No answer.

That strange bawdy-house music was still sounding. It was loud and coming from…

“Under the bed?” That was weird. And where was his cell, so he could check the time? Squinting, he reached a hand under the bed. His gun was beside the cell. As he lifted the phone, he smiled. So that was the source of the music. Sheila had changed his ringer.

“Cute,” he whispered. No doubt, she’d expected him to hear it during the day, and recall the bawdy-house music she’d played while they’d made love. Not just had sex, he thought. Last night, they’d definitely taken things to a new level. Surely, she’d want to meet after work.

He looked for the boom box she must have brought, but he didn’t see it. He didn’t see her jacket or leggings, and he hoped she hadn’t gotten dressed. If so, he was only going to remove her clothes again. Flipping open the cell, he saw that it was only eight, which meant they had time for a quickie.

Sobering, he swallowed hard, something resembling a lump forming in his throat. Was he really going to tell her how he was starting to feel about her? Did he really feel the same way this morning? “Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

If work was calling, he’d tell Pat he’d be a few minutes late, to buy some extra time with Sheila. “Donato here.”

“We need to talk.”

It was Sheila.

Inwardly, he groaned. That explained why the jacket and leggings weren’t on the floor. “You’re home.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Probably, she’d wanted to change for work, and while he didn’t share her impulse, he admired her for wanting to be where she was supposed to be. Under the circumstances, that showed dedication. If she hadn’t run off, they’d be having more great sex.

“Thanks for letting me sleep,” he said, meaning it. After what she’d done to him last night, he’d needed the rest. Suddenly, his heart was in his throat, and his mind was racing. He was trying to frame what he most wanted to say. “I have something to tell you—”

“No,” she said quickly. “I have something to tell you.”

Maybe. But he needed to tell her he enjoyed last night so much that he wanted them to become even more intimate. He figured he’d better do so before he lost his nerve. “Me first. I want you to know I think you’re the best—”

“Best lay?” she burst out. “And it’s always you first! Have you ever noticed that, Dario?”

He almost chuckled. Last night must have affected her as much as it had him. She was nervous now, trying to push him away, and he didn’t blame her. “Go ahead,” he said. “Say whatever you need. Get it out of your system. And then I’ll say my piece. I’ve been thinking about us—”

“Me, too! For the past couple of weeks, ever since we’ve been—”

“Making love?”

When she made a snorting sound, he frowned. “I don’t know that I’d dignify what we’ve been doing with that phrase.”

“We are explosive together,” he admitted, “but I don’t think that means our emotions can’t be involved.”

“Well, I do.”

Their lovemaking must have really shaken her. Probably, she was hoping he’d voice his feelings. She needed assurances. It was what all women wanted. At least, that’s what his sisters told him. “What I’m trying to say, Sheila—”

“At first it seemed fun,” she raced on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Especially since Bobby and I broke up, as you know. I was so sure he’d never want to make a commitment—”

His heart had missed a beat. “Bobby?”

“O’Hare?” she queried, sounding confused. “He sits two desks over from you?”

Bobby O’Hare was a rookie. “Bobby O’Hare? From vice?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know you dated Bobby O’Hare.”

“I told you. I just don’t think you were listening to me, Dario. To be blunt, you always have sex on the brain. You don’t pay attention.”

He was sure she’d never told him about her past relationships. “What’s Bobby got to do with—”

“Everything. And that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. We’d been dating six months, and I was falling for him. All my girlfriends said it was too much, too fast. Maybe it was. But I knew Bobby was the one. I had such a strong feeling. Like we were meant to be, so I couldn’t stop myself from chasing him. When I see something I like, I go for it.”

“I noticed.”

There was a long pause.

“You were saying?” he prompted.

“Well, the day you brought me in,” she plunged on. “You know, for the parking tickets. Well…” She inhaled sharply, then blew out a short sigh. “The night before, I’d seen Bobby out with somebody else, and I was pissed. So, when you brought me in, I tried to be cool. I didn’t even look in his direction. It must have worked, because after that, he kept calling me. But I didn’t return the calls. Besides, by then, well…even when you booked me, you were coming on strong, so I guess I…”

“Go on.”

“…was using you to get him out of my system. Don’t get me wrong,” she added quickly. “You’re cute. A megahunk. Calendar quality. But you’re even less the committing type than Bobby. Or so I thought.”

His recent moves must have convinced her otherwise. The smile returned. Admitting his feelings was going to be so much easier than he’d anticipated, he realized. Sheila was doing all the work. “But now?”

“Bobby heard about you and me through your partner, Pat. You must have made me sound incredibly hot, because Bobby got jealous. He started sending flowers. And then he called and told me his real feelings. And you know the girl I saw him with?”

Dario could only shake his head.

“It was his sister!”

“Imagine that.”

“Funny, huh?” she enthused. “One thing led to another, and, well, now I—”

Her voice cut off abruptly. On his end, morbid curiosity had taken hold. “Now?”

“Well…I know you’re going to be happy for me. Bobby proposed. Can you believe it?”

As near as Dario could tell, everyone on earth had proposed lately. “You don’t say.”

“He gave me a ring and everything. It’s beautiful, and while the date isn’t set in stone, we’ve pretty much agreed.”

“You can spare me the details.”

There was a long pause. “You’re not upset, are you?”

After last night? “I’m furious.”

“Dario, we’re friends. C’mon.”

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday.”

How could she have lain in his arms last night, cooing like a love bird, when she’d known she was marrying Bobby? “When, yesterday?”

“In the afternoon.”

“He gave you the ring in the afternoon?”

“Quit interrogating me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her scent was still on his skin. She’d gotten out of his bed maybe an hour ago. Suddenly, he glimpsed something. Fishing in the covers, he held up what looked to be a sparkling blue rhinestone. “Your earring’s still in the bed,” he said.

“Don’t worry about anything I’ve left behind at your place.” There was another long pause. “Look, Dario, I’m really sorry. I didn’t think you’d care. I mean, you have a reputation for being great in bed, but uninterested in commitment.”

“We don’t even know the same people. How could you know about my reputation?”

She named countless tangential connections they had through the police force. It was more than he’d imagined. Then she said, “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The main thing is that I really can’t see you anymore.”

“You could have thought of that last night.” Dammit, her legs had been like long silk ribbons stretching around his back, wrapping tightly around his waist and stealing his breath.

“I did. That’s why I didn’t show.”

“Didn’t show?”

“I know I called. I was out with the girls, and we were doing shooters, and I thought maybe I’d come over, personally, and break the news to you then.”

“Which is why you were flirting? Implying you were going to give me the best sex of my life?” Sex that, in fact, she’d delivered.

“Forgive me,” she murmured contritely.

It didn’t help that she’d asked for his forgiveness last night, too, while they’d been making love.

“It was the booze talking,” she continued. “I admit it. I’m not perfect. But I wanted to…well, let you down easy. Not that I figured you’d care. But I thought once I came over, it would be easier to tell you about my and Bobby’s—”

“But you came over and slept with me?”

There was yet another interminable pause. And then she said, “I didn’t come over, Dario.”

He’d had it. She’d been all over him. Licking every inch of his skin, and doing that mind-bending thing with his nipples. “Sheila, we had sex all night.”

She gasped. “What?”

“I left the key in the pot, remember? And you showed up around three…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What?”

“I never showed. I swear.”

“Dammit, Sheila,” he cursed softly, realizing she must be teasing him, the way she always did. She was good at it, too. She sounded so honest. “Quit jerking my chain.” Last night her playful nature had sent his senses soaring, but this morning, he wasn’t in the mood.

“I wasn’t there.”

“You wore a wig,” he reminded, his voice turning husky. “A jacket and leggings. A little cotton blouse.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He heard a rustle. Then a male voice. “She was here. With me.”

Dario shut his eyes, unable to believe any of this was happening. It had to be Bobby O’Hare. It was as if the two men were at work. Sheila had committed a crime, and they were discussing her alibi. “Bobby?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Dario began, “but—”

“Sheila and I are getting married. I proposed. She ac cepted. That’s what’s going on. She was here all night.” There was a pregnant pause. “We were awake all night, if you catch my drift.”

“I think I do,” Dario managed.

Before ending the call, Bobby rambled a few lines about how he hoped the situation wouldn’t be awkward at work.

Regarding that, Dario would do his best. Still…as talented as Sheila was, she couldn’t be in two places at once, which left Dario stuck with one of the more interesting mysteries of his career.

“Who was in bed with me last night?”

The earring wasn’t much to go on. Her hands had been all over him, and while he knew he could get a good print off his skin, he didn’t really want to explain that to the guys at the precinct. The money on the dresser was gone, when he checked his wallet, his money was gone, too. His gaze landed on the camera. Maybe it, or the others, had recorded something.

He was going to use all his detecting skills to find her. He had no idea what he’d do when he found his mystery woman.

Time would tell.

A HALF HOUR LATER, Dario was showered, dressed and getting ready to replay the tapes. Somebody pounded on the front door, and it swung open.

“Rosie?”

The liberal-looking single mom from across the hallway peeked inside. “So, you heard it?”

The last thing Dario wanted to do right now was chat with neighbors. His mind was focused on what he might see on the tapes. “Heard what?”

Rosie’s voice was hushed. “The music.”

“It was loud!” Zu and Ling crowded into the doorway behind Rosie, although Dario wasn’t sure which one of them had spoken.

“I didn’t sleep a wink,” added Carmella.

It was as if they’d been waiting in the hallway until they heard him rustling around inside the apartment.

“And you were looking at us yesterday as if we were crazy.”

This time, it was Brice.

Rosie’s daughter, Theresa, edged in, squeezing between her mother and Brice. She was wearing a multilayered outfit that involved leggings, two skirts and a few jackets, making her look like a homeless waif. He guessed it was the style for teens. “It was, like, so loud,” she said. “And I couldn’t sleep. And now I’m going to fail my math test.” She glared at Dario. “It’s going to be your dad’s fault if I’m held back a grade. We could sue. I just want you to acknowledge that.”

“Theresa,” her mother admonished.

“Well, it’s true,” said Theresa.

“What are you going to do about this?” demanded Brice.

“Nothing, if you don’t leave me alone, so I can watch these tapes,” Dario returned calmly. He was thirty, and years of working on the force had taught him how to keep his cool in tense situations. Not that he always bothered. But he didn’t like being railroaded. He sent the tenants a long look.

“So, you may have found something?” Brice didn’t sound angry now, only relieved.

“I hope so.”

“Then we’ll get out of your hair,” said Rosie.

“One minute,” said Dario.

They stared expectantly. He said, “The music you heard last night—”

“Didn’t you hear it?” asked Brice.

He didn’t want to admit he’d heard what they believed to be some supernatural event. “I’m not sure what I heard. But I want to know if it’s what you’ve heard in the past.”

“So, you did hear it,” accused Theresa.

Her mother was more pragmatic. “That’s exactly how it always sounds, Officer Donato. The hoots and catcalls. The foot stomping. All of it.”

“But not lately,” reiterated Carmella.

“It quit for six months,” agreed Zu.

“For a couple days it was loud,” clarified Brice. “And then nothing.”

“Thank you for your help,” Dario told them.

A second later, the tenants were gone, closing the door behind them. He was still thinking about the music. If he hadn’t slept with Sheila last night, then she hadn’t brought a boom box. Wondering where the music had come from, he selected the tape from the machine by the bed. Shadows flitted, and while he couldn’t see everything perfectly, he felt a pang at his groin.

When he checked the machine in the hallway, the test image was very clear and in color. He stared at the empty hallway. Then he did a double take. Sudden movement activated the camera. A woman passed, but too quickly. Hair, which he’d thought was a wig, turned out to be red. Encased in tights, those looked to be the same long legs that had hugged his hips like a vise.

He rewound the tape and played it again, freezing the image when she turned toward the camera. Instead of Sheila’s sharply angled facial bones, this woman had roundish features, full cheeks and a soft, fleshy pout of a mouth. Instead of Sheila’s long straight note, this woman’s was a short ski jump sprinkled with freckles. She looked very Irish.

Everything inside of him seemed to go still, then his heart thundered as his eyes trailed over the red hair, cautious green eyes and the beauty mark beside her mouth.

It was Gem O’Shea.

4

“LUTHER,” SHE MANAGED. “Uh…you’re Luther Matthews?” She sure as heck hoped she got it right this time.

“Cassidy, darling,” he announced, waving at her with a manicured hand. “I expected you next Tuesday. But never mind! You’re as gorgeous as I imagined. Gem O’Shea in the flesh. The same red hair and green eyes. If I don’t keep you to myself, Seventh Avenue will steal you away while you’re visiting and put you to work on a runway! What a pleasure!”

It was quite a speech, especially since Cassidy was still reeling from a night of sex which, until moments ago, she’d thought she was experiencing with Luther Matthews, who now seemed less seductive and more metrosexual. Not so the guy last night. Pinpricks of awareness assaulted her as images of hungry hands and kiss-bruised lips invaded her consciousness. “Uh…thanks for the compliments.”

“Oh, no. Thank you.” Luther winked, his blue eyes appraising behind horn-rimmed glasses, carrying hints of the flirtation they’d shared on the phone. And why not? She’d given him every reason to believe she’d soon be sleeping with him. Instead, she’d accidentally shared the sheets with a stranger who was still making her knees turn to water. Instinctively, she reached out a hand as if to break a fall.

“You cold?”

Still hot from last night, she thought, realizing that she’d shivered. “Fine.”

“Good, because I’ve got a gazillion things to tell you. The Donatos waylaid me outside court yesterday and made me return my key to their property. Can you believe it? The museum’s been working with that family for years and is currently putting together a diagram of the property during that particular era of history! But now we’re being treated like thieves!”

She tried not to think of the money she’d taken from Dario Donato’s bedside table. “That’s just terrible,” she managed.

“They are horrible people,” Luther confided angrily. “Their son, Dario, works for the NYPD, and he’s staking out the place, as if you and I might rob them. And it’s your property! Well, next week you’ll meet these people and see for yourself.”

Given her and Dario’s face-to-face, she was relieved when Luther zoomed on. “Give me a minute to finish up with a client, then I’m yours.” He grinned. “And I do mean, all yours.”

As much as Cassidy loathed men—the ink on her divorce decree was still wet—she’d felt an urge for sex lately. So, when Luther contacted her, like an angel out of the blue, saying he knew pertinent facts about her family history and possessed documents she should see, the new flirtation seemed like icing on a cake. He was decent looking, she saw now, the perfect person with whom to get her ya-yas out, but in a fussy black suit and horn-rimmed glasses, he wasn’t her type.

Casual sex wasn’t her style, either. Being a one-man woman, she hadn’t noticed that Johnny Case, her ex, had been sleeping with incoming freshmen at the college where he’d taught. She’d been the last to know, and ever since, she’d wanted to assert herself, feel hot again, and remind somebody—anybody—that she could knock a man’s socks off in bed, which last night had proven.

But what had she done? For a moment, items in Luther’s glassed-in office seemed to slide off-kilter. Bookcases seemed to tilt, and the floor felt wobbly. She tried to tell herself last night was a dream, but her mind raced backward in time, and her erogenous zones told her it was real.

She’d thought Luther was expecting her yesterday, on Tuesday, on a flight from South Carolina. Due to a storm, she’d arrived late and gone straight to the Pierre Hotel where the Centuries of Sex Museum was to have reserved her room, but they’d never heard of her, and she’d forgotten to program Luther’s number into her new cell.

Convinced she’d gotten her wires crossed, she’d hailed a cab and headed for the bawdy house at Sixty-Seven Anthony Street. After all, Luther had talked ceaselessly of declaring it a landmark, buying it from her and renovating it, then making it the permanent home of the museum’s collection.

Making clear that he’d do anything to establish her ownership so she and the museum could make a deal, he’d said he was desperate to show her the place and he had a key. In turn, Cassidy had assured him she’d sell to the museum, and Luther had said he thought Beppe would sell only to the highest bidder. Even the museum couldn’t outbid players like Chuckie Haswell, who’d now made his own claim.

After spending her last dollar on the cab fare, at least until she found an ATM, Cassidy had been relieved to find the door unlocked, as if Luther had been expecting her. She’d thrilled with anticipation, wondering what he looked like. Loud dance hall music was playing, and when she’d seen the sign on the door that read, “I’m in here, babe,” she’d gotten the picture. He was setting up a bawdy-house atmosphere for their tryst, and he wanted her to play the role of Gem O’Shea.

A shudder shook her shoulders as she recalled the fiery onslaught of wet, deep, open-mouthed kisses that had followed as she’d straddled him. Now the tips of her breasts constricted against the lace of the bra she’d worn last night, and she became hyperconscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing panties, since they’d been ripped to shreds. The tingle became more generalized until every inch of her body was aching, and her mouth turned dry as she recalled how he’d buried his face against her sex.

She’d wanted to turn on the light and get a good look at Luther. Especially since his body felt perfect in the dark… big, broad, rounded linebacker shoulders, washboard-flat tummy, rock-hard abs, steely pecs, bulging muscular thighs. He had hands with long, thick fingers that bore out exactly what women said about the correlation between hand and penis size, too. His movements were so self-assured and controlled that he’d seemed dangerous, albeit in a tantalizing way.

When he’d reached for the lamp she’d stopped him. In the dark, wild abandon could take hold more easily, and the second he’d started stroking her upper thighs, she’d felt brazen.

When she’d awakened this morning, she’d realized the friendly goddess presiding over megahunks had decided to shine on her. The man she’d thought was Luther was lying on his back, uncovered and stark naked. Built like a house. On the phone, Luther had been a flirt but he’d seemed like the brainy type. Maybe too much like her ex, she’d thought. In reality, he was a well-honed, sculpted beauty. Even in repose, his sex was impressive, nestled in glistening black hair. He was so tall that his adorably big feet hung over the edge of the bed, and his face was framed by unruly, silken black waves.

She’d just lain beside him, staring. He’d reminded her of medieval Italian paintings of angels. His olive skin had a glow; his nose was prominent and aristocratic; his lips, which still looked swollen from kissing, seemed impossibly bow-shaped. He could have been Cupid in the flesh. Definitely, he didn’t look like a museum curator—more like an adventurer—but then he did specialize in only sex-related artifacts.

As she’d surveyed every inch of his nude form, renewed heat had jolted through her, making her stretch against him sinuously, flexing aching muscles and relishing the soreness, gearing up for another experience to rival the previous night.

Already, she’d been imagining how she’d wake him…by nuzzling her face on his lower belly, then slowly licking his naval, twirling her tongue inside the perfectly shaped depression. Then she’d go lower and blow his mind. Her own was whirling, spinning fantasies of how she was going to spend spare time during her visit, having a no-holds-barred sexcapade with this fine specimen.

Then she’d noticed a gold shield.

Curious, she’d plucked it from the table. “Dario Donato?” she’d mouthed in confusion. Her heart had hammered. Hadn’t Luther said the Donatos claimed they owned her property? Moving quietly, she’d replaced the badge soundlessly, then lifted a wallet and studied the cards. The license even had his picture.

He’d chosen that moment to stir, and she’d bitten back a yelp of surprise. She’d slept with a strange man! Someone she’d never even spoken to! She’d thought he was Luther, whom she’d flirted with, at least. She had to get out of there.

He was offering throaty moans of pleasure, as if he was having a hot dream about her. Moving on instinct, she’d pushed away guilt feelings and grabbed the bill on the table, knowing she had no cab fare. Trying not to think of how he’d said he’d left the money there to pay her for sex, she’d edged over the side of the mattress, snatching clothes as she’d tiptoed to the hallway.

Maybe no one would see her. Fortunately, she’d left her roller-style carry-on suitcase right inside the door. “I can’t believe this,” she’d whispered, panicking when she looked at the doors to other apartments. What if someone came out and caught her naked? Hands shaking, she’d wiggled her behind into the leggings, punched her arms into blouse sleeves, then jammed the panties into her jacket pocket. She was still buttoning the blouse as she lugged the case through the front door, thrusting her feet into shoes as she hailed a cab.

“Centuries of Sex Museum,” she’d said frantically.

The driver was eying her blouse, and she’d realized it was buttoned cockeyed. “I can tell you’re in a hurry,” he’d said, chuckling softly.

She’d smirked. “Just step on it.”

“Centuries of Sex Museum,” he’d said drily. “Here we come.”

She’d perched on a stool in a Starbucks until the museum opened, and now she felt further frazzled by shots of caffeine.

Luther hung up the phone. “All yours,” he said, coming forward, the eyes still appraising. Lifting her hand, he made a big show of kissing it.

Great. She’d been leading this guy on for a month, and last night, she’d been sure they were consumating the seduction. She withdrew her hand and forced a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. I thought you were coming next Tuesday.”

“I got the day wrong.”

He looked ashen. “But your room?”

“I got my own,” she assured, her mind flashing once more on the sheet that had been tangled around Dario Donato’s hips like a loin cloth. “No problem.”

“Here.” He made another call, then said, “I’ve booked you a room at the Pierre, as promised.” He explained that they had an upcoming court appearance with Judge Zhang the following week, then reiterated what had happened in court.

When he finished, she said, “Why don’t you show me around?” She hoped she sounded businesslike.

“Sure. First, do you have the documents?”

Nodding, she wondered what Dario Donato would have done if he’d realized the papers were within his reach. Was he honest? Devious? Of better character than her ex?

She could feel Luther’s eyes on her backside as she leaned. He thought she was a dish, which was going to make things difficult. “I brought the part of the will that I have, as well as old love letters. Regarding the ownership of the house, they may not be of interest, but I brought them, anyway. My great-grandmother passed the things to Granny Fiona, and she gave them to my mother, Erin Magee.”

Hesitating, Cassidy felt suddenly unwilling to relinquish the papers. They were brittle and delicate, brown at the edges, a testament to how many generations had handed them down. Until Luther’s first call, the family stories about Gem O’Shea had been just that—stories. Gem was thought to have been a madam who’d been given jewels by her lovers, and Granny Fiona had spun stories about her at Cassidy’s bedtime, always against the protests of Cassidy’s mother. “Quit filling her head with nonsense,” Cassidy’s mother would complain.

But Cassidy would plead until Granny Fiona described the dangerous ocean passage, the hard-scrabble life in Five Points and Gem’s time as an escort. According to the tales, the jewels remained hidden to this day. Maybe that’s why Cassidy had become a jeweler, opening her own shop. Even now, she believed the lost jewels existed, and the stories had sustained her through a lonely childhood, after her father had abandoned her and her mother.

Now the package of papers in her hands were the only proof she possessed that Gem had really lived. Her breath caught as she offered them to a stranger. “This is all I have.”

“Excellent.”

With care born of handling rare objects, Luther took the pages to his desk. Compelled to follow, she edged behind him as he took out a magnifying glass.

“Hmm,” he said.

“Hmm, what?”

“Some of the papers we have indicate that Gem had only one lover, not many. I’ll get a professional handwriting analyst to study these immediately if you don’t mind.”

She was grateful for the help. “Not at all.”

As Luther continued his perusal, her thoughts drifted to Dario Donato. He’d looked like a god. So bronzed that he could have been glazed with hot sugar, and hard all over. Slow heat wended into her belly, and a pang of craving stirred her blood. Oh, she’d thought she’d known everything about sex. She’d been married for five years, after all.

But now, she got it. She was a dreamer, sure. But she had a pragmatic side, and she’d always wondered how people lost their heads over sex, giving up marriages and jobs. Thanks to last night though, she understood. She’d have followed Luther to the ends of the earth.

Of course, he’d turned out to be Dario.

Her enemy. Dammit, why did he have to be associated with the one family who wanted to profit from her birthright? Worse, Johnny Case had left her in debt, so just last week she’d lost her second greatest love, her business. Unless the Five Points property was declared hers, she was in trouble.

“Huh?” she suddenly said.

“Being of full age and sound mind,” he was murmuring. “Revoking all other wills and codicils made by me at any time…authorize and empower to bequeath the residence at Seven Anthony Street to Gem O’Shea…” Pausing, he sighed. “I wish more of the signature was intact.”

“Me, too.”

“The last letters could be an l, or maybe a p.”

It was hard to tell, since the paper had been torn in half.

“Wonder where the other half is?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Do you really want to keep it locked in our safe?”

“That would be great.” Carrying her heritage around in a suitcase had been nerve-racking. As he locked away the papers, she said, “I appreciate all you’ve done.”

“You’re helping us. If we can prove you own this building, then it’s ours.”

She tried to ignore a twinge of discomfort. Luther was starting to make her feel used. Would he argue for the Donato’s case, if he felt that would help his museum? Did he care about the truth? “I’d like to see the roped-off rooms.”

If the property was hers, then the items now in the museum hadn’t been the Donato’s to sell, but so far, no one had broached the subject, and she wasn’t about to do so. She wanted to keep things simple. Declaring the property hers was the first step.

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