Mad About You (boxed set of beloved romances) Page 3

  Holding the door open, James acknowledged her outfit with a wry smile. "Very nice, but do you always dress so, um, warmly?"

  Kat was donning a long all-weather coat, but stopped mid-motion, tossed it on a chair, and stuck her tongue out at him. He rather liked it.

  Stepping into the hall, he asked, "Where are we going?"

  "To Torbett's, about six blocks over. The food is good, the utensils are clean, and there's usually a little jazz band playing."

  "Hmmm, sounds romantic," he murmured, settling an arm around her waist.

  She stopped and carefully removed his hand, then continued walking out of the building.

  It was a balmy August evening, but a salty wind from the bay nipped at his cheeks. Suddenly, James understood Kat's penchant for sweaters. "Brilliant weather," he offered.

  "The rainy season will begin soon," she lamented.

  "Good for attendance at the museum," he said with a smile.

  "True," she said, smiling back.

  She had a very pretty face, he decided. Not model perfect, but striking, to be sure. Animated and fresh, Kat looked vibrant and interesting, and James found himself already planning ways to extend their time past the hour he'd promised her. He could always catch a flight to New York tomorrow.

  After they descended the stairs to the sidewalk, she asked, "Shall we walk or take a taxi?"

  "Neither," he said, pointing. "I was able to rent a passable car for the duration of my short stay."

  Kat followed his finger and blinked. "The black Jaguar?"

  "It'll do in a pinch."

  *****

  Okay, Kat acknowledged begrudgingly, not only did the man have good taste in clothes and cigars, but he scored high in the automobile category, too. James unlocked the door with a keyless remote and held open the passenger door for her. "Remind me never to show you the heap I drive," she said as she lowered herself into the squeaky leather seat.

  Panic rose in her throat after he slid into his seat and the slight vacuum seal of the door isolated them in the intimate interior of the car. Everything about this man screamed danger to her emotional well-being. Not that her instincts had always led her down the right road, she admitted ruefully.

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His dark hair was slicked back and he smelled faintly of strong soap. He'd traded his Italian suit for dark brown slacks, a thin long-sleeved jersey, and a tan leather vest. Kat winced. Denise was right, the man was gorgeous.

  When he shifted gears, she saw a flash of metal at his waist. Incredulous, she asked, "Are you carrying a gun to dinner?"

  His smile was tight-lipped. "Madam, I carry a gun to the shower."

  Kat perused his profile carefully. She didn't really know this man at all. "Am I in danger?"

  His dimple made an appearance. "Most definitely," he said huskily, then settled his dark gaze on her. "And I feel obligated to tell you I have more than one weapon on my person."

  Kat jerked her gaze back to the street in front of them and swallowed hard.

  Torbett's was crowded, but most patrons were hanging around the bar listening to the live music. They waited only a few minutes before their names were called. James stubbornly kept his hand on her waist as they wound their way to a small table in a corner beneath a hanging stained-glass lamp. She felt the imprint of his warm fingers even after she slid into the seat he pulled out for her.

  "Will you share a bottle of wine with me?" he asked Kat when the waitress arrived.

  She nodded, giving in to the shiver of desire that raced up her spine at the sound of his voice. And she wasn't the only woman affected, she noticed wryly. The waitress had nearly swooned when James spoke. When he bestowed the woman with a killer smile, Kat pressed her lips together and shook her head. Pity to the woman who lost her heart to this man. Because she'd spend the rest of her life sharing him with every female who crossed his path.

  "Very good choice," he said, looking around and nodding with approval.

  She smiled, her heart sinking with the realization that even the table between them could not keep him from crowding her senses. Feeling woefully out of control, Kat willed her pulse to slow as she methodically studied the menu for something low-calorie.

  "What do you recommend?" he asked.

  "If you like seafood, the grouper is wonderful, otherwise the rib-eye steak is the house specialty."

  "What are you having?"

  The white lasagna spoke to her, but she set the menu aside. "Probably a salad."

  He frowned. "Are you one of those rabbit eaters?"

  She gave him a wry smile. "Do I look like one of those rabbit eaters?"

  James leaned to the side and slowly swept her figure head to toe. "I quite like the way you look. Your friend is frightfully skinny."

  "Denise is a runway model," Kat explained. "She looks great in designer clothes."

  He lifted one eyebrow. "I can assure you, Pussy-Kat, men are much more concerned about how a woman looks out of her clothes."

  Kat's breasts tightened, and—thankfully—at that moment, the waitress brought their wine. James nodded, then waved away the woman, preferring to pour it himself. Watching the pale liquid splash into her glass, Kat felt herself relax slightly. Sure, the man was a little arrogant, but it felt good to be in the company of someone who was comfortable with himself. And with whom she felt so comfortable....

  His eyes danced as he raised his glass to hers. "To the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

  Lifting the glass to her mouth, she said, "I have the feeling you've made that toast hundreds of times."

  He pulled a wounded face. "Give me more credit—I've made that toast thousands of times."

  She shook her head and laughed. "Is that your fail-proof line for getting lucky?"

  "Do you think I'm trying to get lucky?"

  Kat set down her glass. "Yes."

  He flashed even, white teeth. "And what are my chances at this point?"

  Glancing down to study the hem of the napkin, Kat wet her lips carefully. The man was outrageously appealing, but she didn't engage in casual sex. Besides, something about James Donovan made her feel very vulnerable, dredging up the old nightmares of stepping onto the stage of a packed stadium and suddenly realizing you were stark naked. She lifted her gaze to his expectant one, and shook her head slightly. "I'm not the girl for you, James. If you want entertainment, it's still early and I'm sure you could—"

  "Yes," he cut in, "I'm sure I could." He gave her a small smile, then reached over to cover her hand with his. "But I assure you, Kat, I'm exactly where I want to be." His smile widened, giving her a brief glimpse of his elusive dimples. "Especially since it appears we have progressed to a first-name basis."

  His mood was infectious, and she smiled, ignoring the rush of desire triggered by the brief touch of his hand. The waitress returned and Kat ordered lasagna, James, the steak.

  "Tell me about yourself," he said when they were alone again.

  Kat shrugged. "You already know what I do for a living, and where I live."

  "What about family?"

  "There's just me," she said brightly. "My mother died when I was a teenager, and you know about my father. Actually, it was my father who introduced me to the museum. He worked at Jellico's for over fifteen years."

  "A family affair, eh?"

  Kat squashed the troubling memories that threatened to surface. "You might say that."

  "You don't seem to get along with your boss—Mr. Trent, isn't it?"

  Deciding it was useless to lie, Kat nodded. "We don't always see eye to eye. Guy has grown increasingly more commercial in his pursuits for the museum."

  "The owner must favor him."

  Kat rolled her eyes. "The owner is his brother-in-law and lives in San Diego, so Guy has the run of the place."

  "Ah. And how do you feel about showing King George's letter?"

  "Fine—once I know it's authentic. What can you tell me about Lady Mercer?" Seeing the look that crossed
his face, Kat quickly clarified her statement. "Skip the personal details."

  His mouth twisted as he thought. "Tania Mercer is a widow and a shrewd businesswoman. Her elderly husband left her a tidy sum, but she's grown it considerably since his death."

  "Is she a patron of the arts?"

  "Yes," he said slowly. "If it suits her purposes. She dabbles in the stock market and start-up ventures, too. She also has a keen interest in rare antiques—I suppose it would follow that she would jump at a chance to purchase the letter in hopes of attaining a profit."

  "So you believe she came by the letter honestly?"

  He frowned slightly. "I've never known of Tania doing anything fraudulent—underhanded, perhaps, but not blatantly illegal."

  She nodded, satisfied. "What about you, James? Do you have a family?"

  "A sister in London." A look of genuine affection crossed his face. "You rather remind me of her, actually."

  Kat bit back a frown—she wasn't ready to jump into bed with the man, but being compared to his sister wasn't top of her list either. "Are the two of you close?"

  Nodding, he said, "We don't visit as often as we should, but she's a terrific girl, and married to a good fellow. Expecting a baby in the spring."

  "And you're retired?"

  "Yes."

  "You must have joined the intelligence agency as a young man.”

  "I did indeed.” He smiled. "Although I’m still young enough."

  To service you. The unspoken words hung in the air. "S-So,” she stammered, "you spend your time jetting across the world doing favors for old lovers?"

  "It passes the time."

  "You sound bored."

  "It's a bit of a change to go from an active job to playing chess and puttering in the garden."

  "Somehow, I can't see you weeding begonias."

  "I enjoy the quieter aspects of life and I'm still a consultant for the agency, but I confess I miss the assignments."

  Kat finished her wine and held her glass as he refilled it. "So why did you retire?"

  "Twenty years seemed long enough, and I want to spend time with my niece or nephew when she or he arrives. Plus I have all the money I'll ever need."

  She straightened and pushed her glasses higher on her nose. Was he bragging, or just stating a fact?

  Their entrees arrived, and James declared her recommendation an excellent choice. The music grew louder as the meal progressed, so they stopped talking and enjoyed the sounds and tastes, communicating with gestures and glances, and emptying the bottle of wine. Kat couldn't remember when she'd had a more delightful evening. Over coffee, the thought flitted across her mind that his company was rather pleasant, and she was suddenly disappointed he would be leaving so soon.

  He paid the tab, then walked close to her as they returned to the car. On the short drive home, he asked questions about the city, and Kat, a Bay Area native, gave him an abbreviated history.

  It seemed all too soon that he was walking her to her door, and Kat's pulse was racing.

  "I've kept you longer than the hour I promised," he said near her ear as she unlocked the door.

  She laughed nervously. "I noticed. You'll be running through the airport, but you should still make your flight." She pushed open the door and turned, smiling brightly. "Thank you for dinner." She stuck out her hand.

  He studied her hand for a few seconds. "No good-night kiss?"

  "That's not necessary," she said quickly.

  His smile was slow and nerve-racking. "Speak for yourself," he said, then pulled her to him and lowered his mouth to hers, his tongue urging her to open to him.

  Kat did, allowing him a deep, slow exploration. Her mind spun and her knees weakened as his tongue conquered hers. He held her body against his, and she tentatively fingered the wall of muscle across his back. But when she felt his arousal against her stomach, she stiffened.

  James lifted his head and released her. "I apologize." He cleared his throat. He gave her a proper smile, then nodded curtly. "Thank you for a lovely evening. I sincerely hope our paths cross again sometime."

  Still stunned at the desire flooding her limbs, Kat could only blink and right her glasses in response. When he strode down the hall and disappeared around the corner, she touched her swollen lips and expelled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

  Turning, Kat stumbled into her apartment and closed the door. Under a lone glowing lamp, Denise had left a note to call tomorrow with all the details. Kat sighed and walked into her bedroom, then sank onto the bed in the darkness. The clock glowed ten twenty-five. Hesitant to part with the heady feeling of James's electric kiss, she lay back on her bed, fully clothed, and closed her eyes to troubled dreams of a cigar-smoking, smooth-talking foreigner.

  The peal of her cell phone startled her from a deep sleep. Kat sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling for her glasses on the nightstand. "Who in the world would be calling at two in the morning?" she croaked into the darkness. She squinted at the unfamiliar number, then connected the call. "Hello?"

  "Kat, this is James Donovan." His voice sounded grave. "I skipped the flight, then I couldn't sleep, so I drove by the gallery. You'd better get down here."

  Suddenly she was fully awake. "What's wrong?"

  "From what I can see, three unconscious guards, and if my instincts are correct, one missing letter."

  Chapter Three

  JAMES SCANNED THE motley crew assembled before him in the brightly lit hallway of the museum. Guy Trent was extremely agitated, running his fingers through his sparse hair. Six security guards, including the two men and one woman who had been out cold when he arrived, were talking and gesturing among themselves. Two police officers were gazing at the high ceiling as if the perpetrator might still be lurking up there somewhere. And the fat detective who had just arrived was snapping a wad of gum in a most irritating manner.

  He had just shaken hands with the snappy Detective Tenner when a buzz sounded and Kat emerged through a rear door, then jogged down the hall toward the group. A long, grubby white cardigan flapped around her. She was still dressed in her dinner clothes, slightly worse for wear, but she'd taken time to yank her hair back into an eye-stretching ponytail.

  "What happened?" she asked breathlessly as she came to a stop before him.

  James introduced her to the detective and the policemen, then started at the beginning. "When I drove by around one-thirty this morning, I noticed a flashing light inside, but I couldn't rouse a response from security. A few minutes later, two relief guards came on duty and we discovered their three comrades unconscious at their posts."

  He motioned toward the group of guards, who quieted at his gesture.

  "Carl, what happened?" Kat asked the groggy looking veteran.

  The guy shrugged. "Don't know—something made us all fall asleep."

  A police officer cut in, holding up a foam cup. "We've taken a sample to be sure, but we think someone may have drugged the coffee."

  Kat's boss shifted uncomfortably, his bald head shiny with sweat. "The Maya display is intact, as well as the Navajo exhibit. The Twila paintings are still in the vault, thank God. If anything besides the King's letter is missing, it's small."

  "It could have been much worse," Kat said, puffing out her cheeks in a relieved exhale.

  "I doubt Lady Mercer will agree," James felt obliged to say, faintly chafed that Kat seemed unconcerned.

  She threw him an impatient frown.

  Guy's uneasiness seemed to be growing. Detective Tenner turned to Kat's boss. "So we're dealing with a premeditated crime—and the thief had a specific goal. What's the letter worth?"

  Guy worked his mouth as he pondered the question. "It has yet to be authenticated, so right now, on the black market to a serious collector—maybe twenty thousand."

  "Is it insured?" the detective pressed.

  Guy deferred to Kat with a glance and she nodded. "By a European fine arts insurer. I believe I remember seeing the figure
of twenty-five thousand on the paperwork."

  Tenner popped his gum. "And what would it go for if it's real?"

  Guy shrugged. "It depends—interest in the letter is running high right now—I know the Handelman family is prepared to pay two hundred fifty thousand. In a heated auction, it could bring five hundred thousand or more."

  The detective nodded. Pop, pop went the gum. "Okay, so how did the thief get inside the vault?"

  "No sign of forced entry," a tall, trim guard said quickly. "They had to have a badge for one of the museum entrances and also for the vault."

  Eyebrows raised, Tenner asked, "And you are?"

  "Ronald Beaman," the man answered. "Head of security here at the museum."

  "And how many staff members have access to the vault?"

  "Only a handful of senior staff members—maybe five or six, including Ms. McKray and Mr. Trent. We can check the electronic log to see whose badge was used." He motioned to two of the guards and they disappeared, presumably in search of the log.

  "I'll need fingerprints lifted inside the vault," Detective Tenner piped in.

  "Which should corroborate the film," James said, pointing to a camera mounted high on the wall.

  Beaman winced. "Well, not necessarily. We've been having trouble lately with the cameras, but if we're lucky, maybe we caught something." James resisted the urge to roll his eyes and joined the others as they followed the security officer through a maze of hallways and small rooms to a security console.

  It took Guy and Ronald Beaman several minutes to find the correct camera monitor and rewind the tape. While they were waiting, Andy Wharton arrived. With his hair loose around his shoulders and looking none too tidy, he'd clearly just rolled out of bed.

  "Is everyone all right?"

  Guy nodded, then waved impatiently toward the monitor.

  Everyone crowded in for a look, and James made room for Kat in front of him, enjoying the slight brush of their bodies. But she was completely absorbed in the video, trying to hide the nervous shaking of her hands.

  Ron Beaman fast-forwarded the gritty, static-plagued film at a moderate speed until they saw a figure appear, then he pushed the play button, and everyone leaned closer. James's eyes immediately darted to the time on the film. Twelve thirty-seven a.m.