Mad About You (boxed set of beloved romances) Read online

  Incredibly, he heard the snapping gum before he found the detective. Tenner was sitting on a desk, his feet in a chair, his grubby white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. The tie was long gone, it seemed. He stopped mid-laugh in response to something a seated companion was saying.

  "Well, Agent Donovan." He kicked the chair out of the way and lurched to his feet. "What brings you here?"

  James nodded a greeting. "I was wondering if the lab reports are back on the coffee the security guards at Jellico's were drinking."

  Tenner stretched out the gum with the tip of his tongue and squinted. James knew the tests had come back, but the detective was deliberating whether to tell him.

  "You and I are on the same side, Detective," James assured him.

  "Is that so?" the man asked, cocking his head. "Well, I think you've got a thing for that McKray woman."

  James pursed his lips. "Which doesn't make her any more or less guilty, does it?"

  "No," Tenner agreed, still dubious.

  "The results have to be made available before the grand jury meets—what harm could it do to let me in on it? I'd like to keep my client in England informed of the progress on the case."

  Tenner blew a bubble, then sucked it back into his mouth. "Over-the-counter sleeping pills in the coffee. Funny—they're the same brand as the ones we found in your girlfriend's nightstand."

  His reference to their relationship rankled James, but he didn't react. "Which is still circumstantial," James pointed out. "What else did you find to warrant making such a mess?"

  The detective grunted. "The coat, hat, and shoes."

  James shrugged. "But you expected to, correct?"

  "Yep, but we didn't plan on finding a piece of the gallery's missing jewelry."

  The last bit of news startled James. "Jewelry, did you say?"

  "Yep—a ring."

  "Where?"

  Tenner shook his head smugly. "I think I'll keep that one to myself."

  James's pulse jumped and he experienced a twinge of doubt. Was it possible Kat had taken the jewelry? She had seemed very concerned about passing the polygraph. "Have you been following up on other suspects?"

  Crossing his arms, the overweight detective frowned. "And what other suspects would that be, Agent Donovan?"

  James held up the plastic bag. "I have possible evidence from Katherine McKray's flat indicating at least two people were inside."

  Tenner's bushy eyebrows knitted. "I thought we gave her place a pretty good going-over."

  They had, and James resisted the urge to shake him for it. "These two cups were in the dishwasher and Ms. McKray insists she didn't use them. Did you or your men happen to?"

  "No."

  "Then someone else was in her apartment long enough to enjoy a cup of coffee. I suspect her friend Denise Womack had a guest over, although she denied it. Perhaps you'd better have her fingerprinted to check against these cups."

  "We know how to do our job here, Agent," Tenner said as he reached for the bag.

  James removed a pen from an inside jacket pocket. "Unfortunately, you'll find Ms. McKray's prints on them, and the fellow at the front who's keeping my weapon until I leave. Will you please keep me informed?" He scratched his cell phone number on a piece of paper. "And I’m staying at the—"

  "Flagiron Hotel, room twelve forty-five." The man grinned widely, showing coffee-stained teeth. "Like I said, we know how to do our job, Agent."

  *****

  Kat set the framed picture of her father on the bookshelf and rubbed her thumb over his face until tears blurred her focus. She sniffed hard and went back to her task of restoring order to the living room. Her body throbbed from exhaustion and some other distant ache that worsened when she thought of Agent James Donovan.

  She ought to be in bed, regaining her strength in preparation for the week ahead, which, unless someone stepped forward and confessed to the crime, promised to deteriorate even further. But if she kept her hands busy, she wouldn't dwell on the upheaval in her life. The land line phone rang a dozen times, and each time she hoped it was James calling. But she resisted and allowed it to roll over to her answering machine.

  Several reporters called. Andy Wharton left a message saying he hoped she'd be back to work soon—how were they going to host the open house next week without her? Despite her predicament, Kat felt anxious about the success of Jellico's annual open house—old habits and loyalties, however misplaced, were hard to break.

  Guy also called, to let Kat know he'd received her message that she'd received his message. Kat bounced a cushion off the wall as he talked. Dammit, the little bastard always had to have the last word.

  Denise called twice, and Kat almost picked up to talk to her friend, but she remembered James's earlier warning about not discussing the coffee cups until he had performed a background check. And although Denise sounded much too concerned for Kat's welfare to be remotely involved in this mess, she heeded his warning and made a mental note to call her back tomorrow.

  Heaving a sigh, she straightened her stiff back and surveyed her progress. Actually, things were looking pretty good—she'd weeded out three bags of garbage as she sifted through magazines, books, and newspapers. A silver lining in every cloud, she mused, no matter how black.

  She moved a CD rack from which her music had been dumped, and something shiny caught her eye. Intrigued, Kat picked it up and turned it over, then gasped.

  The stolen compass. Her heart thudded against her ribs. How on earth bad it gotten here? Then she jumped back and let it fall onto an area rug. Her prints were all over it now. She backed away from it, wrapping her arms around herself, and glancing around wildly. If someone had taken her clothing and badge, they could just as easily have planted the compass. Then her stomach turned over. Had the police found other items stolen from the gallery hidden in her apartment?

  She had to get out—the naked walls were unfriendly and closing in around her, the haphazard stacks of debris a reminder of the violence with which she was being targeted. But why?

  Kat stumbled into her bedroom and jammed on her glasses. The bulb in her lamp flickered, then went out, plunging the room into darkness. She felt her way into the bathroom and pawed the wall for the light switch. The tiny room's illumination cast enough glow into the bedroom for Kat to scrounge up a warm coat, gloves, and shoes. Her feet had carried her out to the lamplit sidewalk before the cold breeze slowed her down.

  Music from Sissy's cafe down the street drifted out to mingle with the sounds of passing cars and clumps of pedestrians hurrying to their destinations. A raggedy young man sitting on the stoop of the four-story building across the street tipped his hat at her and took a quick drag on a joint. Kat eyed him suspiciously, her pulse leaping. Everyone—everything—looked more sinister today than yesterday. Somewhere in the city, possibly within her circle of acquaintances, lurked a person who didn't mind that she was about to be indicted for a crime she didn't commit.

  She didn't have a vehicle, and even if she did, where would she go? Kat glanced about frantically for a direction that seemed right...east?...north? A southbound bus belched its way up the street and lurched to a stop at the corner several yards away. If she ran, she could make it...but she stood frozen with indecision.

  Miserable, Kat mentally scanned her list of friends and acquaintances—lots of nice people, but not many she would burden with her scandalous company at the moment. And while Denise would take her with open arms, Kat wasn't eager for the barrage of questions she knew she'd be subjected to. Andy? Guy would probably fire him if Andy let her stay at his place.

  Dammit, as much as she hated to admit it—she needed James...no, she wanted James. She wanted his big, comforting presence, his pleasing velvety accent, his gently rolling conversation. His hotel was only a few blocks away, normally safe walking distance night or day in the part of town she lived in, but thoroughly spooked, Kat walked to the deserted corner and hailed a taxi under the glare of the streetlight.

 
Even if he weren't in his room, she'd be satisfied to sit in a busy lobby just for the comfort of a crowd. In fact, she'd book a room for herself until she could get the locks changed on her door. Feeling much better, she laid her head back and closed her eyes for a few seconds, willing her body to slow down. But unrelenting waves of fear, disbelief, and anger pumped a steady stream of adrenaline through her body. Her heart still pounded erratically as she walked through the grand entrance of the Flagiron Hotel.

  She stood in line for ten minutes behind camera-laden visitors with restless children, then stepped up to the smiling woman behind the desk. "I'd like a room, please."

  "Hiding out?" a familiar British voice asked behind her.

  Kat spun to see James standing with his lips pressed together, his eyes questioning. His cheeks were wind- flushed—he'd apparently just returned. "Not hiding. I...I don't feel safe at my apartment. I decided to have the locks changed."

  "Good idea." He addressed the clerk with a cajoling smile as he removed black driving gloves. "Is a room available next to twelve forty-five?"

  The woman melted at the sound of his voice, then straightened, her fingers flying over her keyboard. "Yes, sir—twelve forty-seven."

  "Good. Please quarter Ms. McKray there."

  Two days ago she would have shredded a man who presumed to make such a decision for her. But Kat didn't object to the arrangement, even though the prospect of sleeping in proximity to James was comforting and unsettling at the same time.

  He took her key while she signed for the room. "Where is your luggage?"

  Now she really felt silly. "I left in a hurry."

  His black brows knitted. "Did something happen?"

  Kat thought of the valuable gold compass lying on the rug in her living room. "Yes."

  He reached for her arm. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded, touched by his concern. "Fine—but I found something the police apparently missed while mine-sweeping my apartment."

  James's frown deepened and he glanced around. "Let's go upstairs where we can talk—I uncovered a few things the police overlooked myself."

  He hovered close as they waited for an elevator, then waved her inside the glass enclosure. Kat shuffled in on elastic legs and kept her back turned to the view. She had never minded heights, but today her reflexes seemed hypersensitive, and spiraling toward the twelfth floor made her light-headed. The feel of James's hands on her waist sent her body into a further state of chaos.

  "We might have taken the stairs," he murmured against her hair, "but I'd rather you conserve your energy for other pursuits." His low chuckle told her he was teasing, trying to lighten the mood, and she warmed to his banter, suddenly glad she'd come.

  He opened her door and flicked on a light before stepping aside for her to enter. Dressed in pleasing golds and soothing yellows, her room was luxurious with over-stuffed furnishings and rugs thick enough to trip up a tired person's feet. Just the sight of the waist-high queen-size bed reminded her how many hours she'd been running on empty. She glanced at her watch. Almost eleven, but she was still too keyed up to rest. James retrieved two glasses from the top of a pale wood dresser, then disappeared into the bathroom.

  Kat sank into one of the two armchairs, then kicked off her shoes and dragged her feet to the single large ottoman that serviced both chairs. Feeling oddly out-of-body, she stared into space, as if she were observing someone else experiencing all the craziness of the last day. She clawed her hair back from her temples, digging her fingernails into her scalp, triggering the kind of cleansing pain that relieves stress. A little.

  The water splashed on and off. A few seconds later, James emerged to hand her a cool glass, then sat in the chair opposite hers. The lighting in the room was more decorative than utilitarian, lending a golden intimacy to the room. Which, she decided, was what the designers had intended, considering the activities that had most likely taken place hundreds of times in this room.

  With shaking hands, she drained the glass, then laid her head back.

  "You're exhausted," he said quietly.

  She affirmed his observation with a half murmur, half grunt. "But not sleepy." She wondered if her eyes were as bugged out as they felt. "While I was cleaning, I found the gold compass that was stolen from the gallery."

  He pursed his lips, and she wondered what was going on behind those shrouded dark eyes. "And you have no idea how it got there."

  His statement was calm, but her defenses rallied nonetheless. "Well, obviously someone put it there, but it wasn't me."

  Sighing, he steepled his hands. "In addition to the clothing, the police found one of the missing rings during their search."

  Kat closed her eyes, summoning strength. "Who could be doing this to me?"

  "I have a theory, but you won't want to hear it."

  She opened her eyes and lifted her head. "What is it?"

  "Your friend Denise has more secrets than I suspected."

  Swallowing hard, Kat gripped the empty glass. "Like what?"

  "Like a record for repeated petty thefts."

  Her stomach churned. "When?"

  "The most recent one was twelve years ago. Shoplifting clothes and jewelry."

  Kat did the arithmetic in her head. "She would have been in college." She frowned. "I'm disappointed, but that was a long time ago."

  James drummed his long, tapered fingers together. "There's more. Thirty thousand dollars was deposited in her checking account this morning."

  Her stomach heaved and her lips parted. "Denise? Where on earth...do you think she could have stolen the letter and sold it?"

  "It's possible. Would she have such contacts?"

  Kat glanced around the room, her mind racing, trying to recall conversations, people, places. "The Chinese have a corner on the import-export trade on the West Coast, so naturally they also control the black market." She pressed her lips together, then looked back to James. "Denise hangs out in Chinatown—she likes Asian men."

  His black eyebrows rose a fraction. "And as a model, I suspect she has access to wigs and such."

  Tears pricked her eyes as she nodded. Not Denise.

  Leaning toward the ottoman, he captured her bare feet in his hands and fingered the delicate bones of her ankles. "Kat, I'm sure this is hurtful to you, but it's good news—at the very least it's enough evidence to instill doubt in the minds of the grand jury."

  She shook her head, disbelief coursing through her. "I would have to hear it from her own mouth."

  "Shh," he whispered, stroking the tops of her feet. "Things will look better in the morning, Pussy-Kat. I'm glad you decided to come here—I'll feel better knowing you're nearby." He nodded to a narrow door beside the dresser and smiled, dimples carved deep in his cheeks. "And look—our rooms adjoin in the event you find yourself in need of"—he cleared his throat—"an alibi."

  His hands sent shivers up her legs, straight to the core of her desire. Her toes curled involuntarily, and her eyelids floated down. It would be so easy to let herself be swept away for the night, to lie beneath him and revel in the coming together of their bodies. He wanted her, and she wanted him. Their kisses were so sizzling, their coupling was bound to be mind-blowing. Why not? After all, he'd be leaving soon.

  A sharp pain pierced her chest even as his hands worked magic. He'd be leaving soon. And taking with him the fleeting memory of another conquest. She, on the other hand, would be left with the idealized perception of a hero no other man could live up to.

  Years ago she'd gotten through that hormone-crazed period where she believed physical love was synonymous with spiritual love. Now she was looking for someone to share the simple pleasures of life, someone who wanted a family and a measure of the American dream she'd observed on television.

  She opened her eyes and absorbed James's image: gorgeous, sexy beyond belief, charming...and completely untouchable. She deserved more than a casual affair, and she wasn't about to settle.

  He moved his ministrations to her calves,
kneading her flesh through the thin knit of her leggings.

  Kat swallowed. Not even if he made her feel weak with longing.

  His fingers traced circles over her knees, then moved higher to caress her thighs.

  Her breath caught in her chest, and her gaze locked with his. Not even if he made her forget her surroundings.

  He leaned forward and inched his hand beneath the tail of her shirt, grazing the sensitive mound between her thighs.

  Kat's knees came up instinctively. Not even if he made her forget her name.

  She opened her mouth to protest before she lost the ability to speak, but his mouth closed over hers, stealing the words from her throat. This kiss held no tenderness, simply hard passion as he gathered her in his arms, pulled her forward onto the ottoman, and cradled her between his knees.

  His tongue wrought havoc on hers, teasing, battling, conquering. She shuddered, her nipples beading and scalding wetness warming her thighs. Her mind spun, racing to transmit a desperate message, a memory of what she'd been thinking the second before his lips touched hers. She had the faint feeling that the notion had been an important one, but it eluded her.

  James felt a strange, scary feeling erupt as he held Kat against him and delved into the sweet recesses of her mouth. Unidentifiable, the emotion pressing against his chest could best be compared to the time he had parachuted directly into a guerrilla camp in South America. And he had the distinct impression that he would not be able to shoot himself out of this situation.

  He lifted his head and studied her blue eyes, smoky with passion. Inhaling sharply, he released her and stood in one motion, albeit unsteadily. He'd crossed the room, opened the door, and taken one step into the hallway before he realized he owed her some token of an explanation. Turning, he took one look at her kiss-softened mouth and forgot whatever clever quip he'd intended to deliver.