Short, Sweet And Sexy. Cara Summers

      “It’s just a scratch,” he said, smiling up at her. “It will heal…unless I am dead and I’m staring into the eyes of an angel.”

      “No, you’re not dead.” She noted that he had a French accent and the kindest blue eyes. They were clear and focused on hers. No adrenaline surge this time. “But you took a pretty hard fall.”

      “I’m fine,” the older man said. “It’s even better if you’re not an angel.”

      A.J. blinked. Could he be flirting with her? No. Quickly, she made herself look back at the street person. “We should help him sit up.”

      When he grinned at her, she began to feel another pump of adrenaline surge through her system. He had the kind of smile that made you want to smile right back.

      “I’d be happy to help you with him if you’d let go of my hands,” he said.

      “What?”

      “You’ve got my hands.”

      Glancing down, A.J. saw that her hands were indeed clasping his tightly—right there in her lap—right on top of the skirt!

      “Sorry.” She released him immediately, and together they eased the older man into a sitting position. Then Cleo offered her a welcome distraction by moving onto her lap and licking her face.

      “We’ve got to be fast, Pierre.” The street person’s voice was low and urgent. “Give me the Abelard necklace.”

      A.J. managed to peer around Cleo to see that the homeless man was patting down the Frenchman.

      “You are mistaken. I don’t have the necklace, Salvatore.”

      “Salvatore?” A.J. glanced from one to the other. “Pierre? You know each other?”

      “Yes,” the Frenchman said, turning toward her with a smile. “Salvatore’s father and I were old friends. Salvatore works for a security firm now, and he’s made a little mistake.”

      “The name is Sam,” the street person said. “Turn over the necklace, Pierre. I can’t let you do this.”

      A.J. cut Sam off by grabbing both of his wrists. “You don’t have any right to search this man.” She turned to Pierre. “Insist that he stop.”

      “I insist that you stop.”

      “I insist that you stop also,” A.J. said.

      Sam lifted both of his hands in the air, palms out. “Fine. But the police will be here soon.” He paused so that the sirens in the distance could emphasize his point. Then he met A.J.’s eyes.

      “If you want to help my godfather, you’ll let me handle this.”

      She lifted her chin. “Really? And I’m supposed to trust the word of a thief?”

      “I’m not a thief,” Sam said, fishing out a card and handing it to her. “I’m a licensed private investigator and I work for Sterling Security.”

      “S. Romano,” A.J. read aloud. “Well, Mr. Salvatore Sam Romano, no matter who you work for, you’re a thief. You stole twenty dollars from me each time you let me put money in your cup.”

      Fishing a card out of her purse, she turned to the Frenchman. “You shouldn’t say one more word to anyone until your lawyer is present. If you want, I can represent you until then.”

      “I would like that very much, madame—or is it mademoiselle?”

      Scrambling to her feet, she helped the older man to his.

      The mistake Sam made was looking at A.J. again. The thigh-high stockings had not been a figment of his imagination. The hem of her skirt had hiked up so that the lacy border of the stockings was quite visible along with a narrow expanse of smooth skin…

      A.J. hurriedly pulled the skirt down, but not before Sam felt his throat go dry.

      Pierre captured her left hand. “Ah. No rings. It’s Mademoiselle Potter then, I presume?”

      Sam stared at Pierre. He had some smooth moves for a man who had to be in his seventies.

      A.J. frowned a little. “I’m not married, if that’s what you mean.”

      “Excellent,” Pierre murmured, raising her hand to his lips. “The gods have smiled on me twice today. Perhaps they will smile a third time, mademoiselle. Tell me that you are free, that there is some hope of my winning your hand.”

      “I hate to interrupt the romance, Pierre,” Sam said. The sirens were growing closer. “But we don’t have much time. When the police get here, they’re going to invite you down to the station to take your statement. A man stabbed you and another one nearly ran you down. We have a very small window of opportunity here to put that necklace back. I don’t want you to go to jail.”

      Pierre waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture. “What matter is that? The important thing is that I have just fallen in love with Mademoiselle Potter.”

      A.J. and Sam were still staring at Pierre when the first patrol car, sirens blaring, screeched to a halt at the curb.

      2

      “HAVE I TOLD YOU LATELY how much I hate smooth-talking attorneys?” Sam nudged a pile of papers aside, making a small space for himself on the corner of his brother’s desk. When he unearthed a donut, he broke off a piece. He could always depend on a cop to have food nearby, and he was starved.

      “Join the club. Do you want to tell me why you happened to be on the scene when Pierre was nearly run down by a truck in front of that museum?”

      With a muffled curse, Sam spit the contents of his mouth into an overflowing wastebasket, then grabbed for his brother’s coffee. Pure survival instinct had him glancing in the paper cup and taking a good sniff before he downed the contents. “I didn’t know a donut could become mummified.”

      “Weird science. Happens all the time around here. Cops don’t have the luxury of being neat freaks like P.I.s. And you’re not answering my question.”

      Sam let his gaze sweep the large room that was home to the detective division. Most of the desks were cluttered, none to the extent his brother’s was. But then, Andrew Jackson Romano was one of the best detectives in the city. “What do you know about the Abelard necklace?”

      Andrew’s brows shot up. “Just what I read in the papers. It’s worth about five million, and the LaBrecque family, producers of LaBrecque Estates Bottled Wines, brought it to New York and are exhibiting it at the Grenelle Museum to launch the new line of wines they are exporting to the U.S. Let me guess. You were part of the extra security that the papers claimed was hired to protect it.”

      “I think it was stolen this morning.”

      Andrew frowned. “No one called it in.”

      Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Sam paced to the window and then turned. “That’s because it’s in the display case. I saw it myself.” Immediately after the squad car had arrived on the scene, a TV reporter with a cameraman had showed. They’d come to photograph the necklace in its case. The attempted hit-and-run had been a bonus for them.

      Once Pierre and A. J. Potter had left in the squad car for the precinct, Sam had gone into the museum himself to check. And there it had been.

      Andrew settled back in his chair. “It’s still in the case in the museum, but you think it’s been stolen. Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”

      “This is off the record? Brother to brother?”

      Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “Sure.”

      “I saw Pierre Rabaut climb in the skylight at six thirty-five and walk out the front door of the Grenelle at seven-forty, and I don’t believe he went in for a private viewing.”

      “But