Not Just For Christmas. Debbie Macomber

kidding,” A.J. said, looking like Claire felt. Maybe Samantha wasn’t such a great choice for a roommate after all. Unless you were a mental patient at Bellevue. Samantha pulled on the black skirt. “Look, I don’t believe it, either, but it can’t hurt.” She handed her jacket to Claire, then smoothed the black skirt over her thighs.

      Claire had to admit it looked nice. The fabric had a very unusual sheen, but she certainly didn’t see anything magical about it.

      “Follow me, ladies,” Samantha said, then moved toward Tavish.

      A.J. looked at Claire, then shrugged. “What can it hurt?”

      “True,” Claire replied, as they walked behind Sam. “And if it doesn’t work, we can always resort to Plan B.”

      “What’s Plan B?” A.J. asked.

      “We hang Tavish out his window by the ankles until he agrees to sublet us his apartment.”

      A.J. smiled. “So it’s a win-win situation. If we drop him, another vacancy opens up.”

      But amazingly enough, the skirt did work. Claire watched in sheer disbelief as Tavish’s jaw sagged when he caught sight of Samantha. His gaze became slightly unfocused and he stared unblinking at the skirt. It was as if he’d been drugged.

      The next thing she knew, A.J. was handing over a check for two thousand dollars.

      Tavish smiled. “So you want to pay all the rent up front?” He stuck the check in his vest pocket. “The perfect tenant, wouldn’t you say, Roger?”

      “I’d say so.” The broker sidled closer to Samantha.

      Something didn’t add up. “But wait,” Claire interjected. “I thought that was just for…” A warning pinch on her arm cut her off in midsentence. “Ow!”

      “That should be tenants.” Samantha motined to A.J. and Claire. “My roommates.”

      Claire smiled tightly at the man as she rubbed her sore arm. There was no mistake. Tavish was giving them his apartment for the entire summer. For only two thousand dollars. Claire glanced down at the skirt Samantha wore, no longer a skeptic.

      While A.J. and Sam finalized the deal with the broker, Claire helped herd the disappointed bidders out of the apartment before Tavish had a chance to change his mind. Then she returned to the circle with her new roommates, Tavish and the broker just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation.

      “Cleo’s the poodle,” the broker said. “Lives in 6B. You’ll have to walk her. It’s part of Tavish’s arrangement with his neighbors.”

      “No problem,” A.J. said, quickly scribbling her signature beneath Samantha’s, then handing the pen to Claire.

      “I can’t believe you did it!” A.J. exclaimed to Sam after everyone had left. Then all three of them began to high-five each other.

      “That skirt did it,” Claire murmured to herself, enthralled by what she’d just seen. She’d traveled enough with her father to know several cultures believed certain objects and plants had aphrodisiac powers, but she’d never witnessed an actual demonstration before.

      She made a mental note to research the skirt on the Internet tonight. Perhaps she could find the country of origin. Then another thought hit her. What if she did her next research project on aphrodisiacs and their effect on different cultures around the world? A study she could call all her own.

      But no university would give her a grant if she failed in her current research project. Forming a good rapport with potential subjects at The Jungle would be crucial to that success.

      If Samantha let her borrow that skirt…

      Claire’s skin prickled at the possibilities. If she could elicit even half the reaction she’d just seen in Tavish, finding volunteers to take part in her research project wouldn’t be any problem. And she could use the opportunity to study the skirt’s effect at the same time. Especially on a man like Mitch Malone, who had been totally oblivious to her only a few hours ago.

      Maybe she could turn the world on with her smile after all.

      3

      THE NEXT DAY, MITCH STOOD outside St. Luke’s hospital, wondering if he should have listened to his grandmother and entered the priesthood instead of pursuing a career as a cop. She’d worried about the dangers of police work, but Mitch had never suffered more than a few bumps and bruises on the job.

      He only wished he could say the same of his partner, Elaine O’Brien.

      Mitch had found excuse after excuse to avoid visiting Elaine since she’d been brought here by ambulance a week ago. He’d called almost every day, but he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing his partner confined to a hospital bed.

      Because of him.

      Mitch had replayed that terrible morning over and over in his mind. They were supposed to meet an anonymous informant who promised to give them a lead in the Vandalay case. Dick Vandalay, owner of The Jungle nightclub, was suspected of trafficking in illegal substances. Specifically, bootleg Viagra and various imported animal parts, like rhinoceros horns, that were purported to increase a man’s sexual prowess.

      The Jungle had been struggling to stay in business, with singles’ bars becoming passé in this age of personal ads and Internet dating sites. So Vandalay definitely had motivation to cater to customers who were desperate for love. As well as the opportunity.

      What the police lacked was hard evidence. They knew the stuff was flowing out of the nightclub, they just didn’t know how it was coming in. Vandalay’s record was squeaky clean, but he was still the most likely suspect. His family tree read like a Who’s Who of drug dealers and other assorted felons. Now they just needed to find the right limb to hang him from.

      The informant had promised to do just that, the morning of June first. But Mitch had been late, thanks to a woman he’d met the night before. He rubbed one hand over his jaw, still unable to believe she’d turned off the alarm without waking him.

      Elaine had finally given up on Mitch and gone on to meet the informant by herself. Only the informant must have panicked, because when Mitch finally arrived at the abandoned building that had been preselected as their meeting place, he’d found Elaine at the bottom of a staircase with a concussion and a shattered hip.

      Now she was in this place, recovering from the hip injury that might keep her off the vice squad and tied to a police desk for the rest of her career. But Elaine didn’t know that yet and Mitch wasn’t about to tell her. She loved investigative work too much to give it up. That’s why she’d practically set up a command post from her bed, calling him with all the background information she’d gathered and any possible leads on the case.

      Maybe she sensed it would be her last one.

      He took a deep breath, realizing he’d been a coward long enough. Then he walked through the automatic doors of the hospital and into a booby trap—also known as the gift shop. He didn’t want to come into his partner’s room empty-handed, but his gift-giving record was pretty bleak. It had started when he was fifteen, the time he’d given his first girlfriend a pet rat for Valentine’s Day. She’d screamed, dropped the rat, and her parents had been forced to call an exterminator to catch it. Then they’d sent his grandmother the bill.

      The first of many disasters.

      Mitch turned in a slow circle around the gift shop, waiting for something to call out to him. A set of ceramic clowns? A jigsaw puzzle? A book of brain teasers?

      “May I help you?”

      He looked down to see a tiny silver-haired lady standing in front of him. She wore a salmon-pink frock and a pair of bifocals.

      “I’m looking for a gift for a colleague of mine.”

      “Male or female?” the woman asked with a toothy smile.