Short, Sweet And Sexy

“You know I can’t talk about it,” A.J. said. No one at the firm was going to let her forget the fact that the first lawsuit she brought to Hancock, Potter and King was a dog-bite case.

“I heard tell that the other poodle had to have eight stitches and they’re suing for millions in pain and suffering.”

Too late, A.J. realized that Franco’s gaze was moving over her in a slow, careful assessment. Was he going to recognize the skirt? He’d been after her to wear it, and she’d sworn to him that she never would.

“Nice blazer,” he said. “That shade of lemon yellow looks great on you. I was right. Your colors are definitely light spring. Most definitely.”

When his gaze moved lower to her shoes, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

Fat chance, she thought. Franco noticed everything. On top of that, he was a man, and, according to Samantha and Claire, men noticed things about the skirt that women were oblivious to. She began to inch her way backward toward the door.

Suddenly, Franco lunged past her, teetering on the three-inch-high clogs, and threw himself against the plate-glass door to block her exit.

“You’re wearing it. I knew you would. You almost had me fooled there for a minute. I actually thought you were talking about Cleo—but you’re talking about yourself. You’re actually going to see if you can reel in a man with that skirt. And you owe me an Alexander Hamilton. I told you that sooner or later, you’d succumb to the power of the skirt. Hand it over!”

Calmly, she reached into her purse, pulled a ten-dollar bill from her wallet, and placed it in Franco’s outstretched palm.

Quick as a blink, he pressed it to his lips and then shoved it in the pocket of his kimono. Finally, he fastened his eyes once more on the skirt as he minced around her in a slow circle. “Very nice.”

Cleo yipped again.

Franco fixed her with a look. “Settle down, girl. I’m not one of your stud poodles. My hands are registered lethal weapons.”

“How can you tell it’s the skirt?” A.J. asked. Then a disturbing thought struck her. “You’re not…starting to…” How was she going to put it? “You’re not starting to have any special feelings for me or anything?”

Startled, Franco stopped in his tracks and stared at her. “Perish the thought. I’ve already found my true love.” He winked at her. “And Marlon wasn’t wearing a skirt.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just a little nervous.”

Franco patted her arm. “That’s perfectly natural. I remember exactly what it was like to be single and alone in New York. Terrible. It’s a dating wasteland out there, and any little thing that will help is a blessing. I remember those singles’ bars were right out of a horror movie. And you know how I feel about them.”

Everyone knew how Franco felt about horror movies and just about everything else. His favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz. He hated Chinese food, loved sushi, preferred his opera sung in the original language and subtitled, hated free rock concerts in Central Park but had no objection to free Shakespeare because those performances were less crowded. And, above all, he loved living in New York.

It occurred to A.J. that there wasn’t much she didn’t know about Franco since he was bound and determined to share all aspects of his life with anyone who lived in the building—even on a summer sublet. And he had a knack for prying as much information out of the tenants as he imparted to them.

Stepping back, he glanced at the skirt again. “But you won’t have any trouble attracting men while you’re wearing that little number.”

“I don’t want to attract them—at least, not the way you mean. I just want to influence them. At eight-thirty this morning, we have our monthly department meeting at Hancock, Potter and King. Trial cases will be assigned, and while I would have preferred to get one on my own merits, I’ve decided that desperate measures are called for.”

Franco grinned from ear to ear. “I’d say you have a good shot. When you stand in the doorway with the light behind you, that skirt becomes almost transparent.”

“Transparent?”

“A woman with legs like yours shouldn’t have any trouble influencing men.” Opening the door, Franco gave her a little shove into the street.

“You and Cleo should make quite a team.”

As the door swung shut behind her, A.J. drew in a deep breath and let it out. As much as she might dread it, the gauntlet she had to run each morning to make it out the door was good training for the job facing her at her uncle’s law firm. Today was the day, she promised herself as she charged up the street with Cleo in tow. By five o’clock tonight she was going to have a client, and she would be on her way to court.

Cleo’s sad little whine had A.J. automatically tightening her grip on the leash and glancing across the street. A St. Bernard had pulled his owner to a dead stop and the dog was straining at his leash to cross the street.

Quickly, she tightened her grip on Cleo’s leash. “I know you’d rather go play, sweetie. But we don’t have time this morning.”

Drawing in another deep breath, she strode toward the corner. The one thing that she hadn’t shared with Franco, or either of her roommates, was that if Uncle Jamison did not assign her to a trial case today, she was going to have to think about resigning from the firm. It was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.

EVEN THOUGH HE HAD his eyes on Pierre Rabaut walking down the steps of the museum, Sam knew the moment that the little blonde and the poodle stepped onto the sidewalk and started toward him. The tingling in his fingers immediately intensified.

Her timing couldn’t have been worse. Unless Sam missed his guess, Pierre would step into the street just about the time that A.J.P. would be slipping a bill into his cup and giving him an update on her job search. The last thing he wanted right now was to be distracted.

Quickly, he scanned the street, taking in the double-parked pickup truck with the driver who loved rap songs and a car that had just pulled into the curb farther up the block. A man, medium height, thin, with a beard, rounded the corner on Pierre’s side of the street. Other than that, he and the blonde and the dog were the only others in sight.

He had to wait to make his move. He couldn’t allow Pierre any possibility of escaping. If he were going to save his godfather from going to jail, he had to get him to replace the necklace immediately—before anyone knew it was gone.

The mistake he made was in glancing at the blonde. The moment he did, he felt his mind empty and his stomach tighten as if he’d just sustained a swift, hard blow.

He was deadly certain that he’d never seen legs quite that…for the life of him, he couldn’t find a word to describe them. He could only stare at her as she moved toward him with that quick, sure stride.

The skirt—what there was of it—clung to her hips and thighs like a second skin. Except that skin wasn’t transparent. Or was he merely fantasizing the thigh-high stockings trimmed with a band of lace?

“Good morning.” She swung her purse off her shoulder and reached into it at the same moment that a motor revved loudly and the poodle began to bark. Sam tore his gaze from the woman to Pierre, but, even then, it took a moment for the scene in front of him to fully register.

Pierre stood in the middle of the street with the thin, bearded man in a green jacket at his side. One of the man’s hands was gripping Pierre’s arm, the other held a knife. Neither of them seemed to be aware of the pickup truck, gathering speed as it barreled toward them.

Sam’s heart somersaulted, but the blonde reacted first. One minute she was standing beside him and the next she was sprinting toward the two men with the poodle at her side.

Sam sprang to his feet and leaped toward the curb, but she was ahead of him by two lengths. He was going to be too late. The truck was going to hit her—it was going to mow down all three of them. The dead certainty of that struck him, just as he saw something flash. Then two things happened simultaneously. The woman leapt toward the two men, using the impact of her body to shove them backward. And the truck swerved in his direction.

Fear fisting in his throat, Sam pivoted and threw himself at the hood of a parked car. Metal screeched against metal and sparks flew as the truck sideswiped the car and sent him rolling onto the sidewalk.

Scrambling to his feet, Sam placed a hand against the car for balance and managed to get the plate number before the pickup took the corner on two wheels. Then he shifted his gaze to the two figures lying in the street.

They were still, both of them, and the dog was racing around them in circles, barking.

Both…?

Glancing down the street, he spotted the thin, bearded man racing down the sidewalk.

“Stop!” His voice sounded raw and thin, and the man paid him no heed.

“Mr. Romano? What’s going on?”

“I wish the hell I knew,” Sam replied to Luis’s voice in his ear. “There’s a bearded man running down 75th Street. Luis, you take him. Tyrone, you call 911. I’m staying with Rabaut.”

It wasn’t until he reached his godfather and knelt down that he saw the blood. It was smeared on the woman’s hand, but it seemed to be coming from a thin surface wound on Pierre’s arm. Even as he found the blonde’s pulse she was pushing herself up.

He was gripping just her wrist when his eyes met hers, and his last coherent thought was that he’d never seen eyes that color. They reminded him of violets, the kind his brother grew in pots on the roof of the hotel. The punch he felt in his gut was stronger this time and set off a flood of feelings. For the life of him, he couldn’t have named any of them. Because his mind, suddenly blank as a slate, had room for only one thought.

This is her.