Cold Case, Hot Bodies

“Didn’t you hear it?” asked Brice.

He didn’t want to admit he’d heard what they believed to be some supernatural event. “I’m not sure what I heard. But I want to know if it’s what you’ve heard in the past.”

“So, you did hear it,” accused Theresa.

Her mother was more pragmatic. “That’s exactly how it always sounds, Officer Donato. The hoots and catcalls. The foot stomping. All of it.”

“But not lately,” reiterated Carmella.

“It quit for six months,” agreed Zu.

“For a couple days it was loud,” clarified Brice. “And then nothing.”

“Thank you for your help,” Dario told them.

A second later, the tenants were gone, closing the door behind them. He was still thinking about the music. If he hadn’t slept with Sheila last night, then she hadn’t brought a boom box. Wondering where the music had come from, he selected the tape from the machine by the bed. Shadows flitted, and while he couldn’t see everything perfectly, he felt a pang at his groin.

When he checked the machine in the hallway, the test image was very clear and in color. He stared at the empty hallway. Then he did a double take. Sudden movement activated the camera. A woman passed, but too quickly. Hair, which he’d thought was a wig, turned out to be red. Encased in tights, those looked to be the same long legs that had hugged his hips like a vise.

He rewound the tape and played it again, freezing the image when she turned toward the camera. Instead of Sheila’s sharply angled facial bones, this woman had roundish features, full cheeks and a soft, fleshy pout of a mouth. Instead of Sheila’s long straight note, this woman’s was a short ski jump sprinkled with freckles. She looked very Irish.

Everything inside of him seemed to go still, then his heart thundered as his eyes trailed over the red hair, cautious green eyes and the beauty mark beside her mouth.

It was Gem O’Shea.

4

“LUTHER,” SHE MANAGED. “Uh…you’re Luther Matthews?” She sure as heck hoped she got it right this time.

“Cassidy, darling,” he announced, waving at her with a manicured hand. “I expected you next Tuesday. But never mind! You’re as gorgeous as I imagined. Gem O’Shea in the flesh. The same red hair and green eyes. If I don’t keep you to myself, Seventh Avenue will steal you away while you’re visiting and put you to work on a runway! What a pleasure!”

It was quite a speech, especially since Cassidy was still reeling from a night of sex which, until moments ago, she’d thought she was experiencing with Luther Matthews, who now seemed less seductive and more metrosexual. Not so the guy last night. Pinpricks of awareness assaulted her as images of hungry hands and kiss-bruised lips invaded her consciousness. “Uh…thanks for the compliments.”

“Oh, no. Thank you.” Luther winked, his blue eyes appraising behind horn-rimmed glasses, carrying hints of the flirtation they’d shared on the phone. And why not? She’d given him every reason to believe she’d soon be sleeping with him. Instead, she’d accidentally shared the sheets with a stranger who was still making her knees turn to water. Instinctively, she reached out a hand as if to break a fall.

“You cold?”

Still hot from last night, she thought, realizing that she’d shivered. “Fine.”

“Good, because I’ve got a gazillion things to tell you. The Donatos waylaid me outside court yesterday and made me return my key to their property. Can you believe it? The museum’s been working with that family for years and is currently putting together a diagram of the property during that particular era of history! But now we’re being treated like thieves!”

She tried not to think of the money she’d taken from Dario Donato’s bedside table. “That’s just terrible,” she managed.

“They are horrible people,” Luther confided angrily. “Their son, Dario, works for the NYPD, and he’s staking out the place, as if you and I might rob them. And it’s your property! Well, next week you’ll meet these people and see for yourself.”

Given her and Dario’s face-to-face, she was relieved when Luther zoomed on. “Give me a minute to finish up with a client, then I’m yours.” He grinned. “And I do mean, all yours.”

As much as Cassidy loathed men—the ink on her divorce decree was still wet—she’d felt an urge for sex lately. So, when Luther contacted her, like an angel out of the blue, saying he knew pertinent facts about her family history and possessed documents she should see, the new flirtation seemed like icing on a cake. He was decent looking, she saw now, the perfect person with whom to get her ya-yas out, but in a fussy black suit and horn-rimmed glasses, he wasn’t her type.

Casual sex wasn’t her style, either. Being a one-man woman, she hadn’t noticed that Johnny Case, her ex, had been sleeping with incoming freshmen at the college where he’d taught. She’d been the last to know, and ever since, she’d wanted to assert herself, feel hot again, and remind somebody—anybody—that she could knock a man’s socks off in bed, which last night had proven.

But what had she done? For a moment, items in Luther’s glassed-in office seemed to slide off-kilter. Bookcases seemed to tilt, and the floor felt wobbly. She tried to tell herself last night was a dream, but her mind raced backward in time, and her erogenous zones told her it was real.

She’d thought Luther was expecting her yesterday, on Tuesday, on a flight from South Carolina. Due to a storm, she’d arrived late and gone straight to the Pierre Hotel where the Centuries of Sex Museum was to have reserved her room, but they’d never heard of her, and she’d forgotten to program Luther’s number into her new cell.

Convinced she’d gotten her wires crossed, she’d hailed a cab and headed for the bawdy house at Sixty-Seven Anthony Street. After all, Luther had talked ceaselessly of declaring it a landmark, buying it from her and renovating it, then making it the permanent home of the museum’s collection.

Making clear that he’d do anything to establish her ownership so she and the museum could make a deal, he’d said he was desperate to show her the place and he had a key. In turn, Cassidy had assured him she’d sell to the museum, and Luther had said he thought Beppe would sell only to the highest bidder. Even the museum couldn’t outbid players like Chuckie Haswell, who’d now made his own claim.

After spending her last dollar on the cab fare, at least until she found an ATM, Cassidy had been relieved to find the door unlocked, as if Luther had been expecting her. She’d thrilled with anticipation, wondering what he looked like. Loud dance hall music was playing, and when she’d seen the sign on the door that read, “I’m in here, babe,” she’d gotten the picture. He was setting up a bawdy-house atmosphere for their tryst, and he wanted her to play the role of Gem O’Shea.

A shudder shook her shoulders as she recalled the fiery onslaught of wet, deep, open-mouthed kisses that had followed as she’d straddled him. Now the tips of her breasts constricted against the lace of the bra she’d worn last night, and she became hyperconscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing panties, since they’d been ripped to shreds. The tingle became more generalized until every inch of her body was aching, and her mouth turned dry as she recalled how he’d buried his face against her sex.

She’d wanted to turn on the light and get a good look at Luther. Especially since his body felt perfect in the dark… big, broad, rounded linebacker shoulders, washboard-flat tummy, rock-hard abs, steely pecs, bulging muscular thighs. He had hands with long, thick fingers that bore out exactly what women said about the correlation between hand and penis size, too. His movements were so self-assured and controlled that he’d seemed dangerous, albeit in a tantalizing way.

When he’d reached for the lamp she’d stopped him. In the dark, wild abandon could take hold more easily, and the second he’d started stroking her upper thighs, she’d felt brazen.

When she’d awakened this morning, she’d realized the friendly goddess presiding over megahunks had decided to shine on her. The man she’d thought was Luther was lying on his back, uncovered and stark naked. Built like a house. On the phone, Luther had been a flirt but he’d seemed like the brainy type. Maybe too much like her ex, she’d thought. In reality, he was a well-honed, sculpted beauty. Even in repose, his sex was impressive, nestled in glistening black hair. He was so tall that his adorably big feet hung over the edge of the bed, and his face was framed by unruly, silken black waves.

She’d just lain beside him, staring. He’d reminded her of medieval Italian paintings of angels. His olive skin had a glow; his nose was prominent and aristocratic; his lips, which still looked swollen from kissing, seemed impossibly bow-shaped. He could have been Cupid in the flesh. Definitely, he didn’t look like a museum curator—more like an adventurer—but then he did specialize in only sex-related artifacts.

As she’d surveyed every inch of his nude form, renewed heat had jolted through her, making her stretch against him sinuously, flexing aching muscles and relishing the soreness, gearing up for another experience to rival the previous night.

Already, she’d been imagining how she’d wake him…by nuzzling her face on his lower belly, then slowly licking his naval, twirling her tongue inside the perfectly shaped depression. Then she’d go lower and blow his mind. Her own was whirling, spinning fantasies of how she was going to spend spare time during her visit, having a no-holds-barred sexcapade with this fine specimen.

Then she’d noticed a gold shield.

Curious, she’d plucked it from the table. “Dario Donato?” she’d mouthed in confusion. Her heart had hammered. Hadn’t Luther said the Donatos claimed they owned her property? Moving quietly, she’d replaced the badge soundlessly, then lifted a wallet and studied the cards. The license even had his picture.

He’d chosen that moment to stir, and she’d bitten back a yelp of surprise. She’d slept with a strange man! Someone she’d never even spoken to! She’d thought he was Luther, whom she’d flirted with, at least. She had to get out of there.

He was offering throaty moans of pleasure, as if he was having a hot dream about her. Moving on instinct, she’d pushed away guilt feelings and grabbed the bill on the table, knowing she had no cab fare. Trying not to think of how he’d said he’d left the money there to pay her for sex, she’d edged over the side of the mattress, snatching clothes as she’d tiptoed to the hallway.

Maybe no one would see her. Fortunately, she’d left her roller-style carry-on suitcase right inside the door. “I can’t believe this,” she’d whispered, panicking when she looked at the doors to other apartments. What if someone came out and caught her naked? Hands shaking, she’d wiggled her behind into the leggings, punched her arms into blouse sleeves, then jammed the panties into her jacket pocket. She was still buttoning the blouse as she lugged the case through the front door, thrusting her feet into shoes as she hailed a cab.

“Centuries of Sex Museum,” she’d said frantically.

The driver was eying her blouse, and she’d realized it was buttoned cockeyed. “I can tell you’re in a hurry,” he’d said, chuckling softly.

She’d smirked. “Just step on it.”

“Centuries of Sex Museum,” he’d said drily. “Here we come.”

She’d perched on a stool in a Starbucks until the museum opened, and now she felt further frazzled by shots of caffeine.

Luther hung up the phone. “All yours,” he said, coming forward, the eyes still appraising. Lifting her hand, he made a big show of kissing it.

Great. She’d been leading this guy on for a month, and last night, she’d been sure they were consumating the seduction. She withdrew her hand and forced a smile. “Nice to meet you.”