Sheerly Irresistible

And she’d paid for it, thanks to that damn alarm clock. He tossed the beach ball to her. “I thought we were talking about the Vandalay case.”

She caught the ball with both hands. “A case that’s been going nowhere. But that might change now that you’re working at The Jungle.”

Mitch nodded. “All we need to do is identify Vandalay’s supplier. Then we can nail the guy and bring the entire operation down.”

He made it sound easy, but Mitch knew all too well how complex a drug ring could be. Growing up on the streets of New York, he’d met his first drug dealer when he was six, and been recruited as a courier a year later. His parents were two of the dealer’s best customers. When they’d been arrested, he’d gone to live with his maternal grandmother. An arrangement that became permanent when his parents jumped bail.

They’d never come back.

Mitch assumed they were dead and he truly believed he might have been too if his grandmother hadn’t stepped in and helped set his life straight.

“I’ll keep working from it on this end,” Elaine promised, breaking into his reverie. “It’s that or go stir crazy in this place. I can’t wait to get back out in the field.”

He couldn’t look at her. Not when he knew her career might never be the same again. It made him more determined than ever to bring Vandalay to justice. To do something, anything, to assuage this guilt roiling around inside of him.

“Hey.” She bounced the beach ball off his forehead. “You keep drifting off on me.”

He stood up. “Sorry. It’s been a long week. One of the bartenders at The Jungle quit, so I’ve been pulling double shifts until Vandalay hires a replacement.”

“The joys of undercover work.” She reached for a file folder on the table beside her. “The other employees at the nightclub check out, by the way. No felony records. No connections with any criminal activity.”

He nodded, then glanced at his watch. “I’d better take off. The Jungle opens in less than an hour.”

She shifted on the chair, a spasm of pain crossing her face. “Okay. Keep me posted.”

“Absolutely,” he said, then waved to her before he walked out the door. Out in the hallway, he sucked in a deep breath of air. So far, this investigation was going nowhere. But Mitch refused to let his partner down again. He’d find a break in this case even if it killed him.

And if he had to resist the charms of another woman like the one in the tank top this afternoon, it just might.

TWO WEEKS AFTER HER arrival in New York City, Claire walked awkwardly into the living room of her apartment, teetering on the three-inch strapless black heels A.J. had lent her for the biggest night of her life. This was to be her first foray into The Jungle, on the hunt for volunteers for her research project.

“Wow,” Sam observed from the sofa, “Franco was right. Rose really is your color.”

Franco had done the girls’ colors a few days ago, announcing that Claire was a soft autumn and must wear rose, turquoise and jade from now on.

Claire glanced down at the rose silk camisole she’d bought on a shopping spree with A.J. this afternoon. They’d also found black skirts at Bloomingdale’s by a designer named Daryl that were identical to the one Sam owned. But Claire needed the real thing tonight, so she’d left her skirt in the closet and borrowed Sam’s, along with a pair of gold hoop earrings.

“Am I missing anything?” Claire asked.

“Birth control?” A.J. quipped. “After all, you are conducting a study of human mating behavior.”

“I will simply be an observer,” Claire replied, “not an active participant.”

“Speaking of mating behavior,” Sam chimed, “Mrs. Higgenbotham brought over Cleo’s appointment calendar so we can coordinate the walking schedule. Her poodle sees a therapist twice a week for canine intimacy dysfunction.”

“She also has to appear in small claims court,” A.J. added. “I’m representing her.”

“Mrs. Higgenbotham?” Claire asked, adjusting the waistband of the skirt. The fabric was oddly warm to the touch.

“No, Cleo. Mrs. H has been trying to breed her, but it seems the poodle isn’t interested in romance. When one of Cleo’s suitors got too amorous, she bit him in a…sensitive place.” A.J. grinned. “You might want to keep that strategy in mind, Claire, in case any of those men get too frisky with you tonight.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Claire said, grabbing her purse off the sofa. “Once I explain the reason I’m there.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t your research be more effective if no one at the nightclub knew you were watching them?”

“It’s not that kind of study,” Claire explained. “I’ll be recording general observations about The Jungle, as well as studying the dating habits of some of its regular patrons. I’ll need to schedule in-depth interviews and ask questions about the average duration of relationships, the elements of physical, sociological and spiritual attraction, verbal and nonverbal interaction…things like that.”

She saw Sam and A.J.’s eyes glaze over and a prickle of apprehension skittered down her spine. Even Claire was bored by the subject. So how could she possibly succeed?

Then Sam blinked. “Oh, I almost forgot! I finally located Kate Gannon’s e-mail address. It’s on a sticky note by your computer.”

“Who’s Kate Gannon?” A.J. asked.

“She’s the woman who owned the skirt before Sam.” Claire looped the purse strap over her shoulder. “I want to find out more about its origin for my next research project.” She took a deep breath. “But first I have to make it through this one.”

“Knock ’em dead,” A.J. said as Claire moved toward the door.

“And tell us all the juicy details when you get home,” Sam called after her.

Claire just hoped there was something to tell. What if wearing the skirt had no effect on the men around her? What if they were all as oblivious to her as Mitch Malone had been? What if this research project was an abysmal failure?

Then the elevator doors opened on the main floor and Franco whistled at her.

“Be still my heart,” he cried, clasping his hand to his chest. “Damn girl, you almost make me wish I was straight.”

“So I look all right?” she asked, performing a slow twirl around the foyer.

“There’s only one thing missing.” Franco picked up a small shopping bag next to the door and handed it to her. “Here.”

Claire pulled out a rose silk scarf. “It’s beautiful.”

“The perfect finishing touch,” Franco replied, taking it from her and tying it in a jaunty knot around her neck. Then his gray eyes got misty. “I feel like Glinda the Good Witch, ready to send you off on the yellow brick road.”

“I’ll settle for a yellow taxi,” she replied, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Franco.”

“Off with you now, Dorothy.” He pushed her out the door. “And watch out for those flying monkeys!”

MITCH SMELLED TROUBLE.

He stood at his post near the front entrance of The Jungle nightclub, his eyes slowly scanning the large room. The place was filling up fast tonight, with the men outnumbering the women two-to-one. White wicker ceiling fans stained to a dull brown from thirty years of smoke whirled overhead. The slight breeze they gave couldn’t counteract the humid night air that blew inside every time the door opened.

Like most nightclubs, the lights in The Jungle were dimmed low enough to obscure facial features and the music was loud enough to prevent in-depth conversations. A few people danced on the wood parquet floor and the bartenders kept up a stream of steady business.

Mitch could sense the restlessness in the crowd tonight. Typical for a Friday, when everyone was ready to blow off steam after a long workweek. The man he’d been assigned to watch, Dick Vandalay, stood behind the bar training a new bartender. A young kid who looked like he might wet his pants if Vandalay yelled at him again.

A heated expletive shifted Mitch’s attention to the dance floor, where a scuffle had just broken out. By the time he got there, the two women had each other by the hair. The man they were fighting over just stood off to the side with a drunken grin on his face.

“Break it up,” Mitch said, pulling the women apart.