Cold Case, Hot Bodies

“You want inside the house, right? Maybe we can make a deal.” Dario’s voice was husky.

Cassidy couldn’t hide her desperation to search for the jewels. “Yeah.”

“And my dad wants you to drop your claim on the place.”

“True,” she said, wondering where he was headed with all this.

“Sex.”

She blinked. “Sex?”

He nodded. “You can stay in the house all week and search to your heart’s content, but only on the condition that you’ll be my love slave.”

Her heart was beating a fast tattoo, and it had very little to do with the fact that the world’s best-looking man was standing a mere foot away. “Are you serious?”

“There’s one more thing.”

His gorgeous dark eyes had settled on the bed. The hotel room seemed dimmer now, but only because night had fallen. Moonlight was streaming through the windows.

“What’s that?” she asked in a whisper.

“The sex starts now.”

JULE McBRIDE

is a native West Virginian. Her dream to write romances came true in the nineties with the publication of her debut novel Wild Card Wedding. It received the Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best First Series Romance. Since then, the author has been nominated for multiple awards, including two lifetime achievement awards. She has written for several series, and currently makes her happy home at Blaze®. A prolific writer, she has more than thirty titles to her credit.

Dear Reader,

I admit to being a fan of stories about cold cases. The older the mystery and colder the trail, the more intrigued I get. A second thing I love is reading about sexy cops, so it was only natural that I’d eventually put these two things together for Blaze®.

Oh, and before I forget – a third thing I love is a super-hot romance! So, quite simply, the idea for Cold Case, Hot Bodies came to me when I put all my favourites into one steamy love story. When an old case involving a haunted property is reopened, a descendant of the harmed party finds herself wrapped in the strong arms of the law. And what could be better than that?

Enjoy!

And thank you so much for reading! It’s what keeps me writing.

Very best wishes,

Jule McBride

BY

JULE MCBRIDE

For Kathryn Lye, editor extraordinaire,

for helping me mind my p’s and q’s,

and for knowing how to wrestle commas,

semicolons and everything else, too.

Prologue

December 1890

GEM O’SHEA GLIDED her hands beneath her lover’s shirt, feeling his nipples contract. It was exactly the kind of well-made shirt she’d sewn in sweatshops when she’d first come from Ireland, and her lips curved into a smile against the linen. “Do you remember when you first…bought me, Nathaniel?”

He grinned, his eyes catching light through the carriage window, from one of the gas lamps lining the dark river road. “I don’t believe I do.”

But he couldn’t have forgotten the night she’d presented herself at Angel’s Cloud, in New York’s notorious Five Points neighborhood, determined to sell herself to the highest bidder. “Should I remind you?”

“Of every detail.” He urged her closer, between his legs, and the satin dress she’d worn to the wedding bunched between them, an unwanted barrier. She brought her mouth to his, and the taste of wedding cake invaded her senses.

“I had too much champagne,” she whispered.

“You won’t hear me complaining.”

Heat surged through her limbs despite the cold. Everything but passion vanished as Nathaniel deepened the kiss—the pounding hooves on the cobbled road, the rushing of the East River’s wild currents, the crack of the driver’s whip. Hungrily, her fingers opened the studs of his shirt. Just as quickly, his tongue swept inside her mouth. Heat exploded as she stroked his chest hair, and she felt it catch on the backs of her rings—beautiful rings that were gifts from him, just a few of the countless jewels he’d given her over the years.

As desire took her, Gem thought of another kiss, the one they’d just witnessed at the altar between her and Nathaniel’s son, Mark, and his young bride, Lily Jordan. With the memory, her arms swept around Nathaniel’s neck, and she wished with all her heart she could marry him. How many nights had she lain awake, knowing her heart’s deepest desire would remain an impossible dream?

She dropped down, moaning against his chest, her tongue searing a nipple, his answer a sound of need as he grasped her hand, urging it into the folds of his trousers. Soon they’d be at Angel’s Cloud, where countless warm beds waited—either in the hidden rooms, or in the bawdy house, or in the rear building where she’d lived—but she wanted Nathaniel now. Her body was burning all over, just as it had the night they met.

She’d been desperate then, still speaking with a brogue so thick that most American natives couldn’t understand her. She’d rarely even kissed a man, but she’d heard other, less reputable girls talk at the sweatshop, claiming men paid them for sexual favors, and because she’d been determined to earn her mum’s passage from Ireland, she’d soon found herself standing on the shell-strewn floor of a Five Points bawdy house.

“Two hundred dollars,” a man had called.

She’d nearly fainted. When he’d stepped from the shadows, his sparkling blue eyes had captured hers, then she’d recognized Nathaniel Haswell. He’d gotten his start as a self-made, import-export man, a buyer and seller of whatever prospered, and he owned acres of real estate on Manhattan Island. His picture was always in the papers. Without ceremony, he’d grabbed her hand and hauled her toward the stairs, and she’d foolishly blurted the first thing that had come to mind, “You’re married!”

He’d turned to stare, the set of his mouth incredulous. “Don’t tell me that bothers you?”

“Of course not,” she’d managed quickly. All the men in Angel’s Cloud were probably married. “In fact,” she’d added brazenly, “I do prefer it, sir.”

He’d continued toward the room. “And why might that be?”

“No messy attachments. I’m a professional, you know.”

“I see,” he’d returned as they reached the bedroom. “Experienced at this sort of thing, are you?”

“Indeed,” she’d enthused, the pulse at her throat ticking madly as he’d shrugged out of his jacket.

She’d been trembling all over, still scared of the rowdy men downstairs, her head pounding from cigar smoke. Her throat had tightened as Nathaniel undid his trousers, and she’d considered running, but she’d thought of circumstances in Ireland, and of her mum, then of the poor girls still working in the sweatshop, scarcely earning a wage to buy adequate food. Her stomach growling, she’d taken a deep breath, stared boldly in the general direction of Nathaniel’s private parts, then she’d plunged on. “Why, I’ve been to Angel’s Cloud many a time, sir.”

With a yank, he’d brought her against his chest. “You’re a virgin if I’ve ever seen one.”

“No, sir!” she’d protested, tears stinging her eyes.

“What are you doing this for?”

She’d been so surprised at his demanding tone that she’d started crying, then the whole story had tumbled out. She’d lost her father in Ireland, and her mum had been left behind, trying to work land that could no longer grow potatoes, much less anything else.

Nathaniel had comforted her, and she’d cried harder, then his lips had settled on hers, nibbling at the beauty mark beside her mouth, and within the hour, they’d made love. Ever since, she’d been his mistress, and his alone. He’d arranged for her to keep accountancy books for Angelo Donato, at Angel’s Cloud, earning far more than she had making shirts, and for her to live on the upper floor of a building behind the bawdy house, removed from the rowdy clientele. She’d benefitted from being Nathaniel’s lover in other ways, too. He’d given her jewels, and most important, brought over her mum who’d died due to natural causes on American soil. He’d given her a son, too. Twenty-three years ago her reputation may have been lost, but she’d fallen in love.

“Can you stay tonight, darling?” she whispered.

When he didn’t respond immediately, Gem imagined trouble was brewing on the home front. Long before she’d met him, he’d been carousing in Five Points, searching for the love his wife withheld. He was an honorable man, though, and did as Isme wished by maintaining separate bedrooms and attending public functions together. Isme had borne him one son, just like Gem, a boy the same age as Mark, named Dirk. The young man was reputed to be wild, even dangerous, and Gem suspected it was due to the loveless bond that had created him.

Suddenly feeling furious with herself, she shook her head in self-admonishment. “Never mind. I’ve no claim on you. I shouldn’t ask—”

He tilted back her head, to look into her eyes. “We have a son…”

She craved more of him, though. He rarely shared a bed with Isme, but they did share a home. A real home. He could come and go in sunlight, not under a cloak of darkness. Why can’t you let this be enough? she thought. Nathaniel escaped to her bed at every opportunity. He loved her. He adored their son. But she wanted times to be different! Codes of morality to change…wanted their passion to have full rein.

Something broken came into his voice. “How could you believe I’d leave you on our son’s wedding night? Damn it, Gem. You’re the one I love.”

“Kiss me,” she whispered, the depth of their passion drawing them together. Like the current of a river, it ran between them—reliable and unstoppable, so when his lips found hers once more, an arrow seemed to pierce her heart. He would leave in only a few hours! His tongue thrust deeper. She met the thrust, pushing back. The carriage was flying, bouncing on cobbles, throwing her into his arms. His hands raced down her sides, flesh seeking flesh. He moaned when his fingers stroked the smooth skin of her thighs. Grasping a garter, he opened it. As he pulled down the stocking, she gasped.

“Let’s recreate the night we made our son,” he murmured.

He was rocking her against his hips now, making her feverish. She shuddered from the heat in the wandering caresses of his hands. When he squeezed her thighs, she thought passion had seized him, but no…he was alarmed! Abruptly, he broke the kiss, and she craned to stare through the carriage window, but she saw only the black winter’s night.

“What was that?” she whispered, hearing a rattle as she fumbled with her clothes, in case they needed to get out of the carriage.

“The wheel,” Nathaniel returned hoarsely.

The carriage was wobbing, but the horses continued to run. If the carriage overturned, she hoped no reporters would find them…a town father with a woman associated with Angel’s Cloud. Nathaniel drew back the curtain and leaned his head through the window to shout. “Something’s wrong with—”

Before he could finish, the wheel spun away. The rear of the carriage dropped and the driver screamed. Gem thought he’d been thrown. The horses reared, rising on their hind legs, then hooves came down hard, clattering on cobbles as the animals galloped, dragging the carriage. Gem’s head slammed into the seat. She could hear metal dragging on stone, then through the window, she saw sparks from the friction.

“Oh, God,” Nathaniel muttered hoarsely. He was trying to grasp her waist, but his hands couldn’t find purchase. Neither could hers. They were being tossed like weeds in wind. Pounding hooves raced on, and as the sound diminished, she realized the horses had broken free. The carriage was flying on its own momentum, careening toward the river.

Nathaniel reached past her for the door handle. “Somebody’s tampered with the carriage. Jump!”

Had their carriage been sabotaged? If so, who had done it? And why? His words were in her ears as she realized the carriage was rushing down the riverbank. She tried to jump, as he’d commanded, but her dress caught, holding her back. Just as they plunged, she heard the fabric ripping, and as her dress gave away, Nathaniel pulled her through the open door, into the dark currents.

He was her hero. Her only love. He was trying to save her, but the water was too cold, and she was sure they were going to die. Not on our son’s wedding day, her mind shrieked in protest as her fingers laced with Nathaniel’s. Stay with me, my love, she thought, but then she felt his fingers slip away.

1

Five Points, 2007

“CAN YOU BELIEVE somebody called and complained about me and Sheila Carella?” Dario Donato asked as he strode through Police Plaza toward the courthouse, his long, jeans’-clad legs eating up the pavement. Realizing he was a half hour late for court, he uttered a soft curse. It was the wrong day to have to help his landlord dad straighten out legal matters about a rental property. Clapping a hand on his chest, over his heart, as if wounded, he said, “I mean, who would do something like this to me, Pat?”

“A taxpayer?” his partner suggested as he ran a hand over his buzz-cut red hair. “Or maybe you just pissed off the Fates. Anyway, the chief wants you to lay low until the complaint blows over. Pick up a couple cold cases.”

“Budweiser or Rolling Rock?”

“You know those aren’t the kind of cold cases he means.”

No, Dario was supposed to rot behind a desk while an arsonist got away, and all because he hadn’t kept his pants zipped. “You know we’re going to wind up arresting a land developer on the arson case,” he mused. Ever since plans had been underway to develop Manhattan’s riverfront, properties near the water had started going up in smoke, then the land was sold for a relative pittance. Relative for Manhattan, anyway.

“I’m thinking Ralph Stone or Chuckie Haswell,” said Pat.

They were the biggest players. Trump was too smart to get his hands dirty with arson. Dario nodded. “Seriously, are we on for a cold case later? Now I’m talking brewskies again.”

“Tomorrow’s good, but tonight I’ve got a date with Karen.”

“Ah. The girl next door.”

“Not every woman can live up to Sheila Carella.”

“She does set a high bar.”

Dario had met Sheila a month ago, when he’d busted her for unpaid parking tickets. She had big hair, bigger breasts, and always wore fishnet stockings with miniskirts and spike heels. She was kinky as hell, too, and liked to play all kinds of sex games, which meant things had been going extremely well. At least until Dario had taken her home to meet his folks. Not that he’d expected Sheila to blend seamlessly, but his mother, Bianca, had kept crossing herself and whispering, “When’s my only boy going to grow up and meet a nice girl he can marry?” It didn’t help that Dario knew she lit candles each morning at mass, in front of whatever saint presided over philandering sons. On the night of Sheila’s visit, Dario’s sister, Eliana, had kept rolling her eyes and mouthing, “It’s her brains you like, right?” Fortunately, Sheila’s main concern had been her lipstick, so she hadn’t noticed. Or else Dario’s dad’s meatballs and red sauce had distracted her. Beppe Donato was one of the best cooks in Little Italy.

“I like Sheila,” Dario defended as he and Pat started up the courthouse steps. When they reached the top, they flashed their badges at a security guard.

“The only kind of man who wouldn’t like Sheila,” said Pat as they headed inside, “is in the morgue.”

“True,” Dario agreed, now walking down a hallway. “But I don’t like Sheila enough to have to lay low for a couple weeks. Another ten buildings could burn. I just don’t get it. Who could have complained about me dating somebody I arrested? Who cares?”

“Maybe Sheila called the boss. Did you two have a fight?”

“You have a devious mind.”

“Of course. I’m a cop.”

Dario thought back to his and Sheila’s last date, when they’d skipped dinner and headed straight to bed, then he shook his head. “Last time I saw her, I put a smile on her face. She could have done a toothpaste commercial. She claimed multiples.”

“Personalities?” Pat joked.

Dario shook his head. “Orgasms.”

“Then I’m out of suspects. But don’t worry. I’ve got the arson case covered, and I’ll call if anything happens. Meantime, do what the boss ordered, and rustle up some cold-case files to keep yourself company.”

“Will do.” Dario splayed a hand on the courtroom door and prepared to push. “See you around, partner. And watch out for Karen. The glint in that girl’s eyes says she’s got diamonds and wedding cake on the brain.”

There was a long pause. Then Pat said, “Uh…I have something to tell you. I proposed last week.”

Dario’s jaw slackened. “To Karen?”

“Yeah.”

“Congratulations,” Dario managed, but he felt hurt. Pat had been his partner for two years. They’d double-dated, played ball. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to…”

But he didn’t think Dario would understand. Not Dario, who was still chasing women like Sheila Carella. “That’s okay, partner,” he said quickly. “I forgive you.”

“Good. Because you’re going to be my best man.”

Even so, Dario was still reeling from the news as he entered the courtroom. Everyone was getting married. Even his sister, Eliana. She’d fallen for the nephew of a man reputed to have mob connections, but who was legitimate, according to Dario’s sources at the precinct. Not that the information had calmed their mother’s fraying nerves. For months, his parents’ Mulberry Street apartment had been “wedding central,” and in three weeks, Dario and Eliana’s other six siblings—all sisters—would arrive from around the country for the wedding.

Now, Eliana’s diamond engagement ring flashed as she waved from the front of the courtroom. With bright red lipsticked lips she mouthed, “Where have you been? Ma’s freaking out!” Before Dario could respond, his sister turned to face the judge again, her black hair swirling around her shoulders like a cape.

Great. They’d drawn Judge Zhang, one of the most ponderous deliberators in the history of New York courts, which meant this informal hearing might drag on. Judge Zhang was so small that his robes seemed to swallow him, and his hair and eyes were as shiny and black as the cloth itself.

As his family scooted to make room for him, Dario noticed Brice Jurgenson on the other side of the courtroom, flanked by Beppe’s furious tenants. Skinny and bespeckled, Brice had only a few wisps of white blond hair left. An attorney, as well as a tenant, he’d convinced the others to put their rent into escrow until Beppe finished repairs to the building.

Luther Matthews, a museum curator, was present, as Dario had anticipated, and he was delivering a speech about preserving the property for historical reasons. But why was Chuckie Haswell here? Because he was a prime suspect in Dario’s arson case, Dario did a double take. Chuckie was short, with sandy hair and assessing brown eyes, and his suit probably retailed for Dario’s annual salary. Was the realty mogul present because Beppe’s property was on the waterfront? Did he know Beppe was desperate to sell, and that Luther Matthews was determined to declare the property a historical landmark, which would sour their chances of selling?

“Mr. Matthews,” Judge Zhang said. “Would you mind starting from the top? We’ve had a disruption.”

“Sorry,” Dario murmured.

“No problem,” returned Judge Zhang. You’ve come before my court many times, so I know you’re a busy man, Officer Donato.”

“Busy giving Sheila Carella parking tickets,” Eliana muttered.

“At least I’m not marrying the mob,” Dario shot back, before turning his attention to Luther.

“I’m from the Centuries of Sex Museum,” Luther began again, using a forefinger to push horn-rimmed glasses upward on his nose. “As we all know, the geographical area in question, not just Mr. Donato’s building, is of significance.”

“Go on,” urged Judge Zhang.

“The intersection where Orange, Cross and Anthony Streets once met, and where Mr. Donato’s building stands today, used to be called Five Points. It was synonymous with vice. Tap dancing originated there, as well as our city’s most notorious gangs. Famous travelers such as Abraham Lincoln were given tours of the neighborhood’s crowning jewel, Mr. Donato’s property, which was a brothel called Angel’s Cloud.”

“After Angelo Donato,” Beppe put in, losing his patience. “My ancestor. We all know this. It’s why I own the property. And since it’s mine, I don’t see why other people are allowed to turn it into a historical landmark so I can’t sell it.”

Dario’s mother, Bianca, crossed herself. She felt the family’s long-time connection to a house of sin was tantamount to a curse. “If you don’t sell, Beppe,” Dario had heard her vow many times, “your only son is never going to settle down with a nice girl. Due to this legacy, he’ll be a womanizer his whole life, just like Angelo.” To whatever extent this was true, Dario hadn’t minded.

Luther continued, “When Angel’s Cloud was first built, nearly every house radiating from Five Points was a brothel. So-called panel games were invented at establishments such as Angel’s Cloud, where women would remove panels in the walls and rob male clients while other women kept the men…” Luther smiled “…shall we say, occupied.

“These were powerful men, too. Lawyers, doctors and town fathers. Many wives, under the guise of temperance societies, tried to shut the places down. Because of morals, yes.” Luther flashed another smile. “But also because their husbands were having such a good time.” Stepping forward, Luther lifted some folders and began handing them out. “I’ve put together a package of pictures, to illustrate why Mr. Donato’s property must be declared a landmark.”

“Ridiculous,” insisted Beppe.

“As curator of the Centuries of Sex Museum,” Luther continued, “I’ve learned a great deal about life at Angel’s Cloud. Of particular interest is the possible murder of a woman named Gem O’Shea. Recently, her ancestors have been in contact with me, but before I say more about that, I’d like to acquaint everyone with the O’Shea family tree…” After pausing to catch his breath, he rattled off names, then listed Angelo Donato’s relatives, including Dario’s great-grandfather, Enrico, and his grandfather, Salvador.

“My predecessor acquired many items from Angel’s Cloud through the Donato family,” Luther continued. “For years, the museum has owned all the original furniture, as well as portraits of the women who worked for Angelo. Replica rooms are roped off in our museum, preserving rooms exactly as they once were. I think this proves that our relationship with the Donato family has been excellent, but now that Mr. Donato has voiced intentions to sell, we have to try to save the building itself.

“While an old bawdy house may not seem a national treasure, Judge Zhang,” he concluded, “Angel’s Cloud is one of the only original Five Points buildings still standing today.”

“I have to sell,” Beppe muttered, twirling the end of his inky black mustache anxiously. “The taxes are through the roof! Besides, I’ve been renting to tenants for years!”

“But now the area’s been rezoned, and if the property winds up in the hands of a developer—” Luther stared pointedly at Chuckie Haswell “—a high-rise will appear in its place.”

“This is what the Donato family gets for being patrons of the arts,” fumed Beppe.

“Patrons of the arts?” whispered Eliana. “By contributing to a sex museum?”

“Shush,” commanded Bianca.