“You’re observant …”

“I like watching you.” Trevor brushed a strand of hair off Shelby’s forehead in a surprising, quick and intimate gesture that made her mouth go dry. “You stand out in a crowd.”

“You, too,” she managed to whisper.

His penetrating stare unnerved her nearly as much as his proximity.

He was related to her enemy.

He shouldn’t fascinate her. She wasn’t one of those women who went after bad boys, hoping to change them. She wasn’t intrigued by danger or darkness.

And more turmoil she certainly didn’t need.

But she didn’t step back. If anything, this endeavor of justice was about standing her ground, standing up for her parents, who couldn’t endure alone.

She wasn’t about to retreat now …

Dear Reader,

Much as the South is my home, my culture—really, my world—I LOVE New York City. At the first step on the pavement, I was astounded by the lights, crowds, sounds and smells. After a few visits, I began to appreciate the mix of cultures, the organised bustle, the glory of the back alley restaurant, and the utter, complete realisation that this is where everything happened.

So what better a place to explore the illusive concept of justice.

The romantic notion of Robin Hood has been a mythical dream of a variety of cultures for several hundred years. The idea of the oppressed and powerless being triumphant over the establishment—no matter how corrupt—is an idea with Blaze-worthy sexiness.

So, here we are.

Shelby and Trevor will introduce you to my little Manhattan gang trying to mix romance and justice. Shelby wants to bring the man who swindled her parents out of their retirement savings to justice, and her best buds are eager to help her. Unfortunately, her enemy is her new lover’s brother. Is getting revenge worth risking the love of her life?

I hope you’ll join me for the entire FLIRTING WITH JUSTICE trilogy. Be sure to look for Victoria’s story, Breathless at the Beach.

Happy reading!

Wendy Etherington

About the Author

WENDY ETHERINGTON was born and raised in the deep South—and she has the fried chicken recipes and NASCAR ticket stubs to prove it. The author of nearly thirty books, she writes full-time from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband, two daughters and an energetic Shih Tzu named Cody. She can be reached via her website, www.wendyetherington.com. Or follow her on Twitter @wendyeth.

Sizzle
in the City
Wendy Etherington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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1

“There is no such thing as justice—in or out of court.”

—Clarence Darrow, 1936

The New York Tattletale

April 12

Financial Finagling? by Peeps Galloway, Gossipmonger (And proud of it!)

Hello, fellow Manhattanites! As tax day approaches, all the corporate yuk-yuks are frantically lining up numbers in neat little columns. Yawn. You and I know what really matters in this town—power and popularity. And it seems tycoon wannabe Maxwell Banfield finally has it clutched tightly in his overly tanned hands.

He’s now the proud owner of The Crown Jewel, a popular luxury hotel on West 42nd Street in Midtown. Presumably, he’ll offer the usual glamorous offerings in the hotel’s restaurant, Golden.

But the real jewel in the Crown isn’t the four-star eatery, it’s the thirtieth-floor lounge, where it’s rumored ‘50s movie star Teresa Lawrence once tossed her drink (a very stiff martini) into legendary singer Paul Castono’s face, bringing an end to their tumultuous two-year marriage. In a fit of nostalgia (or perhaps the convenience of the notorious private elevator), the high-flyers of stage and screen still occasionally flock to the joint.

Let’s hope Mr. Big Talker Banfield can keep his lucrative clientele happy this time.

After all, there were some rumors a few years back about a bit of book-diddling that the IRS wouldn’t necessarily approve of. Even if that story was proved unsubstantiated, there’s nothing wrong with repeating it here, is there, kids! Besides, Max has a social cushion and cache many of us would sell our designer bags and shoes for in a heartbeat.

He’s heir apparent to his powerful father, the Earl of Westmore (that’s the title of nobility held by the Banfield family of England and Wales). According to my compats in London, however, the future earl hasn’t exactly lived up to his respected family name, given all his appearances in the tabloids. (And, oh, dear, there’s yet another one!) It’s rumored dear ole Daddy has cut his son off financially. But here he is, doling out cash for a luxury hotel.

Makes one go hmm … huh?

Certainly members of the peerage slithering away from a sticky situation has never happened before in our just and pristine land. So I’m sure those rumors about Max were, well … fraudulent. Wink, wink.

I, your humble squire, just write and wonder. Maybe Max has suddenly got savvy? Maybe he miraculously found thirty million dollars under his sofa cushions? You be the judge, Urbanites. I know I’ll be hitting the streets to find out more.

Keep your ears tuned and your gums flapping!

—Peeps

“WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING.”

As Shelby Dixon shoved aside the newspaper, she sighed in disgust. “Where’d that crook Banfield get the money to buy a hotel?”

Her best friend Calla Tucker patted her hand in sympathy. “Apparently there are a lot more swindling victims besides your parents.”

Victoria Holmes—her other best friend—narrowed her ice-blue eyes. “For thirty mil, there’s a hell of a lot more.”

Shelby sipped from her coffee mug and knew the bitter taste wasn’t the drink she’d been served at Javalicious, where she and her friends gathered most Sunday afternoons in midtown Manhattan.

Though she was originally from Savannah, Shelby had moved to the city to attend culinary school five years ago, started her own catering business after graduation and had no intention of ever leaving. She loved the vibrancy, the chaos and the struggle of the people and its urban maelstrom of clashing cultures and agendas. She’d adjusted to the size of her meager apartment that contrasted sharply with the extreme wealth of some of the homes she’d visited on the job. She’d learned to groan at the tourists gawking, wandering and clogging the subways, streets and cabs. She’d gotten used to the symphony of horns honking and angry shouts in a variety of languages.

She was home.

Moss dripping from lazy swaying palms was more her parents’ style.

Thanks to Max Banfield and his fraudulent investment scheme, however, their seaside retirement had become a nightmare instead of a dream. Their savings account was shot, their spirits broken, their new condo on the verge of foreclosure and they were looking to their only daughter for salvation.

“He’s got a rich father.” Shelby’s gaze flicked to the gossip article. “Maybe I could appeal to him.”

Victoria shook her head. “You’re chasing a dream. Guys like Max never pay. He’s practically British royalty. He probably has an army of peons running behind him to clean up his messes.”

“Don’t be so negative,” Calla said, exchanging a sharp look with Victoria. “Just because that lawyer you went out with tried to use you for your marketing contacts and clearly wanted to get his hands on your trust fund, that’s no reason to be pissy.”

“Sure it is,” Victoria asserted.

Calla’s eyes turned dreamy as she propped her chin in her palm. “I had a drink in that top-floor lounge last weekend. Very chic. Great lighting, cozy booths and a curving mahogany bar that probably seats fifty.”

“Did Frank Sinatra—the ultracool 1950s version—jump out from behind the potted palm and sing you a tune?” Victoria asked.

Calla blinked. “Well, no.”

Victoria swirled her finger in the air. “Then, whooppee.”

Calla sighed—though not as deeply or hopelessly as Shelby had. “Come to think of it, the bartender was hotter than my date.”

“Could we get back to my crisis here?” Shelby interjected. Normally her friends’ opposing attitudes—positive for the ethereal blonde Calla and darkly realistic for the ebony-haired Victoria—were helpful. Today, they tried her patience. “We all have enough lousy date stories to fill the Hudson. Table the romance chat. I can’t get the cops to do anything about my parents’ case. And if I don’t find a way to get their money back, they’re going to wind up moving in with me.”

“Talk about no romance,” Victoria said sagely.

Calla bit into her scone—one Shelby had made and sold to Javalicious on a weekly basis. She’d spent so much time cultivating relationships with local businesses that they cross-promoted and shared temporary employees and suppliers.

Was all that hard work in jeopardy?

Her parents couldn’t live with her in her one-bedroom apartment, and she couldn’t afford a bigger place, or continue sending them enough money to pay their condo mortgage. She’d already begged the bank for more time, putting up her catering company as collateral. What if she had to liquidate her business and move back home to support her parents?

That was her duty, she supposed, but it would break her heart. There had to be another way.

“How can there be despair and strife when there are delights like this to enjoy?” Calla said, licking blueberry scone crumbs off her lip. “This is your best creation yet, Shel.”

Unfortunately, Shelby couldn’t appreciate the compliment. “I don’t sleep. I bake.”

“Strife?” Victoria narrowed her eyes. “What is this? The Canterbury Tales?”

“If only,” Calla returned. “Then we could call a knight to raise his sword and strike down the tyranny of injustice, rescue the princess from the castle and bring peace and hope to all the land.”

“Darling,” Victoria began, clearly making strides for patience, “you’re a talented travel writer, but surely you’re not thinking about moving into fiction.”

“I could, you know.” Calla nodded for emphasis. “How hard could it be?”

“I’d imagine quite—”

Shelby poked Victoria. “Hang on. Who’s the princess in this story?” she asked Calla.

Calla cocked her head. “Your mother, of course.”

“Why not me?” At the moment, Shelby figured she could use a knight or two to save the day.

“Because you’re the knight,” Calla said as if this were obvious.

Shelby and Victoria exchanged frustrated looks.

“Knives I can handle,” Shelby said finally. “Swords aren’t really my forte.”

“And that chain mail would ruin the body-buffing treatment I got last week,” Victoria added.

“Yeah.” Calla bit her lip. “Maybe you’re right. There has to be a better …” Calla’s eyes sparked with inspiration. “We’ll go Robin Hood.”

Victoria peered into Calla’s mug. “Did you add whiskey?”

Calla wrapped her hands protectively around the ceramic. “I added coffee, creme and caramel. I’m perfectly sober.”

“Yet you suggested we involve Robin Hood in solving Shelby’s parents’ financial crisis,” Victoria reminded her.

Calla scowled. “You brought up The Canterbury Tales.”

Victoria nodded. “Because you started down Fairy Tale Lane.”

“I was helping,” Calla said, an atypical fierceness infusing her voice. “You, however—”

Shelby, holding up her hand, was beginning to feel like a referee. “Back to Robin Hood. Are we talking the costumes or the concept?”

“The concept, of course,” Calla said. “I’m going nowhere in green tights and a short skirt after eating two of these scones.”

“But you’re suggesting we steal my parents’ savings from Max Banfield,” Shelby said slowly.

“Robin Hood didn’t steal,” Calla asserted. “He brought peace and justice to the land.”

“By modern standards he was a vigilante,” Victoria argued.

“Well, yes.” Calla wiped her hands on a napkin. “But he was right, wasn’t he? Fighting against the corrupt establishment? Helping people who’d been wronged and had no means or power of retribution? And I’m not suggesting we steal anything. I simply think we should take the law into our own hands. This investment scheme of Max’s had to have affected a lot of people. We should find them and talk to them. We should band together.”

“Shelby the Caterer and her Unhappy Retirees,” Victoria said sardonically.

“We get proof of his swindling,” Calla insisted.

“We get proof,” Shelby repeated, both skeptical and curious of this obviously crazy idea.

“Sure.” Clearly glad to have an eager audience, she leaned forward. “I’m great at research. How different could this be? We talk to his customers and his former clients. This new hotel gives us the perfect excuse. We could observe him, even interview him. I could pretend I’m doing a story on local entrepreneurs. We gather information and get proof that he’s a lying, swindling creep.”

Victoria’s expression remained passionless. “Something nobody in the entire NYPD has been able to do.”

“Only because they haven’t really tried,” Calla said, tossing a glare in her direction.

Shelby had to admit the idea of seeing that creep Max Banfield led off in handcuffs was appealing. But they all had jobs and businesses to run. Not to mention they had absolutely no authority to go poking around a criminal situation. What if Banfield had diplomatic immunity or something in America? Then the cops couldn’t touch him, and she and her friends would get thrown in the dungeon for pestering him. “I appreciate you trying to help, Calla. But I have to agree with Victoria. I don’t see how a caterer, a travel writer and a PR executive can solve a case the cops can’t.”

Calla stubbornly lifted her chin. “We can. We just have to—”

Victoria held up her hand. “Ladies, there’s an obvious solution to this problem. I’ll loan Shelby’s parents the money to get by.”

Shelby shook her head. “No. No way.” When Victoria looked on the verge of insisting, she added, “They can’t pay back a loan. The money they got from selling their dry cleaning business went to the down payment on the condo.”

“A beachside condo won’t be easy to sell these days,” Calla said in an I-told-you-so kind of voice.

Shelby scowled. “No kidding.”

“Our social lives are in a serious rut,” Calla continued. “We need an adventure to break the monotony.” She paused and grinned. “Plus, when is revenge against a creepy guy not fun?”

At this, even Victoria seemed intrigued.

Apparently, Shelby was staring desperation right in the eye, since the Robin Hood plan suddenly sounded like a viable option.

Victoria drummed her manicured fingernails on the table. “We’ve got one other problem.”

“What’s that?” Shelby asked, tensing.

“Robin Hood was a myth,” Victoria said.

Calla cleared her throat. “Well, yes. That’s a small wrinkle.”

Shelby resisted the urge to drown herself in her latte.

2

“MR. BANFIELD, YOUR brother is on line one.”

Trevor glanced up from the financial report he’d been reading to see his assistant filling his office doorway.

Hands planted on her ample hips, Florence Windemere scowled. “He’s very insistent.”

“I’ll bet.”

Max was, no doubt, caught in yet another mess of his own making. Who else could he call?

“Did he flirt with you again?” he asked Florence.

“Cheeky, that’s what he is. Unprofessional, too.”

Trevor smiled slightly at the flushed indignation of the woman who’d been his childhood governess after Max had gone off to boarding school at age eight—the year of their parents’ divorce. “So was I at one time.”

She drew herself to her full five-foot, one-inch height. “You were simply energetic, maybe a bit precocious and certainly a child. He’s a grown man.”

“He appears to be anyway.”

Florence gave him a sage smile. “There comes a time, my boy, when you have to push the baby bird from the nest.”

“Would you have given up on me?”

“He’s not you.”

“Which I, for one, am thankful. He is my brother, however.”

“Older brother,” Florence reminded him significantly as she retreated from the room.

Trevor understood her implication—the older sibling should be wiser, looking out for the younger. Somehow, almost right from the beginning, his family had been turned backward. And they’d all been paying for that quirk of fate ever since.

Bracing himself, Trevor lifted the phone receiver.

“Know anything about the hotel business?” Max asked him casually.

Way too casually.

Recalling the time Max had asked him about the hot-air-balloon business, only to have his ever-ambitious brother ignore his advice and buy four used ones with the ridiculous dream of them bobbing over and around the skyscrapers of Manhattan and/or Paris, Trevor knew he had to nip this blossoming idea in the bud. “It’s volatile, labor intensive, multifaceted and in no way, shape or form an industry you should be involved in.”

“Ah.” Long pause. “Uh … okay. What’d ya think of that Jets game on Sunday?”

Trevor got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

And not just because the Jets played football and it was the middle of April.

“What’ve you done?” he asked Max.

“Me?” he asked with affronted innocence that was well practiced and generally effective. “Not a thing. Though I did have a spicy dinner with a hottie from Venezuela last night. Maybe she’s got a sister, you could come with us next time.”

Max the Pimping Earl. Lovely. “I can get my own dates, thank you. Did you take Ms. Venezuela to a hotel?”

“No. My apartment.”

“Did you eat in a hotel restaurant last night?”

“Uh, well—Hmm … Let me think.”

He shared genes with this man. It was terrifying.

And since Trevor didn’t have time to wait for the how-can-I-save-my-ass Max thought process to play out, he prompted, “Where did you have dinner?”

“I can’t quite remember the name,” Max said faintly. “It might have been a color.”

“What color?”

“Hmm … red, maybe yellow.”

“Where were you?”

“The Theatre District?”

“You’re not sure?”

“I was half-pissed. We had drinks before at the top-floor lounge.”

The Theatre District was clogged full of hotels. But a hotel with a restaurant whose name was a color—red, maybe yellow—and had a bar on its roof?

“Golden.”

Max coughed.

It was mostly a tourist place, but the hotel had endured for more than fifty years and the lounge had its moments being hip and interesting, depending on the nostalgic whims of the NYC elite.

“Oh, damn. That’s my other line. Gotta go.” Max hung up abruptly but not unexpectedly.

Having flown into New York that afternoon from San Francisco, Trevor had grabbed newspapers at the airport, but other than glancing at the headlines in the cab, and answering a few pending emails on his phone, he hadn’t delved further.

Max, at least in this country, was not front-page news.

An internet search on Max yielded thousands of hits on an article titled “Financial Finagling” in the New York Tattletale. The author’s name was Peeps Galloway.

Talk about cheeky.

“Financial guru?” he muttered aloud as he read. “Since when?”

He had to shut his eyes when he reached the part about The Crown Jewel. Bloody hell, Max owned a hotel.

Clearly, their mother’s most recent husband was gullible as well as rich, as their father had indeed cut off his oldest son financially.

At least publicly.

Trevor forced himself to read the rest, wincing when he read his father’s title. He’d probably be getting a call from his secretary by tomorrow. Maybe even the old man himself. The heir apparent had indeed slithered away from several sticky situations, and yet again, it would no doubt be Trevor’s responsibility to shove the mess under the rug.

He’d officially become his family’s janitor.

Being the second son of the Earl of Westmore—who was related, by some convoluted and ancient way, to George III of England—Trevor had always known he’d have to make his way in the world. Nothing was going to be handed to him.

His brother would one day be the earl, and Trevor was largely superfluous. Like an insurance policy.

Frankly, Trevor had been relieved by his sibling’s departure for boarding school and had blossomed under Florence’s watchful, caring eye, even as Max fell in with a group of arrogant, troublesome boys who thought their future titles made them invulnerable.

The divorce hit him harder than you was a good excuse he got for his brother’s behavior. He worshipped your mother and doesn’t know how to cope without her. Or, Max has the pressure of the title on his shoulders.

During those days Trevor had resented being metaphorically shoved in a drawer and forgotten about, so he’d dreamed of becoming a teacher, then a poet, then a rock star. Thanks to Florence, he eventually learned to play to his advantages—athletic skill, a fair amount of charm, a strong dose of good sense and a trust fund to get virtually any venture started.

So, as his father mourned the loss of his marriage and Max had taken advantage of his distraction, Trevor had decided he’d run his own business. He’d be in control. He’d escape family obligations.

Not so fast, my boy.

Even after he’d left for America in his early twenties, he’d been dragged into Max’s troubles. He made excuses. He’d reasoned with his brother. Apparently, no one else could. When his business became financially successful, he’d bailed out Max of several money crises.

Trevor had always understood his actions reflected on the rest of his family, on the ancestry to which he was forever linked by blood. Max loved parties, women and being important.

There were whispers that Trevor was the better successor to the title. That Max would never grow up. Yet, unless the line of succession was somehow eradicated, they were stuck.

Max was more like their mother—flighty and unpredictable. But while she was kind and generous, Max was inherently selfish. He expected others to pick him up when he fell down. Even at an early age, he managed to blame the crayons on the wall or the snags in the tapestries on his “energetic” little brother.

Yet Trevor and Max were bonded by a single truth—neither of them wanted to become their father. The stoic earl. Distant, but devastated by his divorce.

So Trevor had learned discretion and discipline at the stable hand of Florence. Nobody had to explain his partying the night away with hot women, too many cocktails and getting his picture printed in some trashy rag as a result.

Thirty odd years after their home life had imploded, Max had never learned that lesson.

Maybe they all should have realized that the crayons on the wall would lead to lousy financial and business management, gambling debts and embarrassing questions by peers and friends.

Trevor used to be proud that his father looked to him to help his brother, to coach him out of whatever ridiculous mess he’d landed in. There was no real harm in him—other than to his own family. But wasn’t there a time to push the baby bird from the nest?

The intercom buzzed, and Florence’s voice floated out. “Your father’s on the phone.”

“Brilliant,” Trevor said sarcastically.

Project Robin Hood, Day Four

The Crown Jewel Hotel

A HOTEL SUITE’S BEDROOM wasn’t the strangest place Shelby had used as a temporary kitchen and prep area, but it was damn close.

With a metaphorical shrug for the oddities of her job and praying the health inspector didn’t make a surprise visit, she removed another tray of mini crab cakes from her warming ovens as the door swung open.

“I’m in with Banfield,” Calla said, poking her head around the door.

Shelby set the hot tray on a trivet. “That was fast. You’ve barely been here fifteen minutes.”

Calla grinned. “I’m pretty impressed myself.” She pursed her lips. “‘Course it helps that he’s a dense and raving egomaniac.”

“It sure can’t hurt. Is Victoria here yet?”

“Just walked in.”

“Make sure she stows her sharklike tendencies. She might scare him off.”

“He seems pretty much dazzled by boobs, a heartbeat and a smile. V could manage him in her sleep.”

Transferring crab cakes to a serving platter, Shelby felt a rush of excitement. This crazy Robin Hood plan might actually work.

Asking questions of the well-connected crowd, Shelby and her friends had learned Max was throwing a cocktail party in his suite to celebrate the “Under New Management” kickoff of the hotel. Victoria managed to get invited under the guise of offering PR services and promising to bring the press—aka Calla. She’d also suggested Shelby as the caterer, which Max had jumped on, presumably because his kitchen was currently understaffed, though Shelby suspected her undercut rates had pushed her to the top of the list.

She and her friends were going to mingle and listen, hopefully instigating themselves in Max’s life and business, which would, presumably, lead to proof of his financial schemes. Or at least give them a new angle to take to the police.

Know thy enemy as thyself, right?

Calla was going to offer to interview him for a piece in City Magazine, one of her regular clients. The fact that she’d already secured their quarry’s cooperation made Shelby all the more grateful for her friends’ support.

“You’re the best,” she said to Calla as she added sprigs of lettuce and lemon wedges to decorate the platter.

“Remember this was all my idea,” her friend said saucily as she flipped her wheat-colored ponytail over her shoulder and turned to leave.

Moving to follow, Shelby caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall. She’d made an effort to tame her wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair into artful curls. Only to have the thick mess turn frizzy beneath the heat of the ovens and the sweaty job of hauling all her equipment from her delivery van to the penthouse suite.

Oh, well. She had Calla and Victoria to dazzle Banfield. As long as she kept him and his guests fed, she’d done her job for the night.

Balancing the serving tray in one hand, she managed to open the door and ease her way into the main room without dropping anything.

At least until she hit what felt like a solid wall. With a grunt of frustration, she watched two precious crab cakes tumble toward the floor.

She was going to go broke saving her parents from financial ruin.

“Pardon me,” said a silky, English-accented voice.

“No, problem,” Shelby said, quickly glancing up, “I’ll—”

She nearly dropped the entire tray as she got a look at the man attached to the exquisite voice.

Wavy black hair, blue eyes like the depths of the deepest sea and a trim physique encased in a meticulously tailored charcoal-colored suit.

Damn. Why doesn’t my hair look better? was the only thought she could manage.

“I’ll keep this one if you don’t mind,” he said.

Which one? Me? She was nodding before she’d even completed the thought.

As he straightened, she noticed the crab cake he was raising toward his mouth.

Wow, he has a great mouth, too.

Raising her gaze to his eyes, a jolt of sheer pleasure shot through her. She got the sense that he understood the effect he had on her. Or else he really liked crab cakes.

After chewing and swallowing, he sipped his cocktail—a martini with two olives—then smiled.

Though his eyes were steady as a rock, there was something fun and alluring about his smile. As if the rest of his perfection was hard-won. As if rebellion was natural and refinement a birthright he’d reluctantly accepted.

“You’re the chef?” he asked.

“Yes,” she managed to answer without stuttering.

“More crab than fluff,” he commented. “Rare at these gatherings.”

“I grew up in Savannah. It’s a Southern-pride thing.”

“Well deserved.” He angled his head. “And the accent fits. I got the sense you weren’t from here.”

“You, either.”

He nodded. “I was raised in London.”

“That fits.” Given the nature of her undercover plan, she wondered at the quirk of fate that had presented her with a flesh and blood James Bond in the middle of her investigative adventure. “Shelby Dixon,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Trevor,” the man said as he enveloped her small hand in his elegant, long-fingered one.

Their gazes held as they shook.

Shelby would have been happy to let their closeness linger for the next decade or two, but she was supposed to be working, both as a caterer and a spy.

A quick scan of the room noted several new guests. Max had assured her there would be no more than fifteen, but they were pushing twenty-five. Good thing she’d made extra hors d’oeuvres.

Drooling over the luscious Trevor No-Last-Name-Given would have to wait.

And why hadn’t he given a last name anyway? Wasn’t that odd? He was probably Max’s bookie or possibly something even more nefarious. But by the time she’d considered this and turned to question him, he was walking away … directly toward Max.

The hotel owner-swindler welcomed Trevor with a hug and a broad grin.

“Well, damn,” Shelby grumbled.

She should have expected this turn, as no man could be that perfect and have moral standards, too. If he was Max’s investment recruiter, it was easy to see how the lousy crook had gotten his hands on thirty-million bucks. There was probably a line outside his office door to get in on the next deal.

Guests were starting to come to her to get a crab cake, so she reluctantly tore her gaze from Max and Trevor and roamed the room with her tray. After a while, she retreated to the bedroom to load up again, adding prosciutto-wrapped grilled-chicken bites, as well.

She passed Calla chatting up the hotel manager and hoped her friend was getting insightful info to use in their quest to bring Max and his schemes down. Full bellies and a cocktail or two were secret weapons in getting people to talk incessantly. Maybe she should share that tidbit with law enforcement.

She found Victoria next to the windows of the twenty-ninth-floor suite and offered her appetizer selections to her fellow conspirator, whose eyes were uncharacteristically dazed.

“I love New York,” Victoria said, staring in Trevor’s direction.

“He has an English accent, too.”

Victoria’s eyelashes fluttered as her face glowed with pleasure. “Oh, my.”

“However …” Shelby said sharply, striving to bring Victoria back to her senses, “he seems pretty friendly with Max, so no matter how beautiful he is, he’s now moved to second on the list of suspicious characters in this room.”

“He’s number one in my book,” Victoria said, licking her lips.

“Helloo?” Shelby waved her hand in front of her friend’s face. “Revenge? Vigilante justice? Any of these concepts sound familiar? Max is Project Robin Hood’s Enemy Number One. He’s our Sheriff Nottingham, our Al Capone. And anybody who cozies up to him is an accessory simply on principle.”

“You’re right,” Victoria said slowly. She took a step in Trevor’s direction. “I’ll do some up-close and personal investigation.”

Shelby caught her friend’s arm. “Not so fast, Eliot Ness. I think observation is the best plan for now. Besides, I’ve already made contact.”

“So?”

“I saw him first.”

Victoria crossed her arms over her chest. “Really?”

“His name is Trevor.”

“Trevor what?”

Blushing, Shelby shrugged.

“You can’t be that committed to him. A conversation that didn’t last long enough to get his full name? Get a hold of yourself. I thought he was Enemy Number Two.”

Even more embarrassed, Shelby recalled her conversation that morning with her mom, who’d sounded so tired and defeated. The doctors had increased her anti-anxiety meds, and she was having a hard time adjusting. Not daring to glance at the object of her and Victoria’s conversation, she rolled her shoulders. “He is,” she said firmly.

And he was.

Except he was also the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on.

No one could tell her fate wasn’t enjoying a hilarious and cruel joke at her expense.

“Go chat him up,” Shelby said to Victoria. “Maybe you can get his last name.”

“Oh, no. This one’s all yours.” With a knowing smile, Victoria took Shelby’s tray and glided away.

Well, she’d asked for it. She ought to be woman enough to take it.

After sending a glare toward Victoria’s retreating back, Shelby started across the room toward Max and Trevor. Along the way, several guests stopped her to compliment the culinary offerings and ask if there were more. She assured everyone there was and indicated Victoria, who, despite her smart-ass tendencies, was one of her best and most loyal friends.

A definite BFF, since she’d gracefully conceded the path to Trevor and was currently doing Shelby’s job, as well.

Trevor is a bad, bad man, her conscience reminded her.

Actually, she didn’t know that for sure. Probable, but not certain.

She could only help her parents through this hardship if she knew the facts. This investigation was her duty as a daughter. This was business, not romance.

On the way toward her prey, she noted an unbalanced collection of the female population surrounding Trevor and Max. This phenomenon could be easily explained. Because, while Max had Trevor’s dark coloring, his eyes were a muddy brown, he was shorter and more rotund than the sophisticated Englishman she’d met earlier, and there was a distinct shiftiness in his eyes.

Wow. She really needed to focus on what she was supposed to be doing here.

Yet another guest stopped her. “I’m dying for one of those delicious crab cakes,” the clearly desperate woman pleaded.

Shelby cast a glance at her gorgeous goal. Like she’d get his attention in her wilted white chef’s apron and limp hair anyway. However, he’d seemed to enjoy the crab cakes … “Okay, sure,” she said to the desperate guest.

Retreating to the prep room, she assembled another tray of crab, but halfway through her task, she was startled by hot and mysterious Trevor walking in, then closing the door behind him.

“How do you know Max?” he asked without delay.

“I’m his caterer.” His curiosity only furthered her suspicions of him. He was protective of Max. Meeting that alluring, blue-eyed gaze boldly, she added, “How do you know Max? You two seem like old friends.”

“We know each other well,” he returned vaguely as he moved toward her. “What about the writer and the icy brunette? You’re friends with them.”

“How do you know that?” she accused, wincing, as she realized she’d inadvertently confirmed his assumptions.

Some secret agent she was.

He smiled, confident and tempting. “I saw you talking to them earlier, just as you obviously saw me with Max. The brunette even refilled your food tray.”

“You’re observant.”

“I like watching you.” He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead in a surprising, quick and intimate gesture that made her mouth go dry. “You stand out in a crowd.”

“You, too,” she managed to whisper.

His penetrating stare unnerved her nearly as much as his proximity.

He was a friend of her enemy. He shouldn’t fascinate her. She wasn’t one of those women who went after bad boys, hoping to change them. She wasn’t intrigued by danger or darkness.

And more turmoil she certainly didn’t need.

But she didn’t step back. If anything, this endeavor of justice was about standing her ground, standing up for her parents, who couldn’t endure alone.

She wasn’t about to retreat now.

3

TREVOR FOUGHT AGAINST THE impulse to slide his arms around the beautiful redheaded caterer. To find out the source of the worry behind her intriguing hazel eyes. To forget that he was only present to save Max from yet another of his follies.

But he was certainly losing the battle.

He wanted a taste of her as surely as he’d savored her food. Not so many years ago, he’d have indulged in the impulse to sweep her from the party, no matter about either of their obligations.

But he’d grown up, grown smarter and more successful along the way. Yet, as hard-won as his control had been, Shelby Dixon, with her fiery locks and petite frame, somehow tested it.

Reminding himself there were things in life more important than his own pleasure, he stepped back.

“You weren’t suspicious when the owner of a hotel asked an outside service to cater his party?” he asked, hoping to get the conversation back to business.

She shrugged. “He’s shorthanded in the kitchen.” She paused a long moment before adding, “And my friend Victoria—the brunette who helped me earlier—is looking to get his PR business. I offered to help out.”

That explanation made sense. He might be reading too much into this party and everyone attending … but then he had plenty of reasons for being suspicious of Max and anyone in his circle. “You’ll certainly get future bookings after tonight, including ones from me.”

“Good to know. What business are you in?”

This lot was a curious one. “Transportation, but I was thinking of personal needs.”

Her eyes widened.

He smiled. “Mmm. Those, too. Though at the moment I was referring to social events. How do you feel about dinner parties?”

“As long as the check clears, I feel pretty great about them.”

Beautiful and practical. He was smitten already. “A wise decision.”

She walked over to a canvas bag sitting on the desk and pulled out a cell phone. “What day were you thinking about?” she asked, tapping the screen.

“Well, I—”

The blonde who appeared in the doorway was the writer Trevor had met earlier. “Shelby, where’s—” She glanced at him before directing her attention to Shelby. “The guests are asking about crab cakes and lettuce wraps. You’d think these people hadn’t eaten in a week.”

“Free food brings out the animal in everybody,” Trevor commented.

“Nice,” the blonde said, pulling a tiny spiral notebook and pen from her blazer pocket. “Mind if I use that line?”

Trevor made an old-fashioned bow. “Be my guest.”

She blinked. “Hmm. Hot and polite.” She tucked the notebook away with the same efficiency in which she’d retrieved it. “More crab and wraps soon,” she said, pointing to Shelby.

“I’m bringing out the last tray now,” she said as the blonde backed from the room.

Shelby cleared her throat. “That’s my other friend, Calla—she’s a travel and lifestyle magazine writer.”

“So I heard. She attempted to interrogate me earlier.”

An uncomfortable expression crossed Shelby’s lovely face. “Interrogate? That’s an odd description.”

“But apt.”

There was certainly something unusual about this trio of beautiful women appearing in Max’s life, but he’d be damned if he could figure out what.

The title? Not likely. His father was hale and hearty and likely to hang around several more decades. And the status of dating the future Earl of Westmore didn’t hold quite the same cache in New York as it did in London. Film or sports stars got much more notice.

The ladies also didn’t seem after money. Good thing, since Max didn’t have any, and would likely have less after a few months in the hotel business.

Plenty of people were eager for any work they could get these days. Maybe these women were simply hungry. In NYC ambition was practically a sport, after all.

Yet he didn’t trust them—he didn’t trust anyone easily. Never had, even without The Max Episodes to reflect on. People had used him many times over in an effort to get access to his powerful family, so he wasn’t anxious to reveal too much to Shelby, no matter his attraction to her.

“You and your friends are quite a team,” he said as she tucked her phone away and went back to loading her tray of appetizers.

“We stick together.” She straightened with her tray resting expertly on her shoulder. “Much like you do with your friends, I bet.”

Trevor nodded. “Naturally,” he said, though he was embarrassed to acknowledge, even privately, that he didn’t have a huge group of friends. He had acquaintances, business partners and lovers, but not a whole lot in-between.

Well, other than family.

He had an avalanche of family.

“The crab-cake devotees await,” she said, heading toward the door, which he opened. She cast a glance at him. “This is the last of them, so I may need a discreet exit in a few minutes. Are you available?”

“Absolutely.”

She handed him a business card as she strode from the room. “Call me when you decide about that dinner party.”

He glanced at the card and sighed. A strawberry dripping in decadent chocolate sauce dominated the background. Shelby’s name and contact information were printed in black ink in the corner.

The idea of keeping his distance was a lost cause.

AT NEARLY MIDNIGHT, HER delivery van pulled into the hotel’s loading dock. Shelby and her friends moved her equipment and reflected on a successful, if somewhat frustrating, catering event.

The food—and service, thanks to Calla and Victoria—had been first-rate. The investigation had only led to more questions than answers.

Predictably, she’d run out of crab cakes and had to fill in with more chicken wraps and cheese-stuffed tomato skewers. She’d finished the party with luscious dark-chocolate truffles filled with raspberry creme. Max and his guests had loved every bite. She’d handed out cards by the dozens. Then, at some point, despite his promise to protect her from the crab-crazed crowd, Trevor had disappeared.

Poof, like a magician.

Or the longtime friend of a crook.

He was sneaky, no doubt about it. Somehow, while complimenting, flirting and getting all kinds of details about her, her friends and their motives, he’d avoided revealing his last name, his true relationship with Max or much of anything about his own business. “Transportation? Bah.”

For all she knew, he could be up to his gorgeous neck in trafficking—and she didn’t mean black-market seafood.

“Sister, we have bigger problems than the Beautiful Brit,” Calla pointed out. She handed over an armload of dirty serving platters. “I didn’t get a whole lot out of Max.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Victoria said drily, storing the last of the warming trays on the rack installed in the back of the van. “He’s a swindler. He’s an expert at deceit and misdirection.”

“But I’m a professional information gatherer.” Calla frowned. “He bragged a lot, which I expected, but refused to set up a time for my City Magazine interview, even though he’d agreed to do it.”

“Empty promises,” Victoria said.

“And,” Calla continued, “he never gave many details about his plans or his partners of this new venture, if there are any.”

“We did overhear the information about the investors’ meeting scheduled for next week,” Victoria reminded them.

“Investors for what, though?” Calla asked.

“Whatever his backup plan might be after he screws up this hotel thing.” Victoria dusted off her immaculate black pantsuit as she climbed out of the van. “It’s obvious he doesn’t have a clue about the business. I talked to him for three minutes and knew that much. And he had cold eyes, dismissive, arrogant.”

“I didn’t see that,” Shelby said, surprised by her friend’s assessment.

Victoria waved off her concern. “Not important. I’m just put off by the subterfuge of this whole thing. I prefer the direct route, as you know.”

Calla fisted her hand at her side. “We need to get invited to that investors meeting.” With a sigh, she sat on the tailgate of the van. “Somehow.”

Shelby heard her own frustrated reflection echoed by her buddies, but her regrets were more personal. She knew she should be focused on Max, but Trevor dominated her thoughts. She’d all but thrown herself into the man’s arms at one point. “Why did I blab to him like a starry-eyed gossip?”

Calla stared at her. “Max?”

“Trevor,” Victoria answered before Shelby could. “And you didn’t. You gave him your cover story.”

Shelby resisted the urge to sink onto the floor of the van. “And my business card, my last name and, oh, yeah, yours and Calla’s names and what you were doing at the party.”

“What we were allegedly doing,” Victoria insisted.

Shelby recalled the gleam in Trevor’s eyes—and not just the carnal one. “He knew we were up to something.”

“So?” Calla countered. “He’s probably up to something, and Max definitely is. We’re going to find out what. Remember, to think like a shark, you have to swim with the fishes.”

Victoria planted her hands on her hips. “That metaphor is all wrong.”

“Do sharks even think?” was Shelby’s instinctive question.

“Don’t sharks eat fish?” Victoria added.

Calla waved her hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you’re the fish,” Shelby said.

“Which we are not.” Calla helped Shelby out of the van, then they closed the doors. “We are women, hear us holla.”

“That’s roar,” Victoria countered.

Calla shook her head. “Trust me, it’s holla. I recently did a piece on urban slang.”

“It doesn’t matter if we bellow, shriek or wail,” Shelby said, leaning against the van. “We’ll still be two steps behind, and I still won’t know anything about that Trevor character.”

Calla patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about him. I’m all over that.” She cocked her head. “I’ve seen him somewhere before. I just can’t place the circumstance.”

“And I’ll start asking around about the investors’ meeting and what it’s for.” Victoria slid her arm around Shelby’s waist in a rare show of physical affection. “Max will need money for this new project, so my family will be high on the list. Don’t stress out. We’re going to get this guy.”

Shelby leaned against Victoria and at the same time grasped Calla’s hand. Her friends’ support meant everything. They’d been through bad breakups, job losses and family drama. They’d get through this crisis with the same bond of solidarity they’d shared for years.

Footsteps echoing on the ramp leading from the hotel brought Shelby out of her reverie.

She exchanged brief, wary glances with her friends before peeking her head around the corner of her van to see the source of the interruption.

Trevor.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said as he approached the van.

Shelby, along with her coconspirators, were struck dumb by the breathtaking sight of him.

His glossy hair gleamed blue-black beneath the streetlight. His suit—which had to be handmade—fit his trim body and broad shoulders to perfection. His dark blue eyes glowed with power.

“Nice party,” he said, and stopped directly in front of Shelby.

“Ah … thanks.”

After quick elbow jabs into her sides, Shelby’s best buds fled like vegans confronted with rare steak. They mumbled excuses about checking the suite for leftover supplies, then disappeared.

Ironically similar to Transportation Trevor’s exit from the party earlier.

“Where did you go?” Shelby asked—okay, maybe she accused. “You said you’d defend me if the crab-cake masses attacked, and you were nowhere to be found when the goods ran out.”

“Sorry. I had to take an important call.”

“From whom?”

He moved in, his tempting body nearly brushing hers and laid his palm against her cheek. “My father.”

“Oh.” Given the state of her family, Shelby wasn’t oblivious to the idea that others faced the possibility of caring for their parents. “Is he okay?”

“Irate, but that’s normal. So, yes.”

The look in his eyes, plus his warm hand against her skin scattered her thoughts. “I’m glad, but what—”

Before she could draw another breath, his lips were against hers.

He touched nothing but her lips with his mouth and her cheek with his hand. The moment drew out, romantic, alluring and teasing, as if he was waiting for her approval, as if he knew he’d crossed a line, but was confident he wouldn’t be shoved back.

Shelby had no intention of pushing him away.

She didn’t know him; she suspected him. Of all manner of things.

But she moved closer. There was something about him she couldn’t dismiss or forget. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Leaning into him, she initiated another kiss.

He responded with hunger and experience, angling his head and seducing her mouth with deep strokes of his tongue. Her spine seemed to melt, like chocolate in a double boiler.

She inhaled his warm, sandalwood scent, felt the heat and hardness of his body. He enveloped her like a blanket, though she knew there were layers of unknown to explore, feelings beyond pleasure and comfort.

When they separated, their gazes locked, their breathing labored, she could only manage one comment.

“All in all, it was a pretty damn great party.”

4

The New York Tattletale

April 17

Party Like a Hotel Magnate by Peeps Galloway, Gossipmonger (And proud of it!)

A quick drop-in before your weekend in the Hamptons …

Oh, not spending your days at the luxurious retreat of the well-to-do?

Maybe you’re drowning your sorrows over your tax bill at the local pub. Or possibly spending your generous refund at Bloomys or Barney’s? (I hear there’s a fabulous shoe sale at the later—just ask for Damon.)

Whatever your weekend plans … never fear, dear readers, I’ll make either your shopping or your weekend shift at the tourist trap turn-and-burn palatable.

Speaking of tasty, I hear Max Banfield had an ooh, la, la soireé at his new hotel, The Crown Jewel, last night. Crab, so fresh from the sea the claws were still twitching, and chicken lettuce wraps were among the food offerings, with the night ending in raspberry creme-filled chocolate truffles.

Need I say yum?

No, I’m sure you have your own version of lusciousness to reflect upon.

Didn’t I tell you about Damon?

—Peeps

Hotel magnate?

Was that a promotion over financial guru?

Trevor tossed aside the newspaper Florence had set on his desk.

Instead of worrying about his brother, he stared out his window, where the streets below teemed with the usual afternoon Manhattan chaos. He’d planned to spend the weekend at his house in the Hamptons, but instead of anticipating the escape and relaxation, his thoughts turned to the sensational kiss he and Shelby had enjoyed the night before.

He’d crossed a line with her and didn’t regret it in the least.

He should have been concentrating on Max and tempering his latest mistake—or at least diminishing its press-worthy moments—but instead Trevor’d found his attention straying to the stunning caterer all night. The usual responsibility to his family paled in comparison to her vibrancy and glowing smile. As practicality seemed to be her mantra, he sensed even she wouldn’t approve of him being so distracted.

He was reminded of the genetic, and sometimes irrational, impulses he’d inherited. Impulses that ruled his mother’s life and ones even his stodgy father had indulged in long enough to produce him and Max.

Perhaps Trevor’s rebel past wasn’t so easily left behind.

And yet he’d been self-possessed enough to recognize the determination in Shelby’s eyes. Just as his mother had resolved to possess jewels, clothes and husbands, Shelby had her own goal in mind.

What, he wasn’t entirely sure. But it somehow involved Max.

He’d confirmed only two things the night before—Max’s financial windfall had indeed come in the form of their latest, wealthy, clearly gullible stepfather. And their father was monumentally annoyed about his name appearing in the American gossip rags.

Surely you can control this situation, Trevor, his father had said on a cell-phone call from his office in London. I have important issues before Parliament to address in the coming weeks. I don’t have time to explain this nonsense.

I’ll handle it, sir.

He’s a grown man, his father had continued. Reason with him. You’re the only one he listens to.

But Max didn’t listen to him. He didn’t take his advice or take responsibility. He wasn’t even a grown man. Not really.

He went to Vegas and blew money. He ran up debts at the London card clubs and pubs.

In some respects, Trevor knew he’d failed his family. At the same time, he had the sense to not remind his father that he was the one who’d married and divorced the flighty, but beautiful woman who’d created Max, who was, in turn, creating the present problems.

You could be the first son, his conscience reminded him firmly. Then you’d be required to follow in the earl’s footsteps as well as adhere to every edict that fell from his lips.

Not that Max was following this ancient rule.

Still, there were significant blessings in Trevor’s life. Starting and ending without the burden of an earldom. He had his future well in hand, and it didn’t include addressing Parliament, clamoring around a moldy country castle or lording over a London flat, no matter how tony the address.

He had a business to run.

With that bracing reminder reverberating in his mind, he turned back to his desk and the pile of contracts awaiting his signature.

Before he’d read more than a few paragraphs, the intercom on his desk beeped. “Shelby Dixon is here, sir,” Florence said. “She doesn’t have an appointment but assures me you’ll see her.”

Not only would he see her, he craved her presence.

He took a second to lift his eyes heavenward and repent any resentful thoughts of the last week. Since they were certainly numerous, Florence buzzed through again before he’d managed to respond.

“I’ll see Ms. Dixon,” he said into the intercom with what he hoped was a calm, professional tone.

In the intervening moments, his heart kicked against his ribs; his body hummed. He remained standing out of pride. She’d somehow found him, and he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or concerned.

Attitude first, Shelby stalked into the room. She performed a mock curtsy in front of his desk. “Your Lordship.”

“Ah … no.” Suppressing a wince, he paused to drink in the amazing, furious sight of her before extending his hand toward the chair in front of his desk. He waited until she sat before he lowered himself into his own seat. “I don’t have a title, though the doorman at my apartment building does persist in calling me Mr. Banfield. I prefer Trevor.”

“Your father is the Earl of Westmore,” she accused, her eyes more vividly green than the night before.

Perhaps rage brought out the distinctive color?

“He is,” Trevor said calmly. “I’m the second son, however, so I’m only significant if my older brother dies.” As his blunt words registered, shock flittered across her face. “No worries, he’s in excellent health.”

“Your older brother is Maxwell Banfield.”

Since the connection had been made, he saw no reason to deny it. Though, like many times in the past, he wanted to. “He is.”

“And you were at the party last night because …?”

“I was toasting my brother’s success.”

“You didn’t tell me he was your brother.”

He smiled. “Didn’t I?”

“No.”

“It hardly matters.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I think it does.”

Trevor shrugged. He loved her suspicious nature. He liked that she wasn’t buying his story completely, and she certainly didn’t appear impressed by his lineage. She should be sucking up to him, hoping for an introduction to his influential family or at least pushing for a booking.

Instead, she seemed genuinely, personally annoyed.

Wasn’t that great?

“Did Max pay his catering bill?” he asked, wondering who exactly she was mad at and why.

“Yes.”

“Did he come on to you?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. He’s always had questionable taste in women.”

“I didn’t want him—” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re pretending not to understand why I’m here and pissed off.”

He reached deep for an innocent expression. “Why would I do that?”

“I have no idea.”

As much as he was attracted to her, and had planned to call her with both a dinner invitation and a quote on catering a business event, he didn’t know her well enough to throw open the family-closet door and let her see inside. He didn’t want her to suspect how big an embarrassment Max was to the family, or how Trevor was convinced this latest venture would be yet another failure.

Of course if Max’s check didn’t clear, or Shelby was a big fan of gossip mags, then his efforts at subterfuge would fail no matter what Trevor did or didn’t do. “Well, I’m pleased you’re here, but I’m truly in the dark about why you’re aggravated.”

“You kissed me.”

He didn’t have to pretend to be surprised by that accusation. “I’ve been complimented heavily in the past on my technique. Can you be specific about why you’re disappointed?”

Leaning across his desk, she propped her chin on her fist. “Can you explain why even absurd questions sound intelligent when spoken with an English accent?”

Her sass and directness were enthralling—as well as her proximity.

He tilted toward her. Their faces were bare inches apart. “That’s a fascinating debate. Why don’t we discuss it over dinner tonight?”

She simply shook her head. “Not so fast, Your Lordship. You kissed me while deliberately keeping your identity a secret. In fact, the only reason I found you was because Calla never throws anything away, and she uncovered a magazine article about you landing a high-dollar contract last year.” She raised her eyebrows. “At least I know you transport legitimate goods now.”

“What did you think I transported?”

“Could’ve been anything.”

“Like knockoff designers bags, I suppose.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I don’t like those. It’s real or nothing for me. I buy vanilla from Madagascar, for heaven’s sake. I was thinking more pharmaceutical for your possibly illegal transportation business.”

Terrific. The woman he had a massive crush on thought he was a drug dealer. “All the more reason for dinner. There’s a lovely Italian restaurant down the street.”

She angled her head, considering him. The anger had been doused, replaced by interest. “Why didn’t you want me to know who you were?”

“I don’t like to advertise my family background. It tends to make people act … unusually.”

“Suck-ups.”

With a satisfied grin, he nodded. “Precisely.”

“Why doesn’t your brother talk like you?”

“Max puts on an American accent. He likes to blend.”

By the way she cocked her head, Trevor assumed she found that as odd as he did, but he didn’t really want to discuss Max’s idiosyncrasies.

“I like your accent better.” Her eyes smoldered into golden. “Is this Italian place down the street Giovanni’s?”

Fascinated by the way her eyes changed in rhythm with her mood, he slid his finger down her arm. “It is.”

A smile teased her lips. “I could eat.”

“Excellent. Perhaps we could also work on my kissing technique. I’d hate to be a disappointment the second time around.”

“Were you planning this practice during dinner?”

“I could wait till after. Or be persuaded to before.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Let’s see if the pesto sauce is as good as I remember.”

Pleasure and anticipation raced down his spine. Their chemistry had been pretty electric the night before—maybe even more so because of the suspicion between them. “I’ll speak to the chef personally.”

“His name is Mario.”

He walked around the desk and assisted her to her feet. “He’s not your knife-wielding cousin or boyfriend, is he?”

“My cousin lives in Fort Lauderdale and runs a car wash, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I always thought the men of New York had good taste. Clearly, I’ve been misinformed.” He opened his office door and allowed Shelby to proceed him. “I’m leaving, Florence.”

“For the day?” His secretary’s pink painted mouth rounded in shock. “It’s barely after five.”

“It’s Friday. Go home. Enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, I remember how. Do you?”

Trevor narrowed his eyes briefly as he passed Florence’s desk. “Of course I do.” The last thing he needed was Florence blabbing about his obsessive tendencies. Success didn’t come without sacrifice, after all.

The irony that his secretary wanted him to slow down and have babies she could spoil, while his mother’s worst nightmare was becoming a grandmother wasn’t lost on him.

“But you’ll miss out on your workaholic merit badge for the week,” she called after him.

“Good night, Florence,” he said, refusing to rise to her critique.

To his relief, Shelby laughed. “And here I thought we had nothing in common. My friends and assistants are always trying to get me to work less and play more.”

“Easy to do when it’s not your company on the line.”

“Exactly.”

Trevor pressed the button for the elevator, which arrived immediately.

“Is your brother a crook?” Shelby asked abruptly.

He nearly stumbled. It was rare for him to be knocked off stride, and this woman had done it twice in ten minutes. “No. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged as the elevator doors slid closed. “Just curious.”

CALLA WALK ED AWAY FROM a lovely spring evening, through the police-station door and into chaos.

The large, pitiful waiting room, painted a dingy gray and containing no more than ten folding chairs, strained at all the emotions and activity.

In one corner, a group of people stood in a circle, holding hands and praying. A trio of women cried in the other. A pair of children bounced and giggled on their chairs as a harried-looking woman stood nearby and yakked into her cell phone.

Lording over the masses, a bored-looking clerk sat behind a high, imposing faded wood counter and flipped through a magazine.

Lady Justice could hardly be proud.

But then Calla figured the police had a mostly thankless, as well as dangerous, job. They’d no doubt be grateful for her help.

Shifting her briefcase strap on her shoulder, she approached the counter. “I need to speak to someone in the fraud department.”

The clerk never looked up. “Appointment?”

You needed to make an appointment to report a crime? “No, it’s rather urgent. If you could just—”

“Is anybody in immediate danger?”

“Yes, I guess so. My friend Shelby’s parents trusted this guy with their life savings, then he took off for parts unknown, but then we—Shelby, me and our other friend Victoria—read an article last week about how he’d bought a hotel right here in Manhattan. So, you can imagine how surprised we were. Where did he get the money to buy something like that?” She jabbed her finger on the counter to emphasize her indignation. “On the backs of gullible seniors, that’s where. So, as you can see, it’s imperative that I talk to somebody right away.”

The clerk looked up, her expression weary. “Is somebody about to die?”

Calla blinked. “Uh … no, but—”

“Everybody’s busy.” The clerk’s attention went back to her magazine.

It was no wonder Max Banfield was running around free as a bird.

But Calla had been a newspaper reporter in her hometown of Austin before she’d moved to New York and become a features writer. She’d navigated the turbulent waters of Texas politics, she’d interviewed presidents and kings, she’d even gone on safari in Africa last year. And she knew charm would get her further than bullying.

“I know you’re extremely busy,” she said sweetly to the clerk. “But I’m in a bind. I have important information on a fraud case that could really—”

“Are you high?” the clerk asked, nonplussed.

“No, of cour—”

“Do you know it’s Friday night?”

“Yes, of cour—”

“Then go away.”

Okay, maybe charm was overrated.

Before Calla could figure out her next move, a heavyset uniformed officer appeared at the end of the hall.

Calla rushed toward him before anybody in the waiting room could move. “I need to see somebody in the fraud department!”

His gaze flicked over her with a hint of male interest before he rolled his eyes. “Lady, I got—”

“Please. It’s an emergency.”

“It always is.” He sighed and pointed down the hall he’d just emerged from. “Sixth door on the left. See Detective Antonio.”

“Thank you,” Calla breathed, barely resisting the urge to kiss his pudgy cheek.

“Don!” the clerk shouted, leaping to her feet.

“What the hell you want me to do, Mary?” he hollered back. “I got an attempted murder to deal with here.”

Calla barely heard the renewed wailing from the waiting room, she was too busy scooting down the hall.

The sixth door on the left had the pealing, fading letters of Detective Division printed on the smoked glass. Drawing a deep breath and hoping not everybody inside was as cranky as the front-desk clerk, Calla turned the handle.

The room she entered was scattered with several metal desks, each containing a computer monitor and various personal items. A water cooler and coffee station took up most of the space in the back, and directly across from her was a closed office door that read Lieutenant Meyer.

Except for the distant ringing of a phone, it was blessedly quiet.

Better yet, only two people were inside—a woman in a well-worn brown suit, who answered the phone, and a dark-haired man, typing rapidly on a keyboard.

She approached him, confident when she revealed her information, he’d be interested. Detectives moved up the ranks by solving cases, right? Certainly this one would be no exception.

Up close, she realized his hair wasn’t brown but black—thick, wavy and slightly mussed, as if he’d raked his fingers through the locks repeatedly. His hands were large, and his broad shoulders strained against the confines of his wrinkled black shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal darkly tanned and muscular forearms.

This was not a man to be messed with.

“Detective Antonio?” she asked, hating the tentative note in her voice.

After a few more strokes of the keyboard, he lifted his head. His face was handsome and sculpted but hard. His lips might have been full but were flattened at the moment with a scowl. Eyes, green as a shamrock, but imparting none of the cheeriness of Ireland’s symbol, stared back at her with vivid reluctance.

“Yeah?” he returned, giving her a quick look from head to toe.

His expression didn’t soften with the perusal, and she found herself struggling not to be insulted. Granted, it had been a long time since she’d been the Cotton Bowl Queen, but she generally got a spark of interest from most men.

She’d even had her hair highlighted and gotten a glowing spray tan the day before.

Like that matters. Get on with it, girl.

She held out her hand. “I’m Calla Tucker.”

He rose, but not before expelling a tired sigh. “Devin Antonio,” he said, wrapping his hand around hers.

Fire darted through Calla’s body at the touch of his calloused palm. She flinched at the sensation and yanked her hand back, but it continued to tingle in the aftermath. He must have felt something similar since he glanced from her to his own hand and back again.

Now there was heat and anger in his remarkable eyes.

Though the tingling lingered, making her light-headed, she ignored it. She was supposed to be helping Shelby, not flirting.

“Devin,” she said after clearing her throat. “That’s an unusual name for an Italian.”

His scowl deepened. “It’s Irish. My mom was.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. She passed away?”

“Hell if I know.” He extended his hand to the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” she said automatically, though her thoughts were whirling. She’d traveled enough to know war and despair existed everywhere and on many different fronts. But even in abject poverty she’d seen families stick together and work hard to make the most of their circumstances.

She found it incredibly sad that Detective Antonio didn’t know that kind of comfort.

“Reporters are supposed to stay in the press room,” he said shortly.

“I’m not a reporter.” She waved her hand. “Okay, I was at one time. I’m a features writer now. Mostly for travel and lifestyle magazines.”

“And you’re here to do a story on me.” He glanced at his watch. “At seven o’clock on a Friday night?”

“No story, and why does everybody keep reminding me about the day and time? Writers work at all hours. Silly me, I thought the police station was pretty much a 24/7 seven operation.”

“It is, but not for me. I was on my way out.”

“You were typing.”

“Finishing up a report. Are you in some kind of trouble, miss?”

“It’s Calla, and, no, not me. It’s my friend Shelby, specifically her parents.”

Before he could interrupt or, worse, throw her back to the front-desk diva, Calla told him about how the Dixons had given their life savings to Max Banfield, only to see it go into his pocket.

“I’ve got statements from six other couples right here,” she concluded, fishing in her briefcase for the folder containing the transcriptions she’d painstakingly documented from her recorded phone interviews. “They all implicate Maxwell Banfield as the head of the investment company.”

The detective didn’t even glance at the folder she laid on his desk. “Investments come with a risk. I’m sure Mr. Banfield explained that to his clients.”

“But he didn’t even invest the money. Weeks after cashing the check, the phone number he gave was disconnected and the office abandoned.”

“Fraud is a difficult case to prove.”

“Then your job must be pretty damn miserable.”

He stared directly at her. “It has its moments.”

Was that his attempt to compliment her or was she one of the miserable moments? The guy was impossible to read.

“Look, miss, I—”

“Calla.”

“Fine. Calla.” He shoved her folder across the desk. “I’ve got ten open cases to work. And it looks like one of them is going to be transferred to Homicide, since the harbor patrol found my suspect floating in the East River about two hours ago.”

She pushed the folder toward him. “Then you’ll only have nine cases. You’ve got room for one more.”

“No. I’ll have to work with Homicide exclusively for the next few days, catching them up on all the background, which means I’ll be even more backlogged once they take over.”

Frustrated, Calla rose and turned away from him. Shelby and Victoria were right. The only way they were getting results was to get them on their own. She was wasting her time with the hot, angry detective.

“These statements aren’t admissible in court,” he said.

Calla turned. He’d opened her file. Suspicious of his curiosity, she nodded. “I know. I have the digital recordings to back up everything.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. All these people would have to be interviewed by a cop.”

“So interview them.” She glared down at him, feeling better that she had the height advantage. “You guys know something squirrelly’s going on. Mrs. Rosenberg lives right here in the city, and she told me she filed a report with you guys months ago. Why won’t you help?”

“The case crosses state lines. That makes it federal.”

She leaned over, bracing her hand in the center of his desk. “Oh, that’s just crap. Unless Banfield walks into a bank with a loaded pistol, it’ll be years before the Feds get around to this case. And why should he resort to violence anyway? He’s doing just fine, smiling and lying and taking every meager penny these hardworking people have spent their lives earning. It’s unconscionable.”

He stood, taking her advantage with a single movement. “Where the hell are you from?”

“Texas.”

“That explains it.” He raked his hand through his inky hair, just as she’d imagined earlier.

The state of attraction along with dissent was foreign to her. When she liked a guy, she liked him. She had no idea what to make of this encounter. Or of him and where he stood.

“I’m not supposed to tell you what I’m about to,” he said, sounding as aggravated as he looked. “But I don’t want you going all Wyatt Earp on me and shooting down the guy at the local watering hole.”

“Wyatt Earp’s showdown took place in Arizona, not Texas.”

“You’re sure?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Pretty positive. Not to mention that happened about 130 years ago. Texans are independent and self-sufficient, not idiotic.”

“Stubborn comes to mind,” he muttered. “But whatever. I actually know about Banfield. One of our guys interviewed Mrs. Rosenberg, but we couldn’t find anybody else to corroborate her claim.”

“That’s because Banfield moves all over.”

“He’s technically a Brit. And now he’s bought a hotel in midtown.”

For the first time, Calla realized there was more going on behind the detective’s emerald eyes than resentment. “He certainly has.”

He tapped her folder with the tip of his finger. “I’ll look into the statements of the other victims, though you should know that people are reluctant to go on record about being duped.”

“I have complete faith in your powers of persuasion, Detective.”

“I’ll contact you if I have any questions. You got a card?”

She pulled one from the front pocket of her briefcase and handed it to him. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

His mouth twitched on one side, as if he might actually be tempted to smile. “All part of the community-service motto.”

“Good to know.”

She turned to leave without shaking his hand again. She finally felt as if they’d reached an even keel. The last thing she needed was to incite her lust again.

“And, Calla …”

When she turned, she found his perpetual scowl in place—which somehow didn’t lessen his attractiveness. His toughness made him all the more appealing. “Hmm?” she asked, perfectly aware she was staring.

“We’d really rather keep our information to ourselves for now. Let me look into this. No more victim interviews. Don’t go to the press. Don’t approach Banfield, don’t talk about him, don’t contact him in any way. Clear?”

A picture of the party the night before flashed in Calla’s memory. “Oh, sure.” She swallowed. “I imagine the NYPD looks down on vigilantes.”

“You bet your cute Texas ass we do.”

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