“Charley,” she whispered, her voice oozing sex and sweetness

Jane touched his arm with delicate fingers. He swallowed, trying desperately to keep his cool. To not let her see that her touch had sent a jolt through him.

“You’re all I’ve thought about for months. In every dream. In every shower. It’s been you. Just…you.”

It was time to leave. She was his secretary—she had temporary amnesia. She thought they were a couple. Time to run as fast as he could in any direction. But her fingers held him captive.

Her mouth, her moist scarlet lips, curved once more into the smile of a temptress. Those eyes…

Dammit. He grabbed her arms with his hands, pulling her close to his now stirring body. His mouth covered hers and he stole her very breath.

Crazy. He was insane. This situation was insane.

But a loaded pistol couldn’t have stopped him. Hell, a whole army couldn’t have stopped him from making love to his “fiancée.”

Dear Reader,

The idea for Ms. Taken kind of bonked me over the head, much like the little incident that happens to Jane in the story. I was minding my own business and I was “struck” with the notion that sometimes we hide our real, vibrant, charming inner selves because we think we should. That people wouldn’t understand.

And then I thought—so what? Who cares what other people think? Being true to ourselves…ah, that’s something worth fighting for. Worth living for.

Thus Jane was born, filled with doubts, hiding behind a wall of propriety, living the life she was supposed to. Her inner world, however, was filled with lust and love and romance and a particularly yummy boss named Charles.

That is until the fateful day when she was minding her own business and—Oops. I don’t want to spoil the rest. Just let me say that working on THE PERSONAL TOUCH! miniseries was a joy from beginning to end. I hope you see a little of yourself in Jane, and that it won’t take a conk on the head to show you how wonderful you are.

I love to hear from readers. You can contact me at www.joleigh.com.

Best wishes,

Jo Leigh

Books by Jo Leigh

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

699—SINGLE SHERIFF SEEKS

727—TANGLED SHEETS

756—HOT AND BOTHERED

Ms. Taken

Jo Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Debbi and Peter,

for making me (and the kitties)

part of the family.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

1

ONE ORANGE. Five Triscuits. Three baby carrots. One ounce Jarlsberg cheese, cubed. Two Oreo cookies.

Jane Dobson smiled at the perfection that was her lunch. The napkin, a new color for her, blue, had unfolded on her desk in a nice, neat square to reveal each item of food just as she’d packed it this morning. No crumbs. Not a one. That Hello Kitty lunch pail was really doing the job.

Peeling the orange came next, which wasn’t easy because her nails were so short. She tried not to bite them, honestly. But it was hard to catch herself in the act. Mostly, she’d just notice her fingers as she typed, and the nails would be bitten to the quick.

Oh, well. It’s not as if she was a hand model or anything. Besides, short nails made her really fast on the computer. She’d clocked herself at nearly one hundred words-per only last week. Four words more than a month ago.

She ended up biting the orange peel, getting a squirt of that really sour stuff in her mouth. Grimacing, she turned her gaze to her special project, and the bad taste disappeared. Christmas cards were strewn across the right side of her desk. Some were very religious, with angels and wise men and stables. Some were whimsical, with animated reindeer, Santa in all sorts of situations, and several grinning mice. Then there were the more difficult kind. The ones with just words. Oh, sure, the calligraphy was always great, but how many Merry Christmases and Seasons Greetings could she put in her collage?

She popped a cube of cheese into her mouth and chewed it very slowly. She always ate slowly, and it drove her family nuts, but too bad. She wasn’t ashamed of her eccentricities. They made her special.

“Girl, you better not let him see you messing with those cards.”

Jane looked up to see Kadisha King, a friend from the secretarial pool, standing right next to her desk. Kadisha held a manila folder against her chest as if it were top secret. Jane hadn’t even heard her approach. “It’s Christmas.”

“He doesn’t care. Mr. Warren says no personal decorations at the desk, and that’s what he means.”

“Surely Christmas is an exception.”

Kadisha shook her head in that knowing way of hers. “Fine. Do your paper dolls. But do you know how many personal assistants Mr. Warren has had in the last five years?”

Jane shook her head. She’d only been at Warren Industries for a year, and she wasn’t very good at gossip.

“Eleven. You do the math.” Kadisha tapped the manila folder with one perfectly manicured nail. Then she went to Delia’s desk and put the folder in the in box.

Delia Robinson was Mr. Warren’s executive assistant and she was on vacation until January 5, which meant that all the other secretaries had to work overtime. And that Jane got to see Mr. Charles Warren a whole lot more.

At the thought, the myriad cards on her right faded away. She continued to eat her food, but she didn’t taste it. She might as well have had a sign around her neck: Preoccupied. Check Back in Ten Minutes. All she could see was Charles. Her poor, sweet, misunderstood Charles.

He smiled at her in that adorable, gruff way. A stranger would have thought nothing of it, but Jane…she knew the smile was an extraordinary event. It was filled with love, with mischief, with gratitude. Charles said it himself—what would he do without her?

He turned to their Christmas tree, a massive Douglas fir fit for the White House, and put an ornament on a limb. She shook her head, teasing him gently, then moved the ornament up half an inch.

“Of course,” Charles said, his voice filled with adoration and admiration. “That’s the perfect spot. I never would have seen it. Is there nothing you can’t do?”

She blushed demurely, which always drove Charles wild. He pulled her into his arms and—

The buzz, so loud it probably woke up half of New Jersey, slashed through her daydream. She looked down to find nothing but orange peel on her napkin. Hmm. She didn’t remember anything past peeling. But there was no time to wonder about all that.

Grabbing her notebook, she dashed past Delia’s fortress of a desk to Mr. Warren’s office. Before she entered the great man’s domain, she straightened her skirt—tartan, on sale at Barneys for twenty-two dollars, and you couldn’t even see the stain. She adjusted her mohair sweater, five dollars at Goodwill, thank you very much. And of course, she made sure her tartan beret was at the perfect jaunty angle. When she was certain everything was tip-top, she knocked quietly on the thick wooden door, then stepped through the portal.

It wasn’t until she was inside that she remembered to check her teeth for lipstick. She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could, then nonchalantly ran a finger quickly over her teeth. Good. He hadn’t seen. In fact, he hadn’t looked at her at all.

She headed for his massive teak desk, so highly shined it was almost a mirror. With each silent step across the thick gray carpet her heart pounded harder in her chest. The closer she got, the more difficult it was to breathe. Luckily, even when she was as close as she could get, she was really quite far from the man himself. You could land a plane on this desk. “Yes, sir?”

He didn’t look up for a long moment. Long enough for her to drink in the sight of him. He wasn’t classically handsome; his face was too flawed for that. But it was the flaws that drew her to him. The slightly crooked nose, the small scar on his forehead. His eyes were perfect, however. Dark brown, penetrating. Captivating. And when he smiled it was sheer heaven. He wasn’t terribly tall, maybe six feet, but he had one of those wiry, strong bodies. She’d seen his bare arms once, when he’d rolled up his sleeves. They were corded with muscle and sinew and had been a major part of her dreams ever since.

“I need you to take some dictation.”

She jumped, but just a little. “Yes, sir,” she said as she went to the small chair in front and to the right of the desk. She crossed her legs, making sure her skirt crawled up her thigh so much and no more. Then she put her pad on her knee and smiled brightly. He just kept reading the papers on his desk.

“Take this down exactly—Holly Baskin, late of Vassar, call C.W.”

Jane looked up, pen poised. “Go on.”

“There is no more. I want you to type that up and, first thing tomorrow morning, take it to the offices of Attitudes magazine. I want it in the December 18 issue.”

“In the personals?”

“Yes.”

“Holly Baskin?”

He spelled both names slowly. Then he looked at Jane. Maybe glanced would be a better word. But there was no fooling her. She’d seen the unmistakable passion in his dark, dark eyes. He loved her. He did. He just didn’t know it yet.

So, who was Holly Baskin? Why would Charles, of all people, have to find her in the personal ads? At least Attitudes was an upscale magazine, glossy and terribly hip—must-have reading for those in the know. The ads ran to Beemers and PalmPilots. But the real popularity of the magazine was in “The Personal Touch,” the column where twice every month, Gen Xers paid $4.98 to find love, spurn love, make friends, blast friends. The city had been enamored with “The Personal Touch” for years now, some people making it their goal in life to have the coolest ad. Jane bought the magazine from time to time, when she could afford it, and, after she’d read the ads, she’d cut out pictures of things she wanted for her dream home.

But that wasn’t important now. The ad was. Holly Baskin. Was she an old friend? From his Harvard days, perhaps? Maybe she was a business associate. A lover? Oh, please, not that.

Jane studied Charles, searching for clues. Nothing. His gaze was inscrutable. Beautiful, yes, but still not easy to read.

“Ms. Dobson?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you still here?”

She snapped out of it, trying like hell to look as if she hadn’t been caught with her pants down, so to speak. Giving him one of her best smiles, she got up and backed away until her butt hit the door. His gaze stayed on her as she fumbled with the knob, then dropped her pad, but halfway to picking it up, he went back to his papers. She scurried out, closed the door and sagged against the frame.

Not a particular success, that. He rattled her so. Of course, he hadn’t meant to. It was her own fault, really. But couldn’t he just once smile?

As she headed back to her desk she glanced down at the name on her notepad. Holly Baskin. Holly. It didn’t seem the kind of name Charles would go for. With his firm footing in the world he needed a woman with a stronger name. A traditional name. Jane, for example.

The phone rang and she hurried the last few steps to her desk. “Mr. Warren’s office.”

“Hi, Janey.”

“Oh, hi, Darra.” Jane sat down, propping the notebook open before her. “How are you?”

“Great. Listen, I wanted to let you know that we’re opening another restaurant three weeks from Sunday. It’s not far from your office.”

Jane put her pad facedown on the desk and gave her sister her whole attention. Darra never invited her to any of her celebrity-studded events. She and three other models, whose combined income could wipe out the national debt, had opened five restaurants, subtly named Haute Couture. They’d done so without Jane’s attendance, so what was different this time?

“Jane? Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Would you like to come?”

“Me?”

“Of course you, silly. It’s about time you saw what I’ve been up to.”

“I’ve been to the restaurant in SoHo.”

“You have?” Darra cleared her throat, but from her it sounded sophisticated, sexy even. “How did you like it?”

“It was nice. Very, uh, modern.”

“Good. Now, I can mark you down as a definite?”

“I think so. What’s the date?”

“December 23. It’s a Sunday.”

Jane had flipped the pages on her calendar to see that she had nothing jotted on the twenty-third. Or the whole week, for that matter.

“And Janey?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe you could, you know, ask your boss if he wanted to come, too. As our guest, of course.”

A feeling as familiar to her as breathing hit her chest: disappointment, dark gray and sticky, her old friend, her childhood companion. It was as if she were full to bursting and empty, both at the same time. Merry Christmas, Janey. “Mr. Warren has a very busy schedule,” Jane said, her voice not even hinting at her condition.

“But couldn’t you even ask?”

“Why?”

“Because…because he’s just the kind of clientele we’re looking for. If he likes it, maybe he’ll come back. And bring his friends.”

“He won’t.”

“He won’t what?”

“Be able to come. I just looked at his calendar. He’ll be out of the country.”

“Damn it.”

“But I’ll tell him about it when he comes back.”

“Thanks,” Darra said, and Jane could practically see her patented pout. It was a doozy of a pout, and it had made her sister a household name. Gorgeous Darra, whose face haunted Jane from billboards all over Manhattan.

“Put it there.”

Jane almost asked her sister what she was talking about, but then she realized the comment hadn’t been addressed to her. It was probably for Darra’s boyfriend, Guy. He pronounced it “Gee,” like some French baron or something when Jane knew perfectly well that he’d been raised in Omaha, Nebraska. Oh well. Guy pronounced “Gee” went better with Darra, whose real name was Darlene.

“I gotta run, Janey. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye,” she said, but the phone cut her off. It wasn’t that Darra meant to be mean. She really didn’t. She just had this rather myopic view of the world. Copernicus be hanged; Darra was the center of the universe. At least when she wasn’t around their other sisters.

The remarkable Dobson girls. Jane’s eldest sister, Pru, had just finished a triumphant concert series with the Boston Symphony. Just days ago Jane had seen a little piece on her in the Times, about how her precious violin had been stolen. It turned up the next day, and Jane would bet the price of the Stradivarius that Pru had lost the damn thing. She was notorious for misplacing stuff.

Then there was Felicity. Two years younger than Pru, and already on the USA Today bestseller list. “The novelist of our generation,” according to People magazine. All Jane knew was that Felicity hadn’t answered her last three letters.

Darra came next. She’d started modeling at fourteen, and then there was that Sports Illustrated cover and she’d become a supermodel. As if that was a word.

Three incredible, beautiful, talented girls, all in a row. And then came Jane. Tone-deaf Jane. Moderately attractive Jane. Mediocre Jane, who was best known in New York society for not being her sisters. When she was mentioned, someone inevitably mentioned her hats.

Her hats.

With a deep sigh, Jane let go of her familial thoughts and turned to something far more interesting. Holly Baskin. It was a puzzle worthy of a woman like herself. Who was this Holly Baskin? Why didn’t Charles have her phone number? What part had she played in his past? Was she beautiful? Of course she was.

Jane typed the ad, printed it, took it back to her desk and decided it was all wrong. Holly wouldn’t be intrigued enough by such a sterile request. What it needed was some pizzazz.

Her fingers flew across her keyboard as she typed and deleted and typed and deleted until she came up with the perfect ad. Not too much, not too little. Holly wouldn’t be able to resist.

The phone book came out, and Jane called to get the address and hours for Attitudes magazine. Of course, she’d thought about placing the ad via phone or e-mail, but that was too impersonal. This was for Charles, and it had to be done exactly right. In person. Besides, she hadn’t decided which ad to use, which was a major big deal.

After she hung up, she called the switchboard, alerting them to the fact that she would be an hour or so late tomorrow morning. And then she took both ads, his and hers, and put them in her purse. There was the afternoon to get through. She had some reports to type up and some filing to do. But first, she picked up her notepad one more time.

Holly Baskin. She didn’t sound at all like someone Charles would love. But what if…?

AS SHE WAITED, Jane read her ad, then his ad, then her ad again. Hers was poetic, sincere, moving. His was bare and cold and clinical. She pictured herself as Holly Baskin, seeing the ad for the first time. The one in her left hand—the one Jane had written herself—would pique her interest instantly. No way would she overlook it. But his ad? No romance whatsoever. No promise of a sparkling future.

It was Jane’s turn at the desk. The woman behind it didn’t seem to like her job very much. She hadn’t smiled once, barely spoke, and her brow seemed permanently furrowed.

“I’d like to place a personal ad, please.”

The woman frowned. “You have it written out?”

Jane nodded, knowing she had to make her decision now. This instant.

“Well? I haven’t got all day.”

Jane knew her ad would bring Holly back into Charles’s life. She knew it with absolute certainty.

She handed the woman the other ad.

She wasn’t stupid, for heaven’s sake.

THE DOW WAS DOWN five points and Charles had a headache. One was not caused by the other. It only seemed that way.

It was eleven-thirty. Maybe he should take some aspirin and call it a night. He eyed the paperwork strewn across his bed. If he quit now, he’d just have more to do in the morning.

He decided to go with the aspirin, however. Putting his lap desk to the side, he headed for the bathroom. Fourteen million for the Riverside complex, and that was just for starters. The architectural firm was a good one, the prospectus top-notch, and yet there was something about the deal that bothered him. Whatever it was, it had better come to the fore soon. The papers were due on the twenty-first.

He turned the light on in the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. The aspirin bottle shared space with antacids: chewable, caplet and liquid form. The rest of the cupboard was bare. The women in his life were always trying to fill this particular cabinet, and Charles had disposed of a plethora of miracle herbs, god-awful colognes and even the occasional feminine hygiene product. Finally, it appeared that his housekeeper had gotten the hint. And since she was the only woman currently in his life, he had his agreeably spare cabinet back.

He took three aspirin, turned off the light and went back to bed. MSNBC was still on, but it wasn’t financial news. It took him a moment to get settled, then he started rereading the Riverside deal.

Not five minutes later, the phone rang. Charles sighed. There were only two people in the world who would call him at this hour. David, or his mother calling from the cruise ship. He hoped it was David.

“Darling, you’ll never guess!”

“Hello, Mother.”

“I won!”

“What did you win?”

“The costume contest. I was number one on the whole ship. It was a triumph. The applause…Oh, Charles I wish you could have been there.”

“I wish I could have, too, Mother.” His gaze fell on the thick file on his lap, then the clock. It was no use fighting it. He’d simply get up a half hour earlier tomorrow. He closed the file, then leaned back. “Tell me about it,” he said.

His mother did just that. In excruciating detail. She’d worn her hair up and used a charming little Hermès scarf across her forehead to give her the look of a flapper. He heard about her dress, her bag, her shoes, her dinner. On and on. When she’d pause he’d say something. Nothing much, just an acknowledgment that he was indeed still there. Still listening.

But his mind did wander. Not too far, or she’d have guessed. Just to his day, then, naturally, to the decision he’d made last Friday. As his mother waxed lavish praise on the lobster claw hors d’oeuvres, he toyed with the idea of telling her. What an uproar he’d cause from here to the Caribbean. She’d tell him he mustn’t go back to Holly. That he needed someone who had a heart. A soul. His mother was very big on souls.

What she didn’t understand was that Holly was exactly what he needed. Her no-nonsense approach to life suited him. She knew how to entertain, and she was savvy enough about business to make any dinner conversation flow. She was attractive, she came from a good family. What he couldn’t remember was exactly why they’d split up. It had been a few years. Probably something to do with his father’s death. That had been a difficult time. But Charles had survived. He’d taken over the company. He’d taken over the care of his mother. Now it was time for the next phase. A wife. A child. He’d be thirty-two soon. By then, he wanted this marriage business over and done with.

It all depended on whether Holly still read that damned magazine. Why she’d left no forwarding address or phone number with her last landlord, he couldn’t fathom. Her parents had died several years ago, and she had no siblings. He’d tried finding her through the alumni association, the Harvard club. He’d even called Le Cirque to ask the maître d’ if he’d seen her.

The only information Charles had was that she’d been living abroad. Maybe she was back in the States, or maybe not. Wherever she was, she’d subscribe to Attitudes. When he’d known her, it had been her favorite reading material.

“Darling?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“You didn’t answer me. Are you reading the Wall Street Journal while I’m talking to you?”

“No. Of course not. I was just distracted by this headache.”

“Did you take something for it?”

“Yes.”

“Chamomile tea will do wonders. You should brew some up right away.”

“That’s a great idea. As soon as we’re done, I’ll do just that.”

Her sigh carried across the ship-to-shore phone line. “You won’t. But I can’t do anything about that, can I?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you think I’m a crackpot, with crackpot ideas. Imagine, winning a costume party at my age.”

“If you like it, there’s nothing wrong with it. You’ve earned your fun, Mother.”

“I suppose. Kim and Molly are taking good care of me. You don’t have to worry.”

He winced. She wasn’t supposed to know about Kim and Molly. They’d been hired to keep a discreet eye on his mother. They’d obviously done a poor job of it.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Stop pouting. You knew I would figure it out sooner or later. You’re nothing if not predictable, Charles. Now go to bed. It’s far too late for you to be up. You need to sleep.”

“Good night, Mother.”

“I’ll call again soon.”

He put the phone down and thought about opening the Riverside file again. For once, though, he obeyed his mother. He put away his reports and papers and headed off to brush his teeth. He must remember to set his alarm for four-thirty instead of five.

As he got down to the business of preparing for sleep, he tried to remember the specifics of his breakup with Holly. He’d instigated the proceedings, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why. It was probably nothing. Nothing at all. She’d make a fine mother to his children. A very capable wife. And, if his memory wasn’t playing tricks on him, she was very capable in bed, too.

He just hoped she’d answer him soon, or he’d have to hire a private detective. Charles wanted to be married soon. If he couldn’t find Holly, it would mean looking for someone new. The thought made him shudder.

It would have been so much easier for him if Mrs. Robinson hadn’t gone off to Idaho for the holidays. Or was it Ohio? He didn’t recall. His work was getting done, but everything took far more of his time than he cared to give. At least that girl—what was her name? Joan? At least she had a firm grip on the English language, and she could spell. Granted, it wasn’t much. But his luck with employees had never been stellar. For now, she’d do.

2

THE DAY THE AD CAME OUT, Jane got up with the sun. Streams of light flowed into the room, buzzing with tiny dancers, the flotsam and jetsam that filled the world and filled her with each breath. She liked knowing she had company all the time, even if it was microscopic.

Her dreams had been delicious, all about Charles and her. Her and Charles. The season had affected him, or was it just the nearness of her? Probably both. He’d been so tender.

Shivering in anticipation, she pushed off her blankets, all three of them, and sat up, her feet immediately searching for her fuzzy slippers. The floor was always painfully cold in the morning, dull wood that seemed to hug the chill like an old friend. But she couldn’t afford to heat the place when she slept. Manhattan might be a magical city, but it was also expensive as hell. She could have mitigated her circumstances by sharing a room with, say, one or ten other people, but that wasn’t for her. She needed her own space, and her little shoe box of an apartment was as private as could be.

Grabbing her robe from the end of the bed, she found her teeth clattering loudly as she headed for the bathroom. This was the worst place in the apartment. The coldest. But she’d worked out a system where her behind never had to actually touch the seat. Creative. That’s what you needed to be in New York. Creative and warm-blooded.

After the loo, which sounded so much nicer to her ears than bathroom, she walked down the short hallway, eager to see her Christmas tree in the morning light. It was so beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, of course. But then, traditional beauty had never appealed to her.

She turned the corner and her gaze fell on the couch, covered with a wonderful old afghan that she’d found at a rummage sale to hide the aged patches and stains. Then the tree, her tree, listing a bit to the right, missing more needles than it should, but decorated with all the love and care she had in her. She’d made bows and sewn little hanging cloth baskets, which she’d filled with candy canes. And she’d made the most adorable fabric frame ornaments, putting a picture of someone she loved in each one.

Of course, Charles’s picture was given the place of honor. Although none of the decorations would claim more than a nickel at the flea market, they meant a lot to her, and that was what really mattered, right?

So what if others couldn’t see what she saw? So what if they thought she had a screw loose? Her vision held wonders, and that’s what made it worthwhile to get up every morning.

It had always been like that. Her poor parents had never understood her. They’d had their nice Long Island life, filled with worries about the right schools and the right clothes and the right friends. Her mother had planned great things for her daughters, and only Jane had disappointed. She’d tried to get through law school, honestly, but it wasn’t her. She’d ended up daydreaming in class, getting into trouble. So what if she hadn’t found her niche yet? There was still time, for heaven’s sake. She was only twenty-six. She had her whole life in front of her.

Only, sometimes she worried that she was spending a little too much time thinking about Charles. Despite the way she looked at the world, she was just Jane, after all. Not Pru, not Felicity, not Darra. Just Jane. Maybe it would be more productive to daydream about men she stood a chance with.

She sighed as she stepped over to her kitchen counter, pressed the button on her coffeemaker, then leaned over the tiny table and turned on her shower. It actually wasn’t bad, having the tub in the kitchen. She could cook breakfast and get clean at the same time. She wondered what Charles was doing now. As if it mattered. But still, what was the harm in wondering? Of course, his bathrooms would be extravagantly large. His kitchen bigger than her whole apartment. Not that she’d been to his place, but she knew him and his taste. It wouldn’t surprise her if he had one of those bathtubs. You know, the kind with the steps and the Jacuzzi whirlpool nozzles?

She wandered over to the radiator and banged it a few times with a tire iron she’d found on Forty-second Street. The gurgle from the basement told her heat was on its meandering way. Then it was back to the shower, which would be warm enough by now. She tossed off her clothes and scurried into the tub, pulling the circular shower curtain around her.

Halfway through washing, she forgot the business with the tree. She forgot that she was just Jane. Instead, she was in the shower with him. He washed her hair with his long, strong fingers. Her knees grew weak as she leaned slightly back to feel his wet, warm body against her spine….

CHARLES ADJUSTED his gray silk tie, then picked up his hairbrush. The speakerphone in the bathroom hummed with white noise while he waited for David to come back on the line.

“You still there?”

“Yes.” Charles finished the last of his ablutions. “And I’m leaving in about two seconds.”

“Oh, keep your shorts on. It was an important errand.”

“Your coffee?”

“Yes.”

“For God’s sake, David, you know—”

“I know you don’t like distractions in the morning, but too bad. I need to know what you’re doing on Christmas Eve.”

“It’s not for a week. I don’t know yet.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know yet? Your life is planned so far in advance you probably know the day you’re going to die.”

“I don’t know, David.”

“Well, figure it out. Sarah wants you to come to dinner, and she won’t leave me alone until I get it confirmed.”

“Why don’t you tell your sister she needs to get out more?”

“This from a man whose last date was what, a year ago?”

“David, I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait. First tell me if today’s the day.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Does the ad come out today?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do if she calls?”

“I’m going to answer the phone.”

“Ha ha. Very amusing.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t you do it! Don’t—”

He did. David would get over it. His former roommate and closest friend had several annoying habits, like calling in the morning when Charles needed the line free for his brokers. The Asian market didn’t care about his Christmas plans, and neither, frankly, did Charles. The holidays were highly overrated and damned inconvenient. Business ground to a halt each year for the weeks before, during and after. But then, this year might be different. What he hadn’t mentioned to David was that he hoped to be getting married during the lull. If Holly called. If she wasn’t married already. If…

What the hell was he doing?

The thought came from nowhere, the words not even his. It was David in his head, warning him away from his very sensible plan. David, who thought his license as a psychiatrist gave him some kind of unique insight into the human condition. But David was a sentimentalist.

Still, the echo of a doubt lingered. Charles had never figured out why he’d broken up with Holly. That was all. Once they met again, it wouldn’t matter.

At least, he hoped it wouldn’t matter. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was date. The mere word made him quake with dread. The fact was, he was bad at it. He didn’t like to do things he was bad at.

He left the bathroom and found his breakfast on the dining room table: a six-minute egg, one slice of unbuttered toast and coffee. The New York Times was already laid out, courtesy of Ellen, his housekeeper, who was at that moment putting away dishes from the dishwasher.

“Morning, Mr. Warren,” she said.

He nodded as he took his seat, then his gaze landed on the headlines. Ellen vanished as he started to read.

ONE CHICKEN LEG. Seven cashews. Three celery stalks. An apple. Half a sesame bagel. Excellent. Jane closed her lunch pail and flicked the lock into place. She’d go by the newsstand before she hit the subway. The ad was due out today. A shiver of apprehension raced up her spine when she thought about Holly Baskin. Would she read the magazine? Would she look in the personals? Would she call?

As Jane trotted down all six flights of stairs leading to the street, she wondered yet again if she should have substituted her want ad for his. She didn’t like to think of herself as selfish. But then, Charles didn’t even know she’d written an alternate ad, so where was the harm? She’d done as he’d requested. Period. No explanations would be needed.

Even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, she still felt guilty. Not robbing-a-bank guilty, but enough to make her uncomfortable. If she really loved him, she would have substituted her ad for his. Because with real love, you’re supposed to care more for the other person than you do for yourself, right?

She did love him, that much she knew. But sometimes it wasn’t easy. He was so busy. Under such stress. He worked too hard, that’s for sure. And he laughed way too seldom.

She walked out onto the street and pulled on her gloves as she headed toward the corner. The snow under her feet had turned mushy and brown, slippery, too. It was a good thing she’d left a few minutes early. Charles hated anyone being late. It was really a thing with him. It wouldn’t do her a bit of good to use getting his magazine as an excuse. Lateness, according to Charles, had no excuse.

At least she had time to look at the Christmas decorations in the windows. Her mother was appalled that she lived in Harlem, positive Jane would end up dead in some alley, but her mother didn’t understand Brand Avenue. Although Jane hadn’t met many of her neighbors, the ones she did know were as nice as they could be. Mrs. Franklin, who lived over the butcher shop, had helped her find some gorgeous velvet once, which Jane had used to make her favorite purse. Teddy at the newsstand sometimes liked to talk about books. Very nice people, indeed. Real people.

Even the butcher shop looked festive this morning with all its pretty decorations. The dead chickens hanging in the window almost looked like reindeer.

“Good morning, Miss Jane.”

“Hi, Teddy. How are you?”

The older man, she had no idea how old, shook his head. “Not great, Jane. Not great.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’ but old. Old hurts.”

“It doesn’t have to. I know you don’t eat well, and I’ll wager you don’t take any vitamins, either.”

“Vitamins? Are you crazy? You don’t know what they put in them things. They’re hauling pills off the counters every day.”

“You’re talking about herbs. I’m talking One-A-Day multiples.”

“The only thing I need once a day is a piece of apple pie.”

“My point exactly.”

He grinned at her, at the argument they’d had a hundred times. She wished he would take better care, though.

“What can I get you today?”

“I need a copy of Attitudes.”

“That all?”

“That’s all.”

He gave her the magazine and she gave him five dollars. When he turned to ring up her change, she darted away. “Hey!”

“Have a good day!” she called over her shoulder. Then she waved as she walked down the subway steps.

CHARLES UNLOCKED his office door, then flipped on the light switch. He liked being the first one in. Normally, Mrs. Robinson would have been here, would have had his coffee ready along with his agenda. But he wasn’t helpless. He knew how to make coffee, and he knew how to work a calendar. He missed his routine, that’s all. He liked it when the world worked like a well-oiled machine.

He put his briefcase down, then took off his coat and his kidskin gloves. Ben, his driver, had had to drop him off down the street this morning, and Charles’s shoes had paid the price. The construction on the building had become increasingly annoying, and he wished they’d finish. It wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, though, so he’d better make a note to wear his galoshes for a while.

In the meantime, he had to go to his washroom and work for a considerable time to repair the damage to the Italian leather. When he finished, he made coffee, and the moment he turned on the machine, the phone rang.

For Charles, the sound was like the gun at the start of a race, sending him into his day. It would be Frank Toyamichi calling from Japan. Charles had an appointment with Bob Riverside and his people at nine. Lunch, as usual, at Charlemagne. His attorneys were due this afternoon, and tonight David was taking him to an auction at Christie’s where he hoped to purchase a rocking chair that had once belonged to Jack Kennedy.

“Charles Warren,” he said into the speaker phone as he settled into his chair.

“Mr. Warren. It’s Frank. I have the numbers for you.”

Charles glanced at the clock. It was exactly sevenfifteen. Frank was a good man. A punctual man. Charles liked things punctual.

SHE WAS LATE. The subway train had been delayed more than ten minutes several miles before her Wall Street station. She’d passed the time reading the magazine in her lap, returning again and again to the personals. To the unadorned ad. “Holly Baskin, late of Vassar, call C.W.”

Holly. Certainly an appropriate name for the season. She’d be blond, of course. Or maybe her hair would be chestnut. Those Vassar girls liked chestnut.

She’d be beautiful, too. Slender, with good ankles and perky B cups. She’d have impeccable taste in all things. She’d know the right restaurants, the right wine, the right jewelers, the right people. She’d be the perfect complement to everything that Charles was. Only…

Only she wouldn’t love him the way Jane did. She couldn’t. If she had, she never would have left him. Not for anything. Only a fool would leave Charles Warren.

Holly wouldn’t understand his need for laughter. She wouldn’t see that his was a cautious soul that needed lots of loving care. Poor Charles didn’t want anyone to see his vulnerability, and Holly, who might be very attractive and speak umpteen languages, was too selfish to look beyond the facade. The only one, Jane thought, who had an inkling about the real Charles was David Levinson. He came to the office a couple of times a month, and he never failed to ask her how she was, and about her latest project. He was so nice. Such a sweetie pie. He never rushed his conversations, even if Charles tried to hurry him up.

She could see that David was worried about Charles, just as she was. And that David wasn’t having any luck getting Charles to see he had to slow down. But then, David was just a friend. Not a girlfriend. Not a wife.

The train started with a jerk and before she had a chance to fix her lipstick, she arrived at Pearl Street. Jane hustled out with about a million other people who were just as late as she was. No one spoke to each other, no one looked at each other. As far as she could see in this mass of humanity, there wasn’t one smile.

It was too near Christmas for such dour moods. She wished she was brave enough to say something. Just to holler, “Lighten up!” But then someone shoved her in the back, and she nearly stumbled. She sighed. Sometimes it was difficult to keep a positive attitude.

On the street, she breathed in a healthy dose of fresh air. But there was no time to appreciate the morning smells of doughnuts and coffee coming from the cart next to her. She had to run if she was going to make it to the office on time.

She dashed across the street with all the other pedestrians, dodging taxis and limos. The chorus of horns was anything but festive. She didn’t understand the honking. It never changed anything. Maybe all those drivers were just trying to be heard. A primal cry, desperate in its futility.

One of those desperate souls nearly ran her over, and she teetered on the edge of the sidewalk for a moment. No one noticed.

She walked as quickly as she dared, nearing the huge office building in the heart of Wall Street. Somewhere among all the noise and hubbub she heard the jingle of a bell. A street-corner Santa. That made things a little easier to take.

One more street crossed, and then she was under the scaffolding, pushing through the throng of office workers huddled in their heavy coats, their gloved hands thrust in pockets or gripping briefcases.

Again she was bumped. A man on a cell phone. Just as she was about to give him a piece of her mind, a scream, “Watch out!” made her look up.

Something was falling—

It hit her on the head. White light filled her vision and agony turned her legs to mush. Then the white faded to black, and that was all.

HER HEAD HURT. When she opened her eyes, the light hurt, too. “Ouch.”

“Good, you’re awake.”

“Huh?” She blinked, trying to figure out who was talking to her. A man in a coat. A white coat.

“You’re in an emergency room. I’m Dr. Larson. You were hit on the head.”

“I was?” She touched her forehead gingerly, but all she felt was a bandage.

“It’s amazing you’re alive. That was quite a blow.”

“What was?”

“This,” he said, holding up a plaster statuette. After a long moment she realized it was a Cupid. Complete with bow and arrow. Except the right wing was broken and his feet were missing.

“I was hit in the head by Cupid?”

“By about two pounds of plaster.”

“Am I all right?”

“I don’t know yet. Let’s find out, shall we?”

She nodded. Big mistake. Her head throbbed with an ungodly pain, the worst she’d ever felt. For a moment, the blackness threatened. She clung to something cold as steel as she struggled to focus her vision.

The doctor’s concerned look didn’t help matters any. Maybe she was really hurt. Seriously hurt. “It’s all right,” she said finally, knowing that it wasn’t. “I’m okay.”

“Why don’t we let me be the judge of that?” He helped her sit, and it was then she realized she was on a gurney and her hand had been gripping the rail. Her skirt was torn and damp, her sweater dirty. The lump of black wool on the chair by the curtain must be her coat.

“Look at my finger.”

She did, following the digit from right to left and back again. Then the doctor shone a light in her eyes, which made the throbbing worse.

When she could see again, she saw the doctor was young. Thirty? Maybe. Probably a resident. Or an intern. He was pretty good-looking, too. Tres ER.

His little rubber thingy hit her knee, and from the sound of the doctor’s “humph” she gathered her reactions were normal. As he wrote on his clipboard, she noticed a little bit of shaving cream on his jaw just below his ear.

Her hand went to that spot on her own face, hoping he’d catch on. She didn’t want to tell him. He seemed very nice, but also shy, and she had the feeling he would be embarrassed.

“All right, then. Let’s move on. What’s your name?”

Her gaze jerked up, making her wince. Her name. Her name. Why on earth couldn’t she think of it? “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“Uh…”

“Yes?”

“Well. Um, I can’t seem to recall.”

“You can’t seem to recall what?”

She smiled. Laughed, although it really wasn’t funny. “My name.”

His whole body language changed from relaxed to red alert. “I see,” he said, failing to calm her with his words.

“You see what?” Her stomach clenched and it suddenly was hard to breathe. She recognized the signs of a panic attack, and she hadn’t had one in years. Why did she know that, and not her name?

“What’s your mother’s name?”

Nothing came. Her mind was a blank.

“Brothers, sisters? Your father?”

She closed her eyes, focusing every ounce of her energy on not screaming.

“You didn’t come in with a purse. And there was nothing in your pockets.”

His voice faded a bit, and when she opened her eyes again he was standing by her coat.

“This was in your hand.” He held up a glossy magazine. Attitudes.

And then it hit her. She nearly swooned with relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“Yes?”

“I remember. Of course. Wow, that was scary.”

“What is it?”

“My name?”

He nodded.

“It’s Holly. Holly Baskin.”

3

LARRY PODESKY, Bob Riverside’s attorney, wetted the tip of his finger slowly, then used that finger to turn to the next page of the legal brief. He went on reading line by painful line in a voice better suited to mortuary work than high finance. The mildly disturbing tableau wasn’t enough, however, to focus Charles.

The damn girl hadn’t even called. That’s what got him. The simple courtesy of a phone call this morning and everything would have been fine. He’d have had time to get a suitable temp, someone who knew how to make palatable coffee, who wouldn’t spill water all over Riverside’s pants. Things would have gone according to plan.

“…the party of the first part, will make appropriate restitution to landowners…”

Charles tried to focus on the contract, but his attention was waylaid by four drops of water on the conference table. Remnants of the mishap of an hour ago, they were perfect bubbles, contained within themselves, shimmering when Podesky jostled the table. For God’s sake, millions of dollars were at stake, and he was busy thinking about beads of water. He dismissed them, turned his attention to the pages before him, but every few words his gaze would dart over to the drops. It was all he could do not to leap out of his chair and blot the water before it could torment him further.

Damn it. Podesky might as well have been speaking Greek. Charles couldn’t listen, hadn’t been able to listen from the start.

He’d have to postpone his decision, that’s all. Which wasn’t a bad idea when he thought about it. Something was amiss here, and in his distraction, the only hint he’d had was the fact that Riverside’s face was a dull pink. Not just some of his face. All of it had a distinct rosy hue. Having met Riverside several times before, Charles knew this wasn’t the man’s normal complexion. The temperature in the office was a cool seventy-two, so what was making the man so nervous?

Charles was pleased he’d thought to do a little digging into Riverside’s past. If there were skeletons to be found, his man Sterling would find them. The importance of today was to listen well, get his own take on the man and the deal.

Unfortunately, he’d failed miserably on both accounts.

“…two-hundred seventy thousand dollars, to be held at Chase Manhattan Bank until such t—” Podesky stopped midword as his gaze jerked to the door of the conference room. Riverside followed suit and reacted with an open mouth and widening eyes.

Charles spun in his chair to see what the hell—

Ms. Dobson? Joan Dobson? With a white bandage on her forehead? With a dirty, torn skirt and blouse? With only one shoe?

She swept into the room like a strong gust of wind, heading straight for him. Her arms spread expansively and a smile lit her smudged face. “Charley!”

Charley?

She swooped down on him, giving him no chance to escape, and for a moment he wondered if she was going to kill him. It was obvious she’d gone off the deep end. He tensed, but instead of a knife in his ribs, he got a kiss on the mouth.

He would have preferred the knife.

She kissed him deeply, her full lips squarely on his, her body bent at such an angle that his head was forced back against his leather chair. Her hands landed on his shoulders, the touch there almost as shocking and intimate as her kiss. That is, until he felt the unmistakable wetness of her tongue.

He opened his mouth to protest, but a second later he realized his error. Her tongue, Ms. Dobson’s tongue, slipped into his mouth. Searching, teasing, it moved sinuously against his teeth, his own tongue. The indecency, the impudence shocked him so fiercely that he forgot how to breathe.

He moved his head, but she moved with him, a low rumble from her throat making it sound as if his attempt at escape was something entirely different. As if he’d moved to please her.

His hands found her shoulders somehow, and he pushed her back, but not before she nipped his lower lip. She straightened slowly, her smile mischievous, her eyes alight with what Charles could only guess was insanity. She must have been in a terrible accident that had caused her to lose all sense of propriety.

“I saw it, Charley,” she said, her intimate whisper sending aftershocks through his body. “I saw the personals. It was so clever of you to think of that. You knew I’d read it, didn’t you? And you knew I’d drop everything to be with you.”

He opened his mouth as he struggled to understand. But before he was able to say a word, she’d turned to Riverside and his attorney.

“Please forgive my intrusion,” she said. “But love makes for foolish choices sometimes. You see, Charley and I, we’re going to be married.”

Riverside cleared his throat. “Pardon?”

She laughed, the sound so out of place Charles wondered if he was dreaming. “I’m Holly Baskin,” she said as she walked around the table to where Riverside sat. “I know I must look terrible, but I couldn’t wait to get here. In fact, I left everything behind.” She turned to Charles, and the way she looked at him sent a shiver of fear down his spine. “I’ll need to get some things, sweetie, if you don’t mind.”

Holly Baskin? What in hell…? He shook his head, wondering if he should call the police or Bellevue or both. David. David would know what to do. He dealt with crazy people all the time.

Ms. Dobson sighed, her gaze all moony, like a love-sick calf. On the other hand, maybe that’s what people looked like when they were about to go over the edge. He opened his mouth to order her out of his office, but before he could say the first word she’d dashed to him once more, her blond curls bobbing merrily. Why had she said she was Holly? Blackmail? Dementia? Worse?

“I’ve got to go get something decent to wear, but then I’ll meet you at your place later. We have so much to talk about.”

He leaned forward.

She bent over him, stealing his protest with another kiss.

The next second she straightened, smiled, then she was out the door. He should follow her. See that she didn’t steal anything, shoot anyone, jump out any windows. At the very least he should be on the phone with the police. But that last kiss…

It had affected him. Embarrassingly. Visibly. If he stood…

He shifted his chair up against the conference table. Riverside and his attorney stared at him with un-abashed shock. Riverside’s once pink hue was now closer to scarlet, and Podesky’s papers had fallen off the table.

Charles cleared his throat. Then again. “I’m sorry about that, gentlemen.”

Riverside looked at him, then at the door, then back again. “Your fiancée?”

“No. No, not at all. She’s my assistant.”

Podesky’s right brow rose.

“And her name isn’t Holly Baskin.”

“I see,” Riverside said, even though it was obvious he didn’t see. But then, Charles didn’t see, either.

“Uh, gentlemen, I think it would be best if we rescheduled.”

Podesky nodded, then bent over to get his file. Riverside just kept looking at him. Charles wanted them out, gone. He needed to calm down. To think this through. He needed to talk to David.

An electronic buzz made him jump, which wasn’t nearly as bad as what happened to Podesky. He not only dropped the file again, but the back of his head banged viciously against the bottom of the table when he reached for it.

Charles pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

“Uh, Mr. Warren?” the secretary said, her voice tentative and so soft he barely made out the words.

“Yes?”

“Uh, I think you’d better come out here.”

He let go of the button. The interruption had cleared his head a bit, and it had also managed to take care of his other problem, at least most of the way. He stood, pulled his cuffs down, straightened his tie, then faced Bob Riverside. “Pardon me.”

“Oh, sure,” Riverside said, although he still sounded dazed.

Charles left, trusting the men would see themselves out. But he didn’t head toward the outer office. Instead he took advantage of the empty hallway and regrouped. He couldn’t be rash. In today’s climate, it wasn’t safe to make a move without attorneys and human resources. If he fired her on the spot, there might be repercussions. On the other hand, she was a loon.

After a steadying breath, he entered the outer office. Ms. Dobson wasn’t there. The woman who was today’s replacement for Delia Robinson—he’d completely forgotten her name—seemed dazed. Her chair had been pushed back from the desk to make room for the open top drawer.

“I tried to stop her,” she said.

“Stop her from what?”

The woman blinked rapidly behind bottle-thick glasses, then tried to smile. “She said it was all right. That you wouldn’t mind.”

He headed toward the desk, struggling to keep his composure. Ayres. That was her name. “Ms. Ayres, what, precisely, happened?”

“She took the credit card. And some keys. I didn’t even know they were there. I swear. I never opened that part of the desk.”

“My credit card?”

Ms. Ayres nodded. She was young, almost as young as Ms. Dobson. He thought she might cry.

“Please find the number for David Levinson. Call him and put it through to my office.”

“Yes, Mr. Warren,” she said, her voice a little wobbly.

“And after that, please bring me three aspirin and a glass of water.”

“Yes, Mr. Warren,” she repeated, this time with a definite tremor.

“And Ms. Ayres?”

“Yes, Mr. Warren?”

“It’s all right. I don’t hold you responsible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Warren.”

He headed for his office, wondering what in hell he was supposed to do now. Call the credit card company, of course, and then…?

After closing the door behind him, he paused. Something was bothering him, aside from the obvious. She’d called herself Holly Baskin. Today was the day the ad was supposed to come out in that damn magazine. Had she gone to pick up a copy and been hit by a car? Had she been mugged? Or was it possible that this was just some horrible prank?

His phone rang and that got him moving. He answered as he sank into his chair. “Warren.”

“What’s up?”

“David, I’ve got a situation.”

“Shoot.”

“Don’t say that. Please.”

“Okay.” David’s voice had changed. It was subtle, but Charles knew him so well that he noticed the nuance. David was now sitting up straight at his desk. He had stopped fiddling with his paper clips. He was focused, and no one was smarter than David when he was focused.

“You know my assistant.”

“Delia?”

“The other one.”

“Jane?”

“I thought her name was Joan.”

“It’s Jane.”

“Oh. Well. Jane, then. She wasn’t in this morning.”

“Oh?”

“I had to use someone from the secretarial pool. She made god-awful coffee.”

“I assume this story is leading somewhere?”

“Right. I was in the middle of a meeting with Riverside and his attorney, and this girl, this Jane, barged in. Just walked into the conference room like she owned the place.”

“Really?”

“She had a big bandage on her forehead. She looked as though she’d been in an accident. Or perhaps she’d been mugged. I’m not sure.”

“Did you call a doctor?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she—”

“Yes?”

“She kissed me.”

“Pardon?”

“She kissed me. On the lips. In the conference room. She said she was Holly Baskin. That we were going to be married.”

Silence. No, not quite. Was that a muffled laugh? A slight tap on his door heralded Ms. Ayres and his aspirin, and Charles had swallowed the pills before David spoke again.

“This is a little tricky,” he said, finally.

“I know that. What I need to know is what to do. The woman took my credit card. God knows what she’s charging. I have to call the—”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t call the police or anyone else. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because we need more facts before we do anything.”

“Facts? I’ll give you a fact. A crazy woman is out in the city with my credit card.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“She said she had to pick up a few things and that…Oh, God.”

“What?”

“She said she’d meet me at my place. She took my keys, too.”

“Okay. So that’s where we’ll start.”

Charles heard papers shuffling. He wondered if he’d explained the seriousness of the situation adequately. The woman was nuts, and she had his credit card and the key to his home. And yet David didn’t seem unduly alarmed. In fact, his voice sounded utterly blasé when he said, “I’ll cancel my three. You clear the deck on your end. I’ll be at your place in half an hour.”

“Fine. Good.”

“And Charles?”

“Yes?”

“Order lunch, will you? I’m starving.”

Before Charles had a chance to tell David his request was completely inappropriate, David hung up.

Charles did the same. His gaze wandered to his bookshelves. The neat, orderly rows, the fine leather bindings. He liked the look of them, always had. He’d meant to go through them. Just last…last year he’d decided to go back to reading something other than the Wall Street Journal. He hadn’t, of course. The year had gone by in a blur of deals, of business lunches, of NASDAQ ups and downs. The company had grown, and the shareholders were going to see some healthy dividends. It was all as it was supposed to be. Only—

He shook himself out of his reverie and pressed the button for Ms. Ayres. He had to cancel his afternoon. All because of one little slip of a girl. He never should have hired her. Those curls of hers were a dead giveaway. She was trouble. Big trouble.

“I THINK WE SHOULD CALL the police.”

David shook his head. “It’s only four-thirty. Let’s give it till five.”

“By five, she could have wiped out Saks.”

“Charles, let me ask you something.” David leaned forward and pushed aside his beer so he could rest his hands on the dining room table. “Have you ever spoken to Jane?”

“Of course. She works for me.”

“I mean, have you spoken to her in a nonbusiness context?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Because you see her five days a week.”

“David, I don’t go in for that touchy-feely crap, and you know it.”

“I’m not asking if you’ve hugged her lately, just if you’ve talked. If you know anything about her.”

Charles massaged his temples, wondering what would happen if he took three more aspirin. Or maybe he should just have a drink. “I only know that up until today, she’d done an adequate job.”

“Have you ever heard of Pru Dobson?”

“The violinist?”

David nodded. “That’s Jane’s eldest sister.”

“Didn’t we see her play?”

“We did.”

“Hmm.”

“And have you heard of Felicity Dobson?”

“The name rings a bell, but—”

“The novelist.”

“Right.”

“Also Jane’s sister.”

“Really.”

“And maybe you’ve heard of Darra Dobson?”

He shook his head.

“Turn around.”

“What?”

“Just turn around.”

Charles obeyed, swiveling to face the window of his tenth-floor penthouse.

“See the billboard next to the Chivas Regal whiskey sign?”

He nodded. It was huge, hardly something he could miss, even if he wanted to. A seminaked woman stared hungrily at a seminaked man. She wore his underwear. He didn’t appear to be wearing anything except a smile.

“That’s Darra Dobson. Jane’s other sister.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.”

Charles turned back. “Remarkable.”

“Yes. Four girls. Three of them international celebrities.”

“And then Jane.”

David nodded.

“That’s very touching, but what does it have to do with me?”

“I’m not sure yet. But I think your Ms. Dobson is in trouble.”

“So what am I supposed to do about it?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“I think this is a matter for the authorities, David.”

“Not yet. Not until I speak with her.”

“She’s probably on a plane to Monte Carlo.”

He shook his head, propped his fingers in a steeple and peered over the top. “No. I don’t think so. I think she’ll be back.”

“David, I know what your grade point average was, so knock it off.”

“Knock what off?”

“Your Freud imitation.”

“I’m not the one who called looking for help, buddy boy.”

Charles sighed. “I know. I just—”

The sound of a key opening the dead bolt made both men jump. Charles looked at David. David looked at the door.

David stood. Charles didn’t.

Jane Dobson waltzed in and dropped several beige bags as she kicked the door shut behind her. The bandage was gone, revealing a considerable goose egg. She’d changed into decent, expensive looking clothes, and she had two shoes.

“Hello, Charley,” she said. “Hi, David.”

David nodded. “Hi.”

“What? No kiss?”

David shot Charles a quick glance, then smiled at Jane. He took her outstretched hands, then kissed her on the cheek. “You look wonderful.”

“Thanks. So do you. Did he tell you?”

“What?”

“That we’re getting married.”

“He mentioned it, yes.”

“Thrilling, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say.”

She let go of David’s hands and headed toward Charles. She was going to kiss him again, he just knew it. But this time, she’d get no reaction from him. None at all. The girl needed help. She was ill. Or psychotic.

She bent over him.

She smelled like roses.

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