“Your admirers couldn’t get their wallets out fast enough,” Mitch snorted

“This is a singles club, isn’t it? Don’t people usually buy drinks for each other?” Claire asked.

She had a point, but Mitch wasn’t about to concede. Not when she’d started a brawl within half an hour of her arrival. Not when her antics threatened to distract him from his investigation. Not when he had an almost irresistible urge to kiss her sassy mouth.

Battling his libido, Mitch carried Claire out to the curb and hailed down a cab. Then he loosened his grip, allowing her to slide the rest of the way down his body. Sweet torture.

“Enjoying yourself?” she challenged.

“I like it better when you don’t talk,” he said, his body throbbing.

She narrowed her eyes. “Just try to stop me.”

So he did. Lowering his head, he captured her sassy mouth with his own, figuring she’d pull back at any moment. Only she didn’t.

What the hell was wrong with him? With her?

Stepping back, Mitch managed to hustle her into the cab before he lost total control. But he had the feeling that the fun was just starting….

Dear Reader,

Have you ever taken on a new challenge knowing you were in way over your head? This happens to me more times than I’d like to admit, so it seemed only natural to put my heroine in a similar predicament.

Professor Claire Dellafield is a small-town girl determined to study the power of love in the Big Apple. If only tough guy Mitch Malone would stop standing in her way! But with a little help from a special skirt and a spoiled poodle, Claire makes herself Sheerly Irresistible, and Mitch soon finds himself completely under her spell….

Sheerly Irresistible is the second book in the SINGLE IN THE CITY miniseries, caught right between Heather MacAllister’s Skirting the Issue (August 2002) and Cara Summers’s Short, Sweet and Sexy (October 2002). Don’t miss any of the fun!

Happy reading,

Kristin Gabriel

P.S. I love to hear from readers. You can contact me through my Web site at www. KristinGabriel.com.

Books by Kristin Gabriel

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

834—DANGEROUSLY IRRESISTIBLE

868—SEDUCED IN SEATTLE

HARLEQUIN DUETS

7—ANNIE, GET YOUR GROOM

25—THE BACHELOR TRAP

27—BACHELOR BY DESIGN

29—BEAUTY AND THE BACHELOR

61—OPERATION BABE-MAGNET

—OPERATION BEAUTY

Sheerly Irresistible

Kristin Gabriel

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Thanks for making this book so much fun to write!

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

Chapter 17

Epilogue

1

“THAT’S IT,” THE photographer said, looking at her through the camera lens. “Arch your back. There…now pout for me. Think sultry.”

Unfortunately, Claire Dellafield couldn’t think about anything except how ridiculous it was for a cultural anthropologist to be draped across a Dumpster in a back alley in New York City. This was definitely not what she’d imagined doing on her first day in the most exciting city in the world.

Unpeeling herself from the garbage bin, she plucked the collar of the tank top away from her damp cleavage. “Look, I assumed we were just going to take a few simple headshots in front of the nightclub. A publicity photo the university could send out when they release the results of my research project. This,” she motioned to the narrow back alley, “just doesn’t make sense.”

The photographer lowered his camera. “I am Evan Wang. I take direction from no one. You are the model. I’m the artist. You must trust me.”

“I’m not a model,” she clarified, just to make certain Evan hadn’t confused his assignments. “I’m an anthropology professor.”

“Yes, that is a problem,” Evan mused, studying her from a different angle. “But that’s why people call me the miracle worker.”

Claire swallowed a groan, wishing she’d followed her instincts and turned down this research project. But that simply wasn’t a luxury a rookie anthropologist could afford. Not when research grants were so few and far between. So she’d reluctantly agreed when Penleigh College approached her to revisit a study called Strangers in the Night that had made both her father and the college famous twenty-five years ago. No doubt, some would continue to accuse her of riding her father’s coattails.

Sometimes she wondered if they were right.

Claire lifted her long, thick hair off the back of her neck, hoping a cool breeze would find its way into the alley. It had never been this hot in Penleigh, Indiana, the small college town she’d called home her entire life. She had shared a cottage with her father on campus until nine months ago, when he’d passed away after a long battle with kidney disease. Then it seemed as if she’d just stepped into his life—taking over his classes and now, reprising his famous research project.

Thinking of her father made Claire’s throat tighten. Marcus Dellafield had been in this same spot twenty-five years ago. Well, maybe not this exact spot. There had been no sexy pictures to accompany his study on human mating habits at The Jungle, once the most popular singles bar in New York City.

But Professor Dellafield had done more than just collected research all those years ago. He’d adopted Claire as an infant and brought her back with him to Penleigh, raising her as a single father. That’s what had captured the media’s attention—the story of an ivory tower professor who gave a child born out of wedlock a fairy-tale life.

And it had been like a fairy tale. Claire’s father had taken her with him on all his anthropological research trips, showing her the world in the process. She’d been to places like Borneo and Tasmania. Eaten with the Maori of New Zealand. Traveled by riverboat on the Amazon in South America.

And she’d enjoyed every moment of it. So had her father. During the last months of his illness, he’d often told her that he had no regrets. Nothing had been left undone. He’d always lived his life to the very fullest.

Claire planned to do the same. Only life didn’t always cooperate with her. Maybe once she completed this research project, she could begin to live her own dreams, make her own choices.

“I’ve got an idea,” Evan said at last. “Let’s take advantage of your natural innocence. We’ll go for the Mary Richards look.”

“Mary Richards?” Claire echoed in confusion.

“You know,” Evan said, digging into his big, yellow satchel, “from the old Mary Tyler Moore Show. A single girl in the city, ready to turn the world on with her smile.”

“I know who she is,” Claire replied. Unlike most parents, her father had actively encouraged her to watch as many movies and television shows as possible. He believed they were a reflection of the changing mores of modern culture—especially the sitcom reruns—and worthy of study.

“Here we go,” Evan exclaimed, pulling a raspberry pink beret out of the satchel. He brushed off the lint, then handed it to her. “Put it on.”

She placed the beret on her head. “How’s that?”

“Perfect! I can almost hear the theme song to the show.” He adjusted the brim, then stepped back and framed her between his fingers. “Now lose the blouse.”

She looked down at her yellow cotton blouse, then shrugged and took it off, leaving only the white tank top underneath to go with her khaki shorts.

“Much better,” Evan said, looping the camera strap over his neck. “Now stand up and lean against the door. Pretend it’s a man and make love to it.”

Claire rose to her feet, frowning at the tattered screen door streaked with rust. “I don’t remember Mary making love to any doors.”

He heaved a tortured sigh. “It’s all we have at the moment. Just work with me here.”

The screen door suddenly opened, catching Claire in the shin. “Ow!”

“Excuse me,” muttered a man backing out of the door. He was tall, dark and shirtless.

He turned to face her, a crate of empty beer bottles in his arms. But it was the sight of his bare, broad chest that had Claire’s mouth watering. Along with the raven hair slicked back off his forehead, the shadow of whiskers on his square jaw, and his startling blue eyes. She swallowed hard to keep from drooling.

The man raised his voice, laced now with impatience. “Excuse me.”

She stumbled off the step to let him pass and he set the crate of beer bottles next to a recycling bin, then disappeared inside the nightclub once more.

“Sir,” Evan shouted after him, bounding up the back step. The man appeared at the door a moment later carrying another crate of empty bottles.

“Can you help us out here?” Evan asked.

“What do you need?”

“My name is Evan and this is Mary,” he said, motioning to her.

“Claire,” she corrected.

“Whatever,” Evan replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And you are?”

The man hesitated a moment, taking stock of them both. “Mitch Malone.”

“Well, Mitch, I’m trying to finish up a photo shoot and Mary here, I mean Claire, is having trouble making love to the door. I thought if she had a human prop it might work better.”

Mitch didn’t even blink at the odd request. “Sorry, but I have twenty more crates to haul out here.”

“Perfect. That’s just what we need.” Evan reached out and positioned Claire in front of him. “You find him attractive, don’t you?”

She cleared her throat as Mitch’s gaze moved to her face. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “I’m…I mean…he seems very nice.”

“Mitch is more than nice.” Evan told her, grabbing his camera once more. “He’s everything you’ve ever desired in a man. Now show me how much you want him. Try to seduce him with some great body language as he moves in and out of the building.”

Claire turned to Evan as a hot flush crept into her cheeks. “Is this really necessary?”

Evan held up both hands. “No questions, remember? I am the artist here.”

“I’m going back to work now,” Mitch said, setting down the crate.

“Yes, go right ahead.” Evan began snapping a rapid succession of pictures as Mitch walked back inside the building. “Okay, now wait for him, Claire…there he is…now remember, we want hot. We want sultry.”

Claire sidled out of Mitch’s way as he deposited another crate on the ground, feeling more ridiculous by the minute. It didn’t help matters that he seemed totally oblivious to her. She tried sultry. She tried pouting. She even tried opening the door for him and striking a sexy pose against it, but she only succeeded in popping out the screen.

“Keep going. We’re getting there,” Evan told her, snapping a few more pictures as she just stood there with her hands on her hips while Mitch strode past her once more.

It didn’t help matters that she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him. Of course, the man was only half-dressed. A light sheen of perspiration glowed on his tanned skin, his powerful muscles flexing in his thick chest and broad shoulders.

She’d seen scantily clad men before on her travels, but there was something mesmerizing about the way this man’s body moved. He had an easy grace that made most of the men at Penleigh, in their tweed jackets and loafers, seem stuffy by comparison. Mitch was definitely a product of his environment. Solid. Earthy. Primal.

Somehow he made the alley seem even hotter than before.

“Not bad,” Evan said at last, popping another roll of film into his camera. “Now let’s try some Mary poses. We’re going for the carefree look. Try tossing the beret into the air.”

She stepped away from the back entrance of The Jungle, more than ready to finish this photo shoot. “Like this?” She threw the beret high into the air, squinting against the bright June sun.

“Good,” Evan said as the camera whirred. “Now do it again. But I want you to catch it this time.”

Claire picked up the beret, hearing the screen door squeak once again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mitch set another crate on the ground. Determined to show him the same amount of indifference he was showing her, she tossed the beret high into the air. Only her throw was a little off and she had to walk backward as it fluttered toward the ground. She skidded on a crushed tin can, lost her balance, and landed against something hard and warm.

Mitch.

He braced his large hands on her hips to steady her. “You okay?”

She gulped in a deep breath, well aware of his long fingers spanning her waist. Her back was against his bare chest and she inhaled a musky aroma that was all male. “I’m fine.”

He let go of her, then bent down to pick up the beret. “Here you go, Mary.”

“Claire,” she breathed through dry lips.

“Whatever.”

2

AN HOUR LATER, CLAIRE forced both the photo shoot and Mitch Malone completely out of her mind. Excitement fluttered in her chest as she climbed out of a taxi at Central Park West, then waited while the driver retrieved her bags from the trunk. The Willoughby towered in front of her, a high-rise apartment building with art deco trim on the facade.

Her godmother, Petra Gerard, lived here and Claire couldn’t wait to see her again. But first she had to get past the young man who sat sprawled on a lawn chair inside the glass-enclosed foyer of the building. He wore baggy blue polka dot swimming trunks, mirrored sunglasses, and green-tinted zinc oxide on his narrow aquiline nose.

As she dragged her suitcases through the heavy plate glass door, he didn’t even look up. Just sat there humming to the music emanating from the boom box, his skinny feet soaking in a blue plastic wading pool.

She paused to catch her breath as the Beach Boys began singing about “California Girls.”

“If you don’t give me the password,” the man said, his head propped on the lawn chair with a rolled-up orange beach towel. “I will be forced to stop you with the Venetian death grip.”

“And you are?” Her gaze fell on his pale, hairless chest. Then she noticed the tattoo on his upper left bicep. It looked like a small schnauzer.

“I’m Franco Rossi. Aspiring actor, black belt in karate and judo, and temporary doorman.” He slid his sunglasses up on top of his head, then followed her gaze to his arm. “It’s Toto. The tattoo, not the password. I happen to be a big fan of The Wizard Of Oz.”

“Oh,” she said, wondering if he was mentally stable.

He smiled, “You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“I’m from Indiana.”

“Same difference.”

Claire set both her suitcases on the polished marble floor. “I’m here to see Petra Gerard. She’s expecting me.”

“Ah, Petra.” Franco smiled. “She’s one of my favorite tenants. A little absentminded, though.”

That was putting it mildly. Petra always blamed her total inattention to detail on her muse. A former art professor at Penleigh, Claire’s godmother had been one of Marcus Dellafield’s best friends and a frequent visitor to their home. Bubbly and a little eccentric, Petra had more energy than many women half her age. She’d retired from teaching at sixty and moved to Manhattan, embarking on a very lucrative second career as a sculptress.

“Could you please let her know I’m here. My name is Claire Dellafield.”

“Love to, Claire,” Franco purred, “if you can front me the airfare to Bermuda. Petra left a week ago and I’m not sure when she’s coming back.”

Claire’s heart sunk to her toes. “Bermuda?”

He swished his toes in the pool water. “She’s competing in the senior division of the Ms. Universe fitness pageant. Knowing Petra, she’ll probably come home with the title.”

Claire shook her head. “Petra can’t be in Bermuda. She’s supposed to introduce me to a Mr. McLain. I’m subletting his apartment for the summer.”

He sighed. “You and everyone else in this city. There’s already a crowd up there waiting for the auction.”

“Auction?”

“Petra should have filled you in on all the juicy details, but she probably believed Tavish when he promised not to do it anymore.” Franco leaned forward and lowered his voice to a furtive whisper, even though they were alone in the foyer. “Tavish McLain auctions off his place every summer. Last year a blond ballerina and a Madonna clone battled over it. The ballerina even offered an incentive package, if you know what I mean. Tavish has a thing for blondes, so he enjoyed every minute of it.”

Claire leaned against the plate glass door, vaguely aware that the faint odor of the Dumpster still clung to her clothes. With Petra out of the country, she didn’t have anywhere else to go and certainly not enough money to spend the summer in a New York City hotel room. She wondered if camping in Central Park would be any more dangerous than pitching a tent on the African savannah.

Franco waved her away. “You’re blocking my sun. I’m trying to get a tan here.”

Then he groaned as another woman walked purposefully toward the building. “Here comes another one. How am I supposed to relax with people streaming in and out of here all day?”

Claire glanced at the woman who entered the foyer. She looked nice. And blond. Just McLain’s type—unless Claire got to him first. She turned back to Franco. “I need to see Tavish McLain. Immediately.”

“Password!”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“I’m waaaaaiiiiting,” Franco crooned.

“Toto,” the blonde ventured, her gaze on Franco’s arm.

“Close but no cigar.” Then he burst into the opening stanza of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” before collecting himself. “Are you here for the apartment?”

“Yes,” they replied simultaneously.

“This is McLain’s day of glory,” Franco declared. “The day he lives the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year dreaming of. He is surrounded by women.”

“We’d like to join them,” the blonde said.

Franco leaned closer to them and whispered, “You might try naming the actor who played the cowardly lion.”

Claire exchanged glances with the blonde, then they both blurted, “Bert Lahr.”

“Excellent,” Franco replied with a grin.

“Bert Lahr is the password, then?” the blonde asked.

“No. But I like the fact that you’re both Wizard of Oz movie buffs, so you may pass.”

Claire turned back to Franco as the blonde pressed the elevator button. “Now how about giving me a hint to win over McLain?”

Franco shrugged. “Like I said, he’s into blondes. But maybe you could show a little cleavage, wiggle your hips and see what happens.”

Claire glanced down at her tank top. Mitch Malone hadn’t seemed too impressed with her cleavage. Not that she should care about the opinion of a total stranger. A street-smart tough who probably treated women like toys. Definitely not her type.

Not by a long shot.

A loud ding announced the elevator’s arrival, breaking her reverie. She grabbed her suitcases and headed for the elevator, the blonde helping her heave the biggest one inside.

“Thanks,” Claire said, as the doors slid closed. “I’m Claire Dellafield.”

“A. J. Potter,” the blonde replied with an assessing glance. “I guess we’re competitors.”

She sighed. “I don’t have enough money to be much competition.”

“Want to join forces and bid together?”

Live with a complete stranger? “I don’t know. I…”

“Smart girl. Someone warned you about the big, bad city.” A.J. reached into her purse. “I just heard that the bidding might be brutal and I intend to win. Think about it.”

The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor and Claire dragged her suitcases into the crowded hallway. There were two other apartments on the floor, but it was obvious which one belonged to McLain. Dozens of people jammed around the open doorway.

“I think it’s going to take more than cleavage,” Claire muttered to herself. A dog growled and she turned to see a poodle in the arms of a woman wearing a pink caftan and matching pink bouffant hair.

“Hush, Cleo,” the older woman crooned to the dog. “That mean Mr. McLain is going away soon. Then you’ll have somebody new to take you on walksies.”

Claire and A.J. squeezed their way into the apartment just in time to hear the bidding war start. There were blondes in all shapes and sizes. Claire sank down on her big suitcase, wondering how could she possibly compete.

“This is ridiculous,” A.J. muttered, then whipped out her cell phone.

Claire looked up to see a tall brunette approaching them. At least she wasn’t the only nonblonde here.

The brunette glanced at A.J., then turned her attention back to Claire. “This is really something, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly what I expected.” She motioned to the suitcases. “I was planning to move in here today. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

The brunette shifted the package she held from one arm to the other. “This is your lucky day. I work for a hotel. Therefore, I can promise you won’t sleep on the street tonight. And you can treat yourself to a nice, hot bubble bath.”

Yikes. Maybe Claire wasn’t the only one who could smell the Dumpster on her clothes. But she wasn’t quite ready to declare herself a charity case yet. “I can’t—”

“Oh, I got that part,” the brunette said, lowering her voice. “You’d be in one of the unrentable rooms. No charge.”

This woman was trying to change the reputation of uncaring New Yorkers in one fell swoop. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

“Because I can. Because helping the sisterhood was something my mother drilled into me. And, hey, I get off on warm, fuzzy feelings in my tummy.”

A.J. laughed. “So do I, but they don’t come from giving away freebie hotel rooms.”

The brunette grinned at her. “Samantha Baldwin.”

“A. J. Potter.” The two women shook hands. “You sounded like a madam gathering the poor waif into her house of ill repute. I think you scared her.”

“I’m not scared,” Claire said, “just fascinated by abnormal human behavior. Abnormal for a New Yorker, anyway.”

She thought of Mitch’s behavior this afternoon and a flush of heat washed up her neck. Could the man have been any more oblivious to her? No one had ever called her a beauty, but men hadn’t run screaming from her, either. She was average weight and height, taller than A.J., but shorter than Samantha. She’d been tempted to highlight her long brown hair, but simply hadn’t found the time after taking over her father’s class schedule. Her unusual topaz brown eyes were her best feature and she often wondered if she’d inherited them from the mother who had given her up for adoption. She glanced down at the emerald ring on her right hand, the vibrant color reminding her of her father’s eyes. He’d given her the ring on her sixteenth birthday. They’d been on a research trip in South America that summer and she’d had a crush on one of his graduate students, but the man had been oblivious to her.

A disturbing trend.

For the first time, she wondered if there was something wrong with her. She hadn’t dated much at Penleigh, but she’d assumed that was because most of the men on campus knew about her father’s illness.

What if there was another reason? Claire mentally shook herself, realizing now wasn’t the time to obsess about her love life, or lack of one. She needed to focus on this research project and try to find some way to bring a fresh twist to the subject of dating. Strangers in the Night had been one of the first of its kind to study the effect of the sexual revolution on young singles. So many similar studies had followed that Claire couldn’t imagine finding anything new to add to the field. Something she tried to communicate to the board of directors at Penleigh, but they hadn’t wanted to listen.

Which just made it all the harder to prove herself in the anthropology world, though not impossible. But first she had to find a place to stay.

Maybe she should accept Samantha’s offer of the free hotel room, then move in with Petra when she returned from Bermuda. Unfortunately, Claire had no idea when that might be. Knowing Petra, it could be next week or next year.

“What’s your name?”

Claire blinked, then noticed both women looking at her. She’d completely lost track of the conversation. “Claire Dellafield. Why?”

Samantha gestured to her. “Get with the program. We’re forming a rental coalition. You want in?”

Claire rose off her suitcase, sensing her luck was about to change. “You mean we’d room together?”

“Mental functions appear to be intact,” A.J. said. “You smoke?”

Claire shook her head. “But I can learn.”

Samantha laughed. “She’s in for the entertainment value alone.”

Claire looked at both of them, realizing it would be the first time in her life she’d ever lived with women close to her own age. As much as she’d loved her father, she couldn’t help but feel that sometimes her life had been laid out like a map, with all the routes already chosen for her. Now she was charting new territory. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

“How much can you contribute to rent?” A.J. asked.

Claire did a quick calculation of her bank account. “Eight hundred.”

“That’s forty-six hundred,” A.J. exhaled. “Surely the rent won’t go as high as that.”

The door opened and the crowd turned in unison to see two men walk into the room.

Several people cried out a name. “Tavish!”

“Let’s play this out,” A.J. advised under her breath.

Claire noticed several of the blondes adjusting their blouses as Tavish moved to the center of the room. He reminded her of a medicine man she’d seen once in Central America. He’d worn a putrid green robe, almost the same shade as Tavish McLain’s faux leather vest. They both shared the same cocky walk, too. As if they believed they controlled the universe. Or at least their own small portion of it.

“Stand in front of me,” Samantha ordered, suddenly reaching around her back to unzip her skirt.

Claire watched in disbelief as the woman shimmied her skirt down her legs. “What are you doing?”

“I think I may have something that will persuade Mr. McLain to give us anything we want.”

“What?” A.J. asked. “A gun?”

“Even better,” Samantha replied, unwrapping the package in her arms, then pulling out a wad of silky black fabric. “A magic skirt.”

Claire and A.J. exchanged skeptical glances. Then Claire cleared her throat. “Did you say a magic skirt?”

“I know it sounds crazy.” Samantha shook out the wrinkles. “But it’s a man-magnet. The skirt apparently originated from the Caribbean, where there’s a special fibrous root that the native women spin into a thread. That thread runs through this skirt. Men will do anything for the woman who wears it.”

“You’re kidding,” A.J. said, looking like Claire felt. Maybe Samantha wasn’t such a great choice for a roommate after all. Unless you were a mental patient at Bellevue. Samantha pulled on the black skirt. “Look, I don’t believe it, either, but it can’t hurt.” She handed her jacket to Claire, then smoothed the black skirt over her thighs.

Claire had to admit it looked nice. The fabric had a very unusual sheen, but she certainly didn’t see anything magical about it.

“Follow me, ladies,” Samantha said, then moved toward Tavish.

A.J. looked at Claire, then shrugged. “What can it hurt?”

“True,” Claire replied, as they walked behind Sam. “And if it doesn’t work, we can always resort to Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?” A.J. asked.

“We hang Tavish out his window by the ankles until he agrees to sublet us his apartment.”

A.J. smiled. “So it’s a win-win situation. If we drop him, another vacancy opens up.”

But amazingly enough, the skirt did work. Claire watched in sheer disbelief as Tavish’s jaw sagged when he caught sight of Samantha. His gaze became slightly unfocused and he stared unblinking at the skirt. It was as if he’d been drugged.

The next thing she knew, A.J. was handing over a check for two thousand dollars.

Tavish smiled. “So you want to pay all the rent up front?” He stuck the check in his vest pocket. “The perfect tenant, wouldn’t you say, Roger?”

“I’d say so.” The broker sidled closer to Samantha.

Something didn’t add up. “But wait,” Claire interjected. “I thought that was just for…” A warning pinch on her arm cut her off in midsentence. “Ow!”

“That should be tenants.” Samantha motined to A.J. and Claire. “My roommates.”

Claire smiled tightly at the man as she rubbed her sore arm. There was no mistake. Tavish was giving them his apartment for the entire summer. For only two thousand dollars. Claire glanced down at the skirt Samantha wore, no longer a skeptic.

While A.J. and Sam finalized the deal with the broker, Claire helped herd the disappointed bidders out of the apartment before Tavish had a chance to change his mind. Then she returned to the circle with her new roommates, Tavish and the broker just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation.

“Cleo’s the poodle,” the broker said. “Lives in 6B. You’ll have to walk her. It’s part of Tavish’s arrangement with his neighbors.”

“No problem,” A.J. said, quickly scribbling her signature beneath Samantha’s, then handing the pen to Claire.

“I can’t believe you did it!” A.J. exclaimed to Sam after everyone had left. Then all three of them began to high-five each other.

“That skirt did it,” Claire murmured to herself, enthralled by what she’d just seen. She’d traveled enough with her father to know several cultures believed certain objects and plants had aphrodisiac powers, but she’d never witnessed an actual demonstration before.

She made a mental note to research the skirt on the Internet tonight. Perhaps she could find the country of origin. Then another thought hit her. What if she did her next research project on aphrodisiacs and their effect on different cultures around the world? A study she could call all her own.

But no university would give her a grant if she failed in her current research project. Forming a good rapport with potential subjects at The Jungle would be crucial to that success.

If Samantha let her borrow that skirt…

Claire’s skin prickled at the possibilities. If she could elicit even half the reaction she’d just seen in Tavish, finding volunteers to take part in her research project wouldn’t be any problem. And she could use the opportunity to study the skirt’s effect at the same time. Especially on a man like Mitch Malone, who had been totally oblivious to her only a few hours ago.

Maybe she could turn the world on with her smile after all.

3

THE NEXT DAY, MITCH STOOD outside St. Luke’s hospital, wondering if he should have listened to his grandmother and entered the priesthood instead of pursuing a career as a cop. She’d worried about the dangers of police work, but Mitch had never suffered more than a few bumps and bruises on the job.

He only wished he could say the same of his partner, Elaine O’Brien.

Mitch had found excuse after excuse to avoid visiting Elaine since she’d been brought here by ambulance a week ago. He’d called almost every day, but he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing his partner confined to a hospital bed.

Because of him.

Mitch had replayed that terrible morning over and over in his mind. They were supposed to meet an anonymous informant who promised to give them a lead in the Vandalay case. Dick Vandalay, owner of The Jungle nightclub, was suspected of trafficking in illegal substances. Specifically, bootleg Viagra and various imported animal parts, like rhinoceros horns, that were purported to increase a man’s sexual prowess.

The Jungle had been struggling to stay in business, with singles’ bars becoming passé in this age of personal ads and Internet dating sites. So Vandalay definitely had motivation to cater to customers who were desperate for love. As well as the opportunity.

What the police lacked was hard evidence. They knew the stuff was flowing out of the nightclub, they just didn’t know how it was coming in. Vandalay’s record was squeaky clean, but he was still the most likely suspect. His family tree read like a Who’s Who of drug dealers and other assorted felons. Now they just needed to find the right limb to hang him from.

The informant had promised to do just that, the morning of June first. But Mitch had been late, thanks to a woman he’d met the night before. He rubbed one hand over his jaw, still unable to believe she’d turned off the alarm without waking him.

Elaine had finally given up on Mitch and gone on to meet the informant by herself. Only the informant must have panicked, because when Mitch finally arrived at the abandoned building that had been preselected as their meeting place, he’d found Elaine at the bottom of a staircase with a concussion and a shattered hip.

Now she was in this place, recovering from the hip injury that might keep her off the vice squad and tied to a police desk for the rest of her career. But Elaine didn’t know that yet and Mitch wasn’t about to tell her. She loved investigative work too much to give it up. That’s why she’d practically set up a command post from her bed, calling him with all the background information she’d gathered and any possible leads on the case.

Maybe she sensed it would be her last one.

He took a deep breath, realizing he’d been a coward long enough. Then he walked through the automatic doors of the hospital and into a booby trap—also known as the gift shop. He didn’t want to come into his partner’s room empty-handed, but his gift-giving record was pretty bleak. It had started when he was fifteen, the time he’d given his first girlfriend a pet rat for Valentine’s Day. She’d screamed, dropped the rat, and her parents had been forced to call an exterminator to catch it. Then they’d sent his grandmother the bill.

The first of many disasters.

Mitch turned in a slow circle around the gift shop, waiting for something to call out to him. A set of ceramic clowns? A jigsaw puzzle? A book of brain teasers?

“May I help you?”

He looked down to see a tiny silver-haired lady standing in front of him. She wore a salmon-pink frock and a pair of bifocals.

“I’m looking for a gift for a colleague of mine.”

“Male or female?” the woman asked with a toothy smile.

“Female.”

She motioned to the counter behind her. “We have some lovely potpourri.”

“You mean those bags of dead flowers?”

“They’re very fragrant,” she said, handing one to him. “This one is called Spring Blossom.”

He held it up to his nose. “Nice. But what are you supposed to do with it?”

“You can place potpourri in a bowl or other decorative container to give the room a nice, fresh scent.”

He scowled down at the price tag. Twenty bucks for stuff he could rake up in his backyard? “I don’t think this is what I’m looking for.”

“Well, we have some nice jewelry.” She pointed to another shelf. “Perhaps a bracelet?”

His last girlfriend had hated those glow-in-the-dark earrings he’d given her. Then his gaze fell on a small box shoved toward the back of the top shelf and he knew he’d found the perfect gift.

Mitch pointed up to it. “That’s what I want.”

The clerk stood up on her tiptoes, then her forehead crinkled. “Are you sure?”

He grinned, already imagining the expression on Elaine’s face. “Positive.”

Ten minutes later, he stood outside the door to her room, the gift bag in his hand and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hated the smell of hospitals. Maybe he should have bought her that potpourri after all. Mitch half turned, ready to head back to the gift shop, but he knew he was just delaying the inevitable. Raising his fist, he rapped on the door.

“Come in.”

He pushed the door open and saw Elaine seated in a chair by the window, wearing bulky gray sweatpants and a Yankees T-shirt. She was ten years his senior, but the freckles on her cheeks made her appear younger. Her ash-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she looked thinner than she had a week ago. He forced his stiff lips into a smile.

Her green eyes lit up when she saw him standing in the doorway. “Hey, stranger!”

“You’re out of bed.”

“As much as possible. I make a lousy invalid.”

“You look good.” Then he awkwardly stuck out the gift bag in his hand. “I brought you something.”

“Please let it be a six-pack of Moosehead,” she implored, taking it from him.

“I didn’t think you were supposed to drink in here.”

She smiled. “Since when do you ever follow the rules, Malone?”

“Okay, I’ll sneak in some beer on my next visit.”

“Promise?” she asked, pushing the tissue paper aside and reaching into the gift bag.

“Promise,” he replied, waiting to see her reaction.

She stared at the box for a long moment. “A beach ball.”

“Inflatable. I thought it would be good exercise for you to bounce it around the room.”

One corner of her mouth twitched. “Gee, Mitch, I…don’t know what to say.”

“Want me to blow it up for you?”

“Sure.” She tossed him the box.

He removed the flattened plastic ball from inside, then flipped open the air valve and began to blow.

“So what’s new on the case?”

He lifted his head. “I’m working undercover as a bouncer at The Jungle.

Her eyes widened. “I thought the captain nixed that idea when we proposed it three weeks ago.”

“That was before you got hurt.”

She nodded, understanding the intense emotions that surfaced when a fellow officer was injured in the line of duty. Their captain was now committed to solving this case, no matter how much manpower or how many resources it took.

So was Mitch. He’d even temporarily sworn off women—his penance for letting himself be distracted by a pretty face. Although his resolve had certainly been tested yesterday with that hot little number coming onto him in the back alley of The Jungle. He could still see that snug white tank top she wore, damp with perspiration, clinging to her chest in a way that left little to the imagination. But he’d passed the test and was determined to pay more attention to his job and less attention to his hormones until they closed this case.

“Earth to Mitch.”

He blinked, then saw Elaine watching him. “Sorry.”

“What’s her name?”

He puffed a few more times into the beach ball. “Who?”

“The current dish on the Malone buffet.”

“I’m not seeing anyone.” He clamped his mouth on the rubber tube and blew until the ball was fully inflated. Then he pushed the cap in to seal it.

“How is that possible?” she teased. “Women have been falling at your feet since you took your first baby step. I’m married to a wonderful guy, so I’m immune to it, but I’ve seen the effect you have on the female population.”

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

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

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

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

They’d never come back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I missing anything?” Claire asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s Kate Gannon?” A.J. asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MITCH SMELLED TROUBLE.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, keep out of this,” the man said. “I was just starting to have some fun.”

Both women lashed out at each other with skinny arms and bony fists. Mitch held them just far enough apart to keep them from doing any serious damage.

“If this is the kind of fun you want,” Mitch told the man between clenched teeth, “then go somewhere else to have it.”

The man took a step toward him. “Make me.”

The unmistakable challenge in his tone made both women stop struggling and shift their focus to Mitch. He let go of them and faced the man on the dance floor. “If you’re smart, you’ll just turn around and walk away.”

But Mitch knew there was little chance of that happening. This guy was like too many of the men he’d seen while living on the streets. Too macho to keep out of trouble until they were in it neck-deep. He glanced over at the bar and saw Vandalay nod.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a beefy fist shooting out toward his jaw. Mitch twisted just in time to avoid the blow. Then he delivered a swift kick to the back of the man’s knees, causing him to crumple to the floor.

Mitch’s early education in street fighting was only enhanced by the combat moves he’d been taught when he’d gone into law enforcement. This loser wasn’t going to win this fight. Mitch just hoped the guy would be smart enough to figure that out before Mitch really had to hurt him.

No such luck.

By the time Mitch had scraped the guy off the floor and dumped him in the back of a taxicab, the two woman who had been fighting were back on the dance floor once more, with two new guys.

Donna Cummings, a blond waitress with an eternal wad of gum in her mouth sidled up to him. “You look like you could use a drink, Mitch.”

He rubbed his knuckles. “I could use a night off, but I’ll settle for a drink. Make it the usual. In fact, make it a double.”

She grinned. “One grape soda coming up.”

Mitch walked back to his post at the door, sensing that it was going to be another long night. He’d rather be watching a Clint Eastwood marathon on television. Anything but hanging around a bunch of lonely, desperate people trying to find love.

What really disgusted him was that he used to be one of them. Trolling the bars for women had been one of his favorite hobbies. His friends had joked that he must be related to Sam Malone, the famous womanizer on Cheers. But in the last year or so, that lifestyle had lost its appeal.

He’d successfully avoided the flirtations and not-so-subtle invitations of the women patrons of The Jungle during his first two weeks on the job. By now most of the regulars knew he was off-limits. Although Donna, recently married and ready to confine everyone she met to that institution, still tried to play matchmaker.

“Here you go,” she said, handing him a drink. “Did you see the blonde at the bar? She’s cute.”

“Too skinny for my taste,” he said.

“You’re too picky,” Donna said. “Why don’t you try to find a nice woman, Mitch? Someone who can make you happy.”

“Women are like potato chips,” he said with a smile. “I can’t stop at just one.”

She rolled her eyes. “Potato chips?”

“Maybe I should have said M&M’s.”

“Maybe you should quit trying to con me, Mitch Malone. I think you’re one of those old-fashioned romantics, the type I never see in this place anymore. You actually want more from a woman than her body.”

Mitch shook his head. “Donna, you’ve got me all wrong. I’m a connoisseur of the female body. The only reason I work here is because of the view.” He motioned to the scantily clad women on the dance floor. “I get a great show every night.”

Donna folded her arms across her chest. “Then why don’t you ever take one of them home?”

“I would, but my place is a mess.”

She laughed. “As if any woman in her right mind would care. You’re a romantic, Mitch, just admit it.”

“I plead the fifth.”

She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

Time to go to work. “Hey, that’s better than desperate. Actually though, I hear this is the place to score some help in the romance department. Some of the guys I’ve talked to come here to pick up bootleg Viagra, hoping to boost their…vitality.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? Who?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t get any names.” Then he grinned. “Why, does you new husband need a boost?”

“Hardly,” she huffed, then smiled. “I have no complaints in that department.”

He nodded, then looked around the bar. He was walking a thin line, trying to gain information without arousing suspicion. “I may have to give the stuff a try sometime. See what happens.”

Her brows rose. “Couldn’t that be dangerous?”

“Exhausting, maybe. But not dangerous.”

“Still, it’s illegal. No silly drug is worth going to jail.” Then she turned and walked back to the bar.

Mitch mentally crossed Donna’s name off his list of suspects. She hadn’t taken the bait. He didn’t like deceiving her or the other employees of The Jungle. But if he wanted to succeed in his investigation, subterfuge was part of the job.

Still, he stuck to the real facts about his life as much as possible. He’d told people he’d grown up on the streets, raised by his grandmother after his parents abandoned him when he was nine years old. He admitted that he’d gotten into some trouble as a juvenile and received his Graduation Equivalency Diploma. What he left out, though, was the cop who had been his boxing coach, a man who had steered him into a career in law enforcement. But absolute truth was simply a luxury Mitch couldn’t afford right now.

The sound of a glass breaking broke his reverie. He looked toward the bar and saw a beer mug laying in pieces on the floor. A sudden stillness came over the room, though music still blared from the jukebox. The lights from the disco ball glittered over an empty dance floor. Most of the patrons were staring at the door. He followed their gazes and saw an eerily familiar woman standing just inside the room.

He stared at her and swallowed hard. His gaze took in everything at once. The long toffee-brown hair, the big brown eyes, and the modest curves that shouldn’t make a man stare—but they did. His eyes fell to the short, tight black skirt that revealed a pair of incredible legs. He blinked and looked again. The skirt was so sheer, he could damn well see through it! Heat kindled low and spread through his body like a brush-fire.

It was the woman from the back alley, though he couldn’t remember her name. Hell, he could barely remember his own name. But he knew what to call her as soon as she started walking toward him.

Trouble.

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