Silent Confessions
Julie Kenner
Was it poetic justice or an education in obsession?Book shop owner Veronica Archer is eager to oblige when sexy detective Jack Parker shows up at her shop, seeking help on the stalking case he's working. Verses from Victorian erotica are being left for the victims, and Jack needs to interpret the clues; before someone gets hurt. Thankfully, Ronnie's an expert on naughty turn-of-the-century prose, but if she's going to play teacher, Jack will have to be a very dedicated student;With her own love life stuck in neutral, Ronnie's sensual studies have piqued her curiosity, and she wonders if reality can be as stimulating as fiction. She agrees to help Jack with his case, if he'll satisfy her wildest, most scandalous desires ;a request Jack has no problem accommodating. But the closer they get to each other, the closer the stalker circles in, leaving Jack to question if Ronnie is merely a very skilled scholar ;or the key to something far more sinister…
Was it poetic justice…or an education in obsession?
Bookstore owner Veronica Archer is eager to oblige when sexy detective Jack Parker shows up at her shop, seeking help on the stalking case he’s working. Verses from Victorian erotica are being left for the victims, and Jack needs to interpret the clues—before someone gets hurt. Thankfully, Ronnie’s an expert on naughty turn-of-the-century prose, but if she’s going to play teacher, Jack will have to be a dedicated student….
With her own love life stuck in Neutral, Ronnie’s sensual studies have piqued her curiosity, and she wonders if reality can be as stimulating as fiction. She agrees to help Jack with his case, if he’ll satisfy her wildest, most scandalous desires—a request Jack has no problem accommodating. But the closer they get to each other, the closer the stalker circles in, leaving Jack to question if Ronnie is merely a very skilled scholar—or the key to something far more sinister….
Silent Confessions
J. Kenner
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Thanks to the folks in the Detective Bureau, NYPD,
for answering my stream of questions about
procedural details. And thanks to the Austin P.D.
for filling in some gaps, and to Cyndee Duhadaway
for putting me in touch with the right folks. Also,
a big thanks to Mishell Kneeland for not running
far and fast from my unilateral announcement that she’d
become my own personal NYC expert, and for patiently
answering my avalanche of emails. To all of you,
the help provided was invaluable and accurate.
Any embellishments (or mistakes) are purely my own.
Contents
Cover (#uca6191ae-07ac-53b3-934e-e58f56924b04)
Back Cover Text (#u90cce4c2-e59b-53a4-b42f-8acbdd067589)
Title Page (#uc92a19b0-9f81-5fc8-9eec-a5816ed5b9e1)
Dedication (#ue06294f3-5229-5750-b4ee-7a40738e6dea)
Chapter One (#u9b575393-9611-5652-8339-25f0dd7ca3d2)
Chapter Two (#ud36172a6-56ec-5401-a6cc-ff83904b26ff)
Chapter Three (#u42d7c82b-bde0-5f71-8ebd-4dee19fef6fa)
Chapter Four (#u27fc278f-850e-5a94-9d21-3c7b69aa7504)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter one (#ulink_f13987ef-b9bb-5d44-abca-3079a397184d)
Don’t be frightened, darling; lovers can say anything. Those words, out of place in colder moments, add fresh relish to the sweet mystery of love? You will soon say them, too, and understand their charm.
Detective Jack Parker snapped on a pair of latex gloves and plucked the note off the satin-covered pillow. Neatly typed on pale pink paper, the writing seemed innocent enough. Hell, in another time, another place, the words could have been romantic, lovers sharing naughty endearments and euphemisms meant only for each other.
Tonight, though, the words had been meant to terrify.
Bastard.
Their Casanova had struck twice before, and so far the police didn’t have one solid lead. The situation ate at his gut.
Jack hated to lose.
Closing his eyes, he counted backward from ten, letting the efficient bustle of the crime-scene investigators wash over him. The gentle whoosh of the vacuum collecting telltale fibers, the click-whir of the camera documenting the room. New York’s finest were on the job. They’d catch the creep.
They had to.
Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and saw his partner, Tyler Donovan, waving him over from the doorway. Jack made his way across the sprawling bedroom, passing the note off on the way to be processed with the rest of the evidence.
“Give me some good news.”
“Dollar beer all week at Martini’s,” Donovan said with a shrug. “That’s about the best I can do. Here, we got nada.”
“Not what I wanted to hear.”
“No kidding. All I can tell you is that they don’t have a clue who’s doing this. But the wife’s pretty shook up.”
“Can’t say I blame her.” Over Donovan’s shoulder, Jack could see Caroline Crawley sitting unnaturally straight on an upholstered bench in the living room. Her husband, anchorman Carson Crawley, stood stone-faced behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder. Both had the shell-shocked expression of the violated. It was a look Jack knew well. That haunted, injured look had marred his cousin Angela’s face many years ago.
With only three months separating them in age and two blocks separating them in distance, he and Angie had been constant companions. At least until the summer of her sixteenth year.
The monster hadn’t even waited until after dark. He’d pulled Angie off her bike right after school as she’d ridden by the local gas station, dragged her into the putrid men’s room, and left her there when he was done with her. The gas station owner had found her hours later, unconscious and battered, her beautiful face disfigured and both arms broken. Her face and arms had healed; the rest of her hadn’t.
Sweet Angie took her own life exactly one year later.
Jack may have joined the force because he was a third-generation cop. But he’d clawed his way up the ranks to detective in the sex crimes division because it was personal.
Yes, Jack knew the expression on Caroline Crawley’s face. Knew it well. And it never failed to spark a rage that wouldn’t dim until the perp was dead or behind bars. Until then, nothing else mattered.
“Crawley’s shipping the kids off to his parents’,” Donovan said, pulling Jack from his memories. “Wants the wife to go, too, but she says no. And they’re gonna have the locks changed and the security system upgraded.” He shook his head. “How the hell did the bastard get in? We’re twenty floors up. This place has more security than Fort Knox.”
“I’m more concerned that he wanted in at all.” Jack fumbled in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, then remembered he’d quit a year ago. “Our Casanova’s turning dangerous.”
“No kidding. But it doesn’t make sense. For three weeks he’s been stuffing their mailbox with nudie postcards and pages ripped out of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Then suddenly he decides it’s time to sneak into her apartment and leave a little present on her pillow? Why now?”
Donovan was right. It didn’t make sense. And the real kick in the pants—the reason Jack had been spending twenty hours a day following dead-end leads—was that they weren’t any closer to finding their perp than they’d been three weeks ago.
He clenched his fist, fighting back rage. Damn it all to hell. What were they missing?
“And why Mrs. Crawley?” Donovan added. “We’ve been over her life with a fine-tooth comb and can’t find one person who’d do this to her.”
“Then we haven’t looked hard enough.”
Donovan opened his mouth as if to argue, but shut it quickly enough. After two years as partners, he’d learned when not to argue. Instead he nodded. “Okay. Maybe. But could be it’s just random. Carson Crawley’s face is all over the six o’clock news. Maybe our guy’s just fixated on the celebrity’s wife. Could be he’s just a weirdo.”
“Great. A celebrity stalker who has no fingerprints and leaves no trace.” Irritated, Jack ran his fingers through his hair and headed through the open front door and into the plush hallway. The scene was under control, and he thought better when he was walking. “What aren’t we seeing?”
“Hell if I know.” Donovan jammed the elevator button with his thumb. “But we’re not gonna figure it out tonight. It’s two in the morning. And I left a very naked, very willing woman in my bed.”
“That explains why you look so tired.” Since his divorce nine months ago, Donovan had pretty much joined the babe-of-the-month club.
“Not tired. Refreshed.” Donovan grinned. “She’s got a sister if you’re interested.”
The elevator opened and they stepped on. “They’ve all got sisters. Does your lady have a name?”
“Mindy, Cindy. Something like that.”
“You’re a sick man, Detective Donovan.”
“Not sick. Robust.”
Jack flashed his bad-cop scowl, the one he usually reserved for interrogation rooms.
“All right, all right,” said Donovan, his hands held up in surrender. “Her name’s Cindy, this is date number four, and she really does have a sister.”
He followed Jack off the elevator, and they stepped outside. Automatically, Jack reached for his tie and loosened the knot at his throat.
Donovan shoved a hand in his pocket, then pulled out a paperclip. “So how about it?” he asked, twisting the clip. “Let’s give her a buzz. Go grab breakfast somewhere.”
“Why would I want to go out with a woman so desperate she’d agree to a date at two in the morning?”
“She’s a nurse. End of shift. Cindy’ll call her, she’ll meet us, we’ll have a little party.”
“No.” Maybe the girl wasn’t a total loser, but no.
“You gotta take a break from the case sometime, man. It’ll still be there in the morning.”
Jack flashed Donovan a withering look. “And that pretty much goes to the heart of the problem.”
“There’s more to life than nailing the bad guys, Jack. You gotta nail some women, too.”
Groaning, Jack rolled his eyes. “You are one sick puppy.”
“Yeah, but at least I’m out there, not holed up behind a desk licking my wounds.”
Jack bristled. “You’re treading on thin ice, Donovan.”
“I’m just worried about you.”
“Nothing to worry about. I’m not licking any wounds. I’m the one who broke it off with Kelly, remember?”
“That’s my point. You broke it off with her so you could focus on your career.”
True enough. Kelly had wanted three things—a ring, Jack’s love and Jack’s time. But the truth was, all he was capable of giving her was the first one. Money could buy a ring. But he couldn’t manufacture love no matter how hard he tried. And he didn’t want to cut back on his job. Not for Kelly. Hell, maybe not for anybody.
“But you’re not a monk, man,” Donovan said, punctuating his point. “And twenty-hour days are going to kill you. You need to get laid.”
“Dr. Donovan’s prescription for success?”
“Shit, yeah.”
“I can find my own women,” Jack said. “I don’t need you pimping for me.”
Donovan snorted out a laugh. “Too bad. I’ve got great taste.” Donovan stopped alongside his beat-up Jeep, parked in front of a fire hydrant. “Come on. Cindy’s sister might be the woman for you. You could be missing out on the lay of a lifetime.”
It was Jack’s turn to laugh. “I’ll risk it,” he said. “Right now I just want to go home and get some sleep.”
“Sleep?” Donovan asked, doubt lacing his voice.
“That’s what I said.” And that’s exactly what he intended to do. Right after he swung by the precinct and took another look at the file.
* * *
The summer heat taunted her, denying her sleep. In front of her, photocopied pages from The Pearl and The Boudoir were strewn haphazardly across the sturdy oak door she’d converted into a desktop. Ronnie picked up a page at random, needing to work, but not in the mood. Instead of analyzing the words as a proper academic should, Ronnie lost herself in the prose, her pulse quickening as she skimmed the text.
There, on the page, the fictional Monsieur lifted his lover’s skirts, revealing her stockings...her garters...her sex. With reverence, he urged her thighs apart, then knelt in front of her, his tongue laving her intimately.
With a low moan, Ronnie closed her eyes, imagining it was her, and not the fictional Bertha, who was the subject of the Monsieur’s attentions. Arching her neck, she trailed her fingers down the front of her thin cotton nightshirt. Her body shuddered as she ran her hands over the swell of her breasts, letting her fingers linger on her nipples, which hardened under her touch.
Lord, she was frustrated.
And pitiful.
She pulled her hands away and sat straight in her chair, her elbows on her desk. Across the room, the window air conditioner spit out cool air at random, barely making a dent in the oppressive heat.
What kind of academic got all hot and bothered while trying to study? Well, that was easy. An academic who was stupid enough to pick a research topic related to erotic literature, and then dumb enough to go and read source material way past her bedtime. And The Boudoir, no less.
Not that the research wasn’t...fascinating. At the rate she was going, she’d need to invest in industrial-strength air-conditioning. As if on cue, the ancient window unit shuddered and gasped, finally belching out one last burst of tepid air before dying completely.
Considering the temperature for the rest of the week was supposed to hit record highs, she probably should have expected massive equipment failure. First the robbery, then two days without even a word from the cops, then the argument with her academic adviser, and now this. The final insult of an already rotten week.
A cold shower, that’s what she needed. Surely she’d sleep better if she could just cool down. Frustrated, she took off her glasses, tossing them onto her desk. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, then ran a hand through her sweat-dampened hair. Who was she kidding? Even if her apartment was climate controlled to a constant sixty-eight degrees, she’d still be awake.
Since the robbery, every creak and shudder of the old building made her jump. Especially since the police had been so closemouthed, not letting her know if they had any leads as to who might have broken into her bookstore downstairs.
And it had been such a creepy robbery, too. As if someone had just wanted to rifle through her stuff. The store was filled with expensive books and rare manuscripts, and yet none of that was touched. Not any of the near-priceless incunabula in the display case, not the clamshell set of Dickens’s serials displayed behind her work desk, not even the three hundred dollars in petty cash she’d left in the top drawer.
Instead, her burglar had left books strewn about on the floor and on top of bookshelves, and had tossed the papers from her desk all over the floor. It had taken Ronnie a full day to sort through and organize her lecture notes, personal correspondence and business bills.
Annoying and creepy. Definitely creepy. Combine the robbery with the looming deadline for her dissertation outline, and she doubted she could sleep even if the place were tomb silent, meat-locker cold and surrounded by armed guards.
A trickle of sweat ran down her temple and she brushed it away, trying to focus on work. Less than twenty-four hours ago, her faculty adviser had rejected her dissertation topic—the Influences of Erotic Literature on Contemporaneous Popular Culture—as too broad, and now she had to come up with a narrower focus, and fast. Since she was wide-awake at 4:00 a.m., the least she could do was spend the time productively. She’d worked hard to build up the store’s collection of erotic art and literature, and she’d hoped that combing through some of the volumes would inspire her.
She grimaced, thinking of her body’s reaction to the Monsieur’s story. She’d been inspired, all right, just not academically. Instead, she was feeling hot, bothered and sorry for herself, comparing her lack of anything remotely resembling a sex life to the baudy, exotic and most definitely erotic adventures of the women she spent evening after solitary evening reading about.
Leaning her head back, she sighed. A man. That’s what she needed.
No. She pressed her fingers to her lids and rubbed her closed eyes. Between her course work and trying to make the bookstore profitable, she was fully occupied one-hundred-and-twenty percent of the day. And even that wasn’t enough.
Besides, she’d had a man, and while the sex had been fabulous, Burt had been anything but. She shook her head, banishing the still-vivid images of her ex-husband and his receptionist, butt-naked, going at it on her two-hundred-and-fifty thread-count Ralph Lauren sheets. Not a pretty picture.
At least she was rid of him. She’d marched straight from their apartment to her attorney’s office. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Going on two years now. Hell, maybe she’d throw a party.
No, she didn’t need a man. But maybe a vibrator...
Nibbling on her lower lip, she toyed with the pages on her desk, papers that revealed passions and emotions that reached powerful heights. Heights she’d been sorely missing lately.
What irony. Veronica Archer—the owner of Archer’s Rare Books and Manuscripts, a specialist in rare erotica, author of more than twenty scholarly articles on erotic books and art—had the most pitiful sex life imaginable.
She shoved the thought away. She was happy with her life. Right now, her career came first. It wasn’t a sacrifice—it was liberating. While her friends were waiting by the phone wondering if Mr. Right was going to call, she was free to occupy her mind with more interesting pursuits. Unlike Joan, her twenty-four-year-old hot-and-heavily-into-dating assistant, Ronnie could gain a pound without having a panic attack, could rent all the sappy movies she wanted, and could care less about the fine art of small talk.
With a sigh, she gathered the pages and her notes. Since the air-conditioning had conked out, if she wanted to get any reading done tonight, she’d have to do it downstairs. At least the electrician was coming back to the store in the morning. Maybe he could coax the contraption into surviving one more summer.
Her door opened up onto the interior stairs that connected the five floors of the old family brownstone. Formerly for servants’ access, the stairs now ran from the bookstore on the first two floors, to the storage room on the third floor, to Ronnie’s apartment on the fourth and her brother Nat’s on the fifth.
She eased the door open and stepped onto the landing, avoiding the weak spot that always rang out like a shot. Since the burglary, Nat had been fussing over her safety. No sense letting him know she was having trouble sleeping.
On the ground floor she paused and looked back up the stairs, making sure no light appeared from above. Nothing. Good. She would down a gallon of coffee in the morning and Nat would never know just how lousy she’d been sleeping lately.
Slowly, carefully, she turned the knob, pushing the door at just the right speed to minimize the creak of the old hinge she never remembered to fix. When she’d maneuvered the door open enough to squeeze through, she slipped in, shut the door and flipped on the light.
Success.
“Careful, sis, you might wake me.”
Or not.
With a frown, she surveyed the room, finally locating Nat in one of the cushy armchairs she kept near the antique furnace. “What are you doing down here?” she asked.
“I figured you were still a little antsy after our uninvited guest. Thought I’d wait up and commiserate with you.”
“I’m not antsy,” she lied.
“Come on, Ronnie. I know you too well. Besides, it’s not quite morning and you’ve been awake for hours.”
“Hours?” She dropped her papers on the antique desk that served as the command center for the store, then hit the power switch on the coffeemaker she always kept filled and ready to brew. “How do you know how long I’ve been up?”
He waggled his eyebrows, the familiar gesture making her laugh. “I see all.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, dropping into the chair opposite him. “Give.”
“I got home about one. Your light was on. About an hour ago, I woke up, dead thirsty, and realized I was out of soda.” He leaned forward and gave her knee a quick squeeze. “When I came down here to grab one from the break room, what did I see but a light still shining from underneath my darling little sister’s front door?”
“Maybe I went to sleep with the lights on,” she said, then immediately regretted it. Staying awake or sleeping with the lights on—either way he’d assume she was nervous, scared of the dark, or otherwise put off by the robbery.
On cue, he shrugged and took a swallow of Mountain Dew. “I’m just looking out for you, Ron. I don’t like worrying about you. Knowing you’re scared.”
“Nat,” she crooned, trying out her reasonable-and-responsible-sister voice, “you’re supposed to be on a plane in just a few days. A Galápagos shoot for National Geographic is a really big deal. Worry about that. Not me.”
“I’ll always worry about you, McDonald.”
Ronnie rolled her eyes at the silly nickname. During eighth grade, she’d had a crush on Billy Hobbs, who happened to like redheads, not girls with uncooperative, mousy-brown ringlets. After a little mishap with a bottle of hair dye, Ronnie had ended up with curls more flaming orange than sultry red. Billy Hobbs had laughed and Nat had cheered her up. And after he was sure she’d survive, he’d pinned her with the rather annoying nickname of Ronald McDonald. Apparently the rule book for big brothers required an obnoxious-to-nice ratio of about three to one.
She looked at him fondly, and he smiled back, an easy gesture. Finally, she shook her head, half laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s why you love me.”
“Who says I do?” she teased.
He flashed her a smirk. “I know all. I see all.”
As she laughed, he took another sip of soda. She squinted at the nasty-looking scratch above his elbow. “What did you do?”
“Huh?” He followed her gaze. “Oh, that.” He shrugged, dropping his arm. “I was hanging some of my photos and I tripped. Managed to catch my arm on the nail.”
“Ouch,” she said. She ran her finger along it, and he winced, as if he was holding back a burst of pain. “Jeez, Nat. Is it infected? What did you put on it?”
He tugged his arm away, looking sheepish. “Hydrogen peroxide. It’s fine. I’ll put some more on it when I go back up.”
She frowned but didn’t argue. “You shouldn’t be doing that, anyway. I told you I wanted to frame your stuff for you, and then hang it. You need more color in your apartment.” Her brother was a wonderful photographer, but he kept most of his best stuff shoved in boxes, and he had no decorating sense whatsoever. For more than a year, she’d been promising to place his stuff in colorful frames and arrange it on his deathly dull bare walls. Being a terrible sister, she hadn’t yet gotten around to it.
“No big deal,” he said. “And no fair trying to change the conversation.” He aimed a stern finger in her direction. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m fine. Really.” She spread her arms wide. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”
“You’re nervous,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “I don’t like that.”
Bless his big-brotherish little heart. She took his hand, giving it a little squeeze. Ever since their mom had walked out, Nat had played parent. Granted, it was a role that needed playing, particularly since her dad had been too busy with his books to take any interest in the job.
Nat’s father had died when he was five, and their mother had married Kendall Parker, who’d promptly adopted the little boy. A couple of years later, Ronnie had come along. Two days after Ronnie’s fifth birthday, Ashley Parker had decided she was tired of motherhood. She’d walked out and never looked back. Then twelve, Nat had been Ronnie’s calm during the storm of the next few years. He’d helped her through a typically rocky adolescence, and held her hand when her father had died.
But she was thirty years old now, and Nat’s days as the daddy du jour had run their course.
But when she told him so, he just shook his head. “I don’t care how old you are, Ron. You’re still my little sister and I’m gonna watch out for you.”
Exasperated, she pulled away. “I don’t need looking out for. It was just a robbery. The electrician is coming tomorrow to rewire the alarm system.”
Nat pressed his soda can against his forehead. “Ka-ching,” he said. “The place is a money pit, Ron.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Then you fix it.”
He shook his head. “Beyond my capabilities, I think.”
She doubted it. Her brother was as handy as they came. He’d built a state-of-the-art darkroom in his apartment, installing the special lighting and other fixtures. But he was also a bit lazy. With the proper motivation, he could do anything. Without it, nothing would ever get done.
She loved him, but the truth was the truth.
“Come on, Ron. We’re sitting on a fucking fortune here. Sell the store, sell the building, and we can run off to Paris. I’ll take pictures and you can work on your dissertation.”
“Nat, we’ve had this conversation. I’m not selling.” She crossed her arms, hoping she looked dug in. They’d been down this road before. They sure as hell weren’t going to travel it in the middle of the night. Too many bumps, and Ronnie couldn’t afford to stumble.
His chest rose and fell. “Fine. Whatever. I mean, hey, I’ve got a fabulous apartment in Gramercy Park that I don’t have to pay a dime for. It’s not like I’m complaining.” He met her gaze, his brown eyes dark and serious. “But when my sister stays up all night worrying, I start wondering if maybe she needs a change of scenery.”
“I’m not worrying,” Ronnie said. “I was working.” A half truth. She had been working, but only because she was too keyed up to sleep. “Besides,” she added, hoping to appease her brother, “the cops are on it. There’s nothing to worry about.”
He kicked back, feet on the desk. “The cops made any progress?”
She had no idea. “Tons. They’ve got a zillion leads.” Maybe the cops just thought it was a nothing case, and that’s why they hadn’t updated her. Certainly nothing much was taken. Of course, it was that very fact that gave her goose pimples.
“Ronnie,” he said, and she snapped to attention.
“What?”
“What kinds of leads?”
“Oh. I don’t know. Just leads.” She examined her fingernails.
“For God’s sake, Ron. We live here. We have a right to know what they’ve found out.”
She shrugged, wishing she had something definitive to tell him. Hell, wishing she’d actually spoken with an officer. “You know how vague cops can be.”
“I know how vague my sister can be.”
Ronnie sighed. She knew when she was beaten. “Okay. Fine. I want you on that plane. Short of hiring a guy named Guido, what do I have to do to make sure it happens?”
A slow, smug grin spread across his face. “Well, little sister, I guess you’re going to have to hire the biggest, baddest security dude you can find to sit down here at night—”
“I don’t think so.”
“—or you’re going to have to turn on the charm for the cops, and sweet-talk some information out of them.”
chapter two (#ulink_6bbb36ec-48cf-5850-ab05-09c88e669c3f)
“Working early or staying late?”
The voice, more or less familiar, filtered through the mush in Jack’s brain, finally spurring one cohesive thought—Irving. The voice belonged to Lieutenant Irving. With a grunt, he peeled his face off the government-issue desk and squinted up at his interrogator. “What?” he croaked. Not exactly a stunning response, but it was the best he could manage.
Dan Irving smirked and plopped down a coffee cup. “You need this more than me.” He shook a bag. “The doughnuts I’m keeping. Gotta promote those stereotypes.”
Jack took a slug of liquid heaven, closed his eyes and let the legal stimulant do its number on his brain. “Fire, I understand. What I don’t get is how man survived before caffeine.”
“You call this surviving?” Irving swept his arm to encompass the office. “The animals in Central Park got better digs than we do.”
Jack grinned and lifted his coffee cup. “But we got a much better menu.”
The lieutenant flipped a wooden chair around, straddled it, and Jack pushed a photocopy of Mrs. Crawley’s pillow greeting his way. “What do you make of that?”
Irving picked up the copy, held it farther and then even farther away as though he were doing a little trombone number, then ended up holding it at arm’s length. Jack bit back a chuckle. The lieutenant refused to give in and buy reading glasses, but if his eyes kept going south, he was going to need longer arms.
“Don’t be frightened, darling.” Irving frowned. “A threat. But there’s something else. Something about the language. It’s stilted.”
“That’s what I think, too.”
“The Crawley case?”
Jack nodded. “Third incident. This one, the perp actually got into their bedroom. Needless to say, Mr. and Mrs. Crawley aren’t too happy.” He took the paper back, frowning at the neatly typed words. “It’s...odd. Our perp seems to be quoting something, and it might be important.”
“So figure out what he’s quoting.”
“Already on it.” Jack grinned. “Or rather, Donovan is.”
Irving chuckled. “What are you up to, Parker?”
“Just doing my job. I called my partner about six-thirty this morning. Said I needed him to track us down a literature professor.”
“Don’t suppose Donovan’s girl of the week took that too well.”
“Don’t guess she did.” Jack stifled a smile, remembering the girl’s clear annoyance when she’d answered the phone. He grinned. “Well, if you can’t stand the hours, don’t date a cop.”
Considering Jack had spent the entire night buried under boxes of evidence, while Donovan had spent the night under—or on top of—something much more entertaining, Jack couldn’t feel too guilty about the wake-up call. And the fact was, he really did need to find someone who could source that quote—assuming it really was a quote. In the absence of any physical evidence, it was the best lead they had. Hell, it was the only lead.
“So how’d you pull this assignment?” Irving asked. “Sex crimes division going after scraps of paper now?”
Jack shook his head. “Our perp’s got a thing for erotica. Book passages and some pretty graphic nudie postcards.”
Irving pulled out a doughnut, then passed the bag to Jack before standing. “Pass a nudie postcard my way and we’ll call it even.”
Jack laughed, and when his stomach growled he realized he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch. He grabbed an apple fritter and devoured half of it before Irving crossed the squad room.
Jack was wiping crumbs off his desk when Donovan appeared and dropped into the chair Irving had abandoned.
“You realize you owe me one,” Donovan said.
Jack nodded. “Story of my life. Find anyone?”
Donovan shifted smoothly into professional mode. “A tenured professor of world literature. No summer classes. Family was in the book business for years. Should be in to see you around nine.”
“Good. I’ve got to be in court on the Bleeker case at eleven, so that’s perfect.”
“I live to serve.” Donovan leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t forget the vest,” he added.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack said. The Bleeker matter had taken a nasty turn, child pornography, mob connections, all sorts of shit. And the word on the street was that Darian Bleeker intended to simply get rid of the witnesses. Kevlar had become de rigueur for the fashionable detective. Jack hated the vest, but he sucked it up and wore it on the days he was testifying. The damn thing was miserable in the summer heat, but certainly preferable to getting blown away.
Donovan helped himself to a corner of Jack’s fritter. “So I’m guessing you were here all night. Come up with anything else?”
“Nothing definitive.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Lab says no.”
“What about the paper?”
Jack shook his head, the lack of any serious leads eating at his gut. “Doubtful. Looks to be pretty common notepaper. But this...” He slid the photocopy across the desk again. “See anything odd?”
Donovan shrugged. “Should I?”
“The e rises a bit. One of the forensic guys noticed.”
“A typewriter? What? Our perp’s not computer literate?”
“Could be a lead—but only if we track down the match.”
Donovan grimaced. “Great. Thousands of typewriters in the greater Manhattan area. I’ll start combing junk shops,” he scoffed.
“I’m hoping your professor can give us some more concrete help,” Jack said.
“I guess you are.” Donovan looked at his watch. “In the meantime, I’ll go to the lab and see if anyone’s hobby is typewriters.”
Jack downed some coffee. “Have fun.”
As Donovan headed off, Jack pulled out the evidence he’d been reviewing all night—the pillow note, two pages ripped from Lady Chatterley’s Lover, a postcard of a half-naked woman, and three postcards showing men and women in positions that, if the right woman came along, Jack might be tempted to try.
“I was hoping to talk to him now. I’m in kind of a hurry.” At the distinctly female voice, Jack looked up, automatically covering the risqué postcards with a manila folder. Near the main doors, a tall woman with a mass of deep brown curls and lips to die for was having an animated conversation with the officer on duty. She looked at her watch, frowned and turned back to the officer. “I’d like to be back at the bookstore by ten.”
Bookstore. Thank God she’d arrived early. He had a ton of questions. Jack jumped to his feet and half ran to the front of the room, stopping across the counter from her and sticking out his hand.
“Detective Parker. I think you’re here to see me.”
Carla, the officer on duty, raised an eyebrow, but he waved her down. The woman shifted her purse and took his hand, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity dancing across his fingertips.
“Veronica Archer.” She glanced from Carla to him and back again. Her eyes widened behind the wire frames of her glasses and she held his gaze for the briefest moment before she looked away, color rising on her cheeks. “I...I’m supposed to talk to you?”
“That’s right,” he said, thankful for small favors. He opened the gate and ushered her through, appreciating the way her hips moved under the clingy knit skirt.
For a brief moment he wondered if Donovan had deliberately picked the sexiest professor on campus to entice him, then dismissed the idea. Off duty, his partner might throw women at him. On the job, Donovan was the consummate professional. Which meant this woman knew her stuff. “I overheard you say that you were in a hurry. Detective Donovan’s down at the lab right now.”
“Oh.” Her easy smile affected him in ways that were hardly professional. With effort, he forced himself to concentrate on her words. “In that case,” she added, “thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”
Her smile broadened, and he found himself returning it. He cleared his throat. “Right. Well, Donovan and I work together.” Jack gestured to a chair, then sat behind his desk. He was grateful for the chair beneath him. As it was, his own knees felt weak. As if this woman had managed to push all his buttons with nothing more elaborate than a glance.
“I see.” She crossed her legs, and he forcibly pulled his eyes away. “Is he the one I spoke to before? I didn’t remember his name.”
“That’s right.”
She shifted in her seat, her sweater pulling against the swell of her breasts. Jack’s mouth went dry.
“Well,” she said, “as I mentioned on the phone this morning, what I would like is—”
“Ms. Archer, I should probably just jump in with the information we need from you.” The approach seemed prudent. Not only did he need the information, he needed to regain the sense of control he’d lost the second he’d laid eyes on Veronica Archer. “At this stage of the game, we want to keep as much confidential as possible. I’m sure you understand.”
Her teeth grazed her lower lip and her brow furrowed. “Well, yes, of course.” She frowned, then shook her head. “No. Actually, the truth is I don’t. I only want—”
“Please.” He pulled out an evidence bag holding a single page and passed it to her, fighting the urge to explain the entire case. Clearly, he was losing it. Not only did his fingers itch to touch her, but something about the woman made him want to open up, to tell her about everything—the anonymous letters and postcards, the frustration of not being able to get a break in the case.
Get a grip, Jack. He was probably just feeling awkward about foisting erotic literature on a woman. Not the kind of activity he tended to imagine in a professional setting. Hell, not the kind of activity he’d ever imagined at all. Though with Veronica Archer, he could imagine some interesting study-hall activity.
With a mental jerk, he yanked his mind back, annoyed that the mere proximity to a beautiful woman was driving him to distraction. Maybe Donovan was right. Maybe he’d been too long without a date.
“So?” She waved the bag, then dropped it on his table.
“Do you recognize it?”
“Sure. D. H. Lawrence. Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” She looked him straight in the eye, and he thought he saw anger brewing. An unwelcome change from earlier, and one he didn’t understand.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Is this really necessary?”
A hard edge definitely laced her voice, but he supposed that was understandable. She was an academic, probably not used to being second-guessed. But he needed to be sure she knew her stuff. “Yes. I think it is.”
“Chapter ten,” she said, her voice tight. “Connie and the gameskeeper. They’ve never been together, really don’t even know each other, but he tells her to lie down, and she does, and then he touches her...that way.”
She raised an eyebrow and Jack swallowed, feeling a little like a student who’d just failed a test.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
He avoided the question, instead passing her one postcard and then another, each of which she identified without even missing a beat. The lady knew her stuff. Donovan had certainly tracked down the best professor for the job.
But the cards were chump change. Even he and Donovan had eventually discovered the source of the pages and the artwork. Now it was time for the real test. He pushed the photocopy of the pillow note toward her. “What about this? Do you recognize it?”
“Detective...” She paused, frowning, then glanced first at his desktop and then at him. After a moment, she seemed to come to a decision. “I’ve tried my best to be polite, to be on my best behavior. But I’m not exactly in the mood for pop quizzes, okay?” She tucked her purse under her arm and pushed her chair back, glaring at him, her eyes cold, entirely lacking their earlier warmth. “Yes, my specialty’s erotica. But I don’t see why I have to play Jeopardy! simply to get the police department to do its job.”
Jack could practically feel the anger sparking off her like static electricity. He didn’t have a clue as to what had set her off, but he had an overwhelming urge to fix it. To make whatever was bothering her better. “Look, Ms. Archer, if there’s been some sort of misunderstanding—”
“Misunderstanding? Ignoring my case? Not returning my calls?” She waved a hand at the evidence he’d just shown her. “And now this...this...attitude about the fact that I study erotica.” She glared at him, green eyes flashing. “It just so happens that I have a significant number of rare books and manuscripts in that store, not to mention the fact that I live above it.”
She pulled her cardigan closed, the thin knit stretching tight against her breasts. He shouldn’t be noticing, but he couldn’t help it any more than he could help his body’s reaction. He tried not to stare. Getting caught ogling her at this particular moment probably wouldn’t win him any brownie points.
She swallowed. “I’m scared, Detective. Okay? And I don’t appreciate being taunted about my profession.”
Blinking furiously, she stood up. “I’ll call again later for answers,” she said. “And I suggest you have some if you don’t want me to speak to your supervisor.” With a defiant tilt of her chin, she turned and rushed out, heels clicking on the battered linoleum floor.
Jack was as confused as he’d ever been, and she was out the door and gone by the time his brain defrosted. Gears turned in his head, and coherent thoughts started to form from the random words she’d thrown out—her case, ignoring, scared, answers. With a groan, he let his head fall onto the metal desktop.
Veronica Archer wasn’t a professor, she was a victim.
Way to go, Jack. Arrest the perps and alienate the victims. Smooth move.
And she wasn’t just any victim, but one who owned a bookstore and specialized in erotic literature. Except for the problem that he’d managed to completely piss her off, she could probably help him with the Crawley case more than some generic lit professor from the halls of academia. Not to mention the fact that he just plain wanted to see her again.
Glancing up, he noticed a rumpled man in a seersucker suit talking with Carla. The literature professor, he presumed. An image of chestnut curls, emerald eyes and a kissable mouth flashed in his mind. Features held together by a fiery personality he wouldn’t at all mind working with.
Instead, he got Professor Nerdsly.
“Detective Parker,” Carla called, “this gentleman is here to see you.”
Jack waved, letting her know he’d be right there.
“Oh, and Jack? That woman, she said to tell you it came from The Boudoir.”
* * *
“That was fast.” Joan looked up from the computer as Ronnie stalked into the store, the little bell announcing her arrival. She held up a box. “This came for you. From your secret admirer, I’m guessing.”
Ronnie half smiled as she took the box, her hideous mood lifting just a little. She pulled the top off to reveal a package of Hershey’s Kisses, with a little note in stenciled calligraphy— Sweets for the sweet.
Joan looked over her shoulder. “Aw. How sweet,” she said drolly. “I say there’s gotta be something wrong with him if he won’t show his face.”
“Don’t be mean,” she said to Joan. “Whoever’s sending them is probably just shy.” For about two months now, she’d been receiving anonymous little gifts every week or so. Each contained a message, a bit clichéd, but nice.
She looked more closely at the box. “Mail?”
“Nope. It was sitting outside the door. One of the customers brought it in.”
With a shake of her head, Ronnie sighed, wondering if she’d ever figure out who her admirer was. Her guess was Tommy, the shy young man who’d attended each and every one of the free lectures on erotica the store sponsored on alternate weeks.
If that was the case, though, Ronnie almost hoped he stayed anonymous. Tommy seemed like a sweet kid, in a college freshman kind of way, but certainly not her type.
An image of Detective Parker popped into her mind. Speaking of her type...
Joan plucked the box from her hand and grabbed a Kiss. “So what happened? I didn’t think you’d make it back before we opened.”
Ronnie’s foul mood returned as she flung her satchel onto the desk and aimed herself toward the coffee. “It was a totally wasted trip,” she said. “They’re impossible. He’s impossible.”
“He?” Joan peered at her over the rims of her psychedelic half glasses, apparently this week’s venture into nouveau fashion. “He, who?”
Ronnie took a swig of coffee and shook her head as she swallowed. “A detective he,” she said, glaring at the turn-of-the-century French postcards Joan was cataloging, the kind of postcards he’d taunted her with at the station.
Waving a hand toward the scattered ephemera, she scowled. “A him with a complex about that.”
“No way. Really? That’s why nothing’s happening with your break-in? The police are prudes?”
Ronnie sipped her coffee. “Looks that way.” She sure as hell couldn’t think of any other explanation for his odd behavior.
Distracted, she paced in front of the window, watching her neighbors glide by on the way to work. Bank tellers, bus drivers, schoolteachers, stockbrokers. It was an eclectic neighborhood, and she loved it. The familiar sights and smells had comforted her for years. Mrs. Carmichael opening the corner store. Duncan Tanner selling hotdogs from a cart, the pungent smell of sauerkraut filling the morning air.
She’d managed to quell some of her irritation—no, dammit, her fury—as she’d walked back from the police station. But now that anger was rallying, slamming through her stomach with even more force than before. Someone had violated her sanctuary. This neighborhood. Her life. How dare the cops soft-pedal her robbery just because she dealt in erotic literature.
And the fact that Detective Parker was so damn good-looking only added to her annoyance. For reasons she wasn’t inclined to examine too closely, he’d been on her mind during the entire walk back from the station, the echo of his touch still lingering on her fingers.
A particularly annoying fact, considering that Detective Parker had been a total jerk. Probably one of those macho holier-than-thou guys who thought a woman should be prim, proper and submissive. Heaven forbid a woman take the initiative where sex was concerned.
Of course, her extensive reading didn’t count as the real thing. She grinned. For that matter, neither did a vibrator.
He could scratch that itch....
The decadent thought slammed through her, and her knees went weak. She grabbed the side of a bookshelf for support as her mind filled with an image of piercing gray eyes and an angular jaw dusted with a shadow well past five o’clock.
Now, there was a vision that could inspire long nights of study.
Sighing, she sank into the soft leather armchair by the desk, the warm mug clasped in both hands. Despite how much the man had irritated her, her body still tingled at the thought of his touch. She told herself it wasn’t him, it was her—oversexed and undersatisfied. But, oh, what a fantasy to imagine Detective Parker doing the satisfying.
She dwelled on the thought a little longer than she should, trying to imagine his hands on her breasts, her waist, her hips. His handshake had been firm, his hands large, and the thought of those hands roaming her body sent little shivers up her spine. It was a fantasy she itched to make reality, but she knew that wasn’t possible.
With a sigh, she pushed the daydream away and glanced toward Joan. “So why is it that the handsomest men are inevitably Neanderthals?”
Joan laughed. “One of those, huh? Too bad. We could’ve used some eye candy around here. A rugged detective doing all that...detecting.” She winked. “Could’ve been fun.” She ran a hand through her tousled curls. “I wonder if he likes blondes? Trey’s starting to bore me to tears.”
“All men like blondes,” Ronnie said. “It’s carried on the Y chromosome, I think. You have nothing to worry about.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “I thought his name was Andy.”
“Andy’s old news. He stiffed a waitress. I dumped him. Trey’s an artist, very chic, but seriously lacking in the conversation department.”
Ronnie rolled her eyes. An artist. Well, that explained Joan’s new, get-down-get-funky glasses.
“I bet a detective would have plenty to talk about,” Joan added thoughtfully.
“Well, you’re just going to have to make due, because there’s not going to be any detective-gazing around here.” Considering how badly the meeting at the precinct went, that appeared to be an unfortunate reality. “I get the impression we’re on our own. I don’t think the police are coming at all.”
“Who’s not coming?” a voice cut in.
Nat. Damn.
Ronnie stood and turned toward the stairwell. He wore jeans and a ratty T-shirt, but his feet were bare. His hair stuck out in a million directions and he looked sixteen instead of more than twice that.
“You look like the dead,” she said, hoping the insult would derail the subject.
“Thanks. Who’s not coming? The cops?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, willing a lie to her tongue as she crossed her fingers in her pocket. “I was talking about the electrician.” She shrugged. “Everything’s under control.”
He shot her a look of pure disbelief before venturing to the coffeepot, filling a cup, then heading back to the stairwell, squeezing her shoulder lightly as he passed by. He paused, looking back at her. “You went like that?”
Automatically, she looked down at her outfit. Skirt, sweater, shoes. Nothing missing or revealing. “Yeah. So?”
He shrugged. “I was just thinking about the kind of guys who hang around police stations. That skirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
Ronnie crossed her arms over her chest. Nat had been lecturing her on her wardrobe since she was twelve and bought her first training bra. She might be used to it, but it still annoyed her. “It’s a knit skirt. It’s supposed to cling. And they’re called thighs. Everyone has them. I assure you I haven’t committed some mighty sin by wearing material that clings.” She knew she sounded snappish, but she really wasn’t in the mood.
Nat scowled but didn’t say anything else. After a second, he changed the subject. “Well, you weren’t there very long. What exactly did the cops say?”
“Nothing much.” She shrugged, swallowing a bit of guilt at the white lie. She’d wasted many a college hour planted in front of television, but not one episode of Law & Order sprang to mind. “I guess police departments are pretty busy in the morning,” she added, mentally cringing at how lame she sounded. “But a detective is coming by later to give me the full scoop.”
Nat rubbed his chin but didn’t question her, and she held her breath. Then, with a quick nod and a murmured “okay,” he stepped back into the stairwell and pulled the door closed behind him.
The guilt returned. Nat had always been someone she could depend on, rely on, go to with her problems and share her dreams. She truly hated lying to him, but she didn’t want him worrying. He had a great opportunity in that job, and she didn’t want to see him blow it because of some misplaced worry about his little sister.
She comforted herself with the fact that it wasn’t a huge lie. If she worked the phones right and complained loudly enough, maybe she could get a detective to come over and give her an update by that evening.
Unfortunately, it just wouldn’t be Detective Parker.
chapter three (#ulink_09951805-806e-5204-9192-37a433198f1f)
The image filtered through his exhausted mind, taunting and teasing him.
Her chestnut hair was pulled back with a single ribbon, the only adornment she wore. In front of her, she held a thin blue scarf. Too sheer for modesty, the material did nothing to hide the dark circles of her nipples. She was smiling, a silent, seductive invitation....
“Jack? Yo! Parker. You wanna join the living, buddy?”
With a lurch, Jack pulled himself away from the dream and back to reality, rubbing his hands over his face to try to wake up.
Donovan grinned, glancing down at the desktop. “Fantasizing about the evidence?”
“What?” Jack asked, still groggy. Following Donovan’s gaze he saw the postcard. A blonde, nude from the waist up, was flirting with the camera from behind a single flimsy scarf.
Jack blinked. In his dream, the half-naked woman on the old-time postcard had been a brunette. Soft waves cascading over bare shoulders...dancing green eyes...a pert mouth.
Veronica Archer.
Damn, but the woman had gotten to him. He wanted her with an urgency he’d never felt before. And from what he could tell, she was pissed as hell at him.
Too bad.
“There’s more,” Donovan said, his voice hinting that more didn’t mean good.
One last shake of his head and Jack grounded himself. “Tell me.”
“Another postcard.” He tossed the evidence bag onto the desk. The antique card showed a flapper, this one wearing nothing but stockings, a long strand of pearls and a come-hither smile. “Special delivery just this morning.”
Automatically, Jack’s eyes drifted to the caged clock on the far wall. Not even ten. “It didn’t come by mail.”
“Special pillow delivery.”
Jack frowned. “Shit. Another one.”
“Yup. In Brooklyn. A buddy of mine hooked me up with the detective on the case. Seems there’s a woman over there who’s been getting the same treatment as Mrs. Crawley.”
“Great. A serial stalker. Our Mr. Naughty’s just spreading cheer all over the boroughs.” He sighed. “A blessing for us, a curse for these women.”
“Only a blessing if we can find a link between our Brooklynite and Mrs. Crawley.”
“Found anything so far?” Jack asked, sure the answer would be no.
“Other than the erotica? Nothing I’ve discovered in the last forty-five minutes.”
Running a hand through his hair, Jack sighed. “Well, it’s a solid lead. Let’s get on it, start checking their backgrounds. Maybe something will overlap.”
“Overlap we’ve already got.”
Nudie postcards and titillating tales. “True enough. This erotica stuff is the key. But damned if I know how.”
“What did Professor Baker have to say?” Donovan kicked his feet up onto Jack’s desk and twisted the top off a bottle of antacid.
“The man was useless.” And tedious. The professor talked like a living telegram, except the stop came between every single word, slowing his speech to a mind-numbing pace. After about two sentences, Jack had been ready to strangle the man. “He didn’t know a thing about erotica other than that it existed. Oh, and he’d heard of Fanny Hill.”
Donovan shrugged. “That’s something.”
“That’s nothing. Every junior high school boy looking for a thrill knows about Fanny Hill.”
The corner of Donovan’s mouth twitched. “Not me. I was a Playboy kinda guy.”
He ignored the comment. “The point is, he’s no help. While you’re running down connections between the women, I need to find someone who can make sense of this stuff, tell me if there’s some pattern, some hidden meaning. Something. Anything.”
“The department doesn’t have that many intellectuals lined up to consult, Jack. You tell the professor to take a hike, and we’re gonna be out of luck.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
An adorably crooked smile. Emerald eyes. Deep, rich hair. The images swirled in his head, and he mentally reached out, wanting to pull the vision closer.
“Donovan, my man. This just might be my lucky day.”
* * *
“What do you think?” Joan paced in front of the break-room table, twirling a pencil in her fingers. Postcards, books, prints and sketches littered the tabletop, along with a single three-ring binder, one burst of modernism in a sea of vintage paper.
Ronnie picked up the binder and studied the pages of inventory. “Postwar erotica? Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller? Frank Harris’s My Life and Loves?”
“Sure. Along with Rojan’s lithographs and those cool postcards you brought back from Paris. I bet it’ll be our best catalog yet.”
“Sort of a banned-books theme,” Ronnie said, smiling. Archer’s Rare Books issued two catalogs a year covering the finer items from the entire stock, along with one specialty catalog that focused on erotica. Debating with Joan over the theme of the special issue was one of her favorite summer activities.
“They weren’t all banned. And, anyway, back in the twenties and thirties, these books really pushed the envelope. It was a whole new era.”
With a quick twist, Ronnie pulled her hair up, securing it with a pencil. “So you’re wanting to make some sort of historical or sociological statement?” She frowned. Joan wasn’t usually the political type.
“Nah,” Joan said with a shrug. “Mostly it’s just that we have enough stock from the period to put together a good catalog.”
Ronnie laughed. How could she argue with logic like that? Especially since Joan was absolutely right—they could put together a hell of a catalog. Smiling, she nodded. “It’s a great idea.”
Joan clapped her hands, bouncing like a little girl. “Good. Because I’ve already started pulling stock. We have Henry Miller, and all four volumes of the Harris—those should fetch a lot—and we have an inscribed Anaïs Nin.” She did a fake swoon. “I don’t know how you get your hands on some of this stuff.”
“Trade secret,” Ronnie said with a wink. The truth was, it had taken her five years and endless hours building up the store’s erotica section. And now that the store had a reputation, collectors often came to her when they wanted to sell a prized book or manuscript.
For as long as she could remember, she’d put her heart and soul into the store, and Ronnie couldn’t even imagine another career. With the sad state of the current economy, though, the store was going through some tough times, and Ronnie was doing her damnedest to keep the place profitable. Which made the fact that some creep had broken in all the more infuriating. What if he’d made off with some of her valuable stock?
“What’s wrong?” Joan asked, her brow furrowed.
“Nothing. Just thinking about our intruder.” She waved her hand, then rifled through the pages in the binder, trying to look nonchalant despite the image of Nat in big-brother mode dancing through her mind. Without an update from the police, he was going to stay in New York instead of taking the career opportunity of a lifetime.
The bummer of it was, so far she’d completely struck out in the detective department. First she’d been scorned that morning by a detective who doubled as her own personal fantasy man, then she’d received the big brush-off when she’d called a few hours later. Detective Parker may have specifically told her that someone named Donovan was on her case, but the police department didn’t seem to be too clued in. When she’d complained to the clerk, she’d been told that Donovan wasn’t assigned to the matter. So far, she’d left two voice-mail messages for the cop who was supposedly running the show, but she hadn’t heard back. She tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “No surprise there,” she said.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Joan asked, studying Ronnie over her psychedelic rims.
“Nothing. Ignore me.” She shot a glance toward the phone on the wall. “I’ll try the precinct again in an hour or so. Sooner or later they’ll send someone out just to shut me up.”
“Just call 911,” Joan said, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a soda. She popped the top and took a swallow. “Tell them we’ve got another intruder.”
Except for the fact that a false emergency call was probably a felony, it sounded like a heck of a plan. This was sort of an emergency, wasn’t it? After all, getting rid of Nat really was reaching critical status. So maybe she should...
No. She was a responsible business owner. She paid taxes. She shopped for groceries and voted when she remembered.
But she did not make fake emergency calls.
She took a deep breath. “Let’s just work on the catalog. I’ll call again in a little while.”
Joan nodded and brought over an archival box filled with French postcards from the twenties and thirties. “I thought we could scan these and do an illustrated catalog.”
Ronnie pulled out one of the sepia cards, lightly running her finger over the edge. Unlike the ones that often turned up at flea markets or on eBay, these were in pristine condition, their edges clean, the images crisp. Someone—the photographer, probably—had hand-tinted each card. Just a touch to highlight the model’s jewelry, the ribbon in her hair, the nightgown pooled at her bare feet. The effect was dreamlike. Sensual.
Joan started pulling cards out of the box and laying them faceup on the table. “They’re not quite as erotic as the Rojan lithographs, but that’s okay, right?”
Ronnie nodded, pulling her thoughts back to the conversation. True, the lithographs tended to feature couples lost in their own private passions, while the postcards each featured a single woman. But, to Ronnie, the cards were just as alluring.
She plucked one out of the box. A nude woman, wearing nothing but a long strand of beads, reclined on a chaise longue, one arm behind her head, a coy look on her face. A sultry siren tempting the man behind the camera. “These cards have secrets,” she said, passing it to Joan. “That’s why they’re so erotic. It’s like we’re sharing a private moment between the woman and her lover.”
“I guess that makes her an exhibitionist and us voyeurs,” Joan said, grinning as she pulled up a chair.
Ronnie laughed. “Maybe it does.”
“So,” Joan said, leaning in closer, “have you ever done anything like that?”
“Exhibitionism?” Ronnie asked, sure her voice was squeaking. “Not hardly.”
“No, no, no.” Joan rolled her eyes. “Not for all the world.” Her devious smile lit up her entire face. “For just one guy. Burt? Anybody?”
“Have you?” An obvious avoidance tactic, but maybe Joan wouldn’t notice.
The bell in the main room jingled, cutting off Joan’s response. Instantly, she hopped to her feet, pointing a finger at Ronnie. “You stay. See if you like the other stuff I picked for the catalog. I can handle a customer.” Then she slipped out the door. A second later, she was back, peering around the door frame. “And the answer to your question is yes. Andy might have been a jerk out in the real world, but in the bedroom he was blue-ribbon material.” She winked, then disappeared again.
Alone, Ronnie gazed at the image of a 1920s ingenue, coy and flirtatious. The woman was perched on the edge of a padded bench, looking almost ethereal as yards of diaphanous material swirled around her.
What would it be like to be that woman? To feel the caress of her lover’s eyes on her, to know that he wanted her, and then to open her arms in silent invitation?
She closed her eyes, her body tightening as she imagined the press of her dream lover’s body against hers. His hands in her hair, trailing down her shoulder. She’d conjured the dream man the same night she’d walked out on Burt. Her ex-husband may have known all about sex, but her imaginary lover knew all about her.
A composite of the men she read about in her books, today he had the face of a certain sexy detective. Her dream lover was a man who wanted to please her, who was so in tune with her—body and soul—that he could almost read her thoughts. A man who knew if she wanted him to kiss her hard and take her right there on the kitchen table, or if she needed it slow and languid. A thousand caresses. Soft words and even lighter touches. Hours of exploration. Teasing and tempting until she couldn’t stand it anymore and she begged, begged, for him to enter her.
The man in her fantasies played her body like a symphony. Compared to him, Burt had played her like a ukulele.
She wasn’t asking for true love. Hell, she wasn’t even sure it existed. And the thought of committing to another man...
She shook her head. Right now? No way. But, oh, how she wanted passion. The heart-pounding, blood-boiling, loins-throbbing kind of desire she read about in her books.
She glanced back down at the woman on the card. “I bet you don’t have any problem finding lovers,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
Oh, hell. That was a male voice, and it most definitely didn’t belong to her brother. She felt her face warm, and she looked up...straight into the amused face of Detective Parker.
She swallowed, her cheeks heating in what surely had to be a blush red enough to start a fire. She flashed the postcard for him to see. “I was talking to her,” she said, then mentally kicked herself for such an idiotic comment.
“So I gathered.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, revealing a sexy dimple, and she cursed herself for noticing. Damn the man for materializing when she had erotica—and him—on the brain.
“I’m not exactly sure what a two-dimensional woman needs with a lover,” he added, “but I have no doubts she’ll find one.” The twitch turned into a full smile and the dimple deepened. “But if you want to help her get lucky, I’ve got a copy of Fortune in my car. Maybe she’s into two-dimensional, entrepreneur types.”
Swallowing a laugh, she tried to glare at him. “I spent the entire morning being furious with you. Waltzing in here unannounced and making me laugh isn’t fair.”
Immediately, the smile vanished, replaced by a firm mouth and apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, pulling out a chair. He sat opposite her at the table, and she had the unreasonable urge to reach out and touch his hair. “Unfortunately, I’m still not going to be a lot of help.”
Still? He hadn’t even tried to help earlier. Instead he’d just tormented her.
Even so, something about those pale gray eyes called to her, silently telling her he was sorry, that he did want to help. And that if she kicked him out now, she’d be making the biggest mistake of her life.
Well, maybe that was a little melodramatic, but she did want to hear what he had to say. And, frankly, she hoped it was good. She took a deep breath, then took the plunge. “Okay, give. What are you talking about?”
“Your robbery. No fingerprints, no motive, no suspects. Nothing missing—”
“That I know of.”
“Nothing expensive, then. Nothing obvious.”
She nodded. “Right.”
He shrugged. “That leaves us with nothing to go on.”
“You could have just told me that this morning, instead of putting me through the erotica edition of Trivial Pursuit.”
“Right.” He shifted in his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Sorry about that.”
“You should be.” She grabbed up a small Rojan print—the one showing a couple in the back of a limousine, the man in a trench coat, intimately touching his companion, and the woman in a garter and stockings, her skirt around her waist. She waved the print in front of him. “I’m sorry if my life’s work offends you, but at least you could be professional, even if this kind of thing rubs you the wrong way.”
Coughing, he reached up and tugged at his tie, loosening the knot. His gaze dipped toward the lithograph, then back up to her. His eyes bore into hers with dark intensity, and she shivered, certain he’d touched her without even lifting a finger. “Trust me, lady. That picture rubs me a lot of ways, but wrong isn’t one of them.”
“Oh,” she said stupidly. Intelligent thought abandoned her, replaced by the image of her and Detective Parker in the back of a black stretch limo....
Her cheeks heated and she looked away, suddenly fascinated with a brown stain on the ancient vinyl flooring.
He must have picked up on her discomfort, because he took the print from her and turned it facedown on the table. “I didn’t mean to offend you earlier. I don’t work robberies, and I’m not assigned to your case. I thought you were somebody else.” Absently, he picked up the postcard she’d been examining and began tracing the outline with his fingertip.
She waited for him to keep talking, but he stayed silent, apparently waiting to gauge her reaction.
This was all very odd. Part of her wanted to jump out of the chair, chew him out for being a jerk and run back into the main room to help Joan with the customers. Another part of her just wanted to sit and stare into those fabulous eyes.
Besides, she didn’t really want to run from him. If what he said was true, he’d actually gone out of his way to help her by investigating her robbery even though it wasn’t his case. And she didn’t really have any reason to doubt him. After all, the police clerk had told her that neither Parker nor Donovan had anything to do with investigating the robbery. Which left some big questions—who had he mistaken her for, and why was he here?
“Okay, Officer.” She took a deep breath. “Keep talking.”
“Detective,” he said as he laid the postcard faceup on the table between them, like a gambler playing his card. “I need help. With this,” he said, glancing down at the card. He looked up again, his eyes burning into her. “I’m assigned to the sex crimes division.”
She frowned. “Sex crimes?”
He nodded. “I’m investigating a stalker.”
“That stuff you showed me...”
“That’s what he’s been leaving. His calling cards, you could say.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you. How can I help?”
“You’re an expert on this stuff, right? Well, I need an education.” He smiled, and her heart picked up its tempo. “An erotic education.”
Lord have mercy.
The thought that this man, this six-foot-something hunk of pure maleness needed help in anything erotic was almost beyond comprehension. The entire situation was surreal. They were sitting in a break room, of all places, surrounded by plastic and Formica, lit with fluorescent lighting. Nothing could be less sensual, and yet every nerve ending in her body was hyperaware. Her pulse beat in her throat, and she was sure her palms were sweating.
“I realize it’s not an ordinary request, but I can probably scrounge up some sort of hourly rate. A consulting fee.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”
She nodded vaguely. He made it all sound so professional, so academic. But academic or not, lessons in erotica with this man would be dangerous...in an absolutely delicious way.
“Miss Archer?”
Nibbling on her lower lip, she glanced down at the card on the table. He was waiting for her answer, waiting for her to put her cards on the table
She picked up the postcard, taking another look at the flapper whose erotic adventures she’d been so envious of only moments before. Then she lifted her eyes to look once again at the man. The shadow of his beard. Those enigmatic eyes. The sturdy angle of his jaw. All of it put together in a face that somehow pushed her senses into overdrive.
If she were thinking rationally, she’d ask more questions, would try to figure out exactly what he needed. After all, she had a business to run and a dissertation to write.
But on the other hand, in a lot of ways he was the answer to her prayers. If she could honestly tell Nat that she had an in with the cops—a source for information about the investigation—surely that would be enough to get him on that plane.
And the work did sound right up her alley....
But all that was just an excuse, a blatant justification for the real truth—that instinct, primal, pure and dangerous, had taken over. Here was a man who’d made her blood burn since the first moment she saw him, who in five minutes had left her with damp panties and a yearning for more. And that was only after talking business. Just imagine if they’d actually been discussing erotica....
Perhaps she was behaving foolishly, but she wanted to keep him around, even if only for a few more hours.
Slowly, she laid the card back on the table. “It looks like you win, Detective. Class begins promptly at eight.”
chapter four (#ulink_e851aec8-1891-5088-93f8-64a6a0341396)
Jack looked up from the pile of papers on his desk to glance at the clock on the wall.
“It’s five minutes later than the last time you looked,” Donovan said, hanging up his phone.
“What?”
“The time. Every time I look up you’re checking out the damn clock. What? You got a hot date tonight?”
“Unfortunately, it’s not a date,” Jack said, immediately regretting opening his mouth.
“Unfortunately?” Donovan repeated, inflection rising. “What exactly do you have planned for this evening? And does she have a sister?”
Jack laughed. “Mindy cast aside already?”
“Cindy,” Donovan corrected him, “and no. Actually things are pretty smooth in Cindy-land.”
“I’m shocked. Almost an entire week with the same woman.”
Donovan shrugged. “So maybe hell’s got a few icicles these days.”
“No shit?” Jack knew he sounded incredulous, but his partner had always said he’d settle down with a woman when hell freezes over. If the devil was wearing snow pants, Donovan must have it bad.
Donovan twisted a paper clip as he shuffled a little on his feet. “She’s a good gal, you know? And last night, she called me after her shift. Said she felt like hell and could we reschedule. I ended up taking a movie over there and making her some chicken soup and we just sat on the couch. You know, watching the flick.” Another shrug. “It was nice.”
Jack looked his buddy in the eye. “I’m happy for you,” he said.
“Yeah, well, it’s always nice to know where your next lay is coming from,” Donovan said, but Jack wasn’t buying. His partner looked too happy. Too content. Hell, the man was in love. And damned if Jack didn’t envy him just a little bit.
Shit.
“So what’s this nondate you’ve got tonight?” Donovan asked.
Jack reached into his desk and pulled out the old catalog Veronica had given him. Homework, she’d called it.
“Archer’s Rare Books and Manuscripts.” Donovan read the cover. “Winter catalog.” He flipped to a random page and his eyebrows shot up before he looked at Jack over the top of the slick pages. “Our nudie postcards.”
Jack took the catalog back. “Not ours. But some. According to Miss Archer, the postcards aren’t hard to come by. And the one left in Mrs. Crawley’s mailbox isn’t valuable.”
Even though “class” didn’t start until that evening, Jack had pressed Veronica for a few answers before he’d left. And he had to admit, the woman knew her stuff.
“So this gal’s willing to help us out?”
Jack nodded. “Yup. I’m meeting with her tonight.”
“Is she a babe?”
“Excuse me?”
“Just wondering if I should hope your nondate takes on a few twists.”
Jack aimed a stern look his partner’s way. “If you’re looking for something to do...”
“Got plenty,” Donovan rushed to say, but he didn’t walk away. Jack glared, and Donovan laughed.
“What?” Jack snapped.
“I was right, man. She is a babe. I can see it in your eyes.”
Jack scowled but didn’t answer. Hell, what could he say? Because the truth was, Veronica Archer was a babe. And Jack was counting the hours until his private lesson commenced.
* * *
Marina gently lifted the book, tracing her finger over the green-and-white wrapper protected by clear Mylar. After a moment, she sighed. “I wish I could afford it,” she said. “But I don’t think my bank account could stand the extra strain.”
Ronnie sighed, too. At more than five thousand dollars, the first edition of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer was one of the few books in stock that garnered a price significant enough to make a dent in her monthly bottom line, and yet not so expensive that it would only sell at auction.
Considering the sorry state of the store’s balance sheet at the moment, she’d really hoped the woman would splurge.
Carefully, she replaced the book in the glass case, then twisted the key in the lock. “We also have one copy of the first U.S. edition. It’s in excellent condition and it’s several thousand less. Would you like to take a look?”
Marina licked her lips, and Ronnie knew she had a sale. The woman was itching to buy something, but had to find that happy medium between a fun splurge and a foolish purchase.
“Well, maybe I could just take a peek,” she said, “if it isn’t too much trouble.” She turned to look behind her, to where the small group of people were milling about near the faux fireplace. “It’s tonight’s discussion topic, right?”
“That’s right,” Ronnie said. For about a year now, she’d been conducting minilectures after hours at the store about some of the more accessible famous works of erotica. “But you hardly need a collectible edition to participate. I’ve got ten paperback copies to share.”
“Oh, no,” the woman said. “I just meant that you’re sure to pique my interest. Last time when you talked about The Boudoir and The Pearl I went straight to my computer and bought copies of the reissued collections.”
This was the third lecture that Ronnie could remember Marina attending, but this was the first time she’d spoken with her. Not unusual. Considering the nature of the talks, Ronnie kept the lectures extremely informal. Folks introduced themselves using only a first name. They could participate or they could hover in the back, listen, then slink out as soon as the lecture was over. Most mingled, but she had a few hoverers, too.
The woman’s cheeks tinged slightly with pink. “The thing is, I already have this in paperback. And, well, I’ve read it a lot. And I’m thinking I’d like something more collectible. Does that make sense?”
“Of course,” Ronnie said. “Wait right here and I’ll get it for you. It’s on the second floor.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” the woman said. “I mean, if the lecture’s about to start.”
Ronnie just shook her head. “We’ve got a few minutes.” She headed into the break room toward the stairs. Her heels clicked on the flooring, and the electrician, Ethan, looked up from the breaker box beside the refrigerator. “Almost done?” she asked.
“With the alarm, yeah. But...” He trailed off into a shrug, then ran his hands down his legs, as if wiping sweat from his palms.
She frowned. His “but” sounded expensive. “What?”
“You got a short, all right, and I can fix that. But you’ve got all sorts of problems. Like I told you before, the wiring in this old building is terrible.”
Ronnie sighed. As far as she knew, the place had never been rewired. “And that’s why the alarm didn’t work?”
“I’m surprised anything works.” He flashed her a nice smile. “As my grandpa used to say, you’re held together with spit and a prayer.”
She laughed. “Story of my life. Okay. I guess I need to just suck it up. Can you fix the short and then give me an estimate on coming in and taking care of everything? No offense, but this piecemeal stuff is really adding up.” Over the last year, Ethan had done quite a bit of work throughout the building, but just Band-Aid repairs. She needed to spend the money to do it right once and for all.
She’d already committed to fixing the air conditioner in her apartment. Ethan had taken a look at it that afternoon and deemed it in dire need of parts. She’d authorized the order, of course, but that meant more days of living in a sauna—and then one more large check for the work.
A complete overhaul of the electrical system would be even more expensive, and she certainly didn’t need to add to her debt. But she also didn’t need the alarm not to trip or a short to spark a fire. Heaven forbid.
After Ethan agreed to get an estimate to her in the next couple of days, she headed to the second floor and pulled the copy of Tropic of Cancer from the climate-controlled area. She’d asked Joan to put out all the collectible editions in case anyone who attended the talk wanted to make a purchase, but apparently her assistant hadn’t gotten around to it.
With the book in her hand, she headed back to the main room, stepping behind the counter just in time to hear the door jingle. Detective Parker sauntered in, his suit jacket flung carelessly over his shoulder, his tie slightly askew, and his shirt looking remarkably fresh despite the heat. For that matter, the detective looked cool and refreshing, and Ronnie bit the inside of her cheek against the sudden overwhelming urge to take a little dip in that pond.
In truth, exploring some of the more enticing parts of the Miller work had been fodder for a secret fantasy that had run through her head all afternoon. She’d selected three passages to discuss in particular, each exploring hidden desires and latent passions. She’d let her imagination run wild, allowing herself the luxury of pretending that Detective Parker figured out she’d selected the text with him in mind...and then insisted on doing a little firsthand investigation of the passages.
Now, though, she realized just how foolish she’d been to start thinking such decadent thoughts. He was yummy, no denying that, but now was not a good time to lose her cool. She was about to stand up in front of a group of eight people and host an informal lecture on Henry Miller. Henry Miller. Known for his intimate and explicit descriptions of all things sexual.
What was she thinking inviting this man to watch her lecture? Detective Parker alone was enough to turn her knees to jelly. Combine him with Miller’s prose, and she was going to simply melt into the floor and beg him to take her. Not exactly the way to appear scholarly and academic to the small group gathered in her store.
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