Lori Wilde - Angels and Outlaws

“So he did.” She tilted her head and shot him a flirtatious glance.

Don’t fall for it. She’s a master at getting men to do her bidding.

“I’m glad you came down,” he said.

“Oh?” She batted her eyelashes provocatively. “Why’s that?”

Sam realized the desk sergeant was about to tip over in his chair he was trying so hard to eavesdrop. “Why don’t we find a more private place to talk?”

He took her by the elbow and guided her into an empty interview room. In a totally feminine gesture, she smoothed down her hair.

“Is this where you grill criminals?” She glanced around, clearly fascinated. “Is that one of those two- way mirror thingies like you see on television cop shows?”

“Have a seat, Cass.” Sam reached over and pulled out a chair for her.

“Thank you.”

She plopped her delectable butt down in the chair and his hand tingled with the memory of how that butt had felt cupped against his palm.

He hauled up a chair beside her. The scent of her perfume took hold of him and refused to let go. Sam wasn’t a fanciful man by nature, but his heightened olfactory sense made him more sensitive to aromas than most. Her fragrance provoked poetic comparisons. Realizing he’d made a mistake scooting up so close to her, he leaned away, trying to distance myself.

But it was no use. He was ensnared.

Cass smelled of lightning the instant it struck a purple mountain orchid. No, no. Her essence was more like the taste of crème caramel eaten with a platinum spoon. No, that wasn’t right either. Her fragrance embodied the sweet melody of a lover’s sated breath after a long night of excellent sex. No, that was too elemental. Her smell was lighter than that, softer.

Forget it.

There was no pinpointing her, but Cass’s scent created a sharp yearning inside him. She was a sultry wind fit to keep him stark awake and plotting midnight indiscretions.

“Listen,” they said in unison and then both gave a nervous laugh.

“You go,” she said.

“No, no, ladies first.”

He didn’t mind letting her start. He wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news that she was considered a person of interest in the Blueblood Burglaries. Her name was the only one that had appeared on all seven guest lists and it had been his reason for going to see her last Friday.

“Okay.” She placed her book on the table.

The binding had cracked and it smelled old, moldy. She flipped the brittle yellowed leaves open to a page bookmarked by a folded piece of newsprint. The book was in French.

When Cass unfolded the sheaf of newspaper article and he saw the photograph of the White Star, his cop instincts prodded uneasily. Something was fishy here, but he wasn’t sure what.

Cass tapped a long slender painted fingernail against the illustration in the book. “Look at this.”

Sam looked. The photograph of the White Star amulet stolen from the Stanhope auction house three days earlier identically matched the drawing in the French text.

His uneasiness escalated. Why had she come down here to show him this? Until that precise moment he hadn’t considered that the break-in at the auction house was even remotely related to the house-party thefts. The modus operandi in the two cases was very different. But now, he had to wonder.

“Where did you get this book?”

Pink lips parted, her pearly whites flashed provocatively. “My sister just bought an antique store in Connecticut and this weekend I was helping her unpack some boxes. We found this book inside. We’d read about the robbery at the Stanhope and I thought maybe the book might have some bearing on your case.”

Sam sent her a long, assessing glance. His instincts told him that it was no coincidence that she’d shown up here with this particular book and the article, especially when she was already a possible suspect in seven other jewel heists.

But again, his logic found no clear connection between the two cases, nor could he reconcile why Cass would sashay into the police station and throw more suspicion on herself.

Unless she wanted to get caught.

And then there was his damnable heart that didn’t want to believe anything bad about her.

“So what do you think? Does it help?” Face tipped up to his, she leaned in closer.

“Hard to say.” Play it cool. She’s trouble, Mason . “Do you mind if I keep the book, have some other people look it over?”

“Oh no, not at all.” Earnestness perked her blue eyes. He reached for the book, but she put her hand over his to stop him before he could pull it away. “There’s just one catch.”

Wasn’t there always?

“Catch?”

“You’ve got to promise to keep me informed about your progress in the case. I love mysteries and legends and stolen artifacts and exciting stuff like that.”

A lightbulb switched on in his brain. Sam understood the real reason she’d come down here to show him the book and he hardened his heart against her bedazzling smile.

God, but she was ballsy. What a cool customer. Strolling in here, flashing that sly grin, batting those baby blues, offering up the book—which wasn’t enough to prove or disprove anything, but it was enough to whet his interest—simply so she could find out what the police knew about the thefts.

She must think he was the dumbest cop ever to lumber on the face of the earth.

Okay, fine, he would oblige her curiosity. On his own terms. He could string her along, give her just enough information to hang herself.

He would turn this around to his advantage. He’d been trying to figure out a way to finagle an invitation to one of the most anticipated social events of the year. If the thief was going to strike again, he or she was bound to do it at Bunnie Bernaldo’s party.

He’d done his research and learned Bunnie’s father had made his fortune importing French cheese before he and his wife had been killed in the crash of their private plane. Bunnie had inherited millions. In the ensuing years since their death, the Bernaldos’ only child had become famous for her extravagant taste in jewelry, her cutting- edge parties and her laxness with personal security.

A jewel thief’s trifecta.

Sam had also done his research on Cass. On the surface, she seemed innocent enough. She’d been born twenty-nine years ago to James and Victoria Richards from Brookline, Massachusetts. The second of two daughters, making her the baby of the family. Normal childhood. She had lots of friends and even more acquaintances and never seemed to miss whatever good time was going on around her. Fun-loving and likeable, she had a penchant for living beyond her means.

And that was what concerned him most.

“You’ve got your stipulations,” he said, placing his other hand on top of hers. “I’ve got mine.”

Their gazes locked. The air crackled with tension.

“Yes?” She sat up straighter, her eyes brighter and her smile wider, playing the game.

If he hadn’t been so pissed off at being manipulated he would have admired her spunk. “You work at Isaac Vincent. I’m assuming that you know Bunnie Bernaldo personally.”

Bunnie, Sam had discovered in the course of his investigation, had bought herself a job as a fashion columnist for Moment magazine, the trendiest fashion rag in print.

“Of course I know Bunnie. She and I were at Vassar together, although she was a couple of semesters ahead of me. Why?”

Sam had a sudden idea. And he would execute it on his own time so he wouldn’t have to run it by the brass, but he had to play it just right.

Think on your feet. Keep your head in the game.

“Let’s just say the NYPD considers Bunnie a person of interest.” He threw the idea out there, not sure where it had come from, with no guess as to how to use it. He was simply going to see if she’d take the bait.