Andrew was quiet for a minute, studying his brother. Finally he said, “Okay. Let’s back up a little, and stick to the facts. What we know for sure is that Pierre was nearly run down in front of the museum.”
“And he was cut on the arm by a thin man with a beard.”
“Right. The mugger who got away.” Andrew began to rifle through the papers on his desk. “I just ran the license plate you gave me on the pickup. Where the hell is it?”
As his brother dug into the debris, Sam turned back to the window. On the street below, cars inched their way along, and a taxi nearly lost a fender as it nosed its way to the curb.
He might have had the problem solved by now if it hadn’t been for A. J. Potter. The sweet little thing who’d been giving him money and finding him a job had turned into a tough little firebrand, standing like a guardian angel over his godfather. If it hadn’t been for her, he’d have had time to find the necklace and it could have been back in the museum by now. But when she’d grabbed his hands to keep him from searching Pierre, she’d absolutely drained his mind.
The woman was different for him. Oh, he’d felt desire before—even that instant and inexplicable kind he’d felt for A.J. the first time he’d seen her walking up the street toward him. But today had been different. When she’d grabbed his hands, what he’d felt then hadn’t been merely desire. It had been…recognition. This is her. His father had warned him that he’d know when he found the woman he would fall in love with.
The moment the thought entered his mind, Sam shoved it out. No, that just wasn’t a possibility. A. J. Potter was not the kind of woman he was looking for. He’d had Luis go back to the office and run a check on her. She came from the kind of money that someone earned about five generations ago, and she worked at a law firm that her great-great-grandfather had founded. His name and hers were on the letterhead of Hancock, Potter and King. In short, A.J. came from the same kind of highbrow lineage as the woman his father had fallen in love with—Isabelle Sheridan, the rich CEO of her family’s company. She and his father had come from different worlds, and Sam had viewed firsthand the problems that could arise in that kind of relationship.
A sudden tingling in his fingers had Sam clenching his hands into fists. As if he’d conjured her up, A. J. Potter appeared on the street below him holding on to Pierre’s arm and guiding him down the steps of the precinct. Sam frowned. The older man had some very interesting techniques. He knew for a fact that Pierre worked out four times a week at the same gym Sam went to. His godfather needed help getting down steps about as much as Andrew did. She laughed at something Pierre said and for a moment, as she tilted her head back, her eyes met Sam’s and held.
The pull was there. Even at a distance and through glass, he could feel it. What in hell was it about her? Was it because she’d been so sweet to a person she’d thought was homeless? Or maybe his hormones had just time-warped themselves back to adolescence. Whatever the hell it was, he was going to find out. And he was going to talk to his godfather.
A.J. WAS SURPRISED at the effort it took to pull her gaze away from Mr. S. Romano. Just about as hard as it was to keep from thinking about him. Why?
Perhaps because Sam Romano wasn’t what he seemed. He certainly wasn’t one of New York City’s homeless. In spite of that laid-back charm he’d projected when he’d conned her out of a hundred bucks, he was as stubborn as they came. And, for some reason, he was obsessed with the idea that her client was a thief.
“He’s a fascinating young man,” Pierre Rabaut said.
“Who?” A.J. said, forcing her complete attention to the man who was raising her hand to his lips with one hand and petting Cleo with the other.
“My godson, Salvatore.” Pierre lowered her hand but kept it in his. “His father Henry and I were very close until he passed away two years ago. We came to this country about the same time. Henry worked for me at my jazz club until he got enough money to open his hotel, Henry’s Place. I’ve known all the Romano boys—Nick, Tony, Andrew and Sam—since they were babes. Sam was always the cleverest of the lot. The youngest sometimes has to be, no?”
“I suppose. Why does your godchild want to put you in jail?”
When Cleo flopped to the sidewalk and rolled over, Pierre leaned down to scratch her on her neck. The poodle’s tongue dangled out of the side of her mouth as she slipped into dog heaven. “He doesn’t. But he’s a man of principle. He’s been hired to see that the necklace isn’t stolen, and he believes I’ve done just that. I think he wants to convince me to put it back.”
A.J. studied her client. Although his hair was both thinning and gray, she would have guessed him to be in his early sixties if he hadn’t told her he was seventy-five. A thin, wiry man, he moved with a grace and agility that reminded her of Fred Astaire dancing with Ginger Rogers in late-night movies she’d seen. And there was a keen intelligence in his dark blue eyes.
“But you didn’t steal it. The necklace is still in the museum.”
“Yes,” Pierre agreed. “It is.”
Cleo chose that moment to roll over. Immediately, Pierre obligingly scratched her belly. “She’s a lovely dog.”
“You’re being very patient with her. Cleo throws herself at every male she meets—man or beast, except for the pedigreed studs her mistress matches her up with. My roommates and I think she has all the makings of a slut.”
Pierre chuckled as he continued to stroke Cleo. “She has a great desire to be loved, that’s all. Some women deal with it by throwing themselves at men. Others deal with it by isolating themselves and pushing men away. All this beauty needs is to be loved by the right male. I ought to introduce her to my dog, Antoine.”
“No, please don’t. Not unless he’s a pure-bred poodle and registered at some kennel club. Otherwise, Mrs. Higgenbotham, her owner, will have my head.”
“Ahhh.” Rising to his feet, Pierre shook his head sadly. “So there’s an arranged marriage in Mademoiselle Cleo’s future. Too bad. They often result in tragedy. It is much wiser to follow your heart—if you have the courage.”
A.J. studied him for a moment as he continued to stroke the dog. She could have sworn that he was talking about more than Cleo’s problems.
A limousine pulled up to the curb and, as the driver alighted, Pierre continued to pet the dog absently. “Salvatore is going to insist on talking to me. He’s always had a fascination for solving puzzles. He keeps after them, like a dog with a bone.”
A.J.’s eyes narrowed as she thought for a minute. “Why don’t I arrange a meeting then? That way I can make sure I’ll be present.”
“Yes. That would be best.” Smiling, Pierre raised her hand to his lips again. “I have always had a weakness for beauty and brains in a woman, Mademoiselle Potter. And you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago.”
For a moment, A.J. said nothing. She could see that her client had drifted away into a memory, and she saw traces of both joy and grief in his eyes. Then, suddenly, they cleared and she could read nothing in them.
“How about later this afternoon—say, around five o’clock?” Pierre suggested. “There’s a small café called Emile’s. It’s near the courthouse and they serve excellent French coffee. Their wine list is superb. I think you would enjoy it.”
“That would be fine,” A.J. said.
Pierre raised her hand to his lips again. “And you’ll let Salvatore know?”
“Absolutely.”
A.J. waited until the driver of the limo had settled Pierre into his seat and closed the door before turning on her heel and marching up the precinct steps. A meeting with her client wasn’t the only thing A.J. intended to settle with Mr. Salvatore Sam Romano.