“I’m sure this was your idea.” London caressed the velvet pouch. “Bunny is notoriously careless, especially when she’s met a new young stud.”
“I noticed.”
“Do you guard her body or her possessions?”
“This is a one-night gig for me. I was helping out a buddy, and the directive was to watch the jewels. When it was clear she’d made plans after the gala with someone she’d just met, I insisted she leave her jewels with me.”
“You’re one of those Brodys, aren’t you?”
Why wouldn’t she know his family? Hers had been in this city longer than his. He hunched forward and inspected the mobile liquor cabinet in front of him. “Yep.”
“Congratulations.”
“For what?” He lifted the lid from a cut-glass decanter half-full of dark amber liquid and sniffed the rich aroma.
“After all these years, it looks as though your brother and that true-crime writer uncovered the truth that your father wasn’t the Phone Book Killer.”
“I guess so.” He investigated another decanter.
“You seem rather nonchalant about it all.”
“Happened a long time ago.” And he’d sealed off that part of his life in a cold little box in one corner of his heart. He’d let his older brothers gnash their teeth over the stain on the family name. He’d schooled himself not to think about it...or his father.
Her hand covered his, grasping the decanter. “Do you want a drink?”
That smooth skin against his did things to his insides. Was she that smooth all over? That perfect? He’d have fun getting her a little dirty.
His gaze wandered to the tinted glass. Would Theodore mind? This backseat afforded plenty of room to twist this leggy blonde into a pretzel. But she deserved more than a quickie.
He stared into her murky green eyes. “I can wait.”
As her hand left his, she trailed her short, polished fingernails across his skin and he suppressed a shiver.
This one might be made of ice, but she liked to play with fire. He’d seen the tabloids—London Breck jumping naked into a fountain, London Breck running away from home at seventeen to join a rock band on tour, London Breck getting arrested in Qatar for having one of the world’s largest diamonds in her possession, which she’d claimed a married sheikh had given her.
Slumming it with a lowly P.I. could be her next crazy prank.
Hell, he was game.
What made him think she wasn’t his type? Any gorgeous woman who was up for a good time was his type.
The car slid to a smooth stop at the gates of a mansion in Pacific Heights. The city lights created a twinkling river before them.
The intercom clicked on and Theodore’s voice rumbled across the speaker. “I don’t know if we can get past the security gates, sir.”
“Mrs. Harris and I made arrangements. Pull up to the call box, Theodore.”
The car turned into the driveway and stopped at the intercom at the gate. Judd punched the button and held it in.
“Hello?”
“This is Judd Brody.”
“Of course, Mr. Brody. Mrs. Harris left instructions.”
The gate eased open and Theodore drove the car around the short, circular drive in front of the Victorian mansion. Did London live in a place like this up here?
“I’ll be right back.” Judd swung open the door before Theodore could get out and open it for him. He strode up the front porch and rang the doorbell, which chimed somewhere deep in the house.
The door opened a crack and an eyeball assessed him. Then the crack widened and the pinched face of Bunny’s butler appeared.
Judd held out the pouch. “Mrs. Harris wants these to go right back in the safe.”
“Yes, of course.” The butler snatched the pouch with long, bony fingers and pressed it to his heart. “Thank you, Mr. Brody, for looking after Bunny’s treasures.”
“I think someone else is looking after her treasures now.”
He left the butler standing at the door with his mouth gaping open, launched off the porch and grabbed the handle of the car door.
He fell onto the seat and ran a hand through his hair. “On to Sneaky Pete’s.”
The car lurched forward and London fell against his shoulder. She took her time getting back into her own space. So she felt it, too?
He’d better maintain control. The drive to the Haight wasn’t that long—not nearly long enough for what he planned for London.
He cleared his throat. “Do you live in Pacific Heights?”
“No.” She shook her head and her hair shimmered. “I live on Nob Hill, but my father has a place here. I’m not moving.”
He shot a quick glance at her luscious lips, now pressed into a determined line. His simple question had changed the mood in the car.
London kept her hands in her lap and stared out the window. She seemed to have lost interest in their flirtation, so maybe he wouldn’t be getting lucky with an heiress tonight.
Theodore pulled the car to the curb, but this time Judd didn’t beat him to the door. Theodore opened London’s door with a wrinkled brow beneath his cap. “I don’t like this, Miss Breck.”
“It’s all good, Theodore. Do you want to join us for a drink?”
He crossed his arms, resting them on his big belly. “I don’t drink and drive. Never have, never will.”
Judd clambered from the car and eyed the seedy bar with the psychedelic mural on the outside wall and a flickering red neon sign. “I’ll take care of her, Theodore.”
“Thank you, sir.”
London heaved an exaggerated sigh, but she didn’t protest. “You can take the car home, Theodore. We can get a taxi later.”
“I have my own code. I take you somewhere, and I bring you back. Call when you’re ready.”
“If you insist.” She winked at Judd.
“Hold on.” Judd shed his dinner jacket, shrugged out of his cummerbund and pulled off his bow tie. He tossed them into the backseat of the car. “I don’t want to be overdressed.”
London tugged her motorcycle jacket closed over the sparkly material of her dress. “You have a point.”
Judd opened the door of the bar and ushered her through. The neon motif from outside carried forward to the interior. Standard-issue neon beer signs flashed on the walls, and a jukebox in the corner cranked out a hard-rock tune. If smoking in bars were allowed in this city, this would be a smoke-filled room.
Instead patrons cracked peanut shells and dropped them on the floor as they gathered around tables or hunched over the bar. A few couples danced on the wood floor of a small room off the main bar. Nobody looked at them twice.
Rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt, Judd led London to a table near the jukebox and slid onto the wood bench across from her. “Come here often?”
“Every once in a while.” Her gaze scanned the tattoos spilling down one of his arms, and she pointed to the long bar of scarred wood. “We can order at the bar. The waitresses here are few and far between.”
“I’m