Книга - Bachelor By Design: Bachelor By Design / Too Hot For Comfort

Bachelor By Design: Bachelor By Design / Too Hot For Comfort
Kay David

Kristin Gabriel


BACHELOR BY DESIGNWhether you're looking for lattes or love, you'll find both at Cafe Romeo…Building contractor Trace Callahan is determined to stay single–even if his aunt reads romance in his coffee grounds–until he finds the perfect woman. And that woman is definitely unlike Chloe D'Onofrio, the hot-tempered interior designer who bumps heads with him at every turn. She's too opinionated, too unpredictable, much too pretty–and keeps a cache of stolen diamonds under her staircase. So naturally, Trace can't help falling in love….TOO HOT FOR COMFORTSomething was sizzling…and it wasn't steak…Sally Beaumont thought a call-in cooking show was a brilliant idea…at the time. Unfortunately, listeners thought Too Hot for Comfort referred to the bedroom, not the kitchen! Suddenly Sally was the local expert on S.E.X.–a topic that simply wasn't discussed in Comfort, Texas. Someone was even making threats, but more disturbing was that Jake Nolte–retired cop, sexy next-door neighbor–was watching over her…driving her crazy with thoughts of S.E.X.







Dear Reader,

Welcome to another fun-filled month of Duets.

Duets #27

Award-winning author Kristin Gabriel is back with Bachelor By Design, book 2 in the delightful CAFÉ ROMEO trilogy, about a coffee shop that doubles as a dating service. What better place to find both lattes and love! And popular Superromance author Kay David joins the Duets lineup with the sizzling Too Hot for Comfort. Something is definitely cookin’ in Comfort, Texas, between Sally and Jake—and it isn’t steak!

Duets #28

Talented Jill Shalvis delivers her version of MAKEOVER MADNESS. New and…Improved? questions whether life is any better for the heroine when she goes from geek to goddess—and has to fight off men day and night! New author Jennifer LaBrecque serves up a delicious hero in Andrew in Excess. Andrew Winthrop is gorgeous, filthy rich—and in need of a temporary wife. Kat Devereaux knows just the woman—herself! But can these two make it down the aisle?

Be sure to pick up both Duets volumes this month!

Birgit Davis-Todd

Senior Editor, Harlequin Duets

Harlequin Books

225 Duncan Mill Rd.

Don Mills, Ontario

M3B 3K9 Canada




Duets



Bachelor by Design

Kristin Gabriel



Too Hot for Comfort

Kay David











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


Bachelor by Design (#u602ee206-a6a3-58c9-b368-d1b92d7689ca)

1 (#u3d0a680a-00c5-5571-8055-0ed72ad54d41)

2 (#u0dfd4a80-ec70-56af-8c48-5d10f56cec45)

3 (#u1db7edeb-19b0-5bdd-bf3f-667bb6744793)

4 (#ufe2a69f6-64ae-5394-82cc-34547c9acf87)

5 (#u606308d7-bd1b-55c3-b8fd-07b5c60a85f4)

6 (#litres_trial_promo)

7 (#litres_trial_promo)

8 (#litres_trial_promo)

9 (#litres_trial_promo)

10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Too Hot for Comfort (#litres_trial_promo)

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11 (#litres_trial_promo)

12 (#litres_trial_promo)



Bachelor by Design




“Come on, let’s make a run for it.”


They raced the short distance from the picnic table to the red Ford Taurus, Trace keeping his body between Chloe and the direction the shots had come from. She opened the driver’s door and dived inside the car, lying flat across the seat. Trace followed right behind her, closing the car door, then landing on top of her.

“I can’t breathe,” Chloe gurgled, her face pressed against the seat cushion.

Trace levered himself up on his elbows, giving her enough room to turn onto her back. He lifted his head far enough to peer out the windshield, searching the dark shadows for some sign of the shooter.

“Get down,” she whispered harshly, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him toward her.

He sank onto her soft, voluptuous body and his breathing hitched. They fit together perfectly. The adrenaline fueling his blood turned into something more. His heart raced and his body reacted with a will of its own.

She stared up into his face. “I guess you’d better kiss me, Trace.”


Dear Reader,

Welcome back to CAFÉ ROMEO. Before I go any further, I have to let you in on a secret. Out of all the Callahan brothers, Trace is my favorite. I can’t explain it, and I’m not even sure I’d know how to handle a man like Trace in real life. I know I’d sure have fun trying. But let’s face it—that’s the beauty of fiction. You can be anyone you want—and you can be with anyone you want. So, sit back and enjoy the fantasy. And if you figure out a way to deal with a hunk like Trace, let me know.

Happy reading,

Kristin Gabriel

P.S. Be sure to watch for Beauty and the Bachelor, the final book in the CAFÉ ROMEO miniseries, available next month. Now that his two brothers have bitten the matrimonial dust, so to speak, poor Noah Callahan is panicking. And he’s got good reason….




Books by Kristin Gabriel


HARLEQUIN DUETS

7—ANNIE, GET YOUR GROOM

25—THE BACHELOR TRAP

HARLEQUIN LOVE & LAUGHTER

40—BULLETS OVER BOISE

56—MONDAY MAN

62—SEND ME NO FLOWERS


For my daughter Jenny, Who makes me smile at least once a day.










1


CHLOE D’ONOFRIO just didn’t feel at home in prison, despite the fact that several members of her extended family resided there. Still, she faithfully made the rounds each visiting day, bearing gifts and D’Onofrio family gossip.

First she saw Aunt Wanda, serving two to five years for petty larceny. Then Cousin Kit, serving ten months for floating bad checks. Her other cousin, Nora, was in again for violating her probation.

And then there was her mother.

“Did you know I’m up for parole soon?” Eileen D’Onofrio asked, flicking a piece of lint off the sleeve of her bright orange jumpsuit.

“In twenty-one days. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Chloe cleared her throat, then looked at her mother through the Plexiglas partition. She’d rehearsed this speech on the two-hour trip from St. Louis, determined to convince Eileen to go straight once and for all. “You’ll have a much better chance of making parole if you’ve got both a job and a place to stay when you get out.”

“I’m really overqualified for most jobs,” Eileen mused. “And I refuse to work in another laundry.” She frowned down at her chapped hands. “Just look at what that harsh detergent has done to my nails.”

Chloe leaned forward in her chair. “Mother, you can’t be picky this time. And you absolutely cannot work for Uncle Leo again.”

“But he let me set my own hours.”

“You were a courier for his money-laundering operation!”

“He had a wonderful dental plan.”

“You’re going legit this time, Mom.” Chloe set her jaw. “I mean it. Ramon needs you on the outside, and so do I.”

Eileen frowned. “What’s the matter with Ramon?”

Chloe didn’t know where to begin. It seemed her younger brother was always suffering some sort of crisis. “Well, he’s still upset about his broken engagement. I knew it was a mistake for you to fix him up with your cellmate.”

“I thought having a girlfriend might give him some self-confidence. He’s so shy around women.”

“His girlfriend was convicted of attempted murder!”

“But Nanette seems like such a nice girl. And so pretty. By the way, she’s not my cellmate anymore. Her conviction got overturned last month on a technicality. I heard she moved to Florida, so she’s out of his life.”

“Good,” Chloe said. “Because the last thing we need in this family is another felon. Now, I think you should move in with me when you get out of here and I’ll help you find a good, legitimate job.”

“You can’t afford another mouth to feed, honey. Especially when you’re struggling to start a new business.”

“I already got my first big job,” Chloe announced, trying her best to sound nonchalant about it. “So money won’t be a problem.”

“You did!” Eileen’s face lit up. “Oh, Chloe, that’s wonderful. When did this happen?”

“Just yesterday, actually. I picked up Ramon from work at Café Romeo and ran into the owner. She treated me to a cup of coffee and the next thing I know, she’s offering me a job to redecorate the place.”

“Imagine that. Isn’t she some kind of psychic?”

Chloe smiled. “Her name is Madame Sophia, and I believe she’s a former fortune-teller. At the café she reads coffee grounds and predicts romance for her customers.”

Eileen nodded approvingly. “What a great scam. She must be raking in the dough.”

“She’s legit, Mom. At least she believes in what she does. And it must be working, because she’s remodeling the place to make it bigger. That’s why she needs a decorator.”

“So did you ask Madame Sophia to read your coffee grounds?”

“Of course not. You know I don’t believe in that kind of nonsense.”

“My sensible Chloe. I suppose you don’t believe in love, either.”

“Actually, I do. But it’s hard to meet men these days.”

Eileen clucked her tongue. “You’re on the wrong side of twenty-five, dear. It’s time to stop being so picky.”

“I’m not picky,” Chloe countered. “As long as they pass the FBI background check.”

Eileen laughed, but Chloe wasn’t joking. Growing up among the D’Onofrio men had taught her exactly what she didn’t want in a man. They were all handsome, charming, stubborn male chauvinists. And they all had criminal records. Except Ramon, whom she’d managed to keep out of trouble. So far, anyway.

To be fair, Chloe’s deceased father hadn’t had a criminal record, either. But only because the masterful jewel thief had never been caught.

“Maybe I’ll give Café Romeo a try myself,” Eileen said playfully. “After spending the last three years in here, I could use some romance in my life.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Chloe exclaimed, willing to show enthusiasm for anything that would keep her mother out of trouble. And out of jail. “As soon as you’re free we’ll go shopping. We’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe.”

“I need a perm, too,” Eileen said, fingering her faded brown hair. “And maybe a color touch-up.”

“We’ll shoot the works.” Thanks to Madame Sophia, Chloe would have enough money to give her mother a fresh new start. The coffeehouse owner might be a little flaky, but her job offer couldn’t have come at a better time. Madame Sophia hadn’t even asked for any references. All she’d required of Chloe was to sign on the dotted line.

And, oddly enough, to drink one cup of Café Romeo’s special blend of Jamaican almond coffee.

“DON’T SAY I didn’t warn you.”

Trace Callahan looked up from the sheet of plywood he was measuring to scowl at his little brother. Only Noah wasn’t so little anymore. He’d just turned twenty-six, and at six-three, stood an inch taller than his two older brothers. “Warn me? You’ve been predicting catastrophes ever since I told you Aunt Sophie confiscated our coffee grounds. Don’t you think you might be just a little paranoid?”

Noah Callahan snorted. “That’s the same thing Jake said. And looked what happened to him.”

“Jake’s not dead, he’s engaged.”

“Is there a difference?”

Trace shook his head in disgust, then pulled a stubby pencil out of his shirt pocket. He began marking off measurements on the wood, refusing to let this ridiculous conversation slow his progress on the expansion of Café Romeo. A common wall separated the coffeehouse from the now-defunct pizza parlor next door. He’d gutted the pizza parlor and stripped the oppressive red-and-black flocked wallpaper off the walls.

After spending several weeks remodeling the interior, he felt the place was finally beginning to come together. Just yesterday he’d cut the wide archway in the common wall that connected it to Café Romeo. He’d tacked an oilcloth over the opening to contain the dust, but he could still smell the fragrant aroma of fresh-ground coffee and hear the low murmurs of Aunt Sophie’s customers.

He stuck the pencil back in his shirt pocket, then glanced at his brother. Noah might have more brawn than Trace, but obviously not as much brain. He was also an inveterate playboy. “Look, Noah, you’ve got to get over this marriage phobia of yours. It isn’t healthy.”

“And I suppose your plan to have women audition for a chance to be your wife is what you call healthy?”

“Definitely. I’m planning to marry for keeps. As soon as I find the one who fits all my requirements.”

Noah visibly shuddered. “Well, I’m going while the going is good.”

“Going where?”

“Cleveland, Ohio. I arranged a job transfer there as soon as I found out Aunt Sophie had gotten her hands on our coffee grounds. I don’t want to take any chances.”

“Don’t you think moving out of state is a little extreme?”

Noah folded his arms across his chest. “You tell me. Our big brother recently proposed to a woman he’s known less than a month. This is the same man who had a bumper sticker on his car that read Marriage is for Morons. And Aunt Sophie made it happen.” Noah leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “Be afraid, Trace. Be very afraid.”

“I like Nina,” Trace said in defense of his future sister-in-law. He bent down and picked up the four-foot level off the floor.

“I like her too. But that doesn’t change the fact that one of Aunt Sophie’s crazy romantic predictions actually came true. And I’m not sticking around to be victim number three.”

“Number three? Who’s victim number two?”

“Just take a look in the mirror, pal,” Noah said as he headed for the archway. “You’re bride bait, and Aunt Sophie’s all set to reel one in for you. As soon as Jake and Nina tie the knot, I’m outta here.”

Trace watched his brother disappear behind the oilcloth. Noah was actually running scared. And for what? Some illogical fear that Aunt Sophie could make him fall in love with a woman against his will?

Trace wasn’t about to let that happen. He’d be getting married all right, but to a woman of his own choosing. A woman who fit the exact blueprint of the future he wanted to build. And he’d told his aunt that already, in no uncertain terms. She’d taken the news well. He frowned down at the level in his hand. Maybe a little too well. Maybe he should have another talk with her, just in case….

As if she were truly psychic, Sophie Callahan appeared at that moment, bustling through the makeshift oilcloth door with Café Romeo’s most inefficient waiter in tow.

“Trace, the place looks absolutely wonderful.” Sophie wore a hot-pink caftan and matching turban. Several gold bangle bracelets adorned each arm, making her sound like a wind chime whenever she moved.

Trace looked around the barren room. All the old booths had been ripped out, as well as the red shag carpet, leaving the old, worn floorboards bare. Plaster hung in chunks from the ceiling. Wires dangled from the newly installed drywall.

“There’s still a lot of work left to do. Especially if you want to open this new section in three weeks. I could hire some extra help….”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sophie interjected. “I’ve got the perfect man for the job.”

“Who?”

“Me.” Ramon D’Onofrio stepped forward, his shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. He stuck his chin out and folded his arms across his narrow chest.

Trace swallowed a groan. Not Ramon. Anyone but Ramon.

“Don’t you already have a job?”

Ramon turned to Sophie. “I told you he hated me. Didn’t I tell you? I spill one cup of coffee on him and he holds a grudge forever.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Sophie said. “Is it, Trace?”

Actually, it was damn close to the truth. That coffee Ramon had dumped in his lap had come perilously close to doing permanent damage. Ramon was obviously as dangerous as the rest of the infamous D’Onofrio family. Trace shuddered to think of the havoc Ramon could wreak with a nail gun. “Look, it’s nothing personal. I just prefer to work with people who actually have some experience.”

“I made a birdhouse in seventh-grade shop class,” Ramon said, widening his puppy brown eyes. “And I’m always doing little repairs around the house.”

“Hammer something for him,” Sophie said, handing Ramon the sledgehammer on the floor.

Trace took a cautious step back. “That’s really not…”

Too late. Ramon took a swing at one of the braces Trace had just installed to reinforce the unstable west wall. Wood splintered as the brace split in two at the impact. The wall creaked ominously and pieces of plaster rained onto the floor.

“There’s more where that came from,” Ramon said proudly.

Trace didn’t doubt it for a moment. “I really can’t afford you.”

“No problem,” Aunt Sophie chimed, picking a chunk of plaster out of her titian hair. “I’ll pay Ramon’s wages. He needs a sabbatical from waiting tables, but I don’t want to lose him.”

“I just can’t take the stress anymore,” Ramon explained, his voice quivering. “The menu is so complicated and some of the customers can be so rude. You dribble a little coffee on them and they start screaming about lawsuits and third-degree burns.”

Sophie wrapped one arm around the waiter’s narrow shoulders. “I thought working with his hands would be soothing.”

Maybe for Ramon, but not for Trace. “How about a vacation instead? You could lie around on a beach somewhere and soak up the sun.”

“Sand gives me a rash.” Ramon swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny neck. “For once in my life, I’d just like to be good at something. Just give me a chance.”

Aunt Sophie leaned toward her nephew and lowered her voice. “Please, Trace. For me.”

Damn. Now she had him. He’d give his right arm for Sophie if she wanted it. All the Callahan boys owed her for giving up her own career in the carnival to take care of them after their mother had abandoned them.

But Trace owed her even more.

That’s why he’d agreed to remodel the addition to Café Romeo at cost. Even though his services as a freelance contractor normally brought in three times as much money.

And why he would agree to take on Ramon as an apprentice. Which might actually cost him his right arm. Not to mention a leg and numerous fingers.

“Anything for you, Aunt Sophie,” Trace said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

Her green eyes widened. “Anything?”

“Almost anything,” he amended, before he found himself saddled with a blind date on top of everything else.

“But, Trace, I’ve found the perfect girl for you….”

He held up one hand. “Forget it. We’ve already talked about this. Besides, I already have a date tonight with Kimberly.”

Aunt Sophie wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never liked Kimberly. She’s too…”

“Sweet? Nice? Giving?”

“Exactly. She’ll kill you with kindness. Or boredom. Or both. You need a woman who will challenge you. Who will add some excitement and unpredictability in your life.”

“That’s exactly what I don’t need,” Trace countered. He had his future drawn out as neatly as a set of blueprints. And he knew the exact specifications he required in a wife. He’d even made a checklist to use for rating potential candidates. He wouldn’t be caught choosing the wrong woman like his father had, then suffering for it later.

“Don’t be so stubborn,” Aunt Sophie admonished. “I just happened to do a reading of Kimberly’s coffee grounds, and believe me, that woman is completely wrong for you. Now if you’d just let me match you up with—”

Trace placed his hand over her mouth and slowly shook her head. “Quit while you’re ahead, Aunt Sophie. Jake and Nina are happy and in love, and you’re the one who brought them together. Why not just concentrate on their wedding? It’s only a few weeks away.”

Aunt Sophie removed his hand, her eyes glittering with excitement. “We could make it a double wedding! Jake and Nina, and you and…”

“Kimberly,” Trace interjected. “Or Heidi, or Evonne. Those are the top three in the running to become Mrs. Trace Callahan. But there’s no way I’ll be ready to tie the knot in six weeks. I don’t want to rush into anything.”

Aunt Sophie arched one orange-tinted eyebrow. “Spoken like a man who hasn’t met the right woman yet.”

Trace couldn’t argue with her. Not because he agreed, but because Ramon had started up the power saw and the noise made it impossible to think, much less speak. He turned to catch sight of the saw flailing wildly in Ramon’s hands. “Put that thing down before you hurt someone!”

Too late.

LATER THAT EVENING, Trace sat at his dining-room table knowing he had a decision to make. Kimberly sat opposite him, poised and perfect. Her perfection had actually begun to irritate him a little, but that could just be a side effect of his pain medication.

“How was your dessert?” Kimberly asked, after taking a sip of her wine. She was dressed in a pearl-gray silk suit and a pristine white blouse buttoned up to the neck. Her makeup was just right, not too heavy and not too light. Her long blond hair fell like a silk curtain over her shoulders.

“Fine,” he replied, putting down his spoon.

“Blancmange is my favorite.” She flashed him a wide smile.

Blancmange. A fancy name for vanilla pudding. That was the problem. Everything with Kimberly was just so…vanilla. Trace sat back in his chair, more irritated with himself than her. She fit all his specifications, so what exactly was his problem?

He mentally ticked off his checklist for the perfect wife. She should be attractive, but not too pretty. Adept in the kitchen, as well as a neat housekeeper. A good conversationalist, but not argumentative.

Kimberly was all of these things, yet he’d almost fallen asleep over the soup course. Maybe he was just tired. It had been a rather trying day. He flexed his right foot, which was propped up on a chair, and winced slightly at the movement.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, staring down at the bulky gauze bandage on his big toe.

“The numbness is starting to wear off,” Trace replied, trying to ignore the throbbing ache in his big toe.

She shook her head as she set her spoon down and pushed her empty bowl away. “I never realized how dangerous your occupation was before. You’re lucky you only needed four stitches.”

“Five,” he corrected, shifting his foot slightly. “And I would have needed a lot more than that if I hadn’t been wearing my leather work boots.”

She smiled at him. Her Carol Brady smile that was beginning to set his teeth on edge. Funny how it had never bothered him before. But then, he hadn’t considered the possibility of looking at the smile every day across the breakfast table for the next fifty years.

Until now.

“You really should be more careful.” She meticulously brushed a few crumbs off the white linen tablecloth and into her hand. “At least your aunt was there to call the ambulance.”

“The ambulance wasn’t for me, it was for Ramon. He had a panic attack after he dropped the saw on my foot and started hyperventilating.”

“Oh, dear,” she murmured. But Trace got the feeling she wasn’t really listening. Her total attention was now focused on scraping the dried pink wax drips off the crystal candleholder.

So maybe she wasn’t all that exciting. He wasn’t looking for that in a wife. He wasn’t necessarily looking for love, either, he reminded himself. Affection, compatibility, and hopefully passion, but not love. At least not the heart-pounding, soul-searing love that had turned his older brother inside out.

Trace wanted order in his life. Stability. A family. He wanted…vanilla. Which meant he must want Kimberly. He’d probably get used to her smile. And the way her nose twitched when she chewed. All married couples had to make some adjustments, didn’t they? It was possible she might even find one or two things about him that irritated her.

The wall clock chimed eight times. Just get it over with, Trace told himself, tired of these annoying second thoughts. “Kimberly,” he began.

She looked up from the candleholder. “Yes, Trace?”

The words stuck in his throat. He cleared it, then took a deep breath. “I’d like to talk about our future.”

She leaned forward, daintily folding her hands together on the table. “Oh, I’m so glad. I’ve been wanting to talk about it for a while now, but I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

Some of Trace’s anxiety lessened. That was another thing he liked about Kimberly. She wasn’t pushy or demanding. She always waited for him to take the initiative.

“You go first,” he said graciously, wanting time to compose a proper marriage proposal.

She gave him an affectionate smile. “I never knew how I wanted to spend my life until I met you. Then we started dating three months ago, and everything became clear.” She sighed wistfully. “The first time we kissed I knew for sure.”

Trace wished he could say the same. Unfortunately, their first kiss had created more doubts in him than desire. “You did?”

She nodded. “That’s when I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life in a convent.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’m going to become a nun,” she said, her voice quivering with happiness.

“A nun?” he choked out.

She dabbed at her watery eyes with a paper napkin. “I’ve already applied to begin my novitiate at St. Mary’s. I just wanted one last chance to say goodbye, Trace, and to thank you.”

Thank him? He frowned at his sore toe as her words echoed in his head. He’d kissed her and she’d decided to become a nun. Not exactly a glowing endorsement for his sexual prowess. “A nun,” he murmured, still rocked by her announcement.

“Are you surprised?”

“You could say that.” He looked up at her. “How long have you been thinking about becoming a…nun?”

“Since I was a little girl.” She steepled her fingers together and leaned toward him, looking more animated than he’d ever seen her. “But I didn’t want to rush into anything, so I decided to have one last fling just to be sure.”

A fling. He’d been ready to propose to this woman, and she’d considered him a fling! He shook his head, wondering where he’d gone wrong. In all the time he’d spent sizing up Kimberly as wife material, it had never occurred to him that she might not be interested. He stifled a snort. Not interested? She was about to take a vow of chastity!

“So sorry to eat and run.”

He looked up, surprised to see Kimberly standing up and donning her jacket. “You’re leaving?”

“We nuns don’t like to keep late hours.” She headed toward the front door, then paused to blow him a kiss over her shoulder. “I had a wonderful time tonight, Trace. Thank you for dinner.”

“Thank you for cooking it,” he said blankly. Then he pushed out his chair.

“No, don’t get up,” she said, holding one hand in the air. “I can see myself out. Besides, you and your toe need to rest.”

He slumped back down in his chair as she waved goodbye and sailed out the door. A few moments later he heard the roar of a car engine and the squeal of tires. Sister Kimberly had a lead foot. He vaguely wondered if nuns got speeding tickets.

Then his gaze fell on the soiled plates neatly stacked at one end of the table. Too late he realized that Kimberly wasn’t so perfect, after all. She’d left without doing the dishes.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He couldn’t do dishes with a sore toe. Maybe he should just throw them away. He’d never really liked that daisy pattern, anyway. Too girly. He’d picked them up cheap at a local thrift store when money had been tight. Now he could afford more masculine dishes. Maybe something with cars on it.

While he pondered if he should buy glasses to match, the doorbell rang.

“It’s open,” he called, lifting his head and opening his eyes, but not bothering to get up. No reason to aggravate his toe any more than necessary. Maybe it was Kimberly, back to tell him it was all a big joke.

But he didn’t laugh when the sultry brunette walked into the room. She wore a short red silk suit that outlined a luscious hourglass figure. The kind of body a man could sink his hands into. With a conscious effort, he lifted his gaze from her full, round breasts to look at her face. He noticed her big brown eyes first, fringed with thick, dark lashes, then her pert nose and full, red lips.

This woman was no nun.

So who was she? And what was she doing in his condo? He swallowed as a curious mixture of apprehension and lust rose up inside of him. But before he could ask her anything, she placed both hands on the table and leaned toward him, unwittingly displaying her generous cleavage. Then she spoke.

“You’re just the man I’ve been looking for.”




2


CHLOE SILENTLY COUNTED to ten while Trace Callahan stared at her chest. Cursed with genes that made all the D’Onofrio women well-endowed, she was used to men paying avid attention to her physical assets and ignoring the fact that she was a savvy, intelligent woman. But this one seemed worse than usual.

She impatiently cleared her throat to get his attention. It worked. He looked up at her, his eyes slightly glazed. For the first time she noticed their unusual color—a deep, dark blue like polished sapphires. If she put any stock in physical appearance, she’d have to admit Trace Callahan was handsome. All right, just plain gorgeous with that square jaw, aquiline nose, and close-cropped dark hair. She couldn’t help but notice how well the rest of him looked either, his biceps and broad shoulders clearly defined though his pine-green polo shirt.

“You’re staring,” Trace announced.

Chloe swallowed, her throat dry. “Me? You were the one who was staring.”

“I always stare at beautiful women. Especially when they suddenly appear in my dining room.” Then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why exactly were you looking for me?”

She looked pointedly at the empty chair in front of her. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

“I’d rather you answered my question first. Or maybe I can answer it for you. Madame Sophia sent you here, didn’t she?”

“She gave me your address, but…”

“I knew it,” he interjected, shaking his head in disgust. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

Chloe pulled out the chair and sat down next to him. “It?”

“I mean you,” he muttered, then heaved a long sigh. “Look, we both know why you’re here. Let’s just skip the preliminaries and get right down to it.” He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “Kiss me.”

Her mouth fell open. She quickly closed it again before he took it as a sign of encouragement. “Are you crazy?”

“No, just efficient. Once you kiss me, we’ll both know if there’s any future for our relationship. Although I should warn you that the last woman who kissed me decided never to let another man touch her lips.”

Trace Callahan was not only a lunatic, but an incredible egomaniac. She smiled sweetly at him. “Thanks, but no thanks. I make it a habit not to kiss a man within the first five minutes of meeting him. Just one of my little idiosyncrasies.”

“Suit yourself.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “So tell me, Miss…”

“Please call me Chloe.”

“Chloe. Do you make it a habit of going door-to-door looking for romance?”

She blinked. “I think you’re confused again, Mr. Callahan….”

“Call me Trace.” He smiled at her, but there was nothing sweet about it. His expression reminded her of a lion contemplating its next meal. “I probably am confused. In fact, you’re probably just a delightful figment of my imagination. The medication is making me a little woozy.”

“Medication?” she asked, wondering why she was surprised. There had to be some logical explanation for his odd behavior.

He winced as he lifted his bare foot up in the air. That’s when she noticed he had it propped up on a padded chair on the opposite side of the table. His big toe was swathed in white gauze so thick it looked like a lightbulb. Before she could stop herself, she emitted a snort of laughter.

His jaw tightened. “Is something funny?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, dissolving into uncontrollable, not to mention undignified, giggles. She took a deep breath and struggled to contain her amusement. “Did you hurt yourself?”

He drew himself up in his chair, obviously offended by her reaction. “My toe was almost amputated by a power saw today. The injury required several stitches.”

Chloe stared at his long, lean foot in disbelief. “You mean that was the horrendous accident Ramon was so upset about? You cut your toe?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You know Ramon?”

She didn’t like his tone. “Better than anyone. He happens to be my brother.”

Trace closed his eyes. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“You’re a D’Onofrio. That explains why I’ve felt uneasy ever since you walked through the door. Wherever D’Onofrios go, disaster follows.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an exaggeration? Not all D’Onofrios are troublemakers.” Most of them, she admitted to herself, but not all.

“Tell that to my toe.”

“Let me see it,” she said, standing up and walking over to the chair that held his injured foot. She reached out one hand to unwrap the gauze.

“Don’t touch it!”

“I just want to take a look,” she replied, ignoring his protest.

He grabbed her wrist.

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m an interior designer. And in my professional opinion, white gauze doesn’t go at all with this seat cushion. Didn’t the pharmacy have anything in lavender?”

“Very funny.”

“They say laughter is the best medicine.”

“I prefer Novocain. Unfortunately, it’s wearing off, so I’m not the best company right now. Maybe you could come back tomorrow. Or even better, next year.”

Some men just couldn’t take a joke. “I’m afraid what I have to say can’t wait until next year. It’s about Ramon. He’s very upset.”

“He’s upset? I’m the one who’s been mutilated.”

“Oh, come on. It’s just a little nick.” She gazed down at his foot. “I’ll bet if you took off all that gauze, it would hardly even be noticeable.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Fine. Take it off and see for yourself.”

Surprised by his acquiescence, she leaned over the chair and carefully began unwinding the gauze. All three yards of it. While she worked, she couldn’t help but study Trace’s foot. There was something almost intimate about seeing the bare foot of a total stranger up close. His was long and lean, with a high arch. The nails were clean and cut short straight across. The top of his foot was sprinkled with short, golden-blond hairs.

“Well, what do you think?”

Chloe thought she was much too interested in this man’s foot. She forced her gaze to the toe in question. A neat row of tiny black stitches arched across the very tip. “I think you’ll make a full recovery. Of course, that’s just a layperson’s opinion.” She bit back a smile. “Have you thought about consulting a specialist?”

Trace carefully set his foot on the floor, his face set in a scowl. “No, but I do have a call into my attorney. Assault with a deadly weapon happens to be a felony.”

She straightened, her amusement fading. “You can’t be serious.”

“Obviously, you’re the one who can’t be serious, since you consider this all one big joke.”

“It’s no joke,” she agreed. “In fact, I don’t find it the least bit funny that you fired Ramon over something this—” she pointed to his toe “—inconsequential.”

“I happen to like my toe,” he said through clenched teeth. “And I’d like to keep it. Which means Ramon has to go.”

Chloe swallowed hard and willed the infamous D’Onofrio temper to stay under control.

“Just give him one more chance.”

“Why?”

Because she was terrified her brother would do something crazy if he lost this opportunity. He’d been despondent ever since his fiancée broke up with him—frustrated with his job as a waiter and life in general. He wanted a challenge. Excitement. Riches. Lately, he’d even talked about following in their father’s footsteps. Ramon might not be the best waiter, or even a mediocre carpenter, but she knew for certain he’d make one hell of a lousy jewel thief. Which meant if she didn’t do something fast, another D’Onofrio would end up behind bars.

“Well,” Trace asked, breaking into her reverie, “why should I give your brother a second chance to dismember me?”

As she stared into his deep blue eyes, her stomach suddenly went all queasy on her. Trace Callahan was too self-absorbed, too stubborn, and much too handsome to understand how much this job meant to someone as sensitive and insecure as her brother. And she’d be damned if she was going to beg.

“Why?” She tipped up her chin. “Because I can make it worth your while.”

He leaned back in his chair and gave her a slow, insolent once-over. “What exactly are you offering, Miss D’Onofrio?”

“Myself.”

TRACE TIPPED so far back in his chair, he almost toppled over. He grabbed the edge of the table and pulled himself upright. This couldn’t be happening. One moment Kimberly announces she’s joining a convent, and the next moment a voluptuous, desirable woman sails into his condo and offers herself to him.

He must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. Perhaps the trauma of his accident was finally getting to him. Although, if a minor injury induced this kind of fantasy, he was almost willing to give Ramon free access to all his power tools just to see what else might develop.

Almost.

Of course, this was no dream. Chloe D’Onofrio was sitting right in front of him. In the delectable flesh. His common sense told him he could never consent to such an agreement. His body, on the other hand, was entirely ready, willing and able.

He cleared his throat. “That’s an…intriguing proposition.”

She sat down in the empty chair. “I call it good business. Tit for tat.”

He closed his eyes, wishing she hadn’t used that particular phrase. When he opened them again, she was still there, sitting with one long, slender leg crossed over the other, her short skirt barely reaching mid-thigh. He’d never seen legs like hers before. They were true works of art. And he was a devoted connoisseur. He tore his gaze from her legs. “Are you sure you’re an interior designer?”

“Positive. And a damn good one, too. That’s the reason Madame Sophia hired me to redecorate Café Romeo.” She hesitated, then one corner of her mouth tipped up in a slow smile. “Or at least, one of the reasons.”

“Aunt Sophie hired you?” he asked, reeling with this latest revelation. He’d been after his aunt for weeks to hire an interior designer so he could consult with him on some of the remodeling plans for the café. Only the him turned out to be a her. And even worse, a D’Onofrio.

She nodded and opened that sensual mouth, but he interrupted her before she had a chance to elaborate.

“Wait a minute,” he said, as the rest of her words finally sank in. “What do you mean, one of the reasons? What other possible reason could there be?”

She arched one delicate brow. “You don’t know?”

A heavy, sinking sensation filled him, but he didn’t even want to consider that possibility. So he lied through his teeth. “No, I don’t have the faintest idea.”

She leaned toward him, her pink tongue darting out to moisten her lips. “No idea at all?”

He shook his head, his throat dry. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was purposely tormenting him. But Chloe could have no idea of the effect she was having on him. Trace had always prided himself on maintaining the upper hand in all his relationships—especially the romantic ones. Perhaps Kimberly had resigned herself to life in a convent because he’d been too good at hiding his feelings.

She settled back in her chair. “You’re aware that your aunt reads coffee grounds?”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“What you don’t know is that she read my coffee grounds—and yours.” Her brown eyes flicked over him. “For some inexplicable reason, she thinks we’d be a perfect match.”

He groaned low in his throat as she confirmed his worst fears. “Impossible.”

“I quite agree.” She tucked an errant chestnut curl behind her ear. “Madame Sophia didn’t want to tell me about it at first, because she believes romance should take its natural course. But then…” Her voice trailed off.

He looked at her. “But then…what?”

“But then she saw how upset I was after I’d heard you’d fired Ramon. I believe I might have even called you a few unsavory names in the heat of the moment.”

“Such as?”

She blinked innocently at him. “I’m sure I don’t remember.”

He was sure she did, but he let her continue her story.

“Of course, that made Madame Sophia worry that I’d be prejudiced against you before we even met,” Chloe explained. “So she told me about the reading and how we’re destined to be together, and that fighting against destiny only makes the journey harder.”

He set his jaw. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

“Your aunt seems like a very determined woman.”

Determined was an understatement. She might not literally be able to move mountains, but she’d definitely caused a few avalanches in her time. If she was set on bringing Trace and this D’Onofrio woman together…He suppressed a shiver. He didn’t even want to think about the consequences.

Of course that same wily determination had saved his butt more than a few times. And one time in particular. If it wasn’t for Sophie, Trace might not even be here right now, ready to turn down Chloe D’Onofrio’s incredibly tempting offer.

She seemed nice enough, for a D’Onofrio. But it was appallingly obvious that she was completely wrong for him. He frowned up at her, mentally listing all her flaws. A sassy mouth. A killer body. A classically beautiful face. A quick temper, judging by the sparks he’d seen in her big brown eyes. And worst of all, a brother named Ramon.

He sat back in his chair with a sigh. No, Chloe wouldn’t even make it as a runner-up on his list for the perfect wife.

“Well, what do you say?” she asked. “Do we have a deal?”

Despite her obvious flaws, he found it harder to turn her down than he’d expected. “I’m flattered, Miss D’Onofrio….”

“Call me Chloe,” she reminded him.

“Chloe,” he echoed, mentally adding another flaw to the already long list. She had an annoying tendency to interrupt him when he was speaking. “I’m flattered, Chloe, by your very generous offer. I admire your loyalty to your brother and the lengths you’re willing to go to help him. But I’m afraid I can’t…”

“I’d do anything for Ramon,” she said, interrupting him once again. “Family is very important to me.”

“Me, too,” he muttered. Family loyalty rated very high on his list of wifely requirements. He’d seen firsthand how betrayal could tear a family apart. But one plus didn’t make up for all the glaring minuses that still tipped the scales against her.

“How important?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Exactly how important is your family to you?”

“What does that have to do with your offer to sleep with me?”

She stared at him. Then the corners of her mouth quivered until she couldn’t contain herself any longer and burst out laughing. “Sleep with you?”

He scowled, wondering what was so damn funny. “Yes. In exchange for hiring back your brother.”

“This is too much,” she said, her laughter finally subsiding. She took a deep breath to compose herself. “Just what kind of woman do you think I am?”

“I…I…”

“And what kind of man would even consider using a woman that way?”

This had gone far enough. “I think you misunderstood me. I had no—”

“You know,” she interjected, “I’ve met some male chauvinists before, but I didn’t realize men like you still existed.”

“If you’d just let me get a word in edgewise,” he said between clenched teeth, “you’d find out I had absolutely no intention of taking you up on your offer.”

But instead of mollifying her, his words actually seemed to offend her. Sparks lit her eyes. “So not only did you believe I was willing to prostitute myself, you have the nerve to sit there and tell me you’re not the least bit interested!”

“I never said that,” Trace growled. “I’m very interested. I’m so interested I can barely sit up straight. In fact, if you’d like me to prove it to you, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said primly. “Because I’m definitely not interested. Now, may we please return to the subject at hand?”

He was both disappointed and confused. “What subject?”

She settled back in her chair, visibly calmer now. As much as he hated to admit it, she was just as appealing to him in the heat of anger. Maybe even more so. A rosy blush stained her creamy cheeks. Her brown eyes sparkled. His own blood raced in anticipation of what she might say or do next.

“Family loyalty,” she replied evenly. “Ramon is the only reason I showed up here tonight.”

He stifled a groan. Ramon. Why did she have to remind him? Although, perhaps it was a good thing she had, considering the directions his thoughts had taken just a scant moment ago. She was a D’Onofrio. Which meant she was off-limits.

She tilted her head to one side as she studied him. “So are you interested in my proposition?”

He scowled. “Maybe you’d better explain exactly what you mean by proposition.”

“Fine. I’ll talk slowly this time so you understand.” She leaned forward. “If you’ll hire my brother back, I’ll pretend to like you.”

“Be still my heart,” he said dryly. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She arched a brow. “I thought you said family loyalty is important to you. Are you really willing to disappoint your aunt? She was almost in tears when she heard my tirade against you.”

“Tirade? I thought you just called me a couple of names.”

“Among other things.” She cleared her throat. “The point is, she has her heart set on bringing the two of us together. Are you willing to break it?”

Chloe couldn’t have hit her mark better if she’d drawn a bull’s-eye on his chest. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint his aunt. He owed her. Big-time. Still, he couldn’t marry the wrong woman just to make his aunt happy. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Chloe,” he said with a long sigh. “It just wouldn’t work out between us.”

“Of course not.” She rolled her eyes. “That goes without saying. But if we pretend to give it a go, your aunt will eventually see the writing in the coffee grounds. She’ll realize we’re completely wrong for each other.”

“You can say that again.”

“We’re completely wrong for each other.”

He frowned at her. “That was just a figure of speech.”

“I know. I just wanted to repeat it, in case you once again fall under the delusion that I want to sleep with you.”

Her words pricked him more than he wanted to admit. “Not a problem.”

“So do we have a deal?”

His common sense told him to turn her down and turn her out of his condominium. But his love for his aunt overrode his better judgment. “Yes.”

“Good. I’ll tell Ramon that he can start work again first thing in the morning.” She stood and held out her hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

Trace complied, surprised by the strength of her grip. “Give me a chance to call my insurance agent first. I want to up my workman’s comp to the max. Not to mention my life insurance.” Then he stood up to follow her, momentarily forgetting about his sore toe. “Wait a minute. What about us?”

She turned around. “Us?”

“We should probably go out on a date or two just to make this look real.” He limped toward her. “I’m free Friday evening.”

She shrugged. “All right. The sooner we can convince your aunt we’re completely wrong for each other, the better. Shall we meet at Café Romeo?”

“I’ll pick you up at your place,” he said firmly. “This is supposed to be like a real date, remember? We can go to dinner first, then stop at Café Romeo for a cappuccino later.”

“Fine.” She pulled a business card out of her purse and handed it to him. “My home address and telephone number are on my card.” Then she turned and headed toward the door. “Do you want me to make reservations? I know a great Mexican restaurant.”

“I hate Mexican food,” he said, limping after her.

“How about Japanese?”

He grimaced. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

She sighed. “All right, what would you like to eat?”

“How about plain old American?”

She laughed. “My favorite.”

“Mine, too. Seems we have something in common, after all.”

“Scary, isn’t it?” she quipped, then sailed out the door.

Trace watched her walk toward her car, a sporty red Ford Taurus that matched the color of her suit. The way that skirt molded to her swaying hips made his mouth go dry. Then realization sunk in. He had a date with Chloe D’Onofrio in three days.

Scary was definitely the word for it.

BY FRIDAY, Trace was more than scared, he was downright suspicious. The night before he’d lain in his bed, unable to sleep, and replayed Chloe’s unexpected visit in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced she had or-chestrated every aspect of their encounter—right down to the alluring shade of lipstick she wore. How else could he explain the fact that he had a date with Chloe D’Onofrio only three short days after vowing to his aunt that he’d never fall into one of her matchmaking traps?

Then another thought hit him, chilling him to the very marrow. Maybe Sophie had planned it this way all along. Asking him to hire Ramon, the power-saw incident, Chloe’s visit and their unusual deal.

“Don’t you think you’re just a little paranoid,” Jake Callahan said, after Trace had explained his suspicions to his brother. They stood in the large, plush dressing room of Sir Galahad Formal Wear.

Trace adjusted the blue silk cummerbund around his waist. “You tell me. I’m trying on tuxedos with my confirmed-bachelor brother, who is getting married in six weeks, thanks to Aunt Sophie.”

“I’ve thanked her more than once,” Jake replied, knotting his bow tie. “Nina is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“It was a fluke.” Trace shrugged into a black cutaway jacket. “You don’t really believe Aunt Sophie can read romantic futures in a pile of soggy coffee grounds.”

“If you don’t believe it,” Jake challenged, “why are you so worried about it? Apparently this Chloe is all wrong for you, which is hardly surprising if she’s anything at all like her brother.”

“She’s nothing like Ramon.” Trace slipped into a pair of black patent-leather dress shoes. “But she’s still…dangerous. You should see her, Jake. Or maybe not.” He grinned. “If you saw Chloe D’Onofrio, you might just decide to remain a bachelor.”

The dressing room curtain was suddenly swept open. Nina Walker, Jake’s fiancée, stood on the other side. “All right, Trace, quit trying to sabotage this wedding.” Her voice sounded stern but her green eyes sparkled with amusement. “Or I may just have to kill you.”

“Nina,” Jake whispered, “you’re not supposed to be in here. This is the men’s dressing room.”

She grinned. “Sounds like the perfect place to be to me. Unfortunately, you’re both decent.” She turned to Trace. “So who’s Chloe?”

“No one for you to worry about,” Trace replied, looking fondly at his future sister-in-law. Nina didn’t have any competition for his brother’s affections. He’d never seen Jake so besotted with a woman.

She smiled up at him. “So I can let you live?”

“You’d better, since I’m the best man. Somebody has to catch Jake when he passes out from a panic attack during the wedding ceremony.”

“Ignore him,” Jake said, drawing her into his arms and giving her a tender kiss on the lips. “If I start to panic, it will only be because it’s taking so damn long to make you my wife. Six weeks seems like forever.”

Nina laughed. “I agree. So why is everyone else calling it a whirlwind courtship?” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m ready to start the honeymoon.”

Jake responded with another kiss, this one longer than the last. Trace folded his arms across his chest, waiting for them to come up for air. They’d been like this ever since they’d announced their engagement two weeks ago.

As much as Trace hated to admit it, he envied his big brother. Soon Jake would have exactly what Trace wanted—an adoring woman as his wife. A family of his very own.

He tugged at his bow tie. Not only had the Kimberly fiasco set him back, but now this situation with Chloe would cause an even longer delay. He just wanted a woman who fit all his requirements, who shared all his likes and dislikes, who didn’t make him completely crazy.

Was that so much to ask?

He glanced at his watch, then impatiently cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but you two aren’t on your honeymoon yet.”

Nina turned to him, her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “So who’s Chloe?”

“Ramon’s sister,” Jake informed her. “She also happens to be Café Romeo’s new interior designer, as well as Trace’s date for this evening.”

“Date?” A wrinkle creased Nina’s brow. “What about Kimberly?”

“Kimberly is out of the picture,” Jake said, sparing the details. “Chloe is in. Madame Sophia matched them up.”

Nina’s eyes widened. “Oh, Trace. How wonderful! You’ve finally met your match.”

“You can say that again,” Jake said with a chuckle.

“Chloe D’Onofrio is not my perfect match. I’m only doing this for Aunt Sophie. Once she sees how wrong we are for each other, maybe she’ll stop trying to interfere in my love life.”

Nina looked thoughtful. “You know, it is possible Sophie made a mistake.”

“Hey,” Jake interjected as he wrapped his arm around her waist. “I thought you were a believer.”

“I am,” Nina insisted. “But Sophie did confide to me that there was a mix-up with your coffee cups when she secretly confiscated your coffee grounds. She wasn’t exactly certain which coffee cup belonged to which Callahan.”

“Wonderful,” Trace said dryly. “I knew it was all a big mistake.”

“So give Noah a call,” Jake said.

Trace scowled at him. “Why?”

“So he can get together with Chloe. She must be his perfect match.”

Nina pulled a quarter out of her purse. “I’ll call him right now on the pay phone around the corner. He’s investigating a possible arson case this afternoon, but he could probably take your place on this date tonight.”

“No!” His tone was more strident than he intended. Clearing his throat, he spoke more calmly. “Noah could never handle a woman like Chloe.” He squared his shoulders. “I’ll suffer through it.”

“All right,” Nina agreed with a shrug. “But you two don’t give your little brother enough credit. I was here with him earlier today when he tried on his tux.” She sighed. “He looked so handsome. Three women came in off the street when they saw him through the window.”

“Speaking of handsome,” Jake said, holding out his arms and executing a slow turn in his tuxedo. “What do you think?”

She tapped one finger on her chin as she took her time studying her fiancé. Then she turned her analytical eye to Trace. “Well, if you want to know the truth…”

“We can take it,” Trace said.

Nina’s mouth curved into a slow smile. “Then I’d say Chloe D’Onofrio and I are the two luckiest women on the planet.”




3


CHLOE HAD NEVER had so much trouble preparing for a date. First, her curling iron went on the blink, leaving her bangs hanging down in her eyes. Too pressed for time to go out and buy another one, she had to settle for sweeping her hair off her forehead and securing it with a silver filigree hair clip. Then her topaz ring snagged on her only decent pair of panty hose, causing a run from knee to thigh. She halted any further damage with a dab of clear fingernail polish, then rummaged through her closet for something long enough to cover up the run. She finally settled on a colorful broom skirt and a matching red peasant blouse.

Then there was Ramon.

“I’m the head of the family now,” he said, propping his skinny form against the door frame in the open doorway of the upstairs bathroom. “And I don’t like the idea of you dating Trace Callahan. Call it off.”

“I made you a pot roast with carrots and potatoes for supper.” Chloe leaned close to the mirror as she carefully applied a touch of mascara to her long, dark lashes. “If you eat all your vegetables, you can have some mocha ice cream for dessert.”

Ramon wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like pot roast. Besides, I have plans tonight.”

Chloe turned to look at her brother. His shoulder-length brown hair was slicked back into a neat ponytail. He wore a blue pinstripe shirt and crisply pressed denim blue jeans. He’d shaved recently too, judging by the small tuft of toilet paper stuck to his chin. “Plans? What kind of plans?”

He shrugged. “I’d rather not say.” Then his brown eyes widened in dismay. “And you changed the subject again. We were talking about Callahan.”

She turned back to the mirror, able to see his reflection in the glass. “What about him?”

“He’s not your type, Chloe. I’ve heard he even has a list of requirements for the perfect wife.”

“Don’t worry, Ramon. I’m not interested in the job.”

“I still forbid you to go out with him. I don’t trust the man, and I certainly don’t like him. He wouldn’t let me handle any of his precious tools at work today.” His mouth drew down in a pout. “Except the broom.”

“You’re an apprentice,” Chloe reminded him. “You’ve got to start somewhere. Just give it some time.”

Ramon shook his head. “I don’t have that much time. I’m already twenty-two years old.”

She laughed. “I’ll buy you a walker for your next birthday.”

“I’m serious, Chloe. Life is passing me by. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.” He took a deep breath. “It’s time to make some changes.”

The hairs prickled on the back of her neck. “What kind of changes?”

He scowled. “You did it again. You changed the subject. We were talking about you and Callahan.”

She turned to face him, a tube of raspberry-red lipstick in her hand. “Right now we’re talking about you. I want to know exactly what kind of changes you’re planning to make.”

“It’s a secret.”

She took a step toward him. “Ramon, don’t do anything foolish.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We both know what it means. I know the past few years have been rough for you. Especially after Dad died.” She didn’t want to admit they’d been rough for her, too. The sudden death of Theo D’Onofrio eight years ago had left Chloe, a naive nineteen-year-old, in sole charge of her sullen fourteen-year-old brother. She’d tried her best to raise him right, with plenty of unsolicited advice from her incarcerated mother and assorted D’Onofrios.

“I miss him,” Ramon admitted. “He was my hero.”

Just the words she didn’t want to hear. “I loved Dad, too. But he had his faults. He was too smart to waste his life cracking safes. He could have done so much more.”

Ramon’s eyes sparked with anger. “Theo D’Onofrio was the best jewel thief in the country. The police never even came close to touching him.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But the stress of evading them all those years took its toll. He was only forty-seven when his heart gave out.”

Ramon’s shoulders drooped. “The same thing could have happened if he’d been a plumber or a banker. Besides, he loved his work.”

Sometimes Chloe wondered if her father had loved his work more than he’d loved his family. They’d never been able to stay in one place long—making it necessary for Chloe and Ramon to change schools often. They’d had to lie, too, whenever anyone asked them what Theo D’Onofrio did for a living. He’s in the security business was their standard reply. Only they refrained from mentioning that his specialty was breaking security.

Still, it hadn’t been a bad life. The D’Onofrios were a close-knit family, and they’d always been able to depend on each other. Which was the reason Chloe wasn’t about to let her brother down—whether he wanted her help or not.

“Times are different now,” she said briskly, turning back to the mirror. “The police have much more sophisticated equipment to track stolen merchandise. So if you’re thinking of taking up where Dad left off, think again.”

The doorbell rang, forestalling Ramon’s reply. But she could see by the mottled flush on his cheeks that she’d hit a nerve. “That must be Trace.”

“I’ll get it,” Ramon said, moving down the hallway.

Chloe picked up a pair of gold hoop earrings off the marble vanity top and hooked one through her ear. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

“I will,” Ramon called over his shoulder. “As well as a few other things.”

She stuck out her tongue at his retreating back, then walked down the hallway into her bedroom. After slipping on a pair of red leather flats, she took a long look at herself in the full-length mirror that hung on her closet door. Not quite satisfied with her appearance, she pulled the elastic band of the peasant blouse off her shoulders. Then up again. Then down again.

Her gaze fastened on her hair. Pulled back, it looked awful. Unfortunately, it looked even more awful flopping in her eyes after she took off the clip. Picking up a bottle of hair spray off her dresser, she feathered her bangs back with her fingers, then sprayed them into place. Not perfect, but definitely an improvement.

Chloe took a deep breath, surprised by the fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t been on a real date in months. Between getting her business off the ground and keeping a watchful eye on Ramon, she simply hadn’t had any time left over for romance.

Only this wasn’t a real date. And Trace Callahan had made it clear he wasn’t interested in a romance. Especially with her.

Good thing, too.

Because despite her skepticism about Madame Sophia’s talents, she couldn’t deny the pull between them. There was something about Trace that brought out the flirt in her. Something that almost made her forget she didn’t even like the man.

TRACE BROKE OUT in a cold sweat as he stood waiting on the dilapidated porch of the rambling Victorian house. He’d been restless all day, wavering between apprehension and anticipation. The prospect of a date with Chloe D’Onofrio intrigued him, aroused him and terrified him all at the same time. Now that the moment had finally arrived, he didn’t know whether he should ring the doorbell again or run screaming in the opposite direction.

Noah’s warning echoed in his mind. Be afraid, Trace. Be very afraid. Then he shook off the words as well as his sense of foreboding. Trace Callahan had never let fear dictate to him before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Besides, it was only one date. How bad could it be?

The front door swung open and Ramon stood on the other side, a scowl on his face and a six-inch carving knife in his hand. “It’s you.”

“Put the knife down, Ramon.”

Ramon held the knife up in the air, the blade glinting in the glow of the porch light. “This little thing? I was just using it to slice up a roast.”

“Put it down, Ramon.” After almost losing his big toe, Trace wasn’t about to take any chances.

Ramon tipped up his chin. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll have to take it away from you, and you won’t like the way I do it.”

Ramon hesitated a moment, then dropped the knife into the potted plant just inside the front door. The hilt quivered slightly as the blade pierced the soil. “All right, have it your way.”

“Thank you.” Trace waited for him to move away from the door. “May I come in now?”

Ramon stood with his hands on his narrow hips, blocking the doorway. “Could I stop you?”

“No,” Trace said genially, pushing past him as he stepped across the threshold and into the living room. “Is Chloe ready to go?”

“Depends.” Ramon turned to face him. “Exactly what are your intentions toward my sister?”

“I intend to buy her dinner.”

“I’m not worried about dinner. I want to know what you have in mind for dessert.”

“Something sweet and soothing, which pretty much rules out your sister.” Then he smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Ramon. I’m not interested in Chloe that way.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth, but he didn’t like the way Ramon was eyeing that knife.

“I hope not.” Ramon moved a step closer to him, the top of his head barely reaching Trace’s chin. “Because otherwise you’ll have to answer to me.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Trace said dryly.

“Remember it.” Ramon gave him one last glare, then turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Trace watched him leave, grudgingly impressed with Ramon’s efforts to defend his sister. The man might be a fruitcake, but he was a loyal fruitcake.

Left on his own, Trace could finally feast his eyes on the exquisite and spacious living room. Evidence of fine craftsmanship was everywhere. Intricate crown moldings lined the high ceiling. The large picture window was a showpiece in itself, accented with rose, amber and green stained glass. Marble insets flanked the hand-carved windowsill.

Trace stared in wonder around the rest of the unique room. Chloe obviously wasn’t his perfect match, but he was falling hard and fast for her house.

He had to give her credit, though. She’d decorated it just right. The simple, tasteful furnishings and decor enhanced rather than detracted from the nineteenth-century grandeur of the setting. He just hoped she could do half as well with Café Romeo.

Saving the best for last, he moved toward the open spiral staircase. He’d never seen a staircase like this one before, although he knew a handful had been built in St. Louis sometime around the turn of the century. It was in amazing condition for its age, the wood gleaming and polished to a high sheen. With a feeling of reverence, he reached out one hand and ran it down the carved balustrade. He didn’t know enough about real estate to guess the value of the house, but the staircase itself had to be worth a fortune.

He wondered who had built it. One of his hobbies was studying the techniques of local craftsmen from the nineteenth century. They had built some of the finest houses in the city. He bent down to look at the underside of the staircase, hoping to find a find a date or even the initials of the man responsible for this masterpiece.

He saw something far different.

“What the hell…” he muttered, angling his head for a better view. Then he heard footsteps behind him. But before he could turn around, something solid and heavy struck his temple. He blinked in surprise as a blinding pain streaked through his head.

Then everything went black.

CHLOE GAVE HER BANGS one last spritz of hair spray for good measure, then headed for the stairs. A loud thud made her pause at the top of the staircase. “Ramon?”

No answer. It was quiet down there now. Too quiet. She hoped Ramon hadn’t scared her date away. Or maybe Trace hadn’t shown up at all. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d wondered more than once if Callahan would really go through with this fake date.

Her doubts turned to uneasiness when she reached the landing. The living room was empty, but the front door stood open. She walked toward it and looked outside. The wide porch stood empty too, although a strange black Chevy Blazer was parked by the front curb.

Chloe closed the door and turned back into the living room. That was when she saw the knife sticking out of the potted plant. It looked as if someone had tried to murder her philodendron.

“Ramon?” she called again, picking up the knife, then walking toward the kitchen. “Where are you?”

She moved through the kitchen door and her gaze settled on the oak pedestal table in the center of the room. It was set for one. The pot roast sat congealing on the counter, two thick slices of meat lying on the platter beside it. She set the knife in the stainless steel sink, then looked out the kitchen window at the driveway. Her brother’s beat-up ’83 hatchback was still there.

“Ramon?” she called, louder now as she walked down the long hallway, checking all the other rooms on the main floor. Could he possibly have gone upstairs without her seeing him?

Chloe moved back into the living room and headed toward the spiral staircase, a vague uneasiness settling over her. She’d just set her right hand on the newel post when she saw the shoes. She blinked in surprise, then leaned over the right side of the banister. Sticking out from under the staircase were two feet, wearing brown leather loafers, their toes pointing up toward the ceiling. She leaned further and saw that the feet were connected to a pair of long legs clad in tan Dockers.

“Omigod!” She rounded the newel post, and her knees hit the hardwood floor right next to the shoes. Bending down far enough to peer underneath the staircase, she saw Trace Callahan crammed in the narrow space between the floor and the bottom of the staircase.

His face looked pasty-white in the shadows.

“Trace!”

She grabbed his ankle and shook it. “Trace, are you all right?”

He didn’t react to either her voice or her jostling. He just lay there deathly still. Her heart pounded in her chest as panic consumed her. She stood up, grabbed both his ankles and pulled with all her might. His body moved about a foot. She pulled again, grunting aloud with her effort. He was so impossibly heavy. She’d never moved over two hundred pounds of dead weight before. Dead. The awful word reverberated in her head. He couldn’t be dead.

Could he?

At last, she’d pulled his body clear of the staircase. She dived to her knees again and clasped him by the shoulders. “Trace, please wake up. Please!”

The skin at his temple was mottled a dusky blue, and a thin red streak of blood was running down his cheek. His face was still pale, his lips almost bloodless. She wasn’t sure he was breathing.

“Trace!” She shouted his name, her throat straining with effort and fear. She called it again. Then a third time.

No response.

Frantic now, she cupped one hand under his neck, tilting his chin up. His mouth fell open, revealing a straight line of white teeth. She took a deep breath, then clamped her mouth over his. Exhaling slowly, she tried to fill his lungs with air. But somehow, it wasn’t working right.

Then he moved. His lips anyway, gently molding themselves against her mouth. His tongue darted forward and her eyes opened wide as it slid sleekly inside.

His eyes were still closed and she heard a low rumble deep in his throat. Then his hands rose. They reached up to cradle her face, holding her gently in place. Pure sensation overcame her shock as his mouth pressed against hers. She moaned softly as his fingers trailed down her throat, his thumbs stroking her collarbone. Then his hands moved over her bare shoulders, drawing her even closer to him.

He groaned again. Only this time it sounded more like a groan of pain than pleasure.

Chloe broke the kiss and sat up, watching him grimace as he brought his hand to his temple. She swallowed hard. “Are you all right?”

“What the hell happened?” His voice sounded weak and raspy.

“I don’t know. I came down here and found you unconscious under the stairs.”

His gaze focused on her. “Where exactly is here?”

“My house.” She leaned forward. “I’m Chloe, remember? Chloe D’Onofrio. We have a date.”

“Chloe.” He closed his eyes. “I dreamed you were kissing me.”

It seemed like a dream to her, too. She’d never been kissed like that before. It wasn’t just his technique. The man had been barely conscious, after all. It was the unusual spark that had arced between them—connected them.

He opened his eyes. “Or was it a dream?”

“No. But it wasn’t exactly a kiss, either—at least it didn’t start out that way.” She licked her lips. “That’s not important right now. How do you feel?”

“Like someone has been using my head for batting practice. What happened?”

“I think you were attacked by a Chihuahua.”

He shook his head as if to clear it, then winced. “I think I’m hearing things. Did you say a Chihuahua?”

She stooped to pick up the small ceramic dog lying upended near the base of the stairs. One pointed ear had been chipped off, and the remaining fragment was stained with a small amount of blood. She held it up for him see. “It used to be Ramon’s pet, since he’s allergic to animal dander. Now we use it for a doorstop.”

“It also makes a handy guard dog,” he said, gingerly fingering his injury. “I just wish I’d seen it coming.”

“What exactly were you doing under the staircase?”

“The staircase,” he echoed, closing his eyes once more. “Nice. Nice staircase. I…looked under it.”

She frowned. “Why?”

His brow crinkled as if he was trying to remember the reason. At last he said, “Names. I was looking for names.”

Names? That didn’t make any sense. Which shouldn’t surprise her, since he was suffering from a head injury. “Speaking of names, do you happen to remember yours?”

He opened his eyes and scowled up at her. “Of course.”

“Tell me,” she said, wanting to be certain.

“Trace Joseph Callahan. I’m twenty-seven years old and live on Ravenna Drive in St. Louis, Missouri.” He arched a brow, then winced at the slight movement. “Am I right?”

“You looked older than twenty-seven.”

“At the moment, I feel about eighty-seven.” He struggled to sit up, his face blanching at the effort. “Make that ninety-seven.”

She clasped his shoulder and helped pull him to a sitting position. He closed his eyes, then dropped his head between his knees.

She chewed her lower lip, wondering if she should call him an ambulance. “Are you all right?”

After a moment, he nodded. “Just a little dizzy.”

“I still don’t understand what happened.”

He looked up at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, not to me.” She stood up and began to pace. “I find you unconscious under the stairs and I can’t find my brother anywhere.” She paused to look at him, twisting her fingers together. “Do you think Ramon is in trouble?”

“Definitely.” He gripped the newel post, then rose unsteadily to his feet. “Attempted murder is a serious matter.”

She blinked. “What are you saying?”

His brows drew together.

“Don’t look at me like that. And don’t pretend to be shocked. Ramon answered the front door with a butcher knife in his hand. He made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want me anywhere near you. And, just yesterday, he assaulted me with a power saw.”

“That was an accident. And this is…pre-posterous. Ramon would never…could never hurt anyone.” Her gaze flicked to his foot. “Not on purpose, anyway.”

“Chloe, I admire your loyalty, but this is pushing it a bit too far. The man is a menace. He belongs behind bars.”

Her blood turned to ice at his words. Ramon would never survive in jail. He could barely survive out of jail.

“I know he’s your brother,” Trace continued, his tone gentler now. “But I have to report him to the police. Otherwise, he’s liable to kill someone with these crazy antics. And since I seem to be his favorite target, I’m afraid that someone will be me.”

“You don’t understand,” she breathed. “He’s had a tough life. Our family is…different.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“I do understand—better than you think. But Ramon has to take responsibility for his actions. And a lousy childhood or a dysfunctional family aren’t excuses he can hide behind.”

His words transformed her fear to anger. “Look, this is ridiculous. I’m telling you, Ramon did not knock you unconscious. I give you my word.”

Trace folded his arms across his chest. “So who did?”

She shrugged, her mind racing to come up with a plausible suspect. “Well, there’s my uncle Leo. Sometimes he drops by unexpectedly. Leo likes to hit first, ask questions later. Then there’s Frankie.”

“Frankie?”

“My cousin. He works as an enforcer for a loan shark. Sometimes he likes to practice on unsuspecting victims.”

“Charming family. Ramon is starting to sound better all the time. Any other violent types?”

“Candy,” she replied. “Another cousin. She’s hated men ever since her high-school sweetheart squealed on her to the Feds.”

Trace set his jaw. “You really expect me to buy all this?”

“It’s the truth!” She tipped up her chin. “If you don’t believe me, call my mother and ask her.”

“Maybe I will. Especially if she can talk some sense into you. What’s her number?”

“One-four-two-three-seven-six.”

He arched a disbelieving brow. “That’s her telephone number?”

“No, it’s her prison number. You’ll need it when you call the Women’s Eastern Correctional Center at Vandalia.”

Trace’s jaw sagged. “Your mother is a…”

“Convict,” Chloe said evenly. After her father’s death, she’d promised herself not to lie about her family anymore. Honesty kept shame and embarrassment at bay. “The speed-dial number for the prison is taped on the back of the telephone receiver.”

Trace stalked over to the telephone stand. “You’ve got three prisons listed here.”

“Four, actually, if you count juvenile hall. Benson, Uncle Leo’s stepson, hot-wired a car on his fifteenth birthday and went joyriding.”

Trace kept staring at the speed-dial list. “Your mother is really in prison?”

Chloe heard both horror and pity in his voice. She didn’t care for either. “Yes. But she’ll be out in less than a month.”

He turned to her. “Exactly how many D’Onofrios are behind bars?”

She glanced at the ceiling as she mentally calculated the number. “Six, if you count Benson. But he’s not technically behind bars. Juvenile Hall is more of a rehabilitation facility.”

“Six,” he echoed, sagging onto the sofa.

“So you see,” she said, joining him there, “I do have some experience with criminal behavior. Ramon just doesn’t have it in him, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.”

His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” she bit out, wishing she’d bitten her tongue instead. Trace already thought badly enough of her brother without knowing he aspired to become a master jewel thief.

“Tell me.”

“It’s not important,” she insisted, wishing he’d drop it, already.

He just stared at her, waiting. Was that empathy she saw in his blue eyes? Compassion?

“Fine,” she said at last. “On one condition.”

“You’re hardly in any position to make conditions. You can either tell me right now or I pick up the telephone and call the police.”

So much for compassion.

“Go ahead and call the police,” she bluffed. “I’m not telling you anything.”

But instead of reaching for the telephone, Trace leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes, his face still unnaturally pale. For a moment she regretted arguing with him in his condition. She knew in her heart Ramon wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone, but someone had definitely hurt Trace. And there was a high probability that someone was a D’Onofrio. Pangs of guilt and regret shot through her.

“Can I get you something,” she asked, her tone softer now. “An aspirin, or maybe some ice for your head?”

“No, thank you.”

“How about some pot roast? It will only take me a few minutes to reheat it in the microwave.”

He cracked open one eye. “You cook?”

“Since I was twelve. Someone had to take over the meals after Mom went to prison the first time.”

“Twelve.” Trace sighed, both eyes open now. “I was seven when my Mom left. Only she never came back.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe murmured, knowing firsthand the inadequacy of those words.

“Don’t be. We had Aunt Sophie, and she couldn’t have loved us more if we were her own sons.” His mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Even when we messed up.”

“Then you know why I still love my family. They’re a little on the shady side, but they’re all I’ve got.”

“A little?”

“All right,” she conceded. “A lot. Except Ramon. He’s simply not a violent person.”

She waited for Trace to contradict her, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe she’d convinced him. Maybe he’d already changed his mind about calling the police.

Chloe set her jaw. When she found the D’Onofrio who had attacked Trace, she’d string him, or her, up by his or her toes. On second thought, she’d do something even worse—she’d make the culprit eat her cooking. Trace had asked her if she could cook, not if she was a good cook. In her case, there was a big difference.

Only she couldn’t do anything until she knew what Trace planned to do. Would he press charges against her brother? Or would he finally believe her assertion that Ramon was innocent?

“Chloe,” he said at last, with the tone of a man who has come to a decision.

“Yes, Trace?” She held her breath, awaiting his verdict.

“There’s something else you should know.”




4


TRACE KNEW he shouldn’t tell Chloe D’Onofrio anything but goodbye. Especially since he’d sincerely underestimated the damage she could do to his life. His pounding head was a powerful reminder of that. He needed to concentrate on his pain, rather than the apprehension he saw in her big brown eyes.

“Something else?” she said, nipping her lower lip between her teeth. “What is it?”

Leave. The word reverberated in his woozy brain. He could get up right now and leave her behind without a word. It was D’Onofrio family business, after all. No one had asked him to interfere. In fact, he could probably take that blow to the head as a hint to butt out.

So why wasn’t he moving?

She reached out, the tips of her fingers lightly brushing his forearm. “Tell me, Trace. What else should I know?”

She should know that he never would have agreed to date her if he’d been aware of the extent of her felonious family background. She should know that he didn’t interfere in other people’s problems. He’d had enough problems in his own past to deal with. She should know that she wasn’t responsible for the actions of her brother, or her family. That he didn’t really blame her for any of this.

She should know…the truth.

“It’s about the staircase,” he began.

Her brow drew together. “What does the staircase have to do with Ramon?”

Instead of replying, he stood up, his knees wobbling just a little. Chloe was immediately standing by his side, lightly supporting him with her body. He closed his eyes for a moment just to enjoy the sensation.

He knew it wouldn’t last long.

“Trace, I think you should lie down. You took a nasty blow, and you’re not making a lot of sense right now.”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” he said, walking slowly toward the staircase.

She walked beside him, still partially supporting him. “Understand what?”

He could hear the fear mingled with impatience in her voice. Hardly surprising. This woman had obviously endured a lifetime of unpleasant revelations. And he was about to add one more to the list.

“Lie down,” he said, when they reached the staircase. He placed one hand on the thick newel post to steady himself.

“As I said before, I think you’re the one who should lie down. But not on the floor.”

“Just lie down,” he insisted. “Then scoot underneath the staircase. Position yourself just as you found me.”

With one last look of bewilderment, Chloe acceded to his wishes. She lay down on the hardwood floor and wiggled herself underneath the open staircase.

Trace waited, his body tensing. He didn’t know what he expected to hear. A scream? A curse? A sob? Instead he heard the one thing he didn’t expect—silence. Her reaction, or rather the lack of a reaction, made him wonder if he’d imagined it all in the first place.

“Well?” he asked, bending down slightly, but still unable to gauge her expression. “Do you see anything under there?”

She shot out from under the staircase and jumped to her feet. “I certainly do. The dust bunnies have been breeding like rabbits.” Then she glanced at her watch. “Time to go! We don’t want to miss our reservations.”

Her false cheeriness confirmed for him that he hadn’t imagined it. “It’s still there, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

With a sigh of resignation, he lay down on the floor, grabbed the bottom edge of the staircase and pulled himself underneath it. His head screamed at him with every movement. But his eyes saw everything clearly. Taped to the underside of the stairway in a sealed Ziploc gallon bag were dozens of sparkling loose diamonds, all shapes and sizes. Even in the dark the jewels winked at him like stars in the sky.

The next moment Chloe slid in beside him, her back on the floor, her head right next to his. She tilted her gaze toward him. “I can explain.”

He couldn’t wait to hear it. Would she tell him the truth or make up an elaborate lie? And would he be able to tell the difference? “Go ahead.”

She hesitated. “All right, I can’t explain. But that doesn’t mean there’s not a perfectly logical explanation.”

“Such as?”

“Such as…these aren’t what they look like.”

“They look like flawless diamonds worth thousands of dollars.”

“They could just be really good fakes. Sometimes you can hardly tell the difference.”

Trace stared at the bag, considering her argument. He supposed they could be fake, but that brought up another question. “If that’s true, then why did someone go to all the trouble to hide them?”

“Well…maybe someone is fencing them as the real thing. They do look authentic.”

“There’s one way to find out.” As soon as he said the words he felt her stiffen beside him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He turned slightly to get a better view of her face. “You haven’t even heard my idea yet.”

She scowled. “I can make a wild guess. You want to take them to a jeweler so he can examine them and give us his expert opinion. Or did you have something else in mind?”

“No, that about sums it up. At least then we’d know what we’re dealing with.”

“We?” she echoed, her tone slightly sarcastic. “This isn’t your problem, Callahan. This is my house. My staircase.”

“Your diamonds?” When she didn’t deny it, the hairs prickled on the back of his neck. He hadn’t even considered Chloe might be involved in something shady. He suddenly wondered why he’d been blind to that possibility. Was it the way she looked? Talked? Kissed?

He closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting to think about that kiss. It confused him too much. Made perfectly clear issues suddenly cloudy.

“They’re not my diamonds,” she said firmly. “But this is a family problem. I’d rather you didn’t become involved.”

“It’s too late. I became involved the moment your brother conked me over the head. And now we know why. He didn’t want me to find the stash.”

“That’s pure speculation,” she replied, although she didn’t sound too convinced herself. “Why wouldn’t he…I mean, whoever hit you, just take the diamonds and run?”

Trace shrugged. “Maybe he heard you coming and panicked. Or maybe he thought he’d killed me and panicked. Criminals aren’t always logical. Or smart.”

“Believe me, I know.” She turned her face to him. “So now what?”

They were lying so close together that he could feel her soft breath on his cheek. “We call the police.”

Chloe immediately wiggled out from beneath the staircase. Trace followed her, moving more slowly. She was pacing back and forth across the living room by the time he got to his feet. He watched her for a moment, then he walked toward the telephone.

“Wait,” she cried, reaching out to stop him.

He turned to face her. “Chloe, I know you’re upset. I know you don’t want to face the facts about your brother. But shielding him won’t help him. Ramon will just dig himself deeper and deeper into trouble.” He took a step closer to her. “I’m furious with Ramon for knocking me out, but I could probably deal with him one-on-one and leave the police out of it.”

He steeled himself against the way her brown eyes filled with hope. “But the diamonds are another matter. We’re talking about a possible felony. We don’t have any choice but to turn him in to the authorities.”

“You’re right.”

He blinked, surprised at her easy capitulation. He turned toward the telephone once again.

Chloe whirled in front of him, effectively blocking his path to the phone. “But we don’t have to turn him in yet. I still don’t believe Ramon hit you, but…” Her voice trailed off and a spark of anger flashed in her eyes.

“You do believe he stole the diamonds?”

“Yes.” She threw her hands up in the air. “Why couldn’t he have started small? A gold bracelet here, a semiprecious stone there? Instead he steals enough diamonds to land him in prison for a lifetime!”

“Wait a minute,” he interjected, slightly confused. “Did Ramon tell you he planned to rob a jewelry store?”

“Not in so many words. But I could see the warning signs.” She looked up at Trace. “Why didn’t I try harder to stop him?”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Yes, I can,” she countered. “I promised my mother I’d look after him the first time she went to prison. And I’ve tried to keep that promise ever since.”

His gut clenched at her words. She’d only been twelve years old and already taken on the responsibilities of an adult. “Ramon is a man now, not a little boy. You’re not responsible for his actions anymore.”

“He’s still a little boy inside. Sensitive and impulsive.” She laid her hand on his chest. “Let me find him. Let me try to convince Ramon to turn himself in. They’ll go easier on him then.”

He shook his head. “The police could be on his trail right now. I’ll bet they’re definitely on the trail of the diamonds. If they find them here, you could be considered as an accomplice.”

She tipped up her chin. “I can take care of myself.”

Trace knew it wasn’t a bluff. From the sound of it, she’d been taking care of herself since she was a child. But this was serious. Still…he couldn’t quite resist the raw appeal in her eyes.

“Twenty-four hours,” he clipped. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to find your brother. Then we go to the police.”

She threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you! You won’t regret it—I promise.”

He didn’t regret it. Not at this very moment, with Chloe warm and pliant in his arms. He lowered his head and captured her mouth with his, hearing her tiny gasp of surprise. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her closer, relishing the way her body molded so easily against his own. Seeking an answer to the question that had plagued him ever since she’d tried to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Now he knew for certain.

It hadn’t been a fluke.

The same strange current arced between them—making him feel almost as if their souls were connecting as well as their lips and their bodies. It exhilarated him—and terrified him.

He broke the kiss, pressing his cheek momentarily against her hair while he regained control of his equilibrium and his breathing. “This is quite a date.”

She laughed, sounding a little breathless herself. Then she stepped out of his arms. “Short but memorable.”

He frowned. “Does that mean it’s over?”

She nodded. “If I only have twenty-four hours to find Ramon, I need to begin looking right now.”

“Do you even know where to start?”

She picked up her purse off the coffee table.

“Ducky’s Bar on Benton Street. That’s one of Ramon’s favorite hangouts.”

“Benton Street?” he echoed in disbelief. “You can’t go down to that part of town alone at night. It’s bad enough in daylight.”

She slung the purse strap over her shoulder.

“I’ll be all right.”

“I’m going with you.” He pulled his car keys out of his pocket and headed toward the door. “I’ll drive.”

She stood her ground. “I think I should handle this on my own.”

“You’re wrong.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m wrong? Just like that?”

“It’s nothing personal,” he assured her. “Many women don’t realize what’s best for them. I’ve been to Ducky’s a time or two and it’s no place for a lady. I think it’s best if I go along for protection.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “Do you know what year this is?”

“Two thousand,” he replied without any hesitation. “I already told you, I’m fine. A blow to the head can’t stop Trace Callahan.”

“Too bad,” she muttered, as she watched him walk out the door.

DUCKY’S BAR sat nestled between Eve’s Tattoo Emporium and Barney’s Bail Bonds at the far end of Benton Street. Peeling yellow paint adorned the cinder-block wall on the outside of the bar. Black paint concealed the windows and the plate-glass door, giving the building an ominous appearance.

Humidity hung heavy in the air and swollen gray clouds stretched across the sky. Trace glanced at Chloe as they walked along the litter-strewn sidewalk. She looked grim, determined, and too damn sexy.

“Hold it,” he said, stopping in front of the door. “I’ve changed my mind. You can’t go in there.”

She looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Go back and wait for me in the car. I’ll check out the place and see if Ramon’s made an appearance.”

Annoyance flashed in her eyes. “I’m not waiting in the car. I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing.”

“And I can’t believe you’d even consider going into a place like Ducky’s Bar in that outfit.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “You don’t like the way I look?”

“You want my honest opinion?” He took a step closer to her. “I love the way you look. The problem is that every hoodlum in the bar is going to love it, too. I can’t help you find Ramon if I’m too busy fighting off all your admirers.”

“In the first place,” she said, her voice low and tight, “I never asked you to fight anyone. You’re barely able to walk, much less defend my honor. And in the second place, it may surprise you to learn that not every man looks at a woman as a sex object.”

His jaw tightened. “This has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with that blouse you’re wearing. Or should I say, barely wearing.” He frowned at the way the red peasant blouse exposed her creamy white shoulders and generous cleavage. “Don’t you have a sweater or something you can put on?”

“A sweater?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s ninety degrees in the shade.”

Standing so close to Chloe made it seem more like a hundred and ninety. He reached out and pulled up the elastic neckline of her blouse, tugging it up to her chin. “There. That’s much better.”

“I think you’re overreacting,” she muttered, tugging her blouse back down but keeping it on her shoulders this time. “But I don’t have time to argue. We’re here to find Ramon, remember?”

“Just let me do all the talking.” Trace moved toward the door. “This Ducky woman may be the owner, but I’ve heard she’s a real wacko. She’s been married four times.”

“That hardly makes her crazy,” Chloe said wryly. “Just unlucky in love.”

“Her husbands were the unlucky ones. They’re all dead.”

She stopped short.

“Just what are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m just telling you she’s a rough old broad who needs careful handling.” He smiled. “But I’m sure I can soften her up. Women find it hard to resist me.”

“It must be your modesty.”

“Must be.” Then his smile faded as his gaze flicked to her blouse. “Let’s make this quick. And try not to draw attention to yourself.”

She didn’t say anything as he held the door open for her. He followed her inside, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the haze of smoke in the air and the low lighting. An old Hank Williams tune wailed from the jukebox, accompanied by the shrill bells and whistles of the two pinball machines in the corner.

Trace had only taken three steps inside the bar when a burly bouncer blocked his path.

“I’d like to see some identification.”

“What about her?” Trace asked, watching as Chloe walked past the bouncer unimpeded.

“What about her?”

“You didn’t card her, so why single me out? You can’t seriously believe I’m under twenty-one.”

“Must be your baby face,” the bouncer sneered. “You’re one of them pretty boys that all look about twelve years old.”

No one in their right mind would ever call the bouncer a pretty boy. He wore his dark hair in a military-style crew cut and had a long scar running along his forehead, just above his bushy eyebrows. His nose veered a little to the left.

Trace could see Chloe frowning at him from the bar. “I’m twenty-seven. So why don’t you quit wasting my time.”

“Why the hell do you keep stalling? Got something to hide? I want to see some ID and I want to see it now.”

Trace could either argue with the cretin or join Chloe. “Fine,” he muttered, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Only he came up empty. Both pockets were empty. “Damn.”

“Got a problem, pretty boy?”

Trace definitely had a problem—and his name was Ramon. Not only had Chloe’s little brother sicced his Chihuahua on him, he’d also stolen his wallet. Which meant Trace had no money, no credit cards, and no identification.

This just wasn’t his day.

“Would you believe somebody stole my wallet?”

The bouncer snorted. “That’s original. I’ve tossed out underage teenagers with more imagination.”

Before Trace could reply, Chloe ambled over to them. “What’s going on here?”

“Let me handle this,” Trace said.

The bouncer’s eyes narrowed. “Is that any way to talk to your girlfriend?”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” she interjected.

The bouncer turned to her. “That’s good to hear. Why don’t you let me buy you a beer? Then we can have a little private conversation.”

Trace stepped in front of Chloe. “Forget it. She’s off-limits.”

“Trace…” she began.

But this was one time Trace didn’t intend to let her interrupt him. He took a step closer to the bouncer. “The woman belongs to me. If you have a problem with that we can handle it outside.”

The bouncer smiled, the light reflecting off the gold crown on his front tooth. “Lead the way.”

“Neither one of you are going anywhere!” Chloe exclaimed, stepping between them. Then she glowered up at the bouncer. “What exactly is your problem, Viper?”

“Viper?” Trace echoed, looking from Chloe to the bouncer.

“Meet my cousin,” she said, nodding toward the bouncer. “Viper D’Onofrio. Viper, this is Trace Callahan.”

Viper shook his head. “Another pretty boy. Why don’t you go for a real man, like my lawyer? That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. He told me he’d really like to date you.”

“Your lawyer is a slimeball.”

“Maybe so. But just think how useful it would be to have him in the family. Free legal advice twenty-four hours a day.”

“If you think it’s such a great idea, you date him,” she retorted. “Besides, I’m not here to talk about my love life. I’m looking for Ramon.”

“Your brother Ramon?”

Chloe arched a brow. “How many Ramons do you know?”

He shrugged, avoiding her direct gaze. “Even if I did see him, I’m no snitch.”

“Then I’ll have to ask Ducky. You told me she knows everything that goes on in this place.” Chloe looked around the crowded bar. “So where is she?”

Viper hesitated, his suspicious gaze flicking over Trace. “What about this guy? He claims he doesn’t have any ID. How do I know he’s not a vice cop disguised as a jerk?”

“If I was a cop I’d arrest you for impersonating an ape. Now, as soon as we find Ramon we’ll find my ID. He has my wallet.”

She closed her eyes with a groan. “Oh, Trace, he didn’t.”

“He did. Unless the Chihuahua ate it.”

Viper flashed his gold tooth. “Sounds like Ramon is finally living up to the D’Onofrio name. Now my cousin Chloe here is another story. She’s a downright embarrassment to the family. In fact, we used to call her Squeaky, ’cause she’s so squeaky clean.”

Chloe glowered at him, which only seemed to amuse her cousin.

Viper gave a low chuckle. “And because she was always squeaking on all of us, a real tattletale—ow!” he yelped, his words abruptly cut off as a tiny woman with short, iron-gray hair twisted his ear between her bony fingers.

“That’s enough out of you, Virgil D’Onofrio. I’ve told you before to stop harassing my customers.”

“But, Ducky,” he protested, as she pulled him by the ear toward the bar.

She reached over the counter and pulled out a bucket and sponge. “If you don’t have anything better to do, you can mop those bathroom floors. I want them shining by the time you’re through.”

Viper rubbed his red ear. “But, Ducky….”

She planted both hands on her narrow hips.

“And if I hear one more ‘But, Ducky,’ I’m going to use that sponge on your mouth—after you’ve scrubbed those floors.”

Trace found himself suddenly approving of the buxom, chain-smoking, tough-talking dynamo. Even if she did look like a charter member of the Hell’s Angels.

Viper paled and backed away, obviously smart enough to take her threat seriously. “Yes, Ducky.”

“And don’t just barge into the ladies’ room without knocking like you did last time,” she admonished as he disappeared behind the men’s-room door.

The little iron-haired tyrant lit a cigarette, then turned back to Trace and Chloe. “Welcome to Ducky’s.”

Chloe smiled as she turned to her date. “Trace, I’d like you to meet my grandmother, Ducky D’Onofrio.”




5


CHLOE BIT BACK a smile at the stunned expression on Trace’s face. She probably should have told him sooner, but the man seemed to bring out the worst in her. Especially after he’d practically accused her grandmother of killing off her husbands. Ducky might not be totally legit, but she wasn’t dangerous. Or, at least, not lethally dangerous.

Ducky enveloped her granddaughter in an affectionate hug. “It’s been too long, Chloe. Now, let me take a good look at you.” Ducky stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “Not bad.” She reached out to pull the peasant blouse off Chloe’s shoulders. “There, that’s much better.”

This time Chloe’s smile broke through when she saw a muscle flex in Trace’s cheek. She had to give him credit, though—he exercised surprising restraint.

Ducky turned around and elbowed Trace in the ribs. “Bet you find it hard to believe I’m old enough to be a grandmother.”

He placed a hand over his ribs. “Well, I…”

Ducky glanced at her granddaughter. “Is he always this slow or is he just overwhelmed by a double dose of D’Onofrio beauty?”

Chloe leaned over to kiss her wrinkled, rouged cheek. “You’ve been making men speechless for the last forty years, Ducky. What do you think?”

Ducky snorted. “I think it’s a shame you never went into the con game, girl. You’re one smooth talker.”

“Then I should be able to talk you into two ice-cold beers—on the house.”

Ducky cackled. “You’ve got ’em. Go on and sit at my special table. I’ll be right there.”

Trace watched her grandmother bustle off toward the bar, a dazed expression on his face. Coping with more than one D’Onofrio at a time tended to have that effect on people. Especially when one of those D’Onofrios was Ducky. Chloe loved her spry, unconventional grandmother, despite her flirtation with the wrong side of the law.

Ducky had been there after Chloe’s mother went to prison, providing advice and comfort. Intensely loyal to everyone in the family, Ducky had taken a special interest in Chloe. She’d encouraged her granddaughter’s dream to go to design school and even cosigned her college loan papers. Ducky might not be your typical grandmother, but Chloe loved her fiercely.

“She’s really your grandmother?” Trace whispered as they seated themselves at the secluded table.

She nodded. “My father’s mother. Only she doesn’t allow her grandchildren to call her anything but Ducky.”

He scowled at her. “You might have told me sooner.”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “But, Trace, I thought you already knew everything.”

Before he could reply, Ducky arrived at the table with three frosty bottles of beer in her hands. She held Trace’s bottle just out of his reach. “I don’t serve a drink to a man unless I know his name.”

“I’m Trace Callahan,” he replied.

Chloe leaned forward. “Ducky, we can’t stay long.”

Ducky sat down at the table. “You’ll stay long enough for this Callahan to tell me what his intentions are toward you.”

“My intentions are strictly honorable,” Trace assured her.

“That’s too bad,” Ducky replied with a disappointed sigh. “A man with strictly honorable intentions isn’t much fun. Have you even kissed her yet?”

“Ducky!” To Chloe’s consternation, a hot blush crept up her neck. “This is only our first date. Besides, we’re not here to talk about…kissing. We’re here about Ramon.”

“What’s that boy done now?”

“He’s in trouble,” Chloe replied, glossing over the finer details. “I have to find him. Has he been here this evening?”

Ducky shook her head. “No, but he was here last night. Had some bimbo with him, too.”

Chloe’s eyes widened. “A girl?”

“More like an Amazon,” Ducky said with a cackle. “Ramon definitely had his hands full.”

“Who was she?” Chloe asked.

Ducky shrugged. “Beats me. I was busy in the back. I just got a glimpse of her.”

“What about Cousin Viper,” Trace asked, “didn’t he ask to see her ID?”

“Nope.” Ducky tipped up her beer bottle. “He was too busy checking out her other vital statistics. She was one of those flashy blondes who wear too much makeup and look more than a little shopworn. I was afraid Ramon might be in over his head.”

Chloe slowly shook her head. “I didn’t even know he was dating anyone.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it a date,” Ducky said. “She flirted all night with Virgil. But your brother looked too nervous to notice.”

“Poor Ramon,” Chloe murmured. “He hasn’t had much luck with women. No wonder he’s been acting a little odd lately.”

“How can you tell?” Trace asked.

She ignored him. “Is there anything else I should know?”

Ducky set her beer bottle on the table. “I shouldn’t have told you that much. It’s time to let him go, Chloe. Ramon is a big boy now and he doesn’t need you to look after him anymore.”

Chloe blinked, surprised by the vehemence in her grandmother’s voice. “But he’s family.”

“Of course he’s family. But there’s more to life than work and cleaning up Ramon’s messes. Just look at you.” Ducky’s mouth drew down in a frown. “Out on a date with this mouthwatering man and you’re wasting it by worrying about your little brother.”

Her words pricked. How could Chloe enjoy a date with Trace or any other man if her brother was headed for trouble? How could she not lift a finger to stop it? “If you want to know the truth, Trace believes Ramon hit him in the head this evening when he came to pick me up.”

“Impossible,” Ducky said, without a flicker of her false eyelashes. “That isn’t Ramon’s style. He’s not a violent person.”

“He almost cut off my toe yesterday,” Trace said dryly.

“And tonight he answered the door with a carving knife in his hand.”

Ducky shook her head. “The sight of blood makes him hysterical. You must be mistaken, Mr. Callahan.”

“I have stitches to prove it,” Trace insisted. “But that’s not all. We found a bag full of—”

“Potato chips,” Chloe interjected, before Trace could spill the beans about the diamonds. “They were lying on the kitchen floor and Ramon had disappeared. I thought maybe something had happened to him.” She was lousy liar, which was evident by the expressions on the faces of her audience. But it was too late to backpedal now. “You know how Ramon loves potato chips. He wouldn’t leave a bag just lying around, especially on the floor. But maybe I am overreacting just a bit.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Ready, Trace?”

He looked at the untouched beer in front of him. “Uh…sure.”

“’Bye, Ducky.” She leaned over and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “Be good.”

“I’ll be good if you’ll be a little bit bad,” Ducky replied. Then she turned to Trace, her brown eyes serious. “I want you to promise that you’ll take good care of my granddaughter.”

“Ducky…” Chloe muttered.

“Promise me,” Ducky said, her voice more intense now and her bony fingers squeezing his forearm.

He winced. “I promise.”

Ducky’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.” Then she turned to Chloe. “I like him. I think you should keep this one.”

“Ducky, like I told you before, this is only our first date.” And our last. She was surprised Trace Callahan had stuck around this long. It was highly doubtful he’d come back for more. “Besides, he thinks women should be seen and not heard.”





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