winked at Garek. “I saw your picture in the Chicago Trumpeter this morning. Hank, right? Heh, heh, heh—”
“Excuse me,” Garek said icily. “You’re blocking the door.”
The man stopped sniggering and quickly stepped aside. Garek exited, shutting the shop door with a bang. He stood on the cold, dark sidewalk, sleet stinging his face and hands.
He yanked on his gloves and wrapped his muffler around the lower half of his face. Annoyance making his steps brisker than usual, he headed down the sidewalk, cursing himself for ever agreeing to talk to that damn reporter.
He’d broken his usual no-interview rule because she’d said she was doing an article on how businessmen had contributed to the revitalization of the city by providing jobs for displaced workers. If he’d known what she really intended, he would have shown her out of his office immediately. Now, because of lowering his guard for one moment, his life had become a living hell. Oh, he’d been mildly amused at first. The ribald jokes from the men. The fluttering glances from the women. But then, he’d started getting letters. Sacks of them. And women started showing up at his office. And his apartment. At restaurants where he was dining…
Lengthening his stride, he stepped over a puddle. Last night had been the final straw. He’d been about to close a deal with a prospective client over smoked pork tenderloin and Yukon Gold mashed potatoes when an enterprising young woman named Lilly Lade had shown up professing to be a singing-telegram girl—but she’d seemed more interested in stripping than singing. While horrified matrons looked on, he’d had to bundle the woman up and forcibly escort her from the restaurant.
Unfortunately, once outside, she’d thrown her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his mouth. He’d thrust Lilly away, but not before a tabloid photographer had snapped several shots.
Trying to ignore the freezing wind, Garek hunched his shoulders and turned the corner to where his limousine waited. The situation was no longer amusing. In fact, he was damn well fed up—
“Oof!”
A woman made the small sound as she ran into him at full speed. The packages in her arms went flying. And so did she. She landed on her rear in the snow.
Instinctively, he crouched by her side. “Are you all right?”
Her blue eyes, framed by long black lashes, looked slightly dazed, but she nodded. “I’m fine….”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, watching her lips form the words. Her upper lip was long and perfectly straight, with no indentation at all, curling up slightly at the corners. The lower lip was shorter, and fuller, but not much. The effect was amazingly sensual.
He bent closer to hear her over the whistling wind.
“I’m so sorry—”
“It was my fault,” he interrupted, dragging his gaze away from her mouth. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No, no. I was running, trying to catch my train—oh, my things!”
With only slight support from his steadying arm, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed a box that had fallen onto the ground. A turquoise scarf and tissue paper peeping out from under the crushed lid, she stuffed the box back into her bag.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” He picked up her hat and she crammed it onto her head, the bright red yarn concealing all but a few short black curls.
“Yes, I’m sure.” She smiled ruefully, her teeth very white against the golden hue of her skin, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “My packages have suffered the most, I think.”
“Let me help you,” he said, capturing a bag on the verge of blowing away. He swept several small boxes into it, his attention focused more on her than his task. She didn’t seem to recognize him—a rarity these days. He couldn’t see her figure, wrapped up as it was in a slightly shabby coat that was several sizes too big. But she was small, perhaps an inch or two over five feet, and he’d felt the fine bones of her hand through her mitten when he’d helped her up.
He picked up a tiny pair of pink, yellow and blue tennis shoes. He glanced at the woman again.Young—but not too young to have a child. “There’s mud on these shoes. I’ll replace them and anything else that’s damaged.”
“Oh, no!” she protested immediately. “It’ll wash off. And if it doesn’t, my niece won’t notice a few spots…oh!”
She hurried off to retrieve a baseball rolling slowly down the gutter toward a storm drain. He saw a magazine, its pages fluttering in the wind. “Is this yours?” he called to her as he bent to pick it up.
She glanced over her shoulder and nodded, before reaching for the baseball.
Garek picked up the magazine, then froze as he saw his own face staring up at him from the cover.
His jaw tightened. Ramming the tabloid into the sack, he stalked over to where she crouched in the gutter. As she stood up, he shoved the bag into her arms.
“Here,” he said curtly. “Watch where you’re going next time.”
He stomped away, only to step directly into a puddle. Icy water splashed into the top of his shoe. Cursing under his breath, he squelched down the street to the waiting limo and climbed inside. “Home, Hardeep.”
“Yes, sir,” the chauffeur replied.
The car purring down the street, Garek looked out the window. He saw the woman still standing in the gutter, clutching her bags and staring at the limo. She wore an expression of profound bewilderment.
Anger swept through him. She must have been lurking on the corner, waiting for him. If the magazine hadn’t given her away, he would’ve believed their collision was an accident. He’d even been about to offer her a ride home.
Oh, she was good, better than most. Innocent-looking—except for her mouth. He should have been warned by that mouth….
He sat in brooding silence until the chauffeur stopped in front of his apartment building. Not until he went inside and reached into his pocket did he realize that something was missing.
The emerald-and-ruby necklace was gone.
Cold, wet and tired, Ellie entered her apartment and dumped her bags on the small kitchenette table with a sigh of relief. “Hi, Martina,” she said to her cousin who was checking a large pot on the stove. “How’d you do on your final?”
“Fine. It was easier than I expected.” Martina lifted a steamer, laden with tamales, from the pot and set them on the counter. She glanced over her shoulder, her long, dark hair swinging. Her already well-arched brows rose. “What happened to you, chica?”
Ellie shook her head as she pulled off her coat and wet mittens and walked over to hold her cold hands next to the ancient but blessedly warm furnace. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say I bumped into Mr. Grinch and missed my train.” She sniffed the air appreciatively. “Those tamales smell awfully good. Can I have one?”
“Well…okay, but just one. They’re for the party tomorrow night. Who’s this Mr. Grinch?”
“Nobody,” Ellie dismissed the unpleasant man. Although in truth, with his sleek leather gloves and expensive limo he’d obviously been somebody. Somebody rich and spoiled who’d suddenly decided she wasn’t worth the time and effort it took to be polite. Sinking into a chair, she peeled back the hot corn husk and bit into the tamale. The spiced meat inside burned her mouth, but she was too hungry to care. “Mmm, this is fantastic, Martina. Better than your father’s. You should sell these. You’d make a fortune.”
“I like cooking…but not that much.” Briskly, Martina piled the tamales into a glass dish. “How was business at the gallery today?”
“Not bad. A lot of people came in. I talked one couple into taking a painting home to try it out. And I sold a sculpture.” Carefully, Ellie broke a piece off the tamale and watched