Silk, Lace & Videotape

2

DUKE SAVED AMANDA Matthews for last.

Not because she looked like a fifties movie star in her pink shoes and Grace Kelly hairdo. He was too professional to base his work decisions on personal lust. Besides, he knew society types were out of his league.

Instead, Duke kept Amanda waiting past noon because of her infamous last name. He thought she could be the key to important information for his case and it might help loosen her lips to let her worry a bit.

The notion teased his sex-starved senses.

Poor choice of pImages**.

Duke looked around Victor Gallagher’s apartment in an attempt to pull himself together. His thoughts—and his eyes—had strayed to the curvaceous knockout seated primly in a leather wingback chair all morning. Now, he forced himself to run through a mental checklist of police procedure to be sure every facet of the search, questioning and arrest had unfolded according to regulation.

Duke’s partner had taken a rare sick day today, forcing Duke to be all the more thorough. The last thing he needed was for Gallagher to walk on some bogus technicality and blow this case for him.

Clyde Matthews’s fabric supplier would be the first of many arrests in the Garment District in the next few weeks if Duke’s case progressed as planned. Duke had worked for eight months gathering evidence of shady dealings in the fashion world, and starting today, he would reap the unique satisfaction of restoring justice in his backyard. Not only would he clean up the tenth precinct considerably, he would also be up for a promotion to Detective, First Grade.

Another bad guy behind bars. Another proverbial star on Duke’s chest. His granddad would be proud.

Only two uniformed officers remained on the scene collecting and labeling evidence from the search. Gallagher had been carted off nearly an hour ago, and Duke had just dismissed the gold-digging tart who’d been wearing the bathrobe.

He couldn’t put off questioning Amanda any longer.

She looked more vulnerable in person than in her file photo. Her fingers twisted white-knuckled around the cinched tie of her trench coat. She was obviously cold from the inside out after what had happened today.

No damn wonder.

A few hours ago she’d been “practically” engaged to an industry insider who looked like a walking fashion ad. Now she had a two-timing boyfriend facing at least three years in jail.

No sense feeling sorry for her. Duke knew from experience how women from her world operated. The darlings of New York’s social pages could shake off a bad relationship. By noon tomorrow she’d probably be ready to have a power luncheon with her rich girlfriends to pinpoint the next ideal candidate for engagement.

Duke had been taken in by pearls and good breeding at one point in his life. He’d been left with the retreating tread marks from the designer high heels, too.

Steeling his libido for the next round with those sheer pink stockings, he approached the wingback chair. “Excuse me, Ms. Matthews?”

She started at the sound of his voice. One hand flew from her lap to her chest, as if to still her heart. Or perhaps to clutch that damn coat more tightly to her neck. What on earth was she wearing under that trench coat anyway?

As if in answer to his question, the bunched coat fabric on her thighs slid slightly open, revealing two more inches of stocking and no sign of a skirt hem.

For one riveting moment, Duke thought he spied the top of a stocking. His body stirred in wholly inappropriate ways, even after she secured the folds of the trench coat in her lap again.

Damn. Just how short was her skirt?

“Yes?” She looked up at him with wary hope in her dark brown eyes. “May I go now?”

“I’m afraid not. I need to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Victor Gallagher.” Of course, any information she wanted to volunteer about Gallagher’s business or her father’s mob connections would be helpful, he thought, taking a seat on the couch across from her.

“He’s in serious trouble?” Concern knitted her brows.

“Felony charges with a penalty of three to ten. I’d call it serious.” Did she really care after discovering him in such a compromising situation? The notion bugged Duke. Amanda had a gentle air about her, despite the killer outfit she must be wearing under that trench coat. She seemed too refined to be connected to a criminal like Gallagher. Despite his gangster reputation, her infamous father had obviously sheltered his only daughter.

She rubbed her upper arms as if to ward off a chill. “What exactly did he do?”

“A number of things. He’s been helping to import drugs into the States, using his fabric business as a cover.” He tried to keep the explanation simple, not wanting to dissuade Amanda from cooperating. What if she still carried a torch for the guy?

She looked surprised. And frightened.

“I had no idea.” She worried the fullness of her lower lip with straight, white teeth. “He seemed so…cultured. He doesn’t seem like a street thug.”

Duke wondered if she knew the extent of her father’s business dealings. He’d be willing to bet the elder Matthews didn’t seem like a street thug, either, but he rubbed elbows with the oldest—and toughest—gang in the city. “You’re a window dresser, Ms. Matthews?”

“I create windows for my father, but I’ve started my own design business as well,” she corrected him, then smiled. “I make the distinction so my father doesn’t slip back into thinking I’m his personal maid and secretary. How did you know what I do?”

“You’re a line item in Gallagher’s file. I only checked into the basics though.” Her ritzy address, her perfect education, her relationship with Victor—which had seemed fairly superficial from the reports Duke had received. Now that Duke had met Amanda, he couldn’t imagine why Gallagher wouldn’t have claimed her already. The guy had made a colossal mistake as far as Duke could see.

“You were planning to arrest him from the moment I first saw you this morning, weren’t you?”

Duke thought it wise not to reveal the exact nature of his thoughts when he’d first seen her this morning. Purely carnal. “Sorry I couldn’t have spared you the inconvenience, but—”

“It’s Amanda. Please.” She smiled at him in a way that managed to be both warm and distant. She apparently couldn’t shake her boarding school manners even in the event of police questioning, no matter how much the proceedings disrupted her day—her life.

Duke would have preferred to maintain as many social barriers between them as he possibly could—especially with his mind straying back to that tantalizing glimpse of stocking every other minute. He wasn’t about to be rude, however. “Amanda.” The name pleased him as it rolled off his tongue. “Could you tell me why you were visiting Victor Gallagher today?”

She blanched. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She might as well have shouted through a megaphone that she was about lie to him. “It was just a simple…social call.”

Duke hadn’t suspected Clyde Matthews’s daughter of anything save poor judgment in boyfriends, but now he began to wonder. She looked as guilty as a sinner on Sunday. “Apparently you were going to surprise him…?”

She adjusted the coat over her lap for the tenth time. “What makes you say that?”

“If he knew you were on your way over, don’t you think he would have showed his lady friend to the door?”

Her cheeks grew as pink as her stockings. “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t tell him I was on my way, isn’t it? I never would have known.”

God knew he could relate to how she felt. He’d learned quickly that the cop groupies he’d dated when he first arrived in New York weren’t picky about which detective they slept with. Duke’s attempts to be selective since then had left him with long dry spells. In fact, his current dry spell had him drooling over Amanda Matthews’s trim calves beneath those sheer stockings, and wreaking havoc on his concentration.

Duke squelched his sympathy, needing to focus on his job. “So your visit today was social?”

She nodded, looking a bit calmer now.

Duke moved on, filing away her reactions along with her answers. He would uncover Amanda’s secrets sooner or later, even if he had to keep her and her very short skirt here for another hour.

Heaven help him.

He withdrew a pen and paper to give himself something to do, a way to distract himself. “And how would you characterize your relationship overall? Is it mostly social, or do the two of you discuss business when you spend time together?”

Amanda heard the detective’s question, but she didn’t want to answer it. She watched his pen seesaw back and forth over his thumb, mesmerized, and tried to think of a way around the question. She didn’t need another cop nosing into her family’s business. Her father might look like a favored son of the mob, but he only made suits for them. The association had troubled her for years, but she had yet to talk her father out of his bigwig clients.

“Victor and I rarely discussed business,” she replied, shifting her position in the gray leather wingback chair.

Her limbs were stiff with the tension of her rigid posture, but she refused to unveil another millimeter of stocking. Had it been her imagination, or had Duke Rawlins’s eyes widened at the revelation of so much thigh a few moments ago?

Had he been admiring her stockings or contemplating indecent exposure charges?

“When you did discuss business, what sorts of things would come up?”

“Victor is not on the creative side of my business, so there wasn’t really much for us to discuss. He’d encourage me to find out what kinds of fabric I thought my father might want for his next collection ahead of time so that Victor could be first in line to give him good prices on it.”

The pen stopped seesawing. “Did you?”

His intent look made her wonder if she should have called a lawyer. But then, what did she have to hide?

Besides the obvious.

“Would it be a crime if I did?” She would brazen this out.

“No, Amanda.”

Why had she asked him to call her that? Her name on his lips had a way of slithering over her like a slow caress. As if in response, the ties on her merry widow began to unravel from their loose knot, threatening to leave Amanda as unbound and jiggling as that hussy Victor had been sleeping with. She sucked in her belly, hoping to ease off any extra pressure from the garment.

This particular article of clothing was not designed to wear for more than five minutes anyway. It was intended to drive a man wild in thirty seconds flat. No wonder she was springing out of it. “Well, I have never been able to anticipate my father’s creative direction, so I never supplied Victor with any inside information. He found out what Clyde Matthews wanted when the rest of us did.”

Her father thrived on the aesthetic of a successful artist—the lunches in trendy cafés, the shows in Paris and Milan, the endless parade of up-and-coming designers, artists and models that peopled his studio at all hours. It didn’t seem to bother him that his artistic immersion had never left time in his life for anything else, including his only child.

Duke Rawlins cleared his throat and set aside his hyperactive pen. “So how long have you known Gallagher?”

Something in his demeanor, the way he leaned forward slightly, made the question sound personal.

The silk lining of her coat teased the tops of her breasts with every breath she took. The fabric would be teasing a whole lot more if her merry widow sprung loose and wound up around her ankles. “For almost a year.”

And Victor had never given her more than a good-night kiss in all that time. Obviously, he’d had a more pleasing partner to fulfill his other needs.

The dog.

“Has he ever offered you illegal drugs?”

“I beg your pardon?” Righteous indignation fired through her.

“You know, methamphetamines, crack, ecstasy, any number of lab-created specialties—”

“He most certainly did not!” Just who did Duke Rawlins think she was? Amanda might not be wearing anything but lace and satin beneath her coat, but she was not that kind of girl.

Trying to coerce her boyfriend into an intimate relationship ranked as her biggest moral transgression to date.

“I have to ask, Amanda.” At least the detective had the decency to flash her a semi-apologetic smile. “If it makes you feel any better, you don’t seem to fit my profile of a drug user anyway.”

Before Amanda could splutter a retort, a uniformed police officer approached.

“Excuse me, Detective.” The young woman lifted a shopping bag to show Duke Rawlins. “We are finished here. I checked and rechecked all the labels and the evidence-gathering procedures. We dug up a few bills of sale for fabric, a list that might be potential drug buyers. Everything is in order.”

Amanda eyed the tall female officer labeled R. Patterson as the woman spoke with Amanda’s interrogator. Ms. Patterson didn’t look like the type to ever wind up half-naked in a police interrogation. Amanda would also lay odds that R. Patterson would kick her boyfriend’s butt if he dared to treat her the way Victor had treated Amanda.

Amanda had that kind of confidence in her professional world, but on a personal level, she couldn’t seem to get her act together. She’d let her father take advantage of her half her life, and now she’d obviously allowed Victor to do the same thing.

“Thanks, Patterson,” Duke Rawlins called over his shoulder as the woman left with the last remaining uniformed officer.

Leaving Amanda alone with a very sexy detective.

The quiet of Victor’s apartment seemed to intensify after the door shut behind the departing officers. Amanda became aware of the clock ticking on the wall, the hum of the overhead light in the kitchen.

And she became keenly aware of Duke Rawlins’s intensely blue eyes upon her.

How could she feel such tangible lust for a man she’d just met? A man who’d arrested her boyfriend, witnessed the biggest humiliation of her life and held her captive with his interrogation while an even bigger humiliation threatened in the form of a renegade merry widow.

What a disaster.

“I guess that’s it, Amanda.” Detective Rawlins tucked his notepad inside his leather jacket pocket, but made no move to stand. “Would you do me a favor?”

For a moment, she lost herself in the depths of his blue eyes. The color matched the fluorescent blue on several of his necktie stars.

She found herself saying, “I will if I can.”

His crooked grin sent a thrill through her, far more potent than the silk lining on her bare skin. “Call me if you think of anything else about your boyfriend that might help me.”

She took his card and read over it absently. “He’s not my boyfriend anymore, Detective,” she clarified.

Amanda sensed the heat of a blush start on her neck and spread to her cheeks. Why had she felt the need to tell him that?

“Can’t say I blame you after today,” he returned, slowly rising to his feet. “And please, call me Duke.”

Amanda scrambled to follow him, ready to flee the apartment and those intense eyes as fast as possible.

Too late she remembered her merry widow.

It slid about two inches south, the bra cups rolling like window shades under the curve of each breast. Amanda would give anything to untie and retie her entire ensemble before she walked out the door, but not while the tempting detective remained in the apartment with her.

She folded her arms over her chest. “Thank you, Duke.”

The words sounded throaty and breathless and very flirtatious when in fact, fear for her costume merely edged Amanda a bit closer to hyperventilating.

She inched toward the door, praying she could escape without flashing Duke. Even her shoes were coming untied, but she refused to bend over to secure them.

“Well, if that’s all then…?” she prodded, waiting only for his official nod so she could slink back home after her horrid day.

He scrubbed a hand along his square jaw and frowned. “Actually, would you mind stopping by the precinct tomorrow to answer a few more questions? Say around eleven?”

“More questions?” Not that she was in a position to argue, but what more could she tell him about Victor? Apparently she hadn’t known him at all.

Besides, she’d have to face the allure of that chiseled jaw and sinful smile all over again.

“I always think of a few more things after the case settles in my mind for a day.” He shrugged as if in apology. “I could send a car over to your father’s studio if it would help.”

“That’s not necessary.” Now there was an image—New York’s Finest descending on Clyde Matthews’s showroom. What if some bigwig crime boss had scheduled a fitting with her father or something? Social awkwardness at its height. Besides, Amanda wasn’t sure how she would explain her run-in with the police to her father in the first place. “I’ll drop by at eleven.”

Once she put some clothes on, conversing with Duke wouldn’t be nearly as…provocative.

She hoped.

“Great.” He strode toward the door and opened it for her. “I’ll see you then.”

Freedom beckoned. Escape loomed so near.

Yet Duke halted her before she could take step into the hallway. “You’ll twist an ankle in that shoe unless you tie it.” He allowed the door to swing closed as his gaze lingered on her foot.

The pink ribbons meant to tie her foot into the shoe had completely unraveled. As with her merry widow, Amanda hadn’t double knotted any portion of her outfit. Now if she bent over to adjust her shoe, her merry widow was history.

If she left her pink high heel untied, she’d hobble right out of it before she reached the elevator.

An untied shoe seemed like a little thing in comparison to finding out her boyfriend had been cheating on her, that her judgment in men led her into a relationship with a criminal.

But it threatened to be more than she could bear in light of everything else. She bit one “Passion Flower Pink” nail and tried to decide what to do next.

She suspected the moment had turned awkward when Duke’s brows lifted in unison.

He jabbed a thumb in the general direction of her foot. “Want me to tie it for you?”

A flood of gratitude had her head bobbing agreement and her mind making mental notes to buy a whole table full of tickets for the Policemen’s Ball this year. “Would you mind?”

He didn’t move for a long moment. Perhaps he was surprised she’d taken him up on his offer.

She wanted to offer an excuse for her odd behavior—perhaps that she’d been afflicted with a debilitating spine condition that inhibited her mobility. Or that she’d sprained her index finger last week and she found it difficult to manage the ties.

But she’d never been any good at lying.

Finally, he reached for her arms. Amanda might have stepped back, but she would have stepped out of her shoe. Or out of her merry widow.

“Why don’t you have a seat for just a minute?” he prompted, guiding her to the arm of the wingback.

She nodded like a complacent five-year-old, having her shoe tied before running out to the bus. Only Duke’s touch didn’t make her feel a bit like a five-year-old.

He kneeled at her feet, anchoring her shoe with his thigh and gently steering her foot into position on the sole. For a moment, his thumb and forefinger ringed her ankle, imprisoning her leg and putting her senses on alert. Then his broad hands glided over the silky finish of her stockings, the rough pads of his thumbs catching the material ever so slightly to send shocks of pleasure up her calf, to her thigh, and beyond….

Her eyes fluttered closed at the unaccustomed sensation. What a shock he would get if he followed that trail with his hands.

In an instant, his hands turned brusque and professional again, tying her shoe with a firm tug on both ends of the knot.

She opened her eyes to find him staring up at her, his gaze broadcasting even more heat than his hands. She made a small sound—a little hiss of breath like a kettle releasing excess steam.

He practically jumped up from the floor. “Are you going to be okay?” His voice scratched along her nerves, low and gruff.

She nodded, remembering her haste to make an exit. “Yes. I am…um…sorry.”

“You’ve had a hell of a day.” He extended his hand as if to shake hers.

Amanda accepted it, regretting those few seconds where she would only have one hand to secure the trench coat. “Thank you, Duke.”

Their palms clasped briefly, though Duke snatched his hand back almost as quickly as she did. With her father’s reputation as a friend of the mob, she’d grown used to men running from her. Still, she couldn’t help but think Duke’s retreat didn’t have anything to do with fear of being a mob target.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he reminded her.

If Amanda hadn’t just been unceremoniously dumped by her boyfriend today, she might have actually looked forward to seeing Duke again. God knew she was attracted. Too attracted. Maybe that was part of the problem.

Her judgment in men was more faulty than San Andreas if today’s fiasco was any indication. She wasn’t about to get burned by a flashy police detective who seemed to know where her on switch was located.

“Bye.” Amanda tossed the word over her shoulder as she left the apartment. She trotted to the elevator as fast as her pink heels would allow her. In less than sixty seconds, she was out the door and in a cab headed back uptown, safe from Duke’s knowing eyes and tempting grin.

Only then did Amanda allow herself to relax. The cabdriver was too busy swearing at traffic and the participants on his talk radio program to notice her furtive attempts to retie her merry widow, shielding her chest with her lapels.

She could hardly believe she’d escaped Victor’s apartment without anyone noticing she wore next to nothing beneath her coat. Relief slowly drifted over her, easing the aching muscles in a body that had been rigid for too many hours.

She’d made it out with her dignity and her secret weapon in tact. Amanda patted her coat pocket to reassure herself it still rested there.

She found nothing.

Ohmigod. Horrified, she patted her other pocket.

Nothing.

The cabdriver’s swearing faded to the background as panic seized her. The traffic lights and midday pedestrians blurred outside the windows, her whole attention focused on searching the taxicab seats in the hope her tape had fallen out of her pocket since she’d hopped into the car.

No luck.

She’d lost her secret weapon.

3

DUKE LINGERED IN the doorframe after Amanda left Gallagher’s apartment. He’d watched her click her way to the elevator in those hot pink Barbie doll heels, her walk as confident as if she’d been in running shoes. Behind him, the room already seemed too quiet, less animated.

Damn.

He’d let her breathy voice and glimpses of stocking distract him from his questioning—something that hadn’t happened in nearly ten years on the job with the NYPD. He’d covered his butt by asking her to stop by the precinct tomorrow, knowing the surroundings would keep his mind focused on his case and not Amanda’s legs.

Still, he hoped like hell she wore pants.

The ringing of his cell phone provided a welcome interruption.

He flipped open the speaker as he stalked Gallagher’s apartment one last time. “Rawlins.”

The male voice on the other end didn’t bother with salutations. “The word at the station is that Amanda Matthews looks even better in person than in her file photo.”