Her Special Charm. Marie Ferrarella
like. From the sound of his voice and the sparse exchange they’d had, she guessed that he had to be in his thirties, possibly his forties.
She smiled to herself as she scanned the area. The man had sounded distant. And tall. She could have spared herself the search. Her newly self-appointed guide was off like a bloodhound that had caught the scent.
“There he is, over there.”
He pointed to a tall, muscular man in a light blue shirt. The man’s sleeves were rolled up and he had a weapon and holster strapped across his chest and back with a perspiration stain forming along the rim of the leather. He made her think of a warrior waiting for his next battle.
Santini raised his voice to get James’s attention. “Munro, you devil, you’ve been holding out on me,” he declared before he ever reached James.
The latter turned around, about to demand to know what the hell his partner was babbling about now, but the words became stuck in his throat before he ever got a chance to utter them.
He’d made the mistake of looking beyond his partner to the woman in Santini’s wake.
The second he saw her, he knew.
This was the woman who’d called about the cameo.
She was the kind of woman who turned heads and now was no exception. As he glanced around the squad room, he saw that every set of eyes within the small space were firmly pinned to her as she made her way toward him.
Her smile was liquid seduction. He could almost feel every step she took vibrating inside of him, its tempo increasing.
He’d all but talked himself into believing that the woman with the silky voice undoubtedly resembled a troll-in-training. That kind of thing was nature’s way of playing a little joke on him. The silky voice made you conjure up images of an impossibly beautiful woman only to shatter those images with harsh reality. The smoothest male voice he’d ever heard belonged to a man who was five-seven and weighed in at three hundred twenty pounds on his lightest day. There was no reason to assume that the same wouldn’t be true for the cameo owner.
James realized that his powers of deduction were shot to hell.
Chapter Three
For a moment, he felt as if he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The woman’s smile was warm, inviting. Radiant. Standing in its aura, a man could almost believe that people were naturally good instead of desperately in need of redemption.
No one had ever accused him of being talkative, but his mind never went blank—except for now. It didn’t help matters any that every single person on the floor was looking at him with unabashed surprise, as well as a touch of envy.
His lack of visitors was a known fact. In his seven years at the precinct, he hadn’t received so much as a personal phone call. Stanley didn’t know how to dial the phone and there was no one else, if he didn’t count Eli Levy. Which he didn’t because Eli would never call here despite all the years they had known one another. Theirs was a one-on-one, eye-to-eye kind of relationship.
“Detective Munro.”
On her lips, his name sounded almost like a song. Which was fitting because she moved toward him like a melody, her hand outstretched, her manner as welcoming as if this were her turf, not his. As if they were old friends instead of strangers.
After a beat, James realized that some sort of reciprocation on his part was necessary. Rousing himself, he took her hand and shook it. Soft, speculative murmurs were beginning to rise all around them.
Maybe it was a bad idea after all, meeting here. He should have suggested the diner on the corner. The coffee was weak, the pastry usually well on its way to stale, but at this time of the day, they would have been able to avoid prying eyes. Nothing he hated more than an invasion of privacy.
“Yes,” he answered almost reluctantly.
Santini looked from one to the other, a bell belatedly going off in his head. “Then you two don’t know each other?” There was audible disappointment attached to every syllable.
“Not yet,” Constance replied at the same time that James uttered an emphatic, “No.”
Ordinarily it was hard to hear himself think in the squad room. The constant hum of voices, computer keys clanking and phones ringing created a constant, annoying, sometimes almost overpowering din. All that had died down. All eyes were still on them, hungry now for a little action, a little amusement and diversion to momentarily make them forget about the harsh, seamy parts of life.
Annoyed by the lack of privacy, by the clear invasion he was being forced to endure, James took the woman by her arm and turned her toward his cubicle. “Why don’t you come this way?”
It wasn’t a suggestion. More like a command. But she wanted her mother’s cameo and would have talked to the devil himself for it. Though gruff, this man didn’t look as if he had a tail or cloven hooves. She figured she could easily put up with him.
Constance smiled a little wider. Mama had always told her that a woman’s most effective weapon was her smile and she’d found that to be pretty accurate. Being determined and graduating at the top of her college class didn’t hurt things either.
“Anything you say, Detective.”
A smattering of barely concealed laughter echoed in the wake of her words, adding to James’s annoyance. He brought her over to his cubicle, belatedly releasing his grip on her arm. Not for the first time, he wished he had a ceiling to go along with the walls, or at least walls that couldn’t be visually breached by anyone measuring over five and a half feet.
“Have a seat.” He nodded toward the chair that was butted up against the side of his desk. The chair was too close to him, but there was nothing he could do about it. He would have rather put her on the other side of the desk directly opposite him to gain more breathing room.
He watched her as she seemed to drift onto the chair rather than just sit down. She never broke eye contact, which he found a little unsettling. It seemed as if she were putting him on his guard instead of the other way around.
The best con artists had the same trait. It made them seem more trustworthy. As far as he was concerned, the woman wasn’t out of the woods just yet.
Clearing his throat, he reminded himself that he was first, foremost and single-mindedly a detective. It was time he began acting like one. “Do you have any proof that the necklace—”
“Cameo,” she corrected.
“Cameo,” he echoed with a short nod of his head as his irritation mounted. James began again. “Do you have any proof that the ‘cameo’ is yours?”
“You mean like a sales receipt?” She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. That would have been impolite.
“That would be good.” The words were out before he remembered that she had said the cameo had once belonged to a family ancestor. James felt like an idiot and he was none too happy about it.
Especially when he watched the smile she was attempting to keep from her lips creeping out along her mouth anyway. “It would also be impossible. It was my great-great-great—”
“Times seven, yes, I remember now.”
She was digging into her purse. For a handkerchief to dab delicately at the corners of her eyes? he wondered, a wave of cynicism getting the better of him.
But it wasn’t a handkerchief. The cool Southern belle with the drop-dead legs pulled a photograph out of her purse. When she held it up for him, he saw a woman with a small girl. Though the clothes appeared somewhat out of date, he saw that the woman in the photograph was the same one sitting beside his desk. Around her neck was the cameo he’d picked up from the sidewalk.
“That your daughter?” he asked, taking the photograph from her. When she laughed, he looked up at her sharply.
“No,