Silk, Lace & Videotape. Joanne Rock
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her into the building and right into Victor’s apartment. Obviously she had more trouble on her hands than a lying, cheating boyfriend.
Had she committed some violation of the indecent exposure code? Had that gust of wind revealed more than she’d realized? What if he frisked her? Or heaven forbid, searched her? A strip search wouldn’t play out well at all. She tugged her coat tie tighter.
And if she got booked as a common flasher… Amanda didn’t think she’d survive the embarrassment. Her father provided more than enough Matthews family gossip for the tabloids. Her recent accolades as an up-and-coming designer in her own right would be meaningless in light of such a scandal.
Detective Rawlins pointed toward the couch. His whole demeanor had changed. The cheeky grins from the elevator had vanished. He seemed utterly at ease taking command of the room. “Ladies, I’m going to need both of you to take a seat for questioning while I take care of Mr. Gallagher.”
Cindy harrumphed her way over to the couch, no longer flirting with Blue Eyes now that she knew his identity. The woman glared at Amanda, as if the morning’s events were somehow her fault. Amanda ignored her, too worried about how she would explain jail time to her father to let Victor’s other girlfriend rattle her. Amanda carefully seated herself in a wingback chair, making sure her coat remained plastered to her thighs.
Detective Rawlins walked around the living room, his gaze seeming to absorb every detail of Victor’s sparsely decorated apartment. “Vic, you’re already looking at three to ten for helping your drug importer friends. If you start talking to me about your business partners, maybe I won’t call the IRS about all your undeclared income.”
Relief poured through Amanda as the cop read Victor his rights and arrested him on a string of charges Amanda didn’t really understand. What was criminal facilitation anyway?
All she could think about was maybe she wouldn’t face flasher charges now.
Amanda whispered a quick prayer of thanksgiving that she wasn’t going to jail. All she had to do was keep her coat firmly cinched, answer the detective’s questions, and not allow his sexy smile to unnerve her again.
Then with any luck, she could limp out of here in her fuchsia heels and go back to her safe—but respectable—existence.
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