He still had a grin on his usually impassive face. "If it involves hanging around with these models for a few more hours, I'm your man."

"Sorry to disappoint." I smiled. "Will you find my sister and give her a message for me?"

"Happy to."

Lee listened carefully and agreed to help.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Richard had been approached by Fawn and Fontayne Finehart, who could surely distract even him with their attributes. I had a minute, at least.

I found a ticket counter blessedly open, and I bought my ticket quickly. In another moment I was headed for the trains. A fully dressed woman hardly rated a glance from the transit cop. But once out of Richard's sight, I whipped off my Dior coat and turned it inside out to show the other side-small checks instead of big attention-getting blocks of primary colors. Then I plunged downstairs toward the trains.

As I boarded, Spike poked his head out of my bag and demanded to know where we were going.

"We're making our escape," I told him, sliding into the ladies' room and closing the door behind me. Safely inside, I used the time to gather my wits and powder my nose.

At last, the train gave a lurch and began to move. Spike dashed around my feet, panting with excitement. He loved moving vehicles.

As the train cleared the station, I felt safe enough to let myself out of the loo. With Spike once again stowed in my bag, I found plenty of open seats. I slipped into one in a middle row. As Spike struggled to look out the window, I whispered, "Don't draw any attention, please. Behave yourself."

"Who, me?" asked Richard, taking the adjacent seat.

Chapter 6.

I blushed like a teenager caught shimmying down a drain spout.

"Can we have a conversation now?" he asked.

Spike told Richard to get the hell off the train.

"Take it easy, pooch," Richard said. "I'm already a wounded man." He looked closer at Spike with his plaster cast. "And what the hell happened to him?"

"It was an accident a few weeks ago," I said, trying to stuff Spike back into my handbag.

"How does the other guy look?" Richard relaxed into his seat with a short, pained explosion of breath, then glanced at me. "Do you always dress like you're in an Audrey Hepburn movie?"

"Would I look more professional in a safari jacket?"

"I think you'd look great in just about anything."

Before I could completely absorb what he'd said, he added, "From the way you just tried to disappear down a rabbit hole, I figure Audrey has something to hide."

I decided to come clean and apologize. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run away."

"I understand. You're trying to protect somebody."

"He doesn't need my protection. He's innocent. You'll have to find yourself another story."

Spike chose that moment to chomp his jaws around Richard's cane and growl.

Richard wisely allowed Spike to take possession. "I don't know what my story is yet. That's what I'm trying to find out. But if the clues point to organized crime, that's where I'm going."

"Why were you at the fashion show last night? To watch the launch of the Brinker Bra? Or to watch me?"

He met my gaze, and I was surprised to realize he had one blue eye and one hazel. The discovery shook me. I had hoped to keep Richard out of my head completely, and here he was insinuating his way into my conscious mind.

"Why don't we make a pact," he said, noticing the moment that stretched between us, too. "I'll tell you something useful if you tell me something useful."

I hesitated.

"I'll go first. Brinker Holt is involved with something besides women's underwear."

Still gripping Richard's cane in his teeth, Spike cautiously settled down on my lap, keeping one eye cocked on Richard to make sure there were no false moves.

"Brinker is your story?"

"If the Brinker Bra catches on like everybody's saying, Brinker stands to make hundreds of millions of dollars."

"As far as I know, that's not illegal."

Richard shrugged. "Where that much money is involved, there's usually something else going on. Especially when the guy has a track record."

"As in his comedy club burning down."

"Conveniently," Richard said. "From the insurance money, Brinker had enough cash to get his fashion venture off the ground. My question is, did he light a match to his own club? Or have some help from a pro who knew how to torch the place without getting caught?"

"What are you suggesting?"

He risked bodily harm by reaching out to scratch Spike behind his ears. "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just asking questions."

"You think Michael is an arsonist now?"

"Abruzzo has a lot of talents," Richard observed. "One of them is his skill at avoiding convictions."

I decided to dislike Richard on a permanent basis. "So you are investigating organized crime. Okay, smart guy, what does the comedy club fire have to do with Kitty Keough's death?"

"I don't know yet. Do you?"

"They're totally unrelated events."

"You sure?"

No, I wasn't. What had Michael said long ago? Something about two crimes happening at the same time tended to be connected.

Under Richard's fingertip massage, Spike gave up growling. Traitor that he was, my dog let out a contented gurgle and began to suck on the handle of Richard's cane.

"All I know is that Michael has been detained for Kitty's murder because he happened to be in my house when I discovered her body. He'll be out of police custody very soon, and then the real investigation can begin."

"Why do you think her body ended up at your house?"

"I don't know," I said at once, automatically defensive. But when Richard didn't react, I said more slowly, "Somebody's trying to throw blame."

"Or send a message?"

"To me?"

"Maybe," Richard said. "Or to Abruzzo."

"What if somebody is trying to frame Michael?"

"Why would anybody do that?"

I looked out the window. The train had gathered momentum and left the city limits behind. I couldn't begin to guess how many enemies Michael had. I knew scant few of his friends, and most of those made Tony Soprano's crew look like a Little League team.

"Look," Richard said, "I don't know what your relationship is with the Abruzzo guy. I've heard a few things around the news desk, that's all. I find it hard to believe a woman like you could be seriously mixed up with a character like him, but-"

"You don't know anything about him."

"Only what's in the papers," he agreed. "Money laundering, illegal gambling, maybe the biggest car theft ring in the nation. It's not inconceivable that he could be an arsonist, too."

"The Abruzzo family might be mixed up in that kind of crime, but not Michael."

"Does he know Brinker?"

"Of course not!"

I could feel Richard looking at me. Softer, he said, "So you're really seeing him?"

"I'm not explaining myself to you."

"Okay, let me try explaining to myself. Tell me if I'm right. Mick Abruzzo is a lying sociopath who says whatever it takes to get a woman into his bed. And right now that woman is you."

"He doesn't lie!"

"No? What does he do? What happened to your face, Nora?"

I fought down the urge to kick Richard right in his lame leg.

Michael told me the truth; that I was sure about. He might occasionally leave out information he knew I didn't want to hear. There was a small difference between that and lying, perhaps, but I could live with it.

"We might look like opposites," I said slowly, "but we're alike. I know it doesn't make sense to you, but we've both been places we don't want to go back to."

"Meaning jail for him."

"Yes. His jail wasn't much different than where I was."

"You're a rich girl with fancy clothes and powerful friends. How is that life remotely like a prison cell?"

"My clothes have nothing to do with who I am inside. Michael sees that. We've both made some foolish choices in the past, and we paid a price. Now we both need-Oh, never mind." Suddenly I found I couldn't swallow and my words dried up. I took a steadying breath. "If you're on a crusade to put Michael back in jail, you're asking for help from the wrong person."

Richard shrugged. "A smart, beautiful woman like you doesn't need my advice when it comes to your love life. But I've seen some heartbreak in my day. People have been known to turn to the wrong kind of person to help them through tough times."

"Is this the part where you warn me not to get hurt? That's very sweet, Richard, but it's transparent. Don't try to befriend me-or my dog-so you can get information."

"No need for coddling," he said, removing his hand from Spike's ears. "Okay, I like that. Tell me what you know. Last night you were all over that kid. The one with the Game Boy. Who was he?"

"Are you always this insulting? You already know who he is."

He nodded. "Orlando Lamb. Who-speaking of hundreds of millions of dollars-is the nephew of Hemmings, who's been sniffing around the Brinker Bra for weeks. What's going on?"

"I have no idea."

He sent me a disbelieving smirk. "You were pretty quick to chase after the kid last night."

"I wanted to make sure he was okay. He was running away from his uncle, and I-Come to think of it, you held me back!"

"A reporter's job," he said, "is not to interfere with the news. We're supposed to observe, not go sticking pretty noses in places-"

"Let's not talk about my nose, shall we?"

Richard's gaze slid to the bruise on my face again. But he said, "The kid said something about not wanting to buy women's underwear."

"I've only heard rumors."

"Maybe I've heard the same ones."

"All right, one theory is that Hemmings wants the Brinker Bra to become a subsidiary of Lamb Limited. It will be a very profitable investment and have the added advantage of establishing him as a real asset to the Lamb company. Right now, he's only Orlando's babysitter."

"You know Hemmings Lamb pretty well, right?"

"A little."

"He's a nut."

"He's complicated," I said. "And his relationship with Brinker is . . ."

"Is what?"

"Even more complicated."

"Are they friends? Enemies? Lovers?"