Manhattan Heat Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Books by Alice Orr

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  “I want to know your name or I won’t budge,” Bennett said.

  “Memphis Modine.” He surveyed her. “And I don’t have a criminal record.”

  Bennett’s eyes roved over the man who’d pulled her out of the Stuyvesant Club so unceremoniously. “Well, that won’t be true after tonight.”

  “I didn’t kill that woman at the club.”

  Bennett merely continued to stare at him, her eyes taking in his jeans and black leather jacket, his dark hair and stubbly jaw. The man looked a little rough, but not like a killer. “Back at the club, I saw you leaning over that woman’s body,” she managed to say.

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  Should Bennett believe this stranger? Either way, she was in trouble. If he was a killer, her own life was in danger. And if he wasn’t, she didn’t think she could fight her undeniable attraction to him….

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This is Alice Orr’s sixth Intrigue novel. It is set in New York City, where she and her husband have lived for the past fifteen years. In that time, she has discovered this dazzling metropolis to be both romantic and scary. She has written both of those elements into this highly charged story.

  In addition to her writing life, Alice is a literary agent and lectures nationally on writing and publishing. You can write to her at Alice Orr Agency, Inc., 305 Madison Avenue, Suite 1166, New York, NY 10165. Alice would love to hear from you.

  Books by Alice Orr

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  56—SABOTAGE

  169—PAST SINS

  216—COLD SUMMER

  266—CAMP FEAR

  324—KEY WEST HEAT

  Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Manhattan Heat

  Alice Orr

  To my husband, Jonathan—

  always my romantic hero

  To my editor, Julianne Moore—

  a true jewel

  To my agent, Rob Cohen—

  who is truly in my corner

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Bennett Evangeline St. Simon—An uptown kind of gal.

  Memphis Modine—A downtown type of guy.

  Dilys St Simon—Bennett’s oh, so society mom.

  Raeburn (Forth) St Simon, IV—Bennett’s playboy brother.

  Pearlanne Fellows—The body in the billiard room.

  Quinton Leslie—Bennett’s soon-supposed-to-be fiance.

  Royce Boudreaux—A bored blue blood.

  Sonia Jade—A social climber headed for the top.

  Rudy—The nervous wheel man.

  Nick—The redheaded enforcer.

  Liddy—The girl in the ladies’ room.

  Stitch Falcone—The mystery man behind it all.

  Prologue

  Pearlanne Fellows kicked one very pointed toe at the carved claw foot of the billiard table and nearly fell off her stiletto heels. The fabric on the tabletop shone so fine it looked like velvet instead of the usual green felt that had been good enough for any pool shooter she’d ever known. The pockets were handwoven out of some kind of silky cord, and the wood had to be mahogany or teak or whatever.

  “Expensive. That’s whatever,” she said out loud to the ancient paneled walls, because there was nobody human around to vent her bad attitude on at the moment. “Expensive and ugly.”

  She kicked a little higher at the gargoyle face a few scrolls above the claw foot. Ugly, all right, glowering at her like that in the low light from the burnished brass lamp on the leather-topped desk in the corner.

  “Who cares about the phony Stuyvesant Club anyway?” she grumbled. “I’ll take the DownTown Lounge any day.”

  But she was here, and anybody could tell she did care by the way she glanced quickly around at the door to make sure nobody had sneaked in quietly to hear her being disrespectful toward this exclusive, rich-folks place on the exclusive, rich-folks Upper East Side of Manhattan. Pearlanne was irritated to have been left alone here so long. What if one of those stiff-necked types from that party downstairs should wander in and find her here dirtying up their precious antiques with her straight-from-Brooklyn breath? High-toners like them probably didn’t even exhale the same as other people. They sure as hell wouldn’t be jumping for joy to have her around. She didn’t expect they’d ask her to join the club or anything half so friendly as that. Most likely she’d end up cooling the concrete with her keester on the corner of Fifth and Sixty-whatever.

  Stitch had been gone too damn long already. Of course, he was one of these classy-type yo-yos himself. He probably had to touch pinkies with the whole room full of ‘em before he could get out of there again. Besides, all she cared about was the answer he brought back. She had to remember that. First things first. If it took a little longer than she liked, she’d just have to be patient. Patience is a virtue. She’d heard that somewhere or other.

  Pearlanne sighed. Patience was a virtue she hadn’t mastered yet. She wouldn’t be so antsy if they had a bar in this gold-plated pool hall. She’d already checked every pricey antique nook and cranny. No bar in sight. Not one siphon or a single snifter as far as the eye could see. So much for those old English movies with butlers bustling brandy and cocktails in and out of drawing rooms. She could sure use some Jeeves-type action about now.

  She walked to the tall, narrow window. Folds of heavy, garnet-colored drapery were pulled back by wide sashes just above the deep sill. She looked down onto the opposite side of Fifth Avenue where New Yorkers and tourists strolled along one of the prettiest sidewalks in the city. They kept more than an arm’s reach away from the stone wall that bordered Central Park East, of course. No telling what might be crawling around over there. Even on this side of the wall, the occasional homeless person shuffled at the curb or rocked back and forth on one of the backless benches, talking out loud into the June night.

  Pearlanne’s watch said close to eleven o’clock, but there was plenty of traffic, both on foot and in the many cars and many more taxis that ran down Fifth Avenue. Now and then a horse-drawn hansom cab clopped by and screwed up the pace in one lane of traffic, but mostly the drivers kept the horses to the park paths that were lighted enough to be safe, or to Central Park South a few blocks away.

  Pearlanne was wishing she was in one of those hansom’ hacks right now with Stitch and a magnum of bubbly when the door opened behind her. She spun around, half expecting that starch-collared butler she’d been thinking about to march in
and drag her out by the scruff of her neck. Not that she’d stand still for it, of course. She grew up in Flatbush, and she didn’t stand still for much. Luckily, what stepped through the door was definitely not a Jeeves type. She sighed again, relieved.

  “It’s about time,” she said. “I thought I was going to be spending the night on the pool table.”

  “Billiards, my dear,” he answered. “Billiards are played here, and maybe a spot of snooker on occasion. But never pool.”

  “So sorry, I’m sure,” Pearlanne said in the heaviest Brooklynese she could manage. “Now, what’s the word? I assume that’s what you’re here to talk about, not my vocabulary.”

  “You’re one thousand percent correct about that. I have come to give you the word, all right.”

  “And what might that word happen to be? How big’s my cut anyway?”

  “Even bigger than you might have guessed, I imagine.”

  Pearlanne had begun to smile with pleasure at that answer when she saw something flash in the low lamplight. Her lips froze at half curve. She grabbed a handful of drapery as her too-high heels teetered under her. She had time for only one shriek before she was on the floor with the same drapery pulled down on top of her and a stain, in a shade of red far too garish for these august surroundings, spreading out from her body.

  Chapter One

  Bennett St. Simon attended too many functions too much like this one. They weren’t her style and never would be, but she kept showing up because of the good they did and because they were part of her work. All the same, she had wanted to call her mother up earlier this evening and make some excuse or other for absenting herself, if only for this one night. Now that Bennett was here, she wished she had done exactly that. She was restless tonight, even more than usual. Most of the people here might be surprised by that, only a few would not. Those few, from her family’s very prestigious crowd, were the ones who still remembered the wild streak she had exhibited in her teens. She had supposedly grown out of that wildness since. The proper people of. the St. Simons’ so proper set were much relieved by her reformation. Hardly anyone suspected that she sometimes felt as if she might jump straight out of her skin from restlessness. Tonight was one of those jumpy times.

  Still, she had settled herself down, as her mother would’ put it, enough to feel guilty when she neglected her commitments. These days she could be depended on to finish what she started, and she had started this charity event, organized it, made it happen. Now she had to see it through so that tomorrow there would be a generous amount of money to distribute among the children’s shelters she cared so much about and worked so hard for.

  Bennett reminded herself of all the young, hopeful faces at the foundling home and settlement houses where she spent a good deal of her time. She didn’t mind that part of tonight, which would do good for those children. They were the best part of her life right now. In fact, they mattered more to her than anything else she could imagine. They had helped her to discover how much she needed to have a cause in her life, something to work and struggle for, something to believe in. The children were all of those things to her, and she loved them for it.

  In fact, she sometimes felt as if those kids were all that kept her from suffocating from everything the same, everything predictable in her life—including herself. Most of all, they provided the one exception to the safety of her existence in places like the Stuyvesant Club and her family’s town house, both so out of reach behind tall iron gates. When she ventured into the parts of town where the less fortunate spent their lives, for just a little while she wasn’t quite as safe and sure of everything. Being at least in proximity to the precarious edge of life made her feel more alive. Then the limo would return to carry her back to the protected, privileged world of the St. Simons once more. Of course, she had chosen this protected life for herself. It was better for her than the life of danger she had sampled several years ago, enough to get hurt and scared and come running home. Still, there were moments, like right now, when she wondered what would have become of her if she had chosen the more precarious road.

  “Bennett, marvelous do,” piped someone as Bennett skirted yet another gaggle of prosperous men in well-cut suits and women in smart little black dresses much like her own.

  “Glad you’re enjoying it,” she said, and smiled on cue.

  Bennett would have been welcome to join the chatter, but she had heard it all before and doubted she would have anything to add that she had not already added on numerous other occasions, to the point where the sound of her own voice repeating itself had turned to garble in her ears.

  She surveyed the elegant room. As usual, the Stuyvesant Club had trotted out a fabulous buffet. The entire second floor was given over to the event. At least partly, Bennett had her mother’s formidable and considerable influence to thank for that. When Dilys St. Simon wanted something, people understood that, despite the relentless graciousness of her tone, she intended to have her way, no matter what. The best course was to capitulate on the spot before she asked, or demanded, even more.

  “No question about that at all,” Bennett muttered to herself. Nobody knew better than she how true that was or how much she was expected to be Dilys, Jr. She loved her mother and admired her, too, but Bennett didn’t want her mother’s life. Yet, that was exactly where she seemed to be headed. By all indications, she was destined to become a leading light of uptown society in the best Dilys tradition. The burden of this eventuality was weighing especially heavy on Bennett’s shoulders tonight.

  “If you want to beg for my body, you needn’t mumble. Speak right up.”

  Royce Boudreaux had materialized next to her, probably out of a nearby conversation he would also just as soon avoid. He and Bennett spoke regularly about how bored they were with this scene. Bennett had little choice but to attend. Society dos were the way to get society money for the institutions she helped support. Royce could make no such excuse, but he kept showing up all the same.

  “I am most serious about this, my dear,” he continued.

  “You are a generous soul, Royce. I’ve always said that about you.” Bennett smiled, enjoying the distraction of his banter, meaningless as it generally tended to be. At the moment, meaninglessness was preferable to her own discontented thoughts.

  “You must understand I make this offer for a limited time only, on an exclusive basis, that is. At midnight, I become part of the buffet. It’s ‘Smorgasboard, anyone?’ from then on.”

  Bennett laughed out loud, maybe even a bit more loudly than was appropriate for the Stuyvesant Club. “See how talented you are? I wouldn’t have thought I had enough good humor left in me tonight to manage a laugh.”

  “And people say I’m useless. I shall expect you to speak up on my behalf to the contrary.”

  Bennett smiled. She took his arm, and Royce steered them out of the crowd toward the periphery of the room. She didn’t look up at him. She knew he would be staring down at her as he so often did, and she wouldn’t want him to detect that she was one of those people who thought of him as basically useless.

  “Oh, no!” Royce exclaimed. “I didn’t manage to segue us out of the fray quite fast enough after all. It’s the Hesperus, and she’s on her way to wreck me, I’m sure.”

  Bennett knew without looking that he was referring to her mother. Dilys didn’t care for Royce. Even when he and Bennett and Forth were in day school together, Dilys had been biased against Royce. She didn’t like the cut of his jib, she would say. Bennett’s brother, Forth, who didn’t like Royce much himself, would defend him anyway. “An eightyear-old doesn’t have a jib, Mother,” Forth would say. He had that wry way of talking even when he was a child.

  “Mr. Boudreaux, how are you this evening?” Dilys St. Simon asked.

  She had stepped into their path. They had no choice other than to stop and talk to her Dilys was like that. She didn’t give you alternatives, about much of anything.

  “I am lovely, Mrs. St. Simon, but of course
not nearly as much so as yourself,” Royce said with a charming smile that might have been almost sincere.

  “Mother, aren’t you impressed with the turnout tonight?” Bennett asked, to divert Dilys’s attention in case she had one of her anti-Royce barbs on the tip of her sometimes sharp tongue.

  “I believe we discussed that earlier, dear. You needn’t resort to idle conversation to protect your friend from me. I am on my best behavior this evening.”

  “The keepers of the Stuyvesant will appreciate your not bloodying the carpets with me, blue as the stain might be,” Royce quipped. “But I was about to take my leave any way.” He lifted Bennett’s fingers and touched them to his lips. “Your servant, milady.” He turned and bowed slightly toward Dilys. “And yours.”

  Dilys nodded her head ever so slightly in something less than acknowledgment. Royce reached into his jacket and pulled a card from an inside pocket. He handed it to Bennett.

  “My new private number,” he said. “Call me. We’ll lunch…or whatever.”

  Bennett had to smile. She knew Royce had said that to get Dilys’s dander up, and her right eyebrow rose to the occasion. She would hardly be expected to stand for any “whatever” between her daughter and a wastrel like Royce Boudreaux. Nothing to do with snobbishness, either. As Royce had pointed out, his blood was easily as blue as that of the St. Simon family any day. Dilys wasn’t a snob anyway. Her ideas of what was and was not manly were very clear-cut. Idleness turned up decidedly on the not-manly list. The only leeway she gave anyone on this account went to her son. No matter how many schemes he might concoct or projects he might claim to have in development, Raeburn St. Simon IV, known from toddlerhood as Forth, wasn’t any too productive himself. Dilys simply refused to recognize that. It was possibly her only blind spot.

  Of course, the danger of men like Royce Boudreaux had other significance for Dilys. Bennett had run off with one of them back in her wild days. They made it all the way to Mexico before Dilys’s bloodhounds finally tracked them down. Bennett had left a trail of credit card charges so wide, she wasn’t hard to find. She had since concluded that, if she really wanted to disappear back then, she would have carried cash. Maybe she’d suspected that her traveling companion might rob her if she did. She had told herself he was harmless, like Royce, but perhaps her basic instincts had been more perceptive than that. Perhaps, she had known he would turn out to be so irresponsible he was dangerous. Or, maybe that was giving too much credit to the silly, reckless girl she had unfortunately been in those days.