LITMIR.BIZ

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the Wolcott mansion.

      He frowned as he took the stairs two at a time. Because whoever was responsible for the additions on this grand ole dame ought to be stuffed and mounted. He’d seen some bad do-it-yourself jobs in his day, but he’d never seen a place butchered quite as badly as this one. Few of the structural changes added over the years had been made with the original architecture in mind. And rooms that once must have been spacious and full of grace had been divided to the point they had conceded all personality.

      So deep was he in thought about how to undo the damage that he’d nearly reached the study before he realized that feminine voices drifted out of it. He faltered to a stop.

      Well…shit. So much for a little time to nurse his coffee in front of a fire.

      He was turning away to head back to his apartment after all when the murmur of voices gave way to a woman’s deep, raucous belly laugh. The sound cut through him like a hot sword and he found himself following it back to the doorway as if he were one of those old-time cartoon characters wafting in the wake of a beckoning scent.

      Since it never occurred to him that little Miss Bug Up Her Butt Kaplinski could be the woman laughing like she’d just heard a deliciously dirty joke, his gaze zeroed in on the voluptuous redhead seated in profile to him across the room. Unless Ava was a ventriloquist, however, the sound wasn’t coming from her. A slight smile curved her lips as she sat looking at her friend across the delicate oval coffee table. Dev turned his attention in that direction, as well.

      Then he simply stood there feeling as if he’d just taken a roundhouse kick to the head.

      Jane sat on a velvet love seat perpendicular to the crackling fire, her high-heeled ankle boots tumbled in a heap on the floor and her argyle-stocking-clad feet crossed at the ankles and propped amidst a tumble of velvet boxes and bags on the little coffee table. More neatly arranged containers surrounded her and her left hand curled over the top of an open notebook computer, preventing it from tumbling off her lap while she laughed with her head thrown back as if she’d just heard the raunchiest, most amusing story ever.

      It was the first time he’d seen her with her spine fully unbent since stumbling into her table at the bar the other night. Not that he had seen her more than three times total, but on the other two occasions her posture had been rebar rigid, as if she were some secret princess wondering how the hell she’d gotten cast into this world of commoners.

      As he watched her start gaining control of herself, a corner of his mouth ticked up. Because the royalty analogy wasn’t half-bad, considering she was wearing a queen’s ransom in jewels.

      She’d removed her blazer and rolled up her shirt sleeves, and ropes of emeralds and pearls adorned her wrists, looped in strand after lustrous, glittering strand from her neck. A diamond tiara perched at the fore of her listing bun, a cascade of some jewel he didn’t recognize swung from her ears and each finger sported a gem-encrusted ring.

      Ava was similarly decked out, but he barely spared her a second glance. Adorned with only a couple of select pieces, she had the look of someone who’d been born wearing this stuff. Jane looked like a little girl playing dress-up. And given her sober-puss personality he’d bet a position on the next America’s Cup yacht-which, okay, he didn’t actually have to wager-that she hadn’t played a lot of little-girl games even when she’d been one.

      “Your turn,” she said, and Ava bent forward to pick one of the velvet containers from the table between them. The redhead’s hand suddenly halted midreach, however, and she turned her head in his direction. He had a nanosecond, as their gazes connected, to wish he’d stepped out of sight while he’d still had the chance.

      Then she inclined her head and said easily, “Hey, Dev.”

      Jane’s head whipped around and she yanked her feet off the table so fast that several boxes and bags tumbled to the floor. Swearing beneath her breath, she bent to pick them up and her tiara tipped over one eye. She snatched the little crown from her head as hot color flowed up her throat. A minuscule comb that still anchored the tiara on one side ripped a hank of slippery hair free and it unfurled down to the corner of her mouth.

      Blowing it off her face, she snapped upright to perch with that ramrod posture on the edge of the velvet seat. Raising her chin, she met his gaze. “Devlin.”

      He clicked his boot heels together and gave her a clipped bow. “Your highness.” Okay, it was a cheap shot. But when the universe handed you an opportunity on a silver platter it was practically kicking karma in the teeth to ignore it. He swallowed a grin.

      “What can we do for you, Devlin?” Ava asked.

      “Huh?” He pulled his gaze away from Jane’s flushed face and looked at her friend. “Oh. Nothing. I was going to build a fire and go over some photos of the mansion that I picked up at the state archives today, but I didn’t realize the room was already occupied.”

      Straightening, the redhead extended an imperious hand. “Let’s see them.”

      He crossed the room and handed her the manila envelope. Taking it, she patted the love seat next to her with her free hand. “Sit.”

      “Stay,” Jane said in the same commanding-the-dog tone, and Dev looked at her in surprise. What the hell-did the woman have a sense of humor after all?

      She returned his searching look with a bland one of her own and, rolling his shoulders, he sat down next to Ava. Nah. Probably not.

      Ava started to pour the envelope’s contents into her lap, but he clamped his fingers over the opening to stay her. “Don’t dump ’em-reach in and pull them out,” he directed when she bent a queenly look of her own on him. “I’d just as soon not go to the trouble of putting them in order twice.”

      She did as he bid and a soft sound of pleasure escaped her when she looked at the topmost photograph. “Oh, this is wonderful. Janie, come see what the place looked like before that awful sunroom was added.”

      Somewhat to his surprise, Jane complied, setting aside her computer and rising to her feet. He felt Ava shift and once again she patted the cushion next to her. “Scoot over here,” she commanded him. “We’ll put you in the middle so we can all see.”

      He felt rather than saw Jane hesitate. But perhaps that was his imagination, because a second later she lowered herself next to him.

      On a really small love seat. Now, normally he’d say being sandwiched between a couple of babes on a piece of furniture built for two was a good thing. For some damn reason, however, this was making him edgy as hell. “Uh, I don’t think this love seat was designed with three people in mind.” Aware of Jane’s warmth all along his left side, he added, “Especially when one of us has such impressively curvy hips.”

      Okay, that didn’t come out real suave, even though Ava did indeed have killer hips that cut down on the seating space. Still, he wasn’t prepared for both women to freeze on either side of him. And he sure as hell wasn’t prepared for the redhead to turn an expressionless face his way and demand with chill civility, “Am I taking up too much room, Devlin?”

      “What? No! That’s not what I meant at all. I just-” What, genius? The truth was, he hadn’t been using his head at all, he’d simply rattled off the first excuse that popped to mind in order to get out from between the two. And now his brain, normally facile and quick around the opposite sex, was drawing a big, fat blank.

      Jane’s breast flattened against his biceps as she craned around to see her friend. “He said ’impressively curvy,’ Av. Curvy. Not fat.”

      He jerked in shock and stared down at her for the first time since she’d squeezed in next to him. “Of course I didn’t say fat! Jesus. No man in his right mind is going to look at her and think that. Hell, she’s built like a walking wet dream.” The blue eyes he was staring into widened and he felt like smacking himself in the head. What the fuck is the matter with you, Dev? You had more savoir faire when you were nine.

      Except it appeared he’d actually said something right, because he felt

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