Hot Property: A Novel

by Karen Leabo

Overview

A no-nonsense cop falls for an unlikely suspect in Karen Leabo's tale of hot pursuit and hotter passions.
 
Gunning for a dream job with the FBI, Detective Michael Taggart will not allow anything to stand in his way—especially not a thief whose lies are as distracting as her legs. Solving a high-profile museum robbery may be the career boost he needs, but the redhead claims no knowledge of the stolen jewelry, even after she’s caught delivering them to a crooked dealer. Having been burned by a beautiful woman before, Michael doesn’t want to believe her. And yet his gut tells him to look deeper.
 
Wendy Thayer’s week just went from bad to worse. After being framed by a client, she’s drawn the interest of a hard-nosed—and hard-bodied—cop. Under different circumstances, Wendy wouldn’t mind being cuffed by the sexy sergeant. But she’s a personal shopper, not a criminal. With her business and her reputation at stake, she must convince Michael of her innocence. Will he break the case without breaking her heart?

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780345544889
Publisher:	Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:	02/18/2014
Sold by:	Random House
Format:	eBook
Pages:	240
Sales rank:	777,067
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

Karen Leabo (also known as Kara Lennox) is the author of more than sixty books, seven of which are romances for the Loveswept imprint. She has also written for many magazines as well as completing several screenplays. Her novels have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA Award from the Romance Writer’s of America and the Reader’s Choice Award.

Read an Excerpt

PROLOGUE
 
Turning thirty was tough, Wendy Thayer mused glumly as she waited forever at a traffic light on Lemmon Avenue.
 
First, there was the new laugh line she’d seen while looking in her mirror that morning. It had displayed incredibly bad timing by showing up on her birthday.
 
Second, there was James and his gift of a gold electroplated bracelet. When she’d opened the box during their rushed lunch date, it had been clear—so clear—what had gone through his mind in picking out her combination birthday/I’m-dumping-you gift.
 
What’s the least amount of money I can spend and still save face?
 
The answer was $12.95, on sale at Lux Warehouse Jewelry. She’d seen the ad the day before when she’d been clipping coupons for her clients.
 
The light turned green and Wendy shifted into first gear. She felt remarkably unperturbed at getting dumped. Boyfriends were just too much trouble. The door dent in her brand-new Born to Shop company van was more upsetting.
 
At least she could look forward to her next client.
 
Barnie Neff was the sweetest little old man, a shut-in with severe arthritis and emphysema. Three months earlier he’d called her after seeing her ad on cable TV. He’d needed someone to pick out some library books for him.
 
He’d quickly become a regular customer, despite his humble lifestyle. She had recently expanded her personal-shopping business to include errands, and Mr. Neff often gave her unusual tasks, like delivering a box of old books to a dealer for appraisal, or taking his ancient radio to a repair shop. Once he’d had her deliver some old blankets to a homeless shelter. Today her job was more mundane—laundry, cold medicine, and a new pair of house slippers.
 
Mr. Neff’s rickety frame house stood about as straight as a drunken sailor, and it hadn’t seen paint in so long, Wendy couldn’t determine the original color. But inside it was always cozy and comfortable. Wendy pulled up to the curb, collected Mr. Neff’s laundry from the back of her van, and headed for the front porch.
 
“Come on in, sweetie,” Mr. Neff called to her before she’d even rung the bell.
 
She pushed open the door. The scent of banana bread hung invitingly in the air. He must be having a good day, Wendy concluded. When he was feeling up to it, he liked to bake bread.
 
Mr. Neff hobbled out of the kitchen to greet her, dragging along his oxygen tank. He wore a frilly apron tied around his fragile waist and a smudge of flour on his nose.
 
“Hiya, sweetie!” he said. “Look at that laundry. You do too much, you know. I’ll bet you don’t take laundry home for your other clients.”
 
“You’re special,” Wendy said, putting down the laundry basket and leaning over to give Mr. Neff a peck on the cheek. “The slippers are blue—that was the only color in your size. But they were on sale.”
 
“Sure, sure, anything’s fine.” He examined the slippers sitting on top of the laundry and nodded, satisfied.
 
“And the cold medicine is the nondrowsy kind. I had a fifty-cent coupon.”
 
“Cold medicine.” He made a production of coughing. “You’re in the nick of time with that stuff.”
 
“You must not be feeling too bad if you’re in the kitchen.”
 
“Oh, well, it comes and goes. What’s the damage?” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
 
“Twenty-three fifty,” she said, handing him a piece of paper bearing a complete accounting of her work and the charges.
 
He studied the accounting a moment. “For the slippers and the cold medicine, maybe, but that laundry was hard work. Come on, now, charge me a fair price.”
 
“Twenty-three fifty,” she insisted. “I threw the laundry in with mine. It was hardly any trouble at all, and I did charge you for it.”
 
He laboriously counted out exact change and handed it to her. “You’re a bargain, sweetie. Don’t know how I ever did without you. Now, before you rush off, I have a special errand for you. Have a seat on the divan, I’ll be right back.”
 
Wendy cleared some magazines off the threadbare brown sofa and sat down, then looked at her watch. She hoped whatever errand Mr. Neff had in mind wouldn’t take long.
 
He reappeared shortly bearing a stack of velvet boxes. “Wait till you get a load of these.” Then he opened the first box, and Wendy could feel her eyes bulging. Nestled on a satin lining was the most beautiful sapphire necklace she’d ever seen. The three gems that comprised the teardrop design were at least one carat each, a deep midnight blue cut in the old style and set in an art deco platinum setting.
 
“Oh, it’s lovely.”
 
“It was my mother’s. All of these things were hers. But … no sense in leaving them in a drawer to collect dust.” He opened another box to reveal a diamond and pearl bracelet; another carried two dinner rings, one a ruby surrounded by baguette diamonds, one a square-cut emerald flanked by two oval-cut diamonds. Mr. Neff continued to open boxes and set them on the coffee table for her inspection.
 
“Try them on if you like.”
 
“Oh, no, I’m afraid I’d be tempted to slip one into my purse. They’re beautiful.” She ran one finger over the finely detailed links of a silver chain.
 
“I’ve found a buyer. John Winstead at the Gold and Diamond Trade Mart on Maple. You deliver ’em, he’ll give ’em a quick eyeball—”
 
“You’re selling these beautiful heirlooms?”
 
“Look, sweetie, I got no daughters or sisters, and I ain’t gonna wear ’em myself.” He laughed a little at his own joke. “I’m okay financially, but I can use the money.”
 
“Why doesn’t this Mr. Winstead come here?”
 
“Frankly, I didn’t want him to see where I live. Might drive down the price.”
 
“Oh. Well, this is beyond my normal services.…”
 
“You’re bonded and insured, aren’t you? Anyway, I’ll make it worth your while.”
 
He opened one final box. In it was the loveliest pair of diamond stud earrings Wendy had ever seen. “You keep these for yourself.”
 
“Oh, no, I couldn’t accept such an extravagant—”
 
Mr. Neff started laughing. “You don’t think they’re real, do you? I’m not that crazy. They’re strictly costume. But Mother wore them a lot. I’d be pleased to know they’re being enjoyed by someone like you, someone nice.” He paused, then got a little misty. “Mother would have liked you. Have I told you you look a lot like my younger sister, God rest her soul?”
 
Only about a dozen times. “All right, I’ll accept the earrings. And thank you.” She gave him a hug, wishing all of Born to Shop’s clients were as sweet.
 
The old man waited until the sound of Wendy Thayer’s van faded into the stillness of the early spring afternoon. Then he whipped off the stupid apron and pulled the oxygen tubes out of his nose. “Coast is clear,” he called in a voice suddenly stronger.
 
Two burly men appeared from upstairs, each of them loaded down with empty packing boxes. With practiced efficiency, they began packing up the knick-knacks. The old man could feel it in his bones—it was time to clear out, for good this time. Another couple of days and he’d be on his way to Tahiti.
 
He picked up the phone.
 
“Three-two-oh,” a bland male voice answered.
 
“The hook’s set,” the old man said. “The fish will be at the rendezvous at the agreed-upon time. Wait until you receive confirmation that the funds have been deposited before taking further action.”
 
“Understood.”
 
With an unfamiliar twinge of conscience, the old man added, “Oh, and don’t let the fish suffer, okay? Make it clean.”
 
“I always work clean.”
 
He hung up, again without any small talk, and sighed. Wendy was the best pack mule he’d ever used. Who could suspect that face, those big green eyes? But she was also a nice girl. She did look like his sister. He would miss her.