“Hadley,” he murmured, kissing her cheek, one eyelid, then the next—like he was some sort of erotic priest administering a blessing with his mouth. “Hadley, Hadley, Hadley.”

Christ, he was punch-drunk with arousal, his cock hard and heavy. He rocked his hips against hers, pinning her against the wall, and had begun taking his erotic blessing south of her neck when a foghorn’s bellow made her jump. She immediately shoved him away.

They stood a foot apart, breathing heavily, mouths open.

Her knees buckled. He reached out to help her as she slid down the wall.

She flinched away from his touch.

He lifted both hands in surrender.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she insisted in a hoarse voice, pushing herself back up. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Hadley—”

“Oh, there’s a taxi. I really must . . .”

“Are you sure?”

“I—”

“Christ, Hadley. That was—” Amazing. Sexy. Far better than he’d imagined.

“I should go. Please call when you’re ready to . . . Trotter, you know.” Then she darted into the rain and disappeared into the taxicab at the curb. The last thing he saw was her touching the backs of her gloved fingers to her lips as the car drove away.

 • • •

Instead of heading straight back to work, Hadley took a detour downtown and darted down the sidewalk into a shop upon whose window was painted in fine script:

MADAME DUBOIS

LINGERIE COUTURE

A bell tinkled to announce her entrance. She strode between a wooden table displaying a fanned-out selection of silky tap pants and a canvas-covered mannequin to which a half-finished nightgown was pinned. As she approached a glass display counter, a plump middle-aged woman with a perfectly coiffed silver bob looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Bacall.”

“Madame Dubois,” she said with a nod.

The back of the tiny shop was a riot of silk, lace, and colorful spools of glossy embroidery thread. Neatly folded negligées and stockings lined the shelves behind the counter. And on the glass counter, cream boxes were stacked near a roll of apricot tissue paper. Madame Dubois’s creations were the finest in the city. They were also Hadley’s most extravagant weakness.

The scent of rose powder wafted in the air as the Parisian expat seamstress leaned over the counter, a long tape measure hanging around her neck. “And what may I do for you? Special order?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful! Your designs are some of my favorites. What shall it be today?”

Hadley’s heart fluttered faster than hummingbird wings as she unfolded a color page ripped from a recent museum exhibit program. Briefly wondering if this was how her mother had felt years ago when she’d approached the ceramic artist to commission the canopic jar designs, she smiled at Madame Dubois and said, “I’d like you to copy this . . .”

SEVENTEEN

LOWE TELEPHONED HADLEY AT work the following day to cheerfully inform her he’d found Hugo Trotter. Apparently, the alleged killer had done what many other funeral directors did when San Francisco decided land was too scarce and valuable for the funerary arts: moved his business to the nearby necropolis of Lawndale.

Hadley wasn’t all that jazzed to call on a murderer. But Lowe assured her it would be fine: Mr. Trotter had died ten years ago, so they’d be calling on his son. Hugo Junior had apparently followed in his father’s footsteps. Hopefully not the murderous ones.

Lawndale—“the City of the Silent”—was half an hour from San Francisco. And this is where the younger Mr. Trotter now ran his father’s business, the Gilded Rest Funeral Home and Crematorium. Lowe had reserved the last appointment of the following day, so that he and his “sister” could make funeral arrangements.

He provided all this information without a word about the subject that hadn’t left her thoughts since she’d left him at the wharf.

The kiss.

She’d crashed into him like she was outrunning a storm. And it was indescribably wonderful. Until she panicked. Now she teetered between the fear that it would happen again and the fear that it wouldn’t.

“I’d like to leave at four in the afternoon tomorrow, just to make sure we make it in plenty of time,” his voice said over the crackling line in her office. “We’ll be playing the role of well-to-do siblings, so you’ll need to look as if you have money.”

“I do have money,” she reminded him.

“And you have plenty of mourning clothes, which finally works in your favor. But wear the most expensive ones—not something you’d wear to work.”

“Yes, yes,” she said irritably, even though she could hear the teasing in his voice over the line. “It’ll look suspicious if I come to work dressed to the nines, so I suppose I’ll have to invent an excuse to leave.”

“Headache or a cold coming on,” he suggested. “I’m sure even you can dream up a lie that small.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Then I’ll pick you up outside your apartment building around four.”

“Not on Lulu,” she insisted.

“No, an actual car. Must play the part. Are you game?”

Was she?

Come the next day, she spent all afternoon trying on clothes and worrying herself into a frazzled knot. What was she supposed to do when she saw him? Pretend the kiss never happened? Angry with both herself and him, she finally picked a dress that covered up as much skin as possible. She further armored herself with gloves and fur and a brimmed hat that cast half her face in shadow. Then she took the elevator down to the lobby.