“Uh-huh. Sure. Since you waltzed back into my life, I’ve been attacked, threatened, suspected of being a thief, and driven to letting you and your mysterious friend Croc sneak around while I ate dinner.”
“You’ve also been kissed quite thoroughly.”
“Jeremiah, you are incorrigible.”
“So people keep telling me, although not because I find myself kissing just anyone in a parking garage.” He paused. “We should have gone upstairs last night.”
She inhaled sharply, a hot jolt of awareness coursing through her. “You’re in an awfully cheeky mood this morning.”
“Comes from lack of sleep. What’re you doing after Worth Avenue?”
He would not be distracted from the point of his call, which was to keep tabs on her. “I have a luncheon at the Paulette Mansion. A security expert is speaking to one of the local women’s societies—”
“George Marcotte. How fortuitous. I’ll be there myself.”
“You will?” She frowned. “Why?”
“Gut instinct. Plus I’ve lined up a quick interview with Marcotte. I want to hear his take on our cat burglar.”
“You just made that up.”
He laughed. “For a publicist, you have a suspicious mind.”
“That’s because I know you.”
“You’re getting there.” The sexy undertone was unmistakable. “Reconsider coffee.”
He started to hang up, but Mollie said, “I talked to Leonardo this morning. I asked him if he had any enemies who might be targeting me to get to him. You know, that’s what this could be about. Someone setting me up for the robberies or just capitalizing on them as a way of getting at Leonardo.”
“What did he say?” Jeremiah asked, serious now. She could almost feel his mind opening, taking in a new scenario.
“He has enemies—the usual jealousies and lost loves and whatnot—but he can’t think of anyone who would take their animosity toward him out on me, and certainly not in such a byzantine approach.”
“Did he say byzantine?”
“Yes, why not?”
“I don’t think my father and I have ever used
byzantine
with each other, even when I studied Constantinople in the sixth grade. Okay. Never mind. Go on.”
She sighed. “His enemies, he said, were more likely to take a direct approach or just sue him.” She suddenly felt self-conscious, especially when Jeremiah went quiet on her. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. Consider every angle, right?”
“Yes. Thanks for telling me. I’ll give it some thought and see you at the luncheon.”
She hung up feeling prickly-skinned, as if she’d said something wrong, something that had spooked Jeremiah or sent him spinning off in a whole new direction. She could imagine him sitting in his truck, frowning, his reporter’s mind at work. When she finally headed off to Worth Avenue, she found herself looking for him. All the parking spots in front of the children’s store were taken, none with a beat-up brown truck. She ended up taking one farther down the street. She fed the meter, wondering if Jeremiah was watching her from a shop window.
Her errand took her to a small, eclectic music shop on one of the famous Worth Avenue vias—the shaded alleyways and patios Addison Mizner had set behind the buildings that fronted the street. Vines of fuchsia bougainvillea and ivy cascaded from the wrought-iron balconies of pastel-colored buildings, and there were window boxes and urns of bright flowers, decorative trees, stone fountains, and benches. Mollie breathed in the heavenly scents and sights, only half-pretending she wasn’t keeping an eye out for Jeremiah or his skinny cohort.
“You can relax,” she told herself. “It’s just another day on the job.”
She returned to her car without incident. Perhaps Jeremiah had already gone to the luncheon, she thought with a palpable sense of anticipation. Don’t analyze it, she told herself. Just go with it.
The luncheon was being held in a 1920s mansion that had been purchased and restored by a group of south Florida women executives. They’d turned it into an exclusive retreat, with elegant rooms available for public functions, especially those of particular interest to women. Mollie made her way back to the spacious, airy screened porch, where she immediately recognized Griffen’s touch in the mango-colored tablecloths and napkins in an array of vibrant colors. Each of the tables had its own small, perfect orchid in the center. Griffen herself was whirling around getting lunch pulled together, but caught Mollie’s eye long enough to give her a cautionary look. Which could only mean Jeremiah had arrived.
Mollie turned, and there he was, casually dressed, a contrast to most of the women drifting in, a mix of professionals and volunteers. Mollie herself had opted for a navy suit, not particularly creative, but it made her feel more brass-tacks and in control.
Jeremiah was studying her with a seriousness that, given the tone of their earlier conversation, she didn’t expect. “Is something wrong? Don’t tell me the thief’s already struck—”
He shook his head. His slate blue shirt brought out all the colors in his eyes, but emphasized the grays. “Your call to Leonardo got me thinking. It hadn’t even occurred to me before—” He inhaled, glancing around them for eavesdroppers. “Mollie, it’s possible I’m the one who’s brought all this down on you. You weren’t even aware of a jewel thief until after you saw me at the Greenaway.”
“But I was already the common denominator—”
“There are two ways of looking at that. One, it’s a coincidence that the thief is capitalizing on after the fact. Two, he deliberately chose events you attended. Either way, he could be using you to get to me.” His intensity charged the air between them. “It’s no more farfetched than considering Leonardo’s enemies.”
“Then the thief would have to know about our past relationship,” Mollie said, trying to get her brain around the complexities of what he was suggesting.
“That’s not an absolute necessity. Again, he could be improvising as he goes along. He’s luring me onto the story—”
“Through Croc?”
“Yes. Then you get involved, and he ups the ante.”
Mollie frowned. “This would mean you have an enemy.”
“Darlin’,” he said dryly, “I have dozens of enemies. I report on crime and corruption in a major American city.”
She nodded, trying not to acknowledge the unsteadiness in her knees. She was aware of women circulating on the porch, glasses clinking, warm laughter, flamingos walking on the sprawling, manicured lawn. It was a perfect day. Warm, sunny, just enough of a breeze.
Jeremiah smiled gently, but his eyes were still intense. “This is still just speculation. I’m just thinking we might be wise to steer clear of each other for the time being. The last thing I’d want is to put you in danger.”
“I hate this,” she said, her throat tight.
Diantha Atwood and Bobbi Tiernay brought George Marcotte over, introducing him. He was in his mid-thirties, a beefy tree-trunk of a man with shaggy, tawny hair and a friendly manner. He wore an expertly tailored suit, although Mollie expected he would have preferred shorts and a T-shirt.
“We were just discussing the jewel thief,” Bobbi Tiernay said. “Mr. Marcotte has agreed to address simple, common-sense ways we can protect ourselves without overreacting.”
Marcotte turned to Mollie. “For the most part, this thief has been non-violent. You were smart not to put up a fight or go after him, Ms. Lavender.”
She shrugged. “It’s not like I had time to think.”
“Which can make recovering from such an incident more difficult. Your mind fills with what might have been, how your fate can turn on the head of a pin.” He was articulate, speaking as a man who’d been in her shoes. “But you trusted your instincts. That’s good. Mr. Tabak,” he said, shifting to Jeremiah. “Have you learned anything you can share with us?”
“Nope. It was only a coincidence I was there on Friday when Mollie was attacked.”
“But you’re investigating this story for the
Tribune,
” Diantha Atwood said.
“Actually, I’m not.”
“No?” She smiled, coolly polite. “Come now, you don’t expect us to believe that.”
Jeremiah regarded her neutrally, but Mollie knew his rude switch had been flipped. He seemed to check himself at the last minute and said only, “That’s not my concern.”
Diantha Atwood’s cheeks colored. She wasn’t one to back down to a reporter. “Then why are you here today?”
“Same reason I was there on Friday. I was invited.”
“By whom, may I ask?”
He winked, the southern charmer replacing the cold, intense reporter. “Sorry, Mrs. Atwood, I never divulge my sources.”
It was a line and they all knew it, but Diantha Atwood laughed. Several other women joined them, and she and her daughter and Marcotte spun off into the crowd. There was a sprinkling of men, mostly decades older than Jeremiah or the speaker, both of whom would have stuck out in any crowd. Mollie leaned toward him. “
Were
you invited?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, which I find curious at the moment. Oops. There’s your friend Griffen. Ah, yes, if eyes could shoot daggers…” He grinned, his earlier seriousness having abated. “Or darts, as the case may be. Griffen’s protective of you, I think.”
“I’m new in town, and I don’t know all the players. She does. She likes to help me negotiate the rapids of Palm Beach society. Um—if we’re to steer clear of each other, I guess we’d better start. Shall I contact you if anything else happens that might be connected with the thief?”
“Yes, but if anything else happens, we won’t be steering clear of each other, sweet pea. I’ll be on you like a burr.”
“A burr, huh?” She tilted her head back, eyeing him, remembering the feel of his mouth on hers not ten years ago now, but just yesterday. “That’s not very sexy.”
He laughed. “That’s the spirit. I like it a lot better when you’re not so pale.”
He wheeled off into the crowd, and Mollie, left to her own devices, found a glass of wine and her table. She was seated with an accounts executive from Tiernay & Jones, who wanted to know all about how Mollie was faring out on her own. Marcotte’s speech was intelligent and even humorous, but she could feel all eyes on her when he mentioned the Gold Coast cat burglar. None of his other victims, apparently, were present.
Even before the applause died down, Jeremiah, Mollie noticed, made his exit. He’d been seated at George Marcotte’s table and probably had used up whatever capacity he had for social chitchat, after, of course, picking the security expert’s brain to his satisfaction. Whatever his relationship to her and the jewel thief story, Mollie had no illusions that this wasn’t a focused, driven man, no matter what he was doing.
As the luncheon guests dispersed, she found Griffen and offered to help clean up. “No, no, you go on,” she said, whisking about in amiable efficiency, dark curls tamely pulled back. “You’ve got your own work to do. I’ll just load everything into my van and hose it down when I get home.”
“Well, lunch was wonderful.”
She smiled. “Thanks. And everyone said so, right?”
“But of course.”
“I noticed Tabak,” she said, noncommittal. “You two didn’t sit at the same table. Last night didn’t go well?”
“Griffen—”
But an attractive, well-dressed older woman interrupted them, frowning. “Excuse me, ladies, have you by any chance found a watch? I seem to have misplaced mine. I slipped it off in the ladies’ lounge while I put on cream for a skin condition…” She sighed, her brow furrowing. “Something distracted me, and I forgot it. When I went back, it was gone. I was hoping someone found it.”
“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Baldwin,” Griffen said, “I haven’t seen it. Do you know my friend Mollie Lavender? Mollie, this is Lucy Baldwin.” Mollie recognized the name of one of the wealthiest year-round residents of Palm Beach, a devoted promoter of the island. “Let me take another look in the ladies’ lounge, just in case.”
Griffen was so gentle and nonthreatening that Lucy Baldwin took no offense. She brightened somewhat. “Thank you, dear, I’d appreciate that.”
While Griffen rechecked the bathroom, Mollie tried to engage Mrs. Baldwin in small talk. One of Griffen’s helpers was scooping up the mango-colored table cloths. Virtually all of the luncheon guests had departed, and George Marcotte, who might or might not be interested in Lucy Baldwin’s missing watch, had also left.
“How long has it been since you took off your watch?” Mollie asked, her hands shaking. Mrs. Baldwin seemed calm, although possibly she hadn’t yet considered her watch could have been stolen rather than simply misplaced.
“Forty minutes, perhaps a bit less, I would say. I didn’t remember it until I got to my car and glanced at my wrist to see the time. I hate to think I lost it. It was a gift from my late husband the Christmas before he died.” Her eyes misted, and she sipped her water. “I hope I’m not becoming forgetful.”
“I can’t imagine that.”
“Do you think it could have been that thief?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.
“I don’t know. Let’s see if Griffen finds anything.”
But she returned empty-handed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see it.”
“Well,” Lucy Baldwin said with a small inhale. “I suppose it’s gone. Perhaps I accidentally threw it into the trash—”
“I checked the trash,” Griffen said.
“This is rather upsetting, isn’t it? I know it’s only a watch…but the sentimental value…I suppose it’s not important…”
Mollie touched the older woman’s arm. “It
is
important, Mrs. Baldwin.”
Something clicked, and she straightened, said, “You’re the one who was robbed at Diantha Atwood’s party the other night. I apologize if I’ve stirred up any disturbing memories for you.”
“Please, don’t worry about me, Mrs. Baldwin. I just want to help you find your watch and make sure it wasn’t this thief the police are after.”
She blanched, and Griffen sent one of her helpers for the manager, who, after a brief search, decided it prudent to contact the police, just in case their clever, opportunistic thief had struck again.
“I quite understand,” Lucy Baldwin said, looking as if she wished she hadn’t mentioned her missing watch.
Griffen quietly resumed her cleanup, and Mollie hung around until the police came. Trying not to be obvious about listening in, she heard enough to realize they weren’t convinced her watch had been stolen—and that it didn’t exactly move their needle if it had been. They suggested Mrs. Baldwin first go home and make sure it wasn’t there and that she’d actually worn it.