Manolos in Manhattan (33 page)

“Maybe. But surely you or Rhys would have seen him with Chaz before now.”

Holly shook her head. “This is
Ian
, Nat. He stays well clear of D&J. I’ve never once seen him ‒ until today, when I walked by that coffee shop and saw him sitting with Chaz.”

“Yes,” Natalie agreed, her words grim. “And thank goodness you did.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

It was late in the day when Natalie returned to the Dunleigh with an armload of shopping bags. She was about to press the lift button when she heard her name called out across the lobby.

She turned around. “Mr Holland. Hello.”

“Hello, my dear. Here, let me help you with those.”

She relinquished two of the carrier bags to him in gratitude and preceded him into the lift. “Thanks. I ought to have one of those shopping carts, the kind elderly women use. It’d make my life much simpler.”

“It would,” he agreed, “but they aren’t very stylish, are they?”

“No.” She pressed the button for the fifth floor and eyed him curiously. “What have you been up to?”

“Taking my daily walk. I left it a bit late today.”

“Ah. Busy?” she said with a sympathetic smile.

“Always.” He sighed. “I retired years ago, but running the co-op keeps me occupied. The paperwork never ends.”

Natalie hesitated. “Forgive me for asking, but is there a Mrs Holland?”

His shook his head. “Regrettably, no. She passed away two years ago. I miss her very much.”

“I’m sorry. That must be difficult.”

“It is. You never quite get used to being alone after being married for so many years. But you carry on. What else can one do?”

“That’s just the sort of thing Sir Richard would say.”

“Indeed? Well, your grandfather is a very wise man.”

“He is.” The doors slid open to the fifth floor and Natalie stepped off. “Thanks for your help. I can take those bags from you now.”

“Nonsense,” he said firmly. “At least allow me to put your things inside the door. You’ll never manage otherwise.”

“That’s very kind.” Natalie led the way to her apartment and paused outside the door to retrieve her key. “We were robbed just the other night, you know. The police think it was the cat burglar.”

“Yes, I read about it in the papers. I’m very sorry. I can’t imagine how a thief managed to get into your apartment – our building’s quite secure, or so I thought.”

She inserted her key in the lock and the door swung open. “The police think someone made a copy of the key. My jewels were stolen. My father’s portrait’s gone missing, too.”

“Most unfortunate.” Mr Holland shook his head as he handed her shopping bags over. “This burglar’s getting bolder, it seems.”

“Devon doesn’t think the cat burglar stole the painting. He’s convinced there were two separate burglaries.”

“Devon?”

“Sorry. Devon Matthews. He’s Christa’s boyfriend – you know, the pop singer I told you about? He’s also a detective sergeant with the CID in London.”

“Indeed,” he murmured thoughtfully. “How very lucky for you and Rhys to have him on the case.”

“He’s not on the case – not officially, anyway. But he’s helping the police. He’s certain there’s a link between the two burglaries.”

“He sounds very intrepid.”

“He is. And he’s determined to catch the cat burglar. Won’t you come in?” Natalie invited as she tucked the last of the bags aside and set her purse and keys down on the hall table. “I have lemon cake on offer.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I’m afraid I have to pass. Another time, perhaps?”

She nodded. “Of course. Thanks again for your help.”

Natalie closed the door after him and made her way down the hall. Although the painters were gone, the smell of paint still lingered, and she sneezed.

“Natalie? Is that you?” Gavin appeared around the corner, tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Hello,” she said, startled. “I didn’t realize you were here. How did you get in?”

She remembered Devon’s words.

Someone must’ve taken those keys when you weren’t looking and made a copy of the apartment key.

But Gavin would
never
do something like that.

Would he?

“One of the painting crew let me in,” he replied. “They just left. I stopped by to check their progress. I’m glad I caught you before I left. Come back and see the nursery,” he invited. “I hope you like it.”

In the doorway to the baby’s room, Natalie stopped next to Gavin and let out a soft, disbelieving breath. The walls, once beige, were now painted a deep, inviting gray and trimmed with white. The rug Gavin had chosen lay on the floor, its swirls of yellow and gray and black perfectly complimenting the walls.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, stepping into the room. “I love it.”

“Once we get the furniture in and install the window fittings, it’ll be a nursery worthy of
Architectural Digest
, mark my words.” He withdrew a Top Cat bar from his blazer pocket and offered her half.

“Oh, no, thanks.”
He’s got a Top Cat bar
, she thought.
Just like the burglar
. “I…had a big lunch.”

But lots of people eat those candy bars
, she reminded herself.
After all, I eat them, too.
Rhys brought me one not so long ago
.

“Suit yourself.” Gavin broke off the last square and popped it in his mouth, then handed the wrapper to her. “Throw that out for me, sweetie? Thanks. Well, I’m off. I’ll be back on Thursday to oversee the installation of those shades.”

“Thanks, Gavin. It looks lovely.”

As she let him out the front door and returned to the living room, Natalie glanced at the bare patch of wall where her father’s portrait had been. Funny, she’d never paid much attention to the painting before.

But now that it was gone, she missed it.

There was no question that Roger Dashwood had let her mother – and all of them – down, and more than once. Still, he’d done his best, she supposed. Natalie sighed.

She tried very hard to remember him, not as the husband who’d cheated on Mum or the workaholic who was rarely home, but as the father who took her and her sister Caro to the cinema, who never let a birthday pass without throwing a lavish party and showering his daughters with attention – at least for one day – and piles of extravagant presents.

Now his portrait was gone, probably for good...all because of a bloody burglar who’d broken into their bloody
home
and stolen it right off the wall.

She looked down at the crumpled Top Cat wrapper in her hand, then balled it up in sudden fury and flung it into the nearest wastebasket.

She never wanted to see another Top Cat bar again.

Christa came home late that afternoon and deposited several carrier bags on the kitchen table. “That’s my shopping done,” she announced smugly, and took off her sunglasses and removed the Yankees baseball cap she’d borrowed from Devon.

He looked up from his perch at the kitchen counter. “What’d you buy?”

“Gourmet goodies from Dean and Deluca, Georgetown Cupcakes for dessert, dishcloths from Sur la Table, and two pair of trousers from Uniqlo.”

“Did anyone recognize you?”

She shook her head and pulled out a container of tabbouleh and one of pasta salad. “Not with my cap and sunnies on. You know New Yorkers. Even if they recognize you they pretend they don’t. What’ve you been up to?”

“I went out for a bit. I convinced the police to subpoena the guest list for every apartment building that’s been hit by the cat burglar.” He indicated the papers strewn all over the table. “I’m going over them now.”

She paused, a jar of artichokes in hand. “Why? What are you looking for?”

“A connection. Something – or someone – that the burglaries have in common.” He frowned. “There’s got to be something. I just have to figure out what it is.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

The week passed quickly. Between clearing out the rest of the stuff in the attic at work and moving her stuff to Chaz’s place, Friday arrived all too soon. Holly was far too busy to notice that she hadn’t heard from Ciaran.

At least she
tried
not to dwell on his silence. But he was all she thought about.

He’d promised to take her to Le Cirque on her birthday. And when he’d taken her home from the St. Regis last Sunday, he said he’d call her.

So why hadn’t he?

Holly slumped back in her chair, feeling tired and cranky and desperately in need of a long, hot bubble bath. Today was her birthday, and not only hadn’t Ciaran called, he hadn’t even sent flowers, or a card.

Her desk phone rang. “Yes, Dad?” she said listlessly.

“Can you come down to my office, please? I have a few things I need you to copy. Coco’s busy with something else.”

Holly sighed. “Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Typical Coco
, she thought as she got up and made her way down the hall to her father’s office,
always ‘busy with something else,’ always getting out of the dirty work and dumping it on
moi...

She opened the door to her father’s office, wondering why it was so dim inside, when the lights went on behind her and a chorus of voices called out “Happy birthday!”

Holly blinked. On Alastair’s conference table a large sheet cake waited, lit with twenty-four flickering candles. A stack of plates and cups stood next to a punch bowl. A banner stretched across the office proclaimed “HAPPY BIRTHDAY HOLLY” in large pink letters.

Everyone – her father, Cherie, the sales clerks, Hugh, even Coco – crowded behind her dad’s desk, waiting expectantly for her reaction.

Holly was touched that they’d remembered her birthday and gone to all this trouble for her.

She just wished – she felt her throat tighten – she just wished that Ciaran had remembered, too.

“Wow...thank you all!” she said, and managed to smile. “This is great!”

“Are you surprised?” Clara, the lingerie department manager, inquired.

“Totally,” Holly assured her. “You have no idea.”

When the candles were blown out and the cake was cut, Holly took a couple of bites and pushed her plate away. “Delicious,” she told her father as she stood up to go. “Thanks, everyone.”

She was already halfway down the hall when Hugh caught up to her. “Miss James?”

Holly stopped and turned around. “Yes?”

He paused. “I have a feeling that you’re one of those people – like myself – who doesn’t much like surprises.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, but nodded instead.

“I tried to tell Coco to keep things low-key, but she insisted on throwing that damned surprise party. I hope,” he added as he searched her face, “I hope you’re not upset.”

His concern, coupled with the fact that he was the only one who’d noticed her unhappiness, added to the fact that she’d heard nothing from Ciaran, was Holly’s undoing. She felt a tear trickle down her face, then another, and she turned away so he wouldn’t see her crying.

“Come in here,” Hugh said, and gently took her arm.

He drew her into an empty office and shut the door behind them. “It’s all right,” he said, “you can stay in here as long as you like. I’ll see that no one bothers you.”

He moved to open the door and leave, but Holly reached out and caught at his arm. “No, don’t go,” she whispered. “Please...”

His arms came awkwardly around her as she cried on his shoulder. He didn’t murmur soothing words, or say “there, there,” or pat her on the back. He just let her cry, and waited as all the hurt and confusion she’d experienced over the film star came out in quiet, shuddery sobs.

“It’s Ciaran,” she said at last, lifting her tear-stained face up to his.

“I rather thought it might be.”

“We slept together,” she admitted, “last Saturday night. That’s all we did ‒ nothing happened,” she hastened to add. “I had too much champagne and slept it off in Ciaran’s hotel room.” She couldn’t look at Hugh. “He was very nice about it, very understanding, but I haven’t...I haven’t heard from him since. Not a phone call, n-nothing.”

As she began to weep once again, Hugh held her close. “Well,” he said eventually, “I won’t say I told you so. I’m sorry, Holly. But I’m not surprised.”

She looked up. “You should be happy,” she said bitterly. “You were right. Ciaran Duncan is a lying skunk. He only wanted to g-get me in bed. And he did. But since nothing actually happened…” she took a deep, shuddery breath. “I’m afraid he’s lost all interest in me.”

“You’re very lucky that nothing
did
happen,” Hugh said, his face grim. “You wouldn’t have heard from him again, in any case.” He paused. “And just for the record,” he added quietly, “I’m not happy to be proved right. I’m very sorry, Holly.”

She stepped back, embarrassed. “Thanks,” she mumbled. She sniffled. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Your shoulder’s damp.”

“It’s all right,” he replied, equally uncomfortable. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “Are you ready to go back out and face everyone now?”

She blew her nose and nodded. “I think so. Thanks for being so...understanding.”

Just then the door was thrust open. “Hugh, have you seen Holly anywhere? Oh.” Alastair came to a stop as he saw his daughter, her eyes puffy from crying. His glance flickered from Hugh to Holly. “Is everything all right? What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” she told him quickly. “I was a little overwhelmed by the surprise party, that’s all.” She went over and put her arms around her father’s neck. “You know me, always a drama queen. Thanks for the party, it was sweet of you.”

“It was Coco’s idea.”

“Were you surprised, Holly?” Coco appeared behind Alastair, and her brow lifted slightly as she saw Hugh. “I told your father how fond we all are of you here at Dashwood and James.” She smiled at him sweetly. “We couldn’t let his daughter’s birthday pass without celebrating, could we?”

“No, of course not,” Holly muttered.
What a cow
. She brushed past Coco and headed for the door. “Thanks again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have copies to make.”

“Holly, wait.”

Cherie hurried up behind her. “Are you all right, darling?” she asked as her eyes searched Holly’s face. “You’re obviously upset. What’s happened?”