White Hot (10 page)

Deegan joined them, sparing Mollie an answer. He said, “I’d hate to go through a hurricane with you two. You’d abandon me in a flash to save your own skins. I just managed to escape with Mother hounding me about pacing myself so I don’t come down with mono.” He grinned, unperturbed by anything his mother might say to him. “Gran’s invited me to lunch. I expect I’m going to get the lecture about sowing my wild oats and then settling down.”

“They hate me,” Griffen said, matter of fact.

“They don’t hate you,” Deegan said, “they just find you ‘unsuitable.’ ”

“Well, we’ve made our appearance. Another pass at the hors d’ouevres and we’re out of here. Mollie?”

But suddenly eager to be alone, she wished them well and slipped off to the ladies’ room to see if she still recognized herself in the mirror and regroup. If Jeremiah stayed through the entire ball, she was going to have to figure out a way to cope—or an excuse to leave early.

The ladies’ lounge was down the hall and then off to the left, down another hall with stairs, two elevators, and another smaller function room. Mollie sank into a brocade chair in the sitting room of the lounge, with its fresh flowers in a tall Delft-style urn and scented potpourri in heart-shaped china bowls. She avoided her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. A borrowed dress, a borrowed necklace, a borrowed house. Even a bit of a borrowed life.
Was
she getting sucked into Leonardo’s posh lifestyle?

No. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone with her choice of outfit. She was having fun, exercising a little Yankee frugality, being expedient. Leonardo would be pleased she was enjoying his necklace with its tortured history.

Jeremiah had unsettled her, eroded her confidence about the choices she’d made. He probed, dug, threw people off balance, ever in anticipation of anyone and everyone betraying their sorriest side. No rose-colored glasses for Jeremiah Tabak. He saw people right on, undiluted. And he’d learned to expect the worst.

But Mollie knew she was drawn to that intensity and clarity. If he had no illusions about the human flaws in others, he had none, either, about those in himself. With him, even a decade ago, she’d felt no need to apologize for her own doubts and weaknesses, but simply to be herself, which had—she hated to admit it—also allowed her to really see herself for the first time.

Of course, now he wouldn’t put it past her to swipe other people’s jewelry.

An open mind. Right.

“He’s an exhausting man,” she said half-aloud, the lounge empty as she got to her feet. She washed her hands and dried them on an individual finger towel, the light reflecting off every gem in her necklace. Crazy to wear it. But fun. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Yes, she could handle Tabak, and Diantha Atwood, and the Tiernays.

She headed back out into the corridor. It was quiet. Guests would be starting to make their way to the ballroom one level up. She could hang in for the evening, Mollie told herself. In for a penny, in for a pound.

The elevator dinged behind her, but she didn’t bother to look around.

As she made the turn down the hall to the Atwood party, she heard a footstep behind her, assumed someone had gotten off the elevator. She started to glance around, but felt something at her neck, a feathery touch. Creepy. A fly, something. She went to brush it off, but felt something pulling at the loose hairs at the back of her neck, then her necklace yanked up hard against her throat.

A gloved hand.

The thief. He was
there,
just behind her.

In a single, vicious yank, he snapped the thin gold chain of her necklace.

Choking, a fiery pain at her throat, Mollie sank to her knees. She could hear the thief running back toward the elevators and stairs, hardly making a sound.

Her stomach lurched, and she screamed.

6

A
woman’s scream silenced Diantha Atwood’s party.

Mollie.

Jeremiah knew it in his gut. A collective gasp went through the party. Guests looked around, momentarily paralyzed. Jeremiah cast aside his drink and ran out into the hall ahead of anyone else.

Up to his left, a gleam of champagne silk and pale hair. He swore under his breath, realized she’d sunk to the floor, collapsed against the wall. She held a hand to her neck, trembling.

In two seconds he was there, kneeling beside her. “Mollie—honey, are you all right? Let me see.”

“He’s gone.” Her voice was shaky, her skin ghostly. “Down the stairs, I think. I tried to chase him…”

“Sweetheart, let me see your neck.”

“The bastard,” she said, squeezing back tears.

Jeremiah touched her hand gently, and she lifted it from her neck. Blood. Not a lot. Her diamond and ruby necklace was gone. The thief must have ripped it right off her neck, leaving a fiery, stinging rope burn where the gold chain had cut into her skin.

She attempted a smile. “I’m okay. He just grabbed the necklace and ran. It happened so fast…”

“Don’t try to talk now.”

“Bastard,” she whispered, and Jeremiah knew she meant the thief. Her neck must hurt like hell, and there’d be a bruise. But he hadn’t strangled her, knifed her, shot her, carried her off into the night.

Still, Jeremiah could feel the blackness coming into his eyes. She removed her hand from the raw streak along her neck. Her palm was smeared with blood. Another weak attempt at a smile. She would, he knew, be embarrassed at making a scene. This wasn’t her turf, her people. With a bunch of crazy musicians, she’d have felt free to scream, curse, cry, go after the guy, do whatever she damned pleased.

She sank her head back against the wall, thick locks of hair dislodging from their pins. “Really. It’s just a scratch.”

She shut her eyes, and Jeremiah could see her willing control over herself, fighting back nausea, shock, fear. People were rushing up the corridor. Someone was yelling for security, the manager, the police.

And Jeremiah remembered Croc’s words.
I think this thing could get dangerous.

A warning? Or a threat?

And here was Mollie, their only common denominator, Croc’s only lead, once again in the thick of things.

“The thief,” he said. “Did you see him?”

She shook her head, wincing. “He grabbed the necklace from behind. He just snapped it and ran off.” She gulped in air, her face, if possible, even paler. “I felt the brush of his hand. I think he was wearing gloves.”

She shivered, visibly steeling herself against shaking as more people gathered round. Jeremiah stayed close to her. “It’s over now, Mollie. You can explain later.”

Her eyes, clear and so blue, focused on him, reminded him that he needed to take great care not to underestimate her. “Am I looking a bit green at the gills?”

He smiled. “More than a bit.”

“I’d hate to throw up,” she said dryly. “Then I’d feel like a
real
idiot. It’s bad enough as it is. No one else who was robbed screamed bloody murder.”

“No one else was physically attacked.”

A thickset hotel security man in a nondescript navy suit materialized at Jeremiah’s side, two doormen and the hotel manager coming up fast behind him. The manager—in his mid-forties, good-looking, well-dressed—calmly urged guests to return to the Starlight Room or move on to the ball. The security man spoke into a walkie-talkie, supervising a thorough search of the hotel and grounds, the protocol of handling a robbery on the premises quickly and efficiently kicking into gear.

Tiny Diantha Atwood inserted herself into the discussion. She spoke firmly, graciously to the manager, requesting to be kept advised of all developments. Despite her pleasant tone, Jeremiah detected a hint of disapproval directed at Mollie. He wasn’t sure which was her greater social error: screaming, or getting robbed in the first place.

The walkie-talkie crackled with news that the search had so far turned up nothing.

“This thief seems to disappear with ease,” Jeremiah said, and added, just to be provocative, to separate himself from the rest of the crowd, “Maybe you should consider searching the guests.”

The hotel manager blanched. Diantha Atwood inhaled sharply, lips thinning as she glared at Jeremiah, as if she’d forgotten he really was a reporter, not just a coup for her party. “That’s out of the question.”

Of course it was. But Jeremiah didn’t regret his comment. He’d served notice that the hotel, and the police when they arrived, ought to consider that they might have a thief among the black-tie crowd, not just some thug scampering through the shrubbery to make good his escape. He figured part of his job was to probe, push, goad. Do what had to be done, short of breaking the law and violating journalistic ethics, to get to the truth.

But Mollie was frowning at him, and he expected she knew what he was up to. This new-found ability she had to guess what was on his mind was a little disconcerting, but also quite intriguing. No gullible twenty-year-old was she.

The police arrived, and Jeremiah withdrew to let them take Mollie’s statement. He had no intention of discussing his interest in the jewel thief, or how it had come about, with them. First chance he got, he’d check his police sources for what they had. He noticed that Mollie had perked up. She was still pale and shaky, but she was on her feet and spoke in a clear, calm voice to the detective. Jeremiah wasn’t planning to go far. He wondered if she knew that.

A few stragglers remained at the Atwood party, the indomitable hostess and her daughter and son-in-law reassuring them that Mollie was just fine. “She was startled,” Bobbi Tiernay said, “that’s why she screamed.”

Startled? She was attacked from behind. She’d had her damned necklace yanked off her. Who the hell wouldn’t have screamed bloody murder? Mollie, however, was the new publicist in town and therefore vulnerable to taking the blame for ruining a pleasant evening of drinks and small talk.

Jeremiah reminded himself that no one there was accustomed to what amounted to a mugging occurring under their noses. Bobbi Tiernay, like most of the others, would want some way to make herself feel less vulnerable. So, blame the victim. A Cary Grant-type jewel thief on the loose was one thing. They could all have fun with that. But Cary Grant never drew blood.

“You’re going to be late for the ball,” Diantha Atwood told him.

Jeremiah decided he’d rather be boiled in oil, staked to an ant hill, and shot in the ass than sit through a Palm Beach charity ball, even one for a good cause. He’d start to twitch even before the salads were served.

“Or are you going to play reporter?” she asked coolly. “I noticed you were the first to reach Mollie. You have excellent reflexes.”

Play reporter. As if he could click his instincts on and off again. As if he had no idea of the responsibility to the community his role as a journalist entailed. He didn’t like the attack on Mollie, its daring nature or its violence. He especially didn’t like the fact that its victim was Mollie. But to Diantha Atwood, it was a black mark on her party, a social awkwardness to be smoothed over and forgotten.

Don’t get ahead of the facts, he warned himself. The woman could be as shaken as anyone else by the sour turn of events and was just acting out of her own shock and fear.

“I’ve offended you,” she said, her eyes steady on him. “Please, forgive me.”

“Not to worry.” He gave her a wink. “I’ve been accused of worse than playing at my job. Thanks for the party.”

“Are you going to write this for the
Tribune?
”

“Conflict of interest,” he said, and headed out, hoping she believed his conflict arose from having been a guest at her party and wasn’t guessing at his relationship with her grandson’s boss.

The police and hotel people were still gathered around Mollie in the hall. Jeremiah walked the other way and looked over the balcony down at the main lobby. Lots of flowers and polished brass, a fountain, soft chairs and couches, marbled floors and thick carpets, men in tuxedos and women in long dresses arriving for the charity ball. Even Jeremiah, who was looking, couldn’t tell a hunt for a jewel thief was taking place.

He stiffened, all but fell off the damned balcony. There, planted on a cushiony loveseat like he owned the place, was Croc. He had his skinny legs stretched out, his ankles crossed, and his hands clasped behind his head as he watched an elegant couple pass in front of him.

If Jeremiah had had a rock, he might have dropped it on Croc’s head.

As if reading his mind, Croc glanced up at the balcony, grinned, and waved. Jeremiah’s grip tightened on the polished brass rail. He pried his fingers loose and took the escalator two steps at a time down to the lobby. He’d probably have jumped over the rail except he didn’t want to draw the cops’ attention.

“Yo, Tabak,” Croc said when Jeremiah dropped onto the loveseat next to him. “Cozy, huh? Nice place, although I’m not crazy about the flower arrangement over by the fountain. Too New England. You know? This is Palm Beach. People want glitter and ostentation.”

Ostentation? “Croc, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Watching the festivities.” He folded his hands on his middle; he had not one ounce of fat to spare. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black sneakers, and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but clean. If he had a diamond-and-ruby necklace on him, it would have to cause a noticeable bulge somewhere. “You should have seen them shuffling to get the cops in here without a lot of fanfare. Very discreet. I was impressed.”

“Then you know about the attack on Mollie Lavender?”

“Yep.”

“You’re the cops haven’t hauled you in as a suspect.”

“That’s not luck, Tabak, that’s skill. How’s she doing?”

Jeremiah glanced up at the mezzanine. All he needed was an enterprising police officer to take a peek down into the lobby and see a
Miami Tribune
reporter talking to an obvious informant. The cops would pounce. “She’s shaken up, but not seriously hurt. You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

Croc shrugged. “I’m just sitting here, minding my own business, hearing what I hear.”