White Hot

5

Jeremiah dug through the rubble on his desk for an invitation to a private party before the children’s hospital charity ball that evening. He knew he’d received one. He wasn’t organized, but he had a good memory. He picked through scraps of paper, steno pads started and abandoned, computer diskettes, articles ripped from newspapers and magazines, printouts off the Internet, unread memos from the Trib brass. He had a tendency to let things that didn’t interest him pile up. Periodically he’d decide everything was out of date and sweep it all into his trash can.

Croc’s jewel thief just might consider a private party and one of the big charity balls of the season prime targets. Then again, he hadn’t hit anything that high-profile. Even if the thief didn’t show, Jeremiah figured he could get a sense of how a jewel thief was being received among his potential victims. The papers and police might not be calling the string of stolen and possibly misplaced jewels the work of one thief, but he’d be willing to bet that speculation and rumors were running rampant sixty-five miles to the north.

He wasn’t ready to back out totally and abandon Mollie to Croc’s devices. He wouldn’t write the story, but he damned well wasn’t going to leave it to Croc, aka Blake Wilder, aka an elusive pain.

Since he was already invited, he could show up in Palm Beach, in his own truck, without calling attention to himself.

If he could find the goddamned invitation.

Helen Samuel edged up to his desk. He could see the shocked look on the faces of his fellow reporters. Helen made a practice of avoiding the newsroom and disdained the idea of “investigative” reporters. To her, news was news, and a reporter reported it. She was sipping a watermelon-colored health drink with green flecks, the smell of rancid smoke emanating from her bright orange knit suit. Without so much as a good morning, she said, “My spies tell me you’re on this jewel thief story for personal reasons.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a pretty young publicist from Boston.”

Jeremiah tilted back in his chair and regarded her with an equanimity he didn’t feel. “You mean Mollie Lavender.”

Helen sipped her drink. “I like it when people don’t try to bullshit me. You’re not going to ask how I got her name?”

“Helen, you own every fly from Cocoa Beach to Key West. I’m surprised I had twenty-four hours before you found out.” He paused, considering his options. “Off the record?”

“Sure. What the hell.”

Jeremiah debated how much to tell her; there were a lot of things he’d rather have buzzing around him besides Helen Samuel. If he told too much, she’d buzz. If he told too little, she’d really buzz. “I knew Mollie briefly about ten years ago. A source said she’s one of the common denominators in this jewel thief story.”

“Meaning she was at every party hit,” Helen said, staying with him.

“Right. I checked her out, just in case she’d stumbled into something. She’s only been in town a few months.”

“Five. She set up shop in Leonardo Pascarelli’s guest quarters. He dotes on her.”

Jeremiah had to allow that Helen Samuel was a formidable force in south Florida. She knew everything about everybody and made up none of it. She just didn’t keep much of it secret, either. “I don’t think she knows anything about our jewel thief.”

“You haven’t kept up with her in the past ten years, I take it?”

He didn’t avert his gaze. “No.”

“Part on good terms?”

“No.”

She grinned, leaning toward him. “One day, Tabak, you’re going to bump up against a woman who’ll like nothing better than to hand you your balls on tongs, and you’re going to want her so bad-” She laughed hoarsely. “And when she won’t have you, you’ll hear half the women in Miami let out a cheer at you finally meeting your match.”

“You’re assuming I’m the one who did Mollie wrong. Maybe it was the other way around.”

She shook her head, confident. “It wasn’t.”

Jeremiah decided a change of subject was in order. “Well, that’s all I’ve got. You going to this children’s hospital ball tonight?”

“I’ll pop in. Why? You want to sit at the table with the bigwigs from the paper?”

“I was invited,” he said.

She snorted. “Star reporters. Christ, what a business. In the old days-”

He couldn’t let her get started on the old days. “I’m more interested in the pre-ball private cocktail party. Our thief hasn’t hit any of the big galas. I’m not expecting anything, I’d just like to see what’s what at this kind of event.”

“A party’s a party. You’re just angling to see this Mollie Lavender.”

“Helen-”

She waved a hand. “Forget it, I’m just jerking your chain. If you can’t find your invitation, I wouldn’t worry. I expect our illustrious publisher will pull up an extra chair for his star reporter if you show up.”

Under ordinary circumstances, it would have to be a command performance before he’d sit at a Miami Tribune table at a Palm Beach charity ball, even one benefiting a children’s hospital. Even then, he’d shoot himself in the foot first.

“Be tacky to show up at the pre-ball private party and skip the main event,” Helen said.

He gave her a deadpan look. “I wouldn’t want to do anything tacky.”

“You’re so full of shit, Tabak. Keep me posted on Mollie Lavender.”

She withdrew with her green-flecked pink drink.

Jeremiah debated calling to see about putting a billboard up on 95 saying he’d slept with Mollie, just to get it over with. Or sending an e-mail around the Trib staff. Yes, it’s true. I slept with Leonardo Pascarelli’s flute-playing goddaughter ten years ago.

But, in a strange way, he trusted Helen to keep her mouth shut, at least for now.

So he focused on the task at hand, which was finding the damned invitation. He dragged his wastebasket over and dug in with both hands. Because he tended to throw things away prematurely, he didn’t deposit organic matter, or allow anyone else to deposit organic matter, in his wastebasket.

Gold lettering? Cream-colored paper?

This story was getting complicated, not from a professional standpoint-he wasn’t writing it-but from a social one. One way or the other, by the time his little jewel thief mystery was solved or he gave it up, he figured he was going to end up having to buy a suit.

He spotted the invitation six inches from the bottom. Holding back the rest of the trash with one arm, he fished it out and dropped it onto his desk. Yes, he had one hell of a memory. Cocktails at six in the Starlight Room of the Palm Beach Sands Hotel, then on to the ball.

He sat back, pleased with himself. Then he noticed the fine print.

The gig was black-tie.

There was no way out of it. He was going to have to buy that damned suit. It was two o’clock. That gave him two hours, no more, before he had to hit the interstate north.

“Hell,” he said through clenched teeth, and lurched to his feet. He rushed out in such a way that eyes widened, and he knew his compatriots at the Trib thought that Jeremiah Tabak, star investigative reporter, was following up a hot lead, not heading out in search of a suit.

The pink bedroom was where Mollie always stayed when she visited Leonardo, and she knew exactly which dress she wanted to wear. The champagne silk. She’d tried it on two years ago on a visit and already knew it fit. She brought over shoes, stockings, makeup, hairpins, and three possible pairs of earrings and necklaces and spread them out on the big, canopied bed. Dressing in Leonardo’s house was almost as good as having him with her. His gaudy, eclectic taste permeated every room, making his presence almost palpable. She knew he would try to get her to wear the fiery red dress. She’d feel like a hooker, or a doomed heroine from one of his favorite operas.

The champagne dress was perfect. Simple lines, a not-too-low neck. And she had shoes to go with it.

She admired herself in a gilt-edged three-way mirror in the huge, spotless pink bathroom. Yep. Perfect. A pity she had to do her own makeup and hair.

It took three tries with her hair, but finally she had it up and staying put. The makeup was easier. With such a pale dress, a soft touch worked fine.

But none of her earrings and necklaces worked at all.

She frowned, already knowing she was tempted. She’d been tempted the second Leonardo had made his offer.

She didn’t quite remember the story of the diamond-and-ruby necklace. It was dramatic, wrenching, and involved at least two women, both of whom still claimed to love and adore Leonardo. He had two locked, alarm-equipped closets for his valuables, but he left the necklace in a velvet box in the top drawer of the tall dresser in the pink bedroom, exactly where a cat burglar would look, as if he were setting up the fitting end to its story of woe.

“Only you, Leonardo,” Mollie muttered, and dug out the velvet box.

The necklace was even prettier than she remembered. A cluster of diamonds and rubies on a mid-length, thin gold chain. Not as ostentatious as it could have been, true, but nothing she’d ever buy for herself. She tried it on. The pendant licked the top edge of her bodice. It was irresistible.

And if Leonardo had one role in her life, it was to tell her not to resist.

She wouldn’t even bother with earrings. The necklace was enough. Feeling decadent, glamorous, a little like Cinderella off to her ball, Mollie locked up and headed out to Leonardo’s Jaguar. Chet Farnsworth, her astronaut-turned-jazz-pianist client, and his wife had invited her to sit with them at their table at the ball. Diantha Atwood, Deegan’s grandmother, had invited her to her annual pre-ball cocktail party. Actually, Mollie assumed Deegan had put her up to it.

The Palm Beach Sands Hotel was, appropriately, on the water, a sprawling resort of beach, tennis courts, pools, golf course, glittering elegance, and everything else anyone weary of a northern winter could want in a Florida vacation. Mollie left her car with a valet and found her way to the mezzanine level and the Starlight Room. As princess-like as she felt, she realized she wouldn’t have cared if she’d shown up in the reliable, classic black dress she’d worn to formals for the past five years. Her parents’ influence, she supposed.

“Well, well.” Jeremiah’s voice, low, deliberate, and close. “Tempting our jewel thief, I see.”

She spun around, almost landing on top of him. He was as dark and devastating in black-tie as he was in chinos, and it was all she could do to keep herself from gasping. “You mean this?” She fingered the teardrop-shaped cluster of diamond and rubies. “I borrowed it from Leonardo on a whim. I don’t even know if it’s real.”

“Uh-huh.” He laid on the drawl, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see guests coming up the escalators, recognizing him, raising eyebrows. Jeremiah, however, had his own gaze pinned on her. “But you knew it’d be a temptation.”

“That’s silly. It has a firm clasp, and I assure you, it’s not leaving my neck until I put it back in its little velvet box.” She tried to ignore the flicker of awareness in his eyes, the hot jolt of the memory of him removing a necklace from her neck one warm winter night. “I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight.”

“Neither did I.” He relaxed only slightly. “I’ve owned this suit for three whole hours. Bennie hemmed it for me. He’s a retired tailor in my building, claims he hemmed suits for every mayor of New York from the Depression through the opening of the new Yankee Stadium. But,” he added, “don’t let me keep you if you’re meeting someone.”

Her only someone was a retired astronaut with a crew cut and a special talent for jazz, and not until the ball. She wished, suddenly and fervently, that she’d scrounged up a date for the evening, just to throw Tabak off. Because he knew damned well there was no man in her life.

“You’re not keeping me,” she said tightly. “But perhaps we should go in and mingle before people start wondering if there’s more between us than meets the eye.”

He leaned toward her, half-whispered, “There is, darlin’. Lots more.”

“There was. There isn’t anymore. And you, Jeremiah, have more outright audacity than anyone I’ve ever known. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She started off, stopped, and turned back. “Oh, and enjoy hunting your thief tonight. I know that’s why you’re here.”

He withdrew a gold-on-cream invitation from his dinner jacket. “I was invited.”

With an unprincess-like snort, Mollie whirled back around and gave her own invitation to a man posted at the door to the Starlight Room. Inside, Diantha Atwood’s party was in full swing. Guests wandered among a dozen small hors d’oeuvres tables and an open bar, waiters carried trays of champagne, and a harpist plucked out a pretty, soothing melody. Huge windows overlooked an ocean so calm as to be lake-like, mirroring the cloudless sky and drawing strollers to its beaches.

Mollie swept a glass of champagne from a tray and smiled pleasantly at people she didn’t know. Her parents would have found somewhere to sit and listen to the harpist, dissecting the music, unaware that anyone might consider them rude or eccentric. As she sipped her champagne, Mollie suddenly felt as if she were caught between two identities, each vying for her submission. The musicians’ daughter who hovered on the fringes of a world she’d given up, and the successful young Palm Beach entrepreneur who couldn’t afford her own designer dresses and expensive jewelry.

Except she was neither, and Jeremiah’s presence seemed to accentuate that awareness of who she was, and wasn’t, and didn’t want to be.

She could sense his eyes on her. She resisted the urge to guzzle her champagne. She already felt a little dizzy, a little out of control, a little too aware of the hard, impossible man across the room, watching her, not giving a damn that he was distracting her and making her drink her champagne too fast.

Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer and marched over to him. “You’ve your nerve, you know, Tabak?”

He laughed, unembarrassed. “A necessary evil of the profession. No nerve, no story. Enjoying yourself?”

“Not with you watching me like a hawk.”

“You noticed? I thought I was being subtle.” Even he didn’t believe subtlety was in his bag of tricks. “Planning on getting used to Leonardo Pascarelli’s lifestyle? Borrowing his ex-girlfriend’s jewelry, driving his car, living in his house, getting invited to his parties.”

“Leonardo didn’t get me invited tonight. I happen to know Mrs. Atwood myself. And I wouldn’t care if I weren’t invited.” She swallowed more champagne, a mistake. “And if you must know, I’d prefer to have my own little car and my own little house somewhere. Just because I’m Leonardo Pascarelli’s goddaughter doesn’t mean-” She stopped abruptly, fingers tensing on her glass as she digested Jeremiah’s real meaning. “You think I could be the jewel thief!”

“Do I?”

She kept her voice to a low hiss, out of range of any of Palm Beach’s notorious gossipmongers. “I won’t be able to afford my current lifestyle in another seven months. Ergo, I could lower myself to stealing. That’s what you think.”

He shrugged, calm, unrepentant. “Interesting theory.”

“It’s not interesting, it’s ridiculous. Damn you, Jeremiah, I’m no jewel thief!”

“If you are,” he said in that deep, rough, exaggerated drawl, “it sure will be fun catching you.”

Before she could respond, Griffen and Deegan cruised up. Mollie hadn’t seen them arrive and wondered how much of her exchange with Jeremiah they’d witnessed. She saw amusement dance in his eyes, the light of the chandeliers bringing out the flecks of gold. She turned to her intern and friend. “My, don’t you both look dashing tonight.”

They did, Griffen in a sparkling white dress that accentuated her dark curls and angular figure, Deegan in black-tie, looking not older than twenty-one, but, somehow, younger. Mollie quickly introduced them to Jeremiah, trying to sound as if she’d just met the Miami reporter herself. “We were just chatting,” she added inadequately when she noticed the spark of curiosity in Griffen’s dark eyes. “Are you two staying for the ball?”

“Oh, no,” Griffen said. “We’re just making an appearance to please Granny.”

Deegan grinned at her irreverence, and Mollie explained to Jeremiah that Diantha Atwood, Palm Beach widow and hostess extraordinaire, was Deegan’s grandmother. “His parents,” she added, “are Michael and Bobbi Tiernay who are…where?”

“Right behind you,” Griffen whispered, nudging her with her elbow.

And Deegan’s grandmother with them. Just what I need, Mollie thought, noticing that Jeremiah was showing no sign of removing himself to the bar or anywhere else. Michael Tiernay, a trim, gray-haired, pleasant man, was drinking a martini, his wife hanging on his arm. Her son had inherited his looks from her. She was a striking, golden-eyed woman, wearing a tasteful dress and spectacular jewelry. Diantha Atwood, Bobbi’s mother, was even smaller and thinner, her blondish hair swept into an elegant, timeless style. She’d had various lifts and tucks and wore understated cosmetics, but there was no mistaking the high price and authenticity of the jewelry she wore. Setting the tone, no doubt, for others not to be intimidated by a potential cat burglar in their midst.

“Jeremiah Tabak,” Diantha Atwood said, sparing Mollie the need to make introductions. She smiled, playing the hostess game to the hilt. “What a coup to have you here tonight.”

“Sorry I didn’t RSVP.”

It was a crack, and Diantha knew it. “I’d never expect a reporter to let me know anything, Mr. Tabak. I see you’ve met my daughter and her husband, and my grandson, Deegan. Deegan, darling, how are you?” She offered her cheek, and he gave her a quick peck, squeezing her hand. “And Griffen. How nice to see you. I’m surprised you have an evening free at this time of year.”

“I kept it free,” Griffen replied, no hint of sarcasm in her tone. She believed-and Mollie suspected she was right-that neither Deegan’s parents nor his grandmother approved of her relationship with their son and grandson. But they’d never openly voice such disapproval.

Bobbi Tiernay turned to Jeremiah, whose eyes looked about to glaze over. “Griffen is a caterer much in demand.”

“Mollie,” Diantha Atwood continued smoothly, “I didn’t see you. Don’t you look lovely tonight.”

Mollie was half-tempted to tell her where she’d gotten her outfit; from the sudden humor in Jeremiah’s expression, she guessed he knew what she was thinking. She smiled politely. “Thank you.”

“How’s business?” Michael Tiernay asked cheerfully, apparently oblivious, or simply choosing to ignore, the frosty undertones of the conversation.

Relieved to have the distraction, Mollie engaged him in a pleasant conversation about business. That he conducted his from a glass building in Boca Raton and she conducted hers from the living room of Leonardo’s guest quarters made no difference to her, nor, it seemed, to him. They dragged Deegan into the conversation, but he wasn’t the least bit awkward talking shop with his father. Mollie was well aware that Michael Tiernay considered his son’s choice of internship something of a rebellion, and maybe it was. Maybe, when he finished his semester with her, Deegan would return to the fold and take his place at Tiernay & Jones. But that didn’t mean either Tiernay disrespected the work she did. She might be a small fish, but they swam in the same pond.

And Jeremiah, she noticed, drifted to the bar with Griffen on his heels. She would seize any excuse to make her exit from her boyfriend’s family, not to mention check out a man she’d caught talking to her friend, the new girl in town. Mollie felt a faint stab of uneasiness. It wasn’t beyond Tabak to grill Griffen about her friend the publicist, who wore borrowed dresses to attend fancy parties and just might be bored or desperate enough to help herself to other people’s jewels.

Damn him, she thought. He didn’t really believe she was his jewel thief. He was just throwing her off-or letting her throw herself off-for the hell of it, in case she started encroaching on his turf.

She remembered their tantalizing kiss yesterday on the beach. He wouldn’t want her getting too close, either. She’d proved a near-fatal distraction once. He wouldn’t want that to happen again.

Nothing would be allowed to come between him and his work.

Griffen caught her eye from the bar, registering her suspicion that there was more to Mollie’s relationship with the Trib reporter than a chance meeting at Granny Atwood’s party.

Which meant Tabak was, indeed, grilling her.

“Relentless bastard,” she muttered under her breath, and excused herself.

Griffen slid in beside her, martini in hand. “Okay, you and Tabak. Tell me all.”

“Oh, I knew him a million years ago. I just ran into him. Why?”

“I know sparks flying when I see sparks flying. Comes from too much time at a stove, I suppose. I don’t know as I’ve seen him at any parties like this. I wonder why tonight.”

“The Tribune has a table at the ball.”

“And that old prune Atwood invited him because she’d love to have a respected journalist to show off. Especially one as sexy as Tabak is.” Griffen eyed her friend, her mass of curls gleaming, softening the angles of her face. “You sure there’s nothing between you two?”

“I’m positive.”

Griffen grinned suddenly, a devilish glint in her dark eyes. “Mm, well, I’d say he’s not. I think the man has the hots for you. Who can blame him with you in a getup like that. It’s not Leonardo’s. He wouldn’t fit.”

“You are so bad, Griffen. It was left by an old girlfriend.”

“The necklace, too?”

“I guess so. I feel weird wearing it.”

“You would, but keep it on. You take anything off for half a second, and our cat burglar pounces. Crafty bastard, isn’t he? Think he’s around tonight?” She paused, then realization dawned, and she clapped her hands together. “That’s it. Tabak’s here because of the robberies.”

“Griffen, shh. Maybe not everyone’s heard about the thief.”

“Are you kidding? This is Palm Beach. Everybody knows what I served at last night’s party down to the fresh raspberries. They’re going to know about a jewel thief on the prowl. I wouldn’t have thought that was Tabak’s kind of story, but you never know.” She frowned, considering. “But don’t worry. I still think he has the hots for you.”

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.