Hidden Gems (15 page)

“And how mortifying was that?”

“I had a very good time.” He’d taken her parents out to dinner and a show. Parents always loved him, sometimes more than their daughters. That hadn’t pained him all that much till now.

“Sure you did,” Marissa said. “My mom loved you because you’re genuine and funny and my dad was almost giddy with relief because I had a man who’d protect me without having sex with me.”

“Ha, guess I blew that.”

“What Papi doesn’t know…”

Jamie frowned. “But I want him to know. I want everyone to know.” He wanted to literally shout it from the rooftops. He loved Marissa and she—

Was still thinking of him as a temporary port in the storm.

“Don’t go there,” she mumbled, leaning her cheek on his chest.

“Then tell me about the first time you had sex.” He wanted to say fell in love. Bad idea.

She was silent. On the big round cushion, Sally whimpered and paddled her feet. “Chasing Frisbees,” Jamie said.

Marissa’s head cocked. “Do you know what a quinceanera is?”

“Something to do with fruit and sex?”

“Good guess.” She twined their arms, locked their fingers. “But wrong, except in my case, perhaps. A quince party is a Cuban tradition, a debut of sorts on a girl’s fifteenth birthday. The entry to womanhood.” She kissed his knuckles. “I, unfortunately, took the meaning literally.”

“What did you do?”

“Ditched the party early. We had it in our backyard, folding tables among the rose bushes and vegetable garden. There were strings of paper lanterns. Huge trays of black beans and rice, papas rellanas and pastelitos. Music by somebody’s cousin’s mariachi band. Cackling relatives and “uncles” who patted my ass when they weren’t cheating at dominoes. I swiped a bottle of rum and ran off with the neighbor boy who was visiting from his first semester at Florida State.”

“You have a thing for neighbor boys, huh?”

“Hmm, yes. This one was just old enough to seem cool and adult to a girl who couldn’t wait to shake the dust of the barrio off her heels.”

Behind his closed lids, Jamie saw her dancing, twirling, lifting her party skirt to flash long bare legs.

“We went to the beach to skinny-dip. Afterward, I jumped Jose in the sand, behind some rocks. I just wanted to do it—get it over with. But he must have learned his technique at drunken frat parties because the sex was bad. Really bad.”

Now he saw her hugging herself on a rock-strewn beach, trying to look blasé about her disillusionment. “Damn,” he said, reaching over to stroke her back. “Teenage boys don’t know what they’re doing.”

“No big deal.” She caught his hand and tucked it beneath her chin. “What about you? How was your first time?”

“Uh…”

“You probably studied up before you did it. Learned all the positions, memorized diagrams of female anatomy—”

He laughed. “No diagrams. I wasn’t that big a dork.”

“So how old were you?”

“This is embarrassing. Nineteen. My first real girlfriend, freshman year of college. We were both virgins, so if we did it badly we didn’t know the difference.”

“Really? I thought kids in suburbs do it like bunnies, breaking out the booze and weed, having wild orgies while their parents are at work.”

“I was too shy. And clean. After my dad died, Mom was on her own and she took the job of raising us very seriously. She went to a drug prevention class and was vigilant about keeping an eye out for signs of bad behavior. She even checked the levels in the bottles of cough syrup and tubes of model-toy glue.”

“My dad was worse.”

“You were lucky to have him.”

“I know. Lucky and cursed. But I shouldn’t complain.” She sighed. “Do you still miss your father?”

“It’s been a long time. The memories have faded. It’s not missing him as much as it is now and then running up against the realization that there’ll always be a hole in my life.”

In the Wilson family, Jamie was the youngest son, thirteen when his father had succumbed to cancer. With his older siblings at after-school jobs or extracurricular activities, he’d been charged with babysitting his sister, Amy, who was four years younger. They were still close. He’d taken Marissa to Amy’s wedding only last year. He hadn’t minded that everyone had presumed Marissa was his girlfriend. Since then, every time he talked to his mother, she asked after Marissa, hoping for an announcement even though he’d ’fessed up that they were only friends.

Only friends. He hated that phrase.

“You’ll be a great dad,” Marrisa said, with a catch in her voice.

“Yeah, I’m going to make some woman very happy.”

He stopped and waited to see what she’d say about that.

She cleared her throat with a short cough. “Some woman, hm?”

He gave her a one-armed hug. “You’re some kind of woman, Marissa Suarez.” He kissed her hair. “You smell like strawberries,” he said. “And sesame noodles.” They’d ordered in.

“It’s my new scent. Eau de takeout.” She snuffled against his neck. “You smell like sex.”

“Yeah, I’m a rutting beast.”

“Pah. You’re a sweetheart and I want you to know that I do love you.” Her face was scrunched by the effort of grappling with her words. “I—I just don’t know if I can promise to love love you. It’s too—” she swallowed “—too soon for that.”

“When will it be not too soon?”

“That’s impossible to say.”

“Okay. We’ll let it ride.”

She shook her head. “That’s horrible for you. Sorry.” Her head continued wagging back and forth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Don’t feel too bad for me. I’ll take my compensations in the meantime.”

“I do have to go to work.”

“Damn, so no keeping you barefoot and naked?”

She called up a slightly melancholy smile. “Meet you here for a lunchtime quickie.”

Jamie’s thoughts were going in another direction. “How’s it been at work? Has Paul bothered you?”

“I reassured him that I had no intention of bringing our personal issues into the office.” Marissa moved restlessly. “But he’s still acting funny. Always watching me. Fortunately, we’re not working together on any of our cases, so I can avoid him quite easily.”

“Still, you’re concerned.”

“Well, yes. There’s probably been executive washroom talk. But I’ll get past it.”

“Sure. You’re a warrior. You can get past anything.”

Jamie found little comfort for himself in that. Although it was nice having no worries that Marissa would be tempted to forgive Paul, he also had to acknowledge that when a relationship was over for her, it was over.

She saw black and white, good and bad, right and wrong.

And once she’d made up her mind about ending a relationship, she never looked back.

“Don’t even try to follow the lawyerly gobbledygook,” she advised. “Most of them have no other life to talk about. They’ll be thrilled to hear about your job. The spouses, especially.”

“Oh, I’m to be shunted off with the other wives?”

“That’s sexist.” She smirked. “In so many ways.”

He tugged on the network of spaghetti straps crisscrossed over the almost backless rear view of her little black cocktail number. “Call me a chauvinist, but I can’t wait to unlace you from this dress.”

She wiggled her shoulders. “Be good.”

“You like me better when I’m bad.”

He was teasing. Yet there was also a lot of truth in the statement. She seemed to get especially passionate when other emotions spilled over into the lovemaking. But only allowable emotions. They were stuck at Go. A nice place to linger, but not to build a life on.

Marissa nudged Jamie. “Talk about bad. There he is.”

Paul Beckwith looked debonair in one of his sharp suits with a silver tie. Jamie had unearthed his suit from the back of the closet and promised Marissa sexual favors if she’d iron out the wrinkles.

He made a low sound in his throat, watching Paul circulate like a shark. Licensed to schmooze.

“Just stay away from him, okay?” Marissa asked. “I can’t have trouble at this party. Not even a raised voice.”

“Fine. But you stay away, too.”

“That should be easy. I’ve been avoiding him in the office all week.” She hitched up her shoulders. “Into the fray.”

Jamie took her hand as they walked down the steps into the party. There were about sixteen guests. Avoiding Paul entirely might not be possible. Too bad. Jamie had to admit he was itching for a confrontation. The past few days had been uneventful. He’d had nothing to take charge of, but nothing had been resolved, either.

They were approached by one of the partners. “Who’s this?” the older man asked after greeting Marissa, working his bushy brows and mustache into a skeptical furor.

“Mr. Schnitzer, this is Jamie Wilson. He’s an arts critic for the Village Observer. Jamie, Bill Schnitzer, senior partner.” And serial overbiller, she’d once confided.

“Arts, hmm?” The man sounded as if he were confronting a plate of squid tentacles. “How does that pay?”

“In dollars,” Jamie said, then coughed when Marissa stepped on his toe. “Exceedingly badly, sir.”

“Heh,” Schnitzer said, which was as much of a laugh as he seemed capable of. Marissa looked pleased.

They moved on. Jamie proceeded to discuss the movie version of Rent with Josephine Schnitzer, was licked up and down by Chelsea Howard’s toy poodle and promised impossible-to-get theater tickets to her husband, who was in the doghouse after forgetting his wife’s twenty-fifth birthday.

“Here,” Marissa said, handing Jamie a glass of wine and a napkin wrapped around a slice of salmon and sprig of dill on pumpernickel. “You’ve earned it.”

“I did good.”

“Getting Frenched by a poodle is above and beyond.” She risked a quick kiss. “You’ve become my most valuable asset.”

“Behind every great woman is a guy who knows how to suck up.”

“I take back what I said about you being a sexist. I think maybe you’re my favorite man in the whole wide world.”

His eyes flickered up and down her. “The feeling’s mutual.”

She moved closer, running her fingers over his hand in a teasing dance.

“How soon before we can get out of here?” he whispered.

“We haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Any chance of a quickie in a closet?”

“Only if you want to kill my chances of ever making partner.”

Heaven forfend. “Then can we play footsie under the table?”

“I’ll bet Chelsea is switching place cards as we speak. You made a conquest.”

“She’s married to her grandpa, what do you expect?”

“Shh. They’re going in to dinner.”

He squeezed her hand, holding her back from joining the others. “Now’s our chance to slip out.”

“You know I can’t.”

“No, of course not.” She had no problem committing to her job. Only to him.

She winked. “But maybe we can leave a little early.”

“And miss the senior partner’s ethics lecture?” Jamie had spent a few minutes with the somewhat pompous Thomas Howard. While he admired the man for recognizing Marissa’s value, Jamie couldn’t see how she expected to conform to the firm’s rigid expectations forever. She respected authority figures, but would never be a Stepford lawyer, obediently toeing the company line.

Legs like hers were made for kicking up a fuss.

ALLARD’S TIME HAD COME. Tonight, the White Star would be his.

Each day without her had been a torment. Never knowing with absolute certainty that she was safe, always standing guard. At times he’d questioned his objectivity. The money, after all, was supposed to be his motivation. Riches beyond his wildest dreams. The amulet was only a means to that end.

But it wasn’t the money that called to him.

It was the White Star. She was in his blood—powerful, seductive, endlessly fascinating.

His employer had grown increasingly agitated with the wait. “Bring me the amulet,” he’d ordered.

Allard had recoiled at the man’s assumption of authority. He had agreed to the job, yes, but he worked alone. In darkness and shadow, beholden to no one.

La Souri Noire, came the whisper. His father’s voice.

“I will finish it,” Allard vowed. One million euros. A hundred times—a thousand times!—his father’s best haul.

His confidence surged. Even the common thug who’d botched his own burglary hadn’t prevented Allard’s destiny—only delayed it.

Although he now had a copy of the keys to Marissa’s apartment, and had her schedule down pat, he’d delayed until she was out for the evening to make his move. The wait was worth the familiarity he felt when using the cover of darkness, relying on no disguise but his skill at slipping in and out unseen.

He stood at Marissa’s door, caressing it with his fingertips as he listened for sounds from within.

Silence. As planned, he could safely let himself in, assured that the blonde who’d unexpectedly answered his token knock on his first attempt to raid the apartment was long gone.

There was only the White Star. So close now.

The copy of the first key worked smoothly, but the second stuck. He jiggled it, keeping a tight hold of his calm. There would be no more mistakes.

A creak sounded at the other end of the narrow hallway that ran along the stairwell leading upstairs. Allard’s blood froze. Was it a floorboard? The opening of a door?

He didn’t react, not wanting to appear startled. For all anyone knew, he was invited—a roommate, a brother, a lover, a friend. Acting surreptitiously would only make him stand out.

But he was no longer as composed. A firm twist got the key unstuck and he felt the bolt slide open. With the quickest of glances over his shoulder, he stepped inside and shut the door with a gentle click.

He’d been spotted! The nosy old crone next door had stuck her head into the hall.

Allard breathed deeply, trying to quiet his racing heart. No matter, he told himself. He was safe inside, silent and still in the darkness. He needed only seconds to retrieve the amulet and be on his way.

His eyes narrowed, tracing the layout of the apartment, meticulously planning his route even though it was blatantly apparent. He clung to the walls, gliding silently in the direction of the bedroom.

Almost there. He knelt at the foot of the bed and reached underneath for the suitcase.

Suddenly the damned cat attacked, slashing a paw at him from out of the dark, narrow space below the bed.

With a curse, Allard withdrew, propelling himself backward across the carpet. Where had the spiteful beast gone?

He looked for it, searching the corners, the top of the bed. Not a creature stirred. Except the mouse.

There was no time to hesitate. He put a hand over his head and crawled forward again. He’d grasped the handle of the bag and was pulling it toward himself when the cat let out a vicious yowl and leaped at him from above.

Needle-sharp claws bit into his face. He roared with pain and fury, flailing at the stiff, arched cat. It screeched and attacked again. Fur crackled with electricity. His skin tore. Desperately he gripped the lean, twisting body in his hands and flung the feline aside.

The cat landed with a thump and immediately scurried back under the bed.

Allard was stunned. His breathing was loud and harsh in the suddenly silent room.

The doorbell rang. A frantic pounding followed. “I’ve called the police,” a female voice screeched. “They’re on the way!”

Cringing, Allard fumbled once more for the suitcase.

The pocket was empty.

He swore, running his hands over every crevice. Nothing. The amulet had been removed.

The door rattled beneath the busybody’s fist. Bang, bang.

Too much racket. He couldn’t think. His vision was dimmed by blood and perspiration.

How could the amulet be gone? Every instinct said that Marissa hadn’t found the treasure.

Perhaps it had fallen out. Warily, he reached beneath the bed, feeling through assorted items.

The cat hissed a warning and he jerked his hand away before it pounced. Now there were sirens in the distance.

Allard staggered to his feet. He wrenched at the iron bars over the window. No escape that way.

Though he was loathe to give up in spite of the cat, he saw no choice through the shock and pain and fear. He darted out of the room, one hand going for the knife in his pocket.

The sour, stinging tang of blood was on his tongue. It tasted like defeat.

MARISSA WAS LEAVING the powder room when she saw Paul disappear into a room farther along the hall. “What’s this about?” he asked in a brooding tone, then shut the door before she heard the reply.

Typical, she thought, forgetting that she and Jamie had joked about ducking away themselves. Paul’s date was a painfully skinny blonde who worked in advertising and had tried to run a focus group at the dinner table. Her voice pierced Marissa’s eardrum like needle-nose pliers to the brain.

Low murmuring was coming from inside the room. Marissa crept closer. It would be even more typical if Paul had worked an assignation with another woman into his evening. What a creep.

She pressed her ear to the door.

“I have everything under control,” Paul said from the other side, except that he didn’t sound as confident as usual.

The responding voice was male, more distant, so she couldn’t tell who it was with any certainty. Perhaps Bradley Coffman? It was his house, after all.

Paul again. “No, I haven’t been dodging. Just setting up the final details. There was no trouble in the Caymans. None at all.”

Ah. Marissa backed away. Paul was being called on the carpet by one of the partners. While her unexpected departure might have thrown a monkey wrench in his schedule, she doubted that it would have caused him any significant trouble. Granted, he’d been worried what she’d seen of his late-night meeting. But what trouble could she cause? A client was a client, unless…

The client was a shady client.

How egocentric she’d been, thinking that Paul had been concerned with her! What he’d really cared about was being fingered for…for what?

She didn’t believe the partners would knowingly engage in illegal doings. Paul might, especially if he was under the gun to keep his clients happy.

What had he been doing in the Caymans? Was that why he’d been so adamant about keeping her out of the way? Then coaxing her, almost threatening her…

The camera, she thought, remembering it lying broken on the floor, the film exposed.

The photos. She’d assumed they’d concerned Paul because she’d caught his indiscretion with the bimbo on film. But maybe not.

She wanted to return to eavesdropping to see if she could pick up a name, but Jamie called to her. “There you are.” He came closer. “Do you think it’s too early to go? They’ve finished with dessert.”

“Yes, let’s go.” She hurriedly pulled him away before Paul heard them. “I’ve had an epiphany,” she whispered, “but we can’t talk about it here.”

“An epiphany about us?” he asked hopefully.

She wanted to say yes, if only to see the joy in his face. But she couldn’t.

“About the burglary.” She looked for the Coffmans, finding only their hostess, and thanked her for the lovely evening.

Minutes later, she and Jamie were in a cab heading south. “It’s the photos!” she said excitedly. “That’s what the burglar wanted.”