Carla Neggers - White Hot

“Not enough to leave their good stuff in the vault.”

“Have the police landed on any common denominators?”

“Not that they’ve shared with me.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly, and she leaned across her cluttered desk. “Why? Have you?”

But Jeremiah was already on his feet. If he mentioned Mollie, Helen Samuel would eat him alive. Then she’d eat Mollie alive. She wasn’t hard news, but she was a hell of a reporter. “Thanks, Helen. I owe you one.”

She snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Put me in your will.”

Now that Jeremiah was real to her and no longer a ghost of her misguided past, Mollie hoped her nightmares would subside. She buried herself in client meetings and on the phone until mid-afternoon, then headed down to Leonardo’s pool for a long break before tackling another couple hours of work after dinner. Tonight she was staying home. No battered brown pickup for her.

Why, she asked herself for the hundredth time, was Tabak interested in her? What story could he possibly be tracking down that might involve her even in the remotest way? She didn’t even know that many people in Palm Beach.

But two she did know called her from the front gate moments after she’d spread her towel on a lounge chair in the shade. She’d brought her portable phone down with her, just in case an important call she wasn’t expecting came through. If serendipity struck, she didn’t want to miss it.

“Are you lollygagging?” Griffen Welles asked, mock-horrified.

Mollie smiled. She’d met Griffen, an upscale caterer, through Leonardo on a long weekend two years ago, her first real friend in Palm Beach. “Shamelessly.”

“There’s hope for you yet. Your Yankee soul isn’t balking at such decadence?”

“Oh, it’s balking. I’m just ignoring it.”

“Well, hit the gate code and let us in.”

That meant Deegan Tiernay was with her. He was eleven years younger than Griffen, a college senior and the son of Michael Tiernay of Tiernay & Jones Communications in Miami. Instead of doing his internship with his father’s prestigious and very large firm, he’d asked Mollie-after meeting her through Griffen-if she’d take him on. She couldn’t have made as much progress as she had without his ten-hour-a-week contribution.

She punched in the gate code and settled back in her lounge chair, welcoming their company even if she wasn’t entirely comfortable with Griffen and Deegan’s relationship. She’d warned herself to remember that Deegan Tiernay at twenty-one was not herself at twenty. And Griffen Welles was no Jeremiah Tabak.

They joined her at the pool, a paradise of sparkling azure water, terra cotta urns of flowers, a curving terrace scattered with enough chairs and small tables for a throng, and adjoining gardens of flowers, decorative palms, citrus trees, and the biggest bird-of-paradise Mollie had ever seen. She could not even imagine taking care of such a yard by herself. That Leonardo’s gardener could do it in twice-weekly visits amazed her; she never failed to compliment him, and often watched him from her deck, imagining herself with a house and a yard of her own someday.

Griffen whistled, grinning. “You’ve got your shoes off and everything. I’m impressed.”

“I’m working tonight,” Mollie said.

“Of course you are, Ms. Workaholic. I know, I know. One year is all you have before you turn into a pumpkin again.”

Mollie laughed, appreciating Griffen’s irreverence. She was thirty-two, tall and lean, her body all angles and taut muscles and long, thin limbs. Her face was more striking than pretty, framed by masses of dark curls. She wore a long sundress in a deep, dark red that added to her exotic good looks. Deegan, in shorts and a polo shirt, looked eleven years younger, but hardly out of his element. He was blonde, athletic, preppy, and soon to come into a sizable trust fund. His maternal grandmother, Diantha Atwood, was a formidable force in Palm Beach society. If she or his parents disapproved of his choice of internship, they were discreet, kind, and supportive on the few occasions Mollie had encountered them. Deegan claimed he’d learn more working with a newbie publicist who had to do everything herself than with his father’s firm, where he wouldn’t get such diversity of experience. Of course, working with Mollie also conveniently established his own independence and no doubt raised a few eyebrows among the authority figures in his life.

“What about you?” she asked Griffen, who’d immediately kicked off her sandals. “Do you have anything on tonight?”

“A small cocktail party in Boca. Everything’s supposed to be low-fat and ultra-fresh.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I guess it’s a challenge, if I don’t dawdle here too long and have to race around like a maniac. Maybe our cat burglar will make an appearance and liven things up.”

Mollie sat up straight. “Cat burglar? What cat burglar?”

Deegan squatted down beside the pool, scooping up stray impatiens blossoms floating on the water. He cocked a grin at Mollie, his eyes a blue somewhere between that of the sky and the pool. “We’ve got to get you tuned in to Palm Beach gossip. You were at the Greenaway last night. You didn’t know a jewel thief struck?”

She could feel the blood draining from her face and thought, Tabak. “No. I left early.”

“It was in the morning papers,” Griffen said. “It wasn’t a big headline. The papers are still playing this one safe. But local gossip says we’ve got a serious cat burglar on the prowl.”

Deegan got to his feet, flicking the dead, soaked blossoms into the grass. “He swiped a jewel-encrusted salamander out of Marcie Amerson’s Armani jacket pocket last night. Supposedly her insurance company has launched an investigation.”

So that was it, Mollie thought, trying to retain her composure. Jeremiah was on this cat burglar story. That explained why he was at the Greenaway last night. And he had tracked her down this morning for the same reasons he had plopped down next to her towel ten years ago: access, information, a way into a world where he didn’t belong. Then, it was college students. Now, it was Palm Beach society. In both cases, Mollie was an outsider in a unique position. And oblivious.

“Any leads?” she asked.

“Not that anyone’s saying publicly,” Deegan said. The jewel thief, however, didn’t hold his interest. “Mind if I sneak upstairs a minute? I left a few threads dangling. It’ll make work tomorrow easier if I deal with them now. Door’s open?”

Griffen frowned. “I’ve got ten minutes to spare, tops.”

“No problem,” he said, and blew her a kiss. “Mollie?”

“Door’s open,” she said, and he took off at a half-trot, his irrepressible energy making her feel enervated. What was she going to do about Tabak?

Nothing, she told herself. She’d already called his bluff. With any luck, he wouldn’t be back.

“You look preoccupied,” Griffen said. She was at the shallow end of the pool, dipping in her toes. “Perfect. I’m such a baby-I hate cold water. Hey, everything okay?”

“It’s just been one of those days.” Part of her wanted to tell worldly, savvy Griffen everything, but Mollie had become accustomed to keeping her affair with Jeremiah to herself. It wasn’t an easy habit to break. Not even Leonardo, the one person in her life who would understand a mad, doomed affair, knew. Her parents would have understood intellectually, but not in their gut. “Do you really think there’s a jewel thief on the loose?”

She shrugged. “Could be. I’m not worried. I only wear costume jewelry and not much of that. I hate having stuff hanging from my neck and earlobes, especially if it’s heavy. Gets on my nerves.”

“Then our thief’s not likely to make you his next target,” Mollie said, amused.