Manolos in Manhattan (29 page)

Natalie tilted her head to one side. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“We might have been robbed by the cat burglar.”

“Rhys – you’re not serious.” Her eyes widened. “You
are
serious!”

“Go and check your jewel box and see if your earrings and necklace are in there.”

Without another word Natalie turned on her heel, followed by Rhys, and hurried into the bedroom. She pointed to the top shelf of the walk-in closet. “It’s up there.”

Rhys reached up to take it down.

“No, wait!” Natalie cried. “Don’t touch it! What if my jewels really
are
missing? You’ll ruin the fingerprints!”

“Go and get one of my handkerchiefs, then.”

She strode over to his dresser and rummaged in the top drawer until she found a pristine square of white, then handed it to him.

Using the handkerchief, Rhys took the jewel box down, holding it carefully by the edges, and placed it on the bed. “There. Are you ready to have a look inside?”

Nervously, Natalie nodded.

Still using the handkerchief, he lifted the lid of the black enamel box, and they both stared inside.

Natalie’s eyes met his.

Her jewels were gone.

Chapter Fifty

As the police searched the apartment, Natalie made a carafe of coffee and carried it into the living room.

“Here’s coffee, if anyone’s interested,” she called out as she set it down, along with a plate. “I know you lot like doughnuts, but all I have are cookies. Store-bought,” she added apologetically.

“Thanks.” Devon Matthews, whom Rhys had called over straightaway, poured himself a cup and sank down on the sofa across from Natalie and Rhys.

“Sorry to drag you over here after the concert,” Nat said, and offered him the plate. “It was brilliant, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “Now that the first night’s behind her, Christa won’t be quite so nervous.” He declined the cookies and lifted his cup. “Coffee’s all I need right now, thanks.”

“Have the police found anything?” Rhys asked.

Devon shook his head. “Other than a Top Cat bar – which they expected to find ‒ nothing. No prints, no forced entry, burglar alarm fully activated. In other words ‒ classic signs of yet another Manhattan cat burglary.” He paused. “Except...”

“Except what?” Natalie prodded.

“No artwork’s been stolen before. Paintings are harder to conceal and transport, and more difficult to fence...and it’s not this thief’s style. In every instance he’s slipped in, deactivated the alarm, grabbed the jewels, reactivated the alarm, and slipped out, without touching a single painting.”

“Were there paintings in the other places he’s struck?” Rhys questioned.

“Yes, according to the police reports, along with any number of other valuables.” Devon set his cup down on the coffee table. “Our thief likes to travel light. That’s what’s got me puzzled. This burglary doesn’t fit his standard M.O.”

Rhys glanced at him. “So what are you thinking, detective? Is this a copycat burglary, perhaps?”

“Possibly,” Devon conceded, “but I don’t think so. Evidence-wise, everything tonight matches the other cases to a ‘T’ – with the exception of that stolen painting. It’s almost as though two separate burglaries took place in your apartment.”

Natalie blinked. “But that’s not possible, is it?” She leaned forward. “Do you mean to say there might have been
two
burglaries here tonight?”

“Nothing’s impossible. But it’s more likely that the Top Cat robbery happened just before – or after – your father’s painting was stolen.”

“How did they get in?” Rhys demanded. “That’s what
I
don’t understand. This building is secure. The only people who get past the front desk are those on the guest list. Yet you’re telling me it’s possible that not only one, but
two
thieves got into our apartment?”

“Well, with no sign of forced entry,” Devon replied as he stood up, “I’d say that whoever got in tonight had a key.”

“But we haven’t given any keys out!” Natalie exclaimed, and cast a troubled glance at her husband. “Have we, darling?”

“No, of course not.”

“Someone may have made a copy. Where do you keep the keys? Do you hang them on a hook somewhere?”

“We usually throw them on the table by the front door,” Natalie answered, “in a little cloisonné dish.”

“There’s your answer. Someone must’ve taken those keys when you weren’t looking and made a copy of the apartment key.”

His words sent a chill down Natalie’s spine. Who would do such a thing?

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Devon said as he crossed the living room, “I’ll say goodnight.” He glanced back at the forensics team, who’d just finished dusting the apartment for fingerprints. “I’ll suggest the police subpoena the Dunleigh’s guest list – our thief’s name might be on it. There has to be a common thread in all of these cases...the police just haven’t found it yet.”

“Maybe
you
will,” Nat offered. “I hope so.”

“I’ll keep trying. In the meantime, you’re in good hands. Don’t worry, sooner or later, this burglar will make a misstep, and we’ll be ready and waiting when he does.”

Her mobile phone was buzzing.

Holly reached out and – gingerly, as any movement made her head throb – groped for the alarm clock on the nightstand.

It wasn’t there.

Cautiously she opened one eye, wincing at the sunlight streaming into the room through a gap in the curtains. She frowned. They weren’t the nondescript beige curtains she expected to see; these were richly figured gold brocade, drawn back at the sides with gold velvet ties.

Holly, still half-asleep as she recalled her dream, walking down the aisle in a Vera Wang wedding gown with Ciaran, rolled over – right into Ciaran Duncan’s naked body.

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up with a start. She immediately wished she hadn’t. Her head ached and the sunlight pierced her brain like a golden-yellow ice pick.

“You’re awake,” Ciaran murmured, and smiled over at her sleepily. “Not leaving already, are you?”

“No! Yes!” she cried, flustered. She took in Ciaran’s naked torso with wide, panicked eyes. “Oh, my God – did we
sleep
together?”

She remembered leaving the Zeigfeld Theater when the film ended last night, going to an after-party at a private club in SoHo with Ciaran and the film’s producer. The rest was a blank.

“We did. And it was absolutely amazing.” He raised his brow. “Don’t you remember?”

“No, I don’t!” She clutched her head. “I remember leaving the theatre, and drinking champagne, and I sort of remember sitting with you in the back of the limo…” She blushed. “And kissing, but that’s all.”

“Well, as much as I wish we’d made mad, passionate love all night,” Ciaran admitted, “the fact is, we didn’t.”

Holly stared at him in confusion. “We didn’t?”

He shook his head. “No. You had a bit too much to drink at the after-party, so I got you in the limo to take you home. And yes, we kissed once or twice, lovely champagne kisses, and then...you passed out. You’ll notice,” he pointed out, “that you’re still dressed.”

She looked down at herself, surprised – and relieved – to see that she still wore the blue velvet Zac Posen gown from the night before. The only thing missing were her von Karles.

“So we
did
sleep together,” Ciaran confirmed, his expression rueful. “But that’s all we did.”

Her relief vanished as another thought occurred to her. “Oh, shit ‒ Jamie must be frantic! He’s probably called the police by now, and the newspapers, and my
father
—”

“Your
father
?” Ciaran echoed, alarmed. He sat up, his hair disheveled, but still incredibly sexy. “Surely not. Why would he do that?”

“Where’s my phone?” She flung back the covers and dashed, distraught, to the bench at the foot of the bed. “Ciaran! What did I do with my shoes?”

He got up and disappeared into the living room, returning a moment later with her shoes...and her mobile phone. “Here. Call and tell Jamie you’re fine and unravished. Then,” he added as he came up behind her to nuzzle her neck, “Come back to bed, and we can try and salvage our lost night of passion.”

Through the remnants of alcohol fogging her brain, she remembered – arguing with Jamie; flinging her clothes in a suitcase; moving in with Nat and Rhys. Her fiancé wouldn’t know, or care, that she’d spent the night in Ciaran Duncan’s hotel room.

No one would know, only Natalie and Rhys. And they wouldn’t say anything.

Holly hesitated. There was no point in calling Jamie. “I have to go, Ciaran. I can’t stay.”

“Very well.” He sighed and reached for his jeans. “I’ll take you home.”

“No,” Holly said as she thrust her feet into her heels. “I can get a taxi.”

“I won’t hear of it,” he said firmly as he skimmed a black T-shirt over his head. He caught her shoulder and turned her to face him. “Last night was amazing, Holly,” he said, his eyes searching hers, “even if nothing actually happened. Surely you thought so, too? I hope you don’t regret it. I don’t.”

Holly sighed. “No, of course I don’t. You’ve been wonderful, truly. I just wish I
remembered
it.”

“Let me make last night’s lost evening up to you,” Ciaran suggested. “It’s your birthday next Friday, isn’t it? I want to celebrate in style and take you to dinner at Le Cirque.”

“Le
Cirque
? But that place is outrageously expensive,” she protested. “You don’t have to do that. After all, it’s not your fault I drank too much and passed out. And in front of all your Hollywood friends ‒ it’s mortifying.”

“No worries.” He linked his arm through hers and led her to the door. “Besides, they loved you. Your striptease act was the hit of the evening.”

At her stricken expression, he laughed. “I’m kidding. Now, let’s get you home.”

Chapter Fifty-One

As they emerged from the lift and made their way across the St. Regis lobby, Holly glanced over at the King Cole Bar, which was closed at this hour, of course‒

‒and she came to a stop, rooted to the spot in shock.

A couple sat alone at the far end of the bar, their heads together as they laughed and talked in low voices. They looked very cozy, as if they’d known each other for years...

Ciaran looked at her quizzically. “What’s wrong? You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”

Wordlessly she pointed to the bar, and Ciaran’s gaze followed.

He blanched. “Oh, shit, it’s your parents! What the hell are
they
doing here?”

“I don’t know. They were supposed to meet for dinner last night to talk about the store, but...” Holly’s voice trailed away, and she looked at him in dawning horror. “You don’t think that they – spent the
night
here together, do you?”

“Well,” Ciaran said uneasily as he studied them, “it seems likely. And why shouldn’t they?”

“No reason, I suppose. It’s just surprising, since they’ve had...some problems lately.” She didn’t add that one of the “problems” was Coco Welch, and her mum’s conviction that the she-beast was after her husband.

“I need to find out what’s going on.” Holly tucked her clutch firmly under her arm. “And I’ll introduce you to Mum.”

“No,” he said quickly, “I think it better if you don’t. After all, I’ve just
slept
with her daughter, in a manner of speaking…”

“So? I’m not a kid anymore, Ciaran. She knows that. Besides, nothing happened. Come on.” And she grabbed his hand.

“Holly,” Ciaran hissed, panicked, “listen to me! You’re making a very big mistake—”

But Holly didn’t listen. She dragged him along behind her and marched into the King Cole bar, straight up to her parents.

“Mum? Dad? What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Holly?” Cherie turned around on the barstool. Her eyes widened as she took in Holly’s form-fitting, strapless gown – obviously not what one would normally wear on a Sunday morning – then rested accusingly on Ciaran. “I could ask
you
the very same question.”

“Never mind that,” Holly said, refusing to be sidetracked, “are you and Dad...did you...did you spend the night here?”

Her mother’s face turned pink. “We...had dinner last night, that’s all, and I had a trifle too much to drink, and—”

“How – or where - we spent the night is none of your concern, Holly,” Alastair said forbiddingly. “We’re married, if you’d forgotten. And am I to infer,” he went on, his face like granite as he glared at Ciaran, “that you stayed the night here at the St. Regis as well, with this...this
actor
?”

Ciaran cast a quick, panicked glance at Holly and hissed, “Tell them, Holly. Tell them!”

“Tell us what?” Cherie asked. Her hand rose to her mouth. “Oh, Holly –
please
tell me you didn’t sleep with Ciaran.”

Mystified by the strength of her mother’s reaction, Holly met her gaze. “No, I didn’t. Like you, I had too much to drink at Ciaran’s film première last night, and I, erm…” She flushed under her father’s glare “Slept it off in his hotel room.”

Alastair stood. “And how do you know he didn’t take full advantage of the situation, eh?” Even though he spoke to Holly, his eyes locked with Ciaran’s. “He might very well have put something in your drink and ravished you six ways to Sunday whilst you were passed out on his bed!”

“Alastair!” Cherie gasped.

“Dad,” Holly hissed, mortified.

“Mr James,” Ciaran protested angrily, “you go too far.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.” Holly’s voice wobbled with fury as she turned on her father. “Ciaran would never do something like that. How could you even
suggest
it?”

“Mr Duncan is capable of any number of things, I’ve no doubt,” Alastair retorted.

Ciaran stood with his face inches from her father. “I can assure you that drugging a young woman – and having my way with her while she’s unconscious – is not something I’d ever, under any circumstances, do. Nor is it something I’d
need
to do.”

“Ciaran’s right,” Holly agreed, and slipped her arm through his in a gesture of solidarity. “Where he’s concerned, women have no shame. They throw themselves at him on a regular basis.”

“Well,” Alastair said as he grabbed up his keys from the bar and took his wife’s arm, “I’ve no doubt that’s true. And from where I’m standing,” he added as his eyes condemned first Ciaran, then Holly, “I’d say you’ve become one of them.”