Thieves In The Night (19 page)

A sheepish grin curved one side of his mouth, and Jaz felt the Aspen Airways ticket tucked inside his new jean jacket. Sure, he felt like a fool. Still, he’d tried, really tried, to stay away. But he’d made it all the way back to Denver, and he couldn’t stop now. “I’ll take it, Sally.”

* * *

The Lodestar Charity Ball was a formal event, a chance for everybody to dust off the tails and throw on the flash and glitter. Chantal had opted for more shimmer than glitter, in a cerulean blue silk jacquard dress, a little strapless number with a wide sash wrapped around her hips and tied in a flounce above her derriere. A matching bandeau tied around her head with the bow in front. The eight hundred dollars’ worth of chic had been another gift from Elise, and Chantal had vowed it was the last expensive present she would accept.

The party was going gang-busters. Bouquet baskets of peach tulips and purple irises, white carnations and yellow daisies, festooned the lobby and dining room of the Hotel Orleans, spilling over on the buffet tables. The predicted four inches of new powder were falling outside, but spring held its own inside.

“Ms. Cochard?” Lisa and Diane, looking sweet in their semiformals, sidled up to her. Lisa leaned in close to whisper breathlessly, “Is that really Matt Whittaker over there?”

Chantal glanced at the teen idol, drinking champagne and leaning on one of the marble columns. “Yes, Lisa. That’s really Matt Whittaker. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“I’d die!” both girls chorused, clutching their hands and rolling their eyes.

Had she ever been that young? Chantal wondered. The answer came easily: No. At sixteen she’d been running from the law and a life she’d never see again. It had taken ten years, the necklace, and a letter from Paul, but she’d finally outrun her past.

In an act of love Chantal understood now, Paul and her father had decided long ago it was best if they let her go completely. She had been young, with a chance to start over, and they had given it to her. Paul had had to live with his mistake. Chantal hadn’t. Or so they’d thought. Many letters and phone calls had crossed the Atlantic in February. The Cochards were out of shady business, and the world was finally forgetting. Even her father had agreed that too much had been lost on one rainy night, and he was finding it sufficient to battle wits with his legitimate customers.

There had been one other price to pay for her freedom—the love of Jaz—and she was still making those payments every night in her dreams. She didn’t know where he was, but she had memorized the phone number he’d shoved in her pocket.
Washington D.C., General Moore, my name is Jaz Peterson. My name is Jaz . . .

“I promise you won’t die,” she said to the girls. “He’s a nice man. Come on.” She took each of the girls by the hand and felt their fingers close tightly around hers. Some celebrities were approachable and some were not. Fortunately Matt Whittaker was of the former, still young enough and new enough to truly enjoy his fame.

Matt noticed their approach and put on the million-dollar smile. “Hi, Chantal.” The little hands almost crushed her fingers.

“Hi, Matt. By some miracle I found a couple of your fans at the party. Lisa Dunn and Diane Fransen. You
are
fans, aren’t you?” She gave the girls an opening line, knowing the first words were always the hardest.

“Oh, yes.”

“We’ve seen all your movies,” Diane gushed.

“Both of them?” Matt smiled at each of them in turn.

“Oh, yes.
Vagabonds
we saw three times. Didn’t we, Diane?”

“At least three times. And
Into the Sky
twice.”

“
Vagabonds
was my favorite too,” Matt said.

Chantal eased away quietly. Matt might be young, but he had enough moves to get out of the conversation when he was ready. She looked around the dining room and found the boys all lined up at the buffet table, eating as though there were no tomorrow. Pammy and Kathleen were talking with the Palmers and two of their sons. With all her charges entertained, Chantal took a moment to slip into the bar to check on the other guests.

* * *

“Valet parking,” Jaz muttered, and looked down at his plain white shirt, skinny red tie, and black wool slacks. He glanced back at his suit jacket, draped over the jump seat of the Jeep, then up at the tuxedoed valet standing in front of the Hotel Orleans. It was too late to get a tuxedo. He’d have to make do.

He passed the Orleans and ended up parking four blocks away. Walking the first two blocks was easy, and he did it with long, sure strides. The third block slowed him down a bit, and it wasn’t because of the snow sliding under his cowboy boots. The fourth block became an absolute mosey.

He’d told her a week and given her eight, eight of the lousiest weeks of his life. He stopped and shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets, pushing back the panels of his jacket. So what in the hell are you doing here? he asked himself.

Eight weeks of no love and damn little sleep. The dreams had haunted him more than the waking memories. Traveling two thousand miles for a decent night’s sleep was about the feeblest scheme he’d ever had, especially when the plan lacked any guarantees.

So when did love ever come with guarantees? For that matter, when did life ever come with guarantees? Besides, he’d decided two days earlier that it couldn’t get any worse than it already was, even if she kicked him out again.

He brushed the snow off his shoulders and started walking again, concentrating on how he was going to get into the high-class party. Approaching Chantal would have to be winged, one of those seat-of-your-emotional-pants things he’d gotten so good at with her.

Two valets, one doorman. It could have been worse. There could have been an armed guard. It could have been easier. He could have had an engraved invitation.

Then the winds of fate blew him a gift in the form of one of the valets, six feet two inches of dazzling smile and coal-black hair.

“Hi, Peter. Moonlighting?” Jaz hadn’t forgotten a moment, a place, or a name from his time with Chantal.

“Not exactly. O.B.’s donated me for the night,” Peter replied easily. “It’s not all bad, though. They auction off the bachelors later, and I should be good for a grand or—Hey, I remember you.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, the guys and I started a fan club. We were having trouble getting action on Chantal, but you really put some life back in the game.”

Some people really deserved to have their too-perfect faces rearranged, Jaz thought, and this guy was at the top of his list. But breaking the nose of somebody you needed a favor from wasn’t considered a smart move in any crowd.

“Well, I’m running my own action tonight,” he said, “and I need to get in. Can you do it?” He slipped Peter a fifty, figuring the guy’s sizable ego should do the rest. People with the least weight to shove around usually liked to shove it around the most.

“
No problema, amigo
.” Peter pocketed the bill with a flashy smile.

The jerk probably had “bilingual” on his resume, Jaz thought. He refrained from a barrio comeback that would cast doubts on the waiter’s sexual prowess, and said only, “
Gracias.
”

Peter walked over to the doorman and said something to him, then returned after a long minute. “If you’ve got this guy’s twin”—he patted his pocket—“Jerry says you’re in.”

“
No problema, amigo
.” Jaz thumbed another fifty off his roll, handed it to the doorman, and walked in as if he owned the place.

Just inside the door he snapped a white carnation off a bouquet and put it in his lapel buttonhole. Halfway across the lobby he snagged a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter. Then he started cruising.

* * *

Chantal leaned on the bar, “Hi, Rick, I’ll have a soda and lime.”

“The champagne’s free.”

“So’s the soda.” She smiled. “Did the other bartenders at Snaps get tired of your stealing—”

“Déjà vu,” he interrupted, grinning. “No. I’m Snaps’s donation. They’re counting on me to set a new record at the bachelor auction.”

“Good luck. O.B.’s sent three of their hottest numbers over.”

“O.B.’s,” he said with a snort. “Those guys don’t have any class. No style. I’m counting on the good ladies of Aspen to have an appreciation for my subtle charm.”

“Subtle like a freight train,” Chantal teased.

His sea-green eyes lit up like twin candles at her flirtatious comment. “Of course,” he drawled, “I can be had for a lot less . . . by the right lady.” He leaned across the bar and turned up the heat of his charm.

“Save it—”

“—for the out-of-towners. Gotcha.” He flipped a glass in the air and caught it before making her soda and lime.

“Thanks.” Chantal accepted the drink and wandered back into the lobby.

Jaz saw her first, and his heart plunged toward the marble floor, along with every ounce of confidence he’d been building up. Svelteness, femininity, sweet curves, and legs that went all the way. That dress made his mouth go dry and his imagination run wild. She looked like an imported delicacy, pure sensual delight wrapped in a shimmer of blue silk, complete with bows. Had he really held her? Made love to her? Or had it all been a dream?

What his mind doubted, his body remembered, powerfully—every taste, touch, and scent. He turned away to catch his breath, but her image remained. The shape of her mouth, especially the fullness of her lower lip; the slope of her shoulders, especially bare; and her hair, silver-gold and finer than silk, especially as he ran his hands through it when he kissed her. All these things went through his mind while he stared sightlessly at the floor.

“Mr. Peterson?”

Jaz glanced up, and if it was possible, his heart sank even lower. “Ms. Stahl,” he choked out.

“I thought I recognized you. I didn’t realize Chantal had invited you.” There goes a hundred bucks, he thought. “But I’m terribly glad she did.”

Jaz kept his total confusion to himself and lightly grasped her extended hand. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

“I did as you asked, and kept a very close eye on Chantal these last few weeks. Of course, I don’t expect any
official
acknowledgment.” Her tone implied the opposite. “I’m so pleased your investigation was successful. The scandal is awful, but Aspen will survive. We always do.”

Jaz was doing a mental hundred-yard dash, wondering if he could squeeze one more favor out of General Moore. How much could a phone call cost him in the favors department? Certainly not as much as an honorable discharge. That one had ended up costing him his heart. He forced himself not to look around.

“Are you married, Mr. Peterson?” Elise continued.

Coming from his, he hoped, future aunt-in-law, the question threw him. “No,” he managed in a gruff voice.

“Well, then, you really must participate in our bachelor auction. It’s all for charity. We’re spotlighting an orphanage in Denver this year. Some of the little orphans are here.”

“I don’t think so, Ms. Stahl. I’ve seen the competition.”

“Don’t be coy, Mr. Peterson. I’m sure you’ll hold your own. The O.B. boys are here, but only three of them.”

Jaz thought that was a compliment, but he wasn’t sure, so he ignored it. “I’ll be happy to make a donation, but no auction.” He would never, ever recover if Chantal didn’t bid on him, or, worse, bid on one of the O.B. jerks. Lord, was love always like this? Ego-destroying? What had happened to the ever-confident man he used to be?

“I can see I’m going to need some help on this,” Elise said. Her gaze traveled over his shoulder. “Chantal? Dear?” she called. “Would you come over, please?”

Jaz sucked in a breath through his teeth and tried to steel himself, but it was damn near impossible to steel yourself when all your insides were bouncing off one another.

Eleven

Chantal caught Elise’s gesture out of the corner of her eye and was immediately distracted by Lisa and Diane.

“Oh, Ms. Cochard. Matt’s so nice. Thank you so much.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you,” Lisa piped up. The faces of both were flushed, their eyes bright.

“You’re welcome.” Chantal grasped each of their hands in turn and took a step back toward Elise, accidentally bumping into another guest.

“Oops, sorry.”

“Great party.” The woman smiled and moved on.

A really great party, Chantal silently agreed, working her way through the crowd. Three hundred tickets at two hundred dollars apiece had already put them over the last year’s total, and they still had the bachelor auction ahead of them. Roger, of all people, had dreamed up the idea. The O.B. men should be good for a few grand for charity, Chantal mused. Lord knew how much money would change hands privately after the bidding was over. She knew Peter was taking on all comers for the highest bid. Somebody could do that guy a real favor by breaking his nose and making him rely more on what he had inside instead of his looks.

Another O.B. waiter passed her with a tray of empty glasses and gave her a quick update on the champagne supply.

“Rick has another five cases in the bar,” she informed him with a smile, wondering if Peter really had given the competition realistic odds. The outcome of the auction would have tongues wagging for months. The whole party would. Personally, to her it felt like a culmination and a beginning at the same time. She would never abandon the orphanage, but after tonight her contributions would be made out of love, not guilt.
A smart lady like you will be able to find me if you want me.

She took the time to shake one more hand and accept one more round of congratulations before turning to take the last step toward her aunt. “Hi, Elise. She glanced up to include Elise’s conversation partner and the rest of her words floated off in a soundless breath of air. She blinked once, twice, and he was still there, gazing down at her with river-clear eyes, his expression tender and unsure. Good grief! Had she conjured him up out of her thoughts?

“You remember Mr. Peterson, don’t you, Chantal? Of course you do. It was so thoughtful of you to invite him.”