White Hot (13 page)

“You had the story last night?”

“Of course. Just think, Tabak, you and I could have written the same story at the same time.” She gave a hoarse laugh. “Scares the shit out of you, doesn’t it?”

“We’d have come at this thing from different angles,” he said.

“I’m not so sure about that. You think Mollie Lavender is in the thick of this cat burglar/jewel thief business, and so do I.” She settled back in her chair, her coral lipstick bleeding into the tiny vertical lines in her upper lip; she wasn’t beautiful or young, and her chain-smoking had taken its toll in wrinkles and skin texture, but she was, Jeremiah thought, a handsome and complex woman, and more astute than he’d ever realized. She said calmly, “How hard have you fallen for her?”

He bit off a sigh. “Helen, Jesus.”

“Okay. Here’s the way it is, Tabak. We’re living in a celebrity culture. You’re damned near a celebrity reporter, which should be an oxymoron, but isn’t. So. That means if you get involved with a flaky arts and entertainment publicist who also happens to be the only goddaughter of a world-famous opera singer, people are going to notice, and they’re going to want to know more.”

“It’s none of anyone’s damned business.”

“Doesn’t matter. And if she turns out to be a jewel thief, you’re in the middle of a scandal. If you withheld information from the public, your goose as a credible reporter is, as we say, cooked.”

“For one thing, not that I need to explain to you or anyone else, what I have isn’t solid—”

“You were
there
last night, Tabak.”

He ignored her. “For another, I’m not in a position to withhold anything from the public. It would be a conflict of interest for me to write this story.”

“That’s what I was going to say in my column.” She held the fresh cigarette tight in one hand. “But that’s too damned subtle. I’ve been at this job a long time, and I’m smelling a scandal. My advice—not that you’re asking—is to pass the baton and bow out.”

“Let someone else do the story,” Jeremiah said.

“That’s right.”

He sighed.

“I know, I know.” She tucked the unlit cigarette on her lower lip. “You’re not
on
the freaking story. This is personal, between you and Mollie Lavender. Well, keep in mind it could cost you your credibility. And that’s your stock in trade, my boy.”

“Thanks for the lecture.”

“You’re welcome.” She dragged out a lighter and fired it up, her moves almost ritualistic as she lit her cigarette, inhaled, and blew out a cloud of smoke. “You didn’t risk coming down here and getting tongues wagging just to hear me lecture you on maintaining your reputation. What’s up?”

“You’ve followed this jewel thief probably even more closely than I have.”

“Right from the beginning. I’m not a Johnny Come Lately.”

“Okay. Last night’s attack—” Jeremiah paused, past knowing if he was making any sense. He studied Helen, the cursor blinking obnoxiously on her monitor, her old cigarette burned out, her new one angled rakishly between her middle finger and forefinger. “It’s either our thief getting violent and even more daring—”

“Or it’s someone else. A copycat of sorts.”

“What are your sources telling you?”

She tilted her head back, eyeing him through lowered, blackened eyelashes, debating whether she needed to tell him, a colleague who for eighteen years had hardly given her the time of day, anything. Finally, she said, “Nothing. Not one damn thing. And I’m only telling you because you’re not doing this story. Silence,” she added, raising her cigarette to her lips, “can be very intriguing.”

“Helen—”

“I’ve got a deadline, Tabak, and an empty paragraph to fill where I should be telling my readers that you and Leonardo Pascarelli’s goddaughter are the talk of the town.”

Jeremiah glared at her. “We’re not.”

“You will be,” she said, and swiveled around to her monitor.

Dismissed, he headed out of her office and kept walking until he reached the parking garage. He sat in his truck. There were times he wondered why he hadn’t just stayed in the Everglades with his father. This was one of them. He could have been a guide, a loner like his father, except by choice rather than by the cruelty of fate. His mother had been snatched from husband and young son by a deadly cancer that had moved fast and furiously. In Jeremiah’s experience, true love—the kind of love his parents had had for each other—couldn’t last, was doomed by its own perfection.

He remembered sitting out on the still, shallow water not far from home, swatting mosquitoes, thinking that if his parents had loved each other less, his mother might have been allowed to live. The tortured logic of a twelve-year-old. But it had stuck, and on nights such as this, when sleep had eluded him for too long and answers lay outside his grasp, he couldn’t escape that one great fear of loving someone so much that it simply couldn’t last.

He started up his truck and drove back to his building. The old guys had all gone in for the night, no eighty-year-old insomniac up whittling. Jeremiah went upstairs, got his knife, and came back down. He found a small piece of discarded wood and sat on one of the cheap lounge chairs, imagining his father alone at his isolated outpost, listening to the Everglades night as he smoked his pipe and whittled until the wee hours, perhaps thinking of the woman he’d loved and lost, perhaps not.

Mollie slid into a booth in a corner of the posh Fort Lauderdale jazz club where Chet Farnsworth, her astronaut-turned-pianist client, was playing for a late Sunday afternoon crowd. Not much of a crowd, actually. And those who were there were mostly elderly, not that Chet, a true pro, would care. He was grateful for the opportunity to play and an audience who connected with his music. Mollie had promised to attend as a show of support and for her own research, to help her better understand his particular needs as a client and how she could best address them as his publicist.

She’d already offered an apology for not making the charity ball, which Chet had received with a complete lack of grace, barking at her for even thinking she needed to explain.

Appreciating the quiet atmosphere of the club, Mollie ordered a non-alcoholic margarita. No one could rip any jewelry off her this evening because she wasn’t wearing any. She’d slipped on a simple navy silk dress and inexpensive silver earrings. When she’d finally caught up with Leonardo, he had, of course, offered to fly immediately to Miami to be with her. And he’d given her until tonight to call her parents. As for the necklace—“good riddance,” he said.

Chet gave her a quick wave from the baby grand piano. He was as at home there, she thought, as aboard a spacecraft. An astronaut taking up jazz piano as a second career would be a challenge for any publicist, but one with Chet’s curt personality made it that much more interesting. He wasn’t unfriendly, she’d learned, so much as self-contained and disciplined—a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly. Her personal experience with eccentric musicians gave her insight and credibility that another publicist might have lacked.

But ultimately, Chet Farnsworth had to be good. And he was. His outward self-control and rigidity, his crew cut and ubiquitous coat and tie, made his audience expect the precision of his playing, but not the heart. At the piano, he allowed people a peek into the soul of a man who’d been to the moon and back, whose unique view of himself and his place in the world his music somehow communicated. Mollie listened from her dark corner, mesmerized.

When she finally became aware of her surroundings again, she noticed the crowd had picked up. Chet seemed to be having a good time, although it was hard to tell with a man of his control. He was the consummate professional, impossible to rattle. He caught her eye, and she smiled her approval, but he frowned and pointed.

She turned in her chair, and there was Jeremiah at the bar.

Chet had taken it upon himself to warn her about Tabak, having heard, of course, that Jeremiah had run to her side after the attack. He knew about single-minded, driven men, he said. He’d been one himself. “You should have no illusions about Jeremiah Tabak, Mollie.”

He was sipping a martini, and he wasn’t watching Chet at the piano. He was watching her. Her reaction was immediate and intense, and so unexpected she couldn’t stop it before it took on a momentum of its own. Her body turned liquid. It was as if she were melting into the floor. Chet’s music, the dark, sexy atmosphere of the jazz club in contrast to the bright, sunny day, and Jeremiah—his unsettling mix of hard edges and casual ease—all came together to assault her senses, her nerves. If she had even guessed he might be here, she could have prepared herself, steeled herself against just such a reaction. As it was, there could be no more denying that he had the same effect on her now as he’d had when she was twenty, that nothing had changed.

He knew she’d spotted him. He tilted his glass to her in a mock salute and drank. She attempted a cool smile. He climbed off the bar stool and walked toward her. He wore a black canvas shirt and pants, and the dim light reflected every color in his eyes. She noticed the few flecks of gray in his close-cropped black hair as he slid into the booth opposite her. He’d been only twenty-six himself ten years ago. Not so old.

“Afternoon,” he said.

“I take it this isn’t a coincidence.”

He sipped his martini, smiled over the rim of the glass. “You don’t think I’m out on a Sunday afternoon to hear an astronaut play jazz?”

“Did you follow me here?”

“No need. I saw Chet in the
Trib
’s listing of weekend events and figured you’d be here, good publicist that you are. Also, you’re too stubborn to stay home.”

“I stayed home yesterday,” she said.

He smiled. “I rest my case. I see you skipped the fancy jewelry. How’s your neck?”

Mollie ran one finger along the rim of her empty glass. “Healing nicely, thank you. It only hurts when I touch it. All considered, I was lucky.”

His gaze settled on her. In the background, Chet segued into a mournful piece. “Mollie, I need to be straight with you and very clear about why I’m here.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“I spent all day yesterday and most of today pulling together every fact I could find on this jewel thief story. There’s not much, you know. The police are stymied. The rumors are all over the place, nothing I can grab hold of. The jewelry hasn’t shown up for sale in any of the expected places.”

“Must be frustrating for you,” she said, willing herself back into solid form. He was here on business. The man breathed, ate, drank, lived the next story, whether it was one he could write or not. And she didn’t even have the satisfaction any longer of knowing he could make a serious ethical mistake. As far as she knew, Jeremiah was exactly the reporter his reputation said he was. Tough, honest, ethical, probing, and determined not just to get the story, but to get it right.

“Yes, it’s frustrating, but probably not for the reasons you imagine.” He swallowed more of his martini, seemed to hate saying what he’d come here to say. “Mollie, I’m on this thing because of you and I’ll see it through because of you.”

“Wait just a minute—”

He held up a hand. Now that he’d started, he wasn’t going to let her stop him. “I wouldn’t have touched this thing if your name hadn’t come up as the only person my source could find who’d attended every event the thief’s hit. He—my source—thinks you’re involved somehow.”

“Involved? Involved how? Who is this guy?”

“Mollie, I didn’t come here to upset you or to divulge information I’m not in a position to divulge. I just think you should know why I’m on this thing.”

“Because of me,” she said.

“Yes. Because of you.”

His voice was deep and low and could liquefy her bones if she let down her guard. It seemed to blend with Chet’s music, seeping into her soul, lulling her into a state of tranquillity she hadn’t felt in days.

Then his words penetrated the fog and registered in all their starkness, and her chin shot up.

Jeremiah was already on his feet. Smiling, he touched her cheek, then bent down and kissed her lightly, his lips soft, tasting of martini. “I’m relentless when I’m focused on something,” he half-whispered into her mouth, “and right now, I’m focused on you and this jewel thief. If you’re involved, think about telling me how, and why, and what you plan to do about it. Because I’ll find out, one way or the other.”

She pushed him away and shot to her feet, her pulse racing, every nerve ending in her aching to smack him, even as the rest of her reeled at his kiss, wanted more, wanted all of him. “You are off base, Tabak, and way ahead of your precious facts. I’m not involved. And if I were, damned if I’d tell you.”

He frowned. “You know, darlin’,” he said in his twangy, exaggerated drawl, “you don’t make it easy for somebody to care about you.”

“Accusing me of being involved with a jewel thief is
caring
about me?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just letting you know where I stand.”

As he hadn’t, not with any honesty, ten years ago. He’d let her believe the worst about him. Now, he was getting it all up front and center. “You’d better leave now, Tabak, before I…” Too incensed to think clearly, she didn’t know what she’d do. “Well, you can imagine.”

“I sure can, sweet pea.” He smiled sexily, knowingly, incensing her even more. He touched her cheek with the back of a knuckle. “If you’re in trouble, you have my number. You have my address. Call me, find me. I’m after the truth, and if it hurts you, it hurts you. But I’ll still be there for you.”

“Lucky me,” she said bitterly.

A glint of humor sparked in his eyes. “You’re right on there, darlin’. Right on. I owe you for lying to you ten years ago. It’s a debt I aim to pay.”

He blew her a kiss, and Chet’s fingers stumbled on the keyboard. He recovered quickly, and again the room filled with his music. But Mollie was still reeling.

Jeremiah, in total control, left.

After a few seconds, Mollie was able to return to her booth.
Well,
she thought. Didn’t that serve her right? She’d been starting to think of Jeremiah with a soft and tender side, and he’d just shown her. Probably acted out of a sense of honor. Had to let her know up front what was what. If she was guilty, she’d hang. But he’d feel bad about it.