White Hot (21 page)

Jeremiah led her inside and up the two flights to his apartment. Their rundown Art Deco building had potential, but it didn’t approach Leonardo Pascarelli’s sprawling house. Mollie seemed not even to notice. She said behind him, “I know you want us to steer clear of each other, but—”

He glanced back at her. “But the thief might have hit the luncheon today, and you were there.”

She nodded grimly, and said nothing.

As he unlocked the door, she said, “Those men admire you.”

“I add a little spice to their lives, that’s all. A Miami investigative reporter in the building. Gives them something to talk about.”

“That’s not all. They think you’re straight up. Ethical. Sal says you’re a bleeding heart down deep—”

“Sal? He’s an ex-priest. He got kicked out for punching out a cardinal or something. He should talk bleeding hearts.”

He pushed open his door, motioned for her to go first. He did not ask if she could smell his critters, but he breathed in deep as he crossed the threshold. The cages of reptiles gave off no odor he could detect. Mollie didn’t wrinkle up her nose, just gave the place a quick, efficient scan, taking in the functional, spare furnishings. He had a hell of a stereo system and a great TV, one whole wall of books, a computer, a good leather reading chair with a decent floor lamp. White walls. No view.

She wandered into the kitchen, and he heard her gasp, then breathe out again. He came up behind her. She glanced back at him. “I didn’t expect snakes and lizards.” Her small smile helped her to look less pale. “Although I don’t know why.”

“Just one lizard, one turtle, one snake.”

“Do they have names?”

“No.”

She ventured over to the table and peered at the cages, keeping her distance, as if she weren’t convinced they were properly latched. “How can you have pets with no names?”

“I guess I don’t really think of them as pets. It’s not like having a dog who knows its name. These guys’re your basic reptiles.”

“The turtle’s kind of cute.”

The doorbell rang. Jeremiah said, “That would be Sal with the lemonade.”

Mollie followed him back to the living room, and he let Sal in with his tray holding a lemonade pitcher, two tall glasses filled with ice, and a vase with a single sprig of coral bougainvillea. “The flower was Bennie’s idea.” He set the tray on the trunk Jeremiah used as a coffee table. Sal was remarkably spry for a man coming up on ninety. He was, supposedly, an Old Testament scholar, and he’d become a fine whittler.

“Thanks, Sal,” Jeremiah said. “I feel like I ought to tip you or something.”

Sal winked. “Just stop by tomorrow morning and give the boys all the details.” He turned, gave Mollie a solemn little bow. “Nice meeting you, Miss Lavender.”

Jeremiah locked up after him and turned back to Mollie. “Worst house, best location.”

“They’re charming.”

“Don’t let them fool you. They’ve all lived long, full lives. Here, you drink lemonade,” he said, starting down the hall. “I’ll take a shower. I jumped in the ocean after my run and now I’m all salty.”

He made the shower fast and cold. He hadn’t brought any clean clothes into the bathroom with him and had to wrap a towel around his waist and trek into his bedroom. If Mollie was peeping around corners, he didn’t see her. Just as well. Her presence was distracting enough without actually knowing for sure she was angling to see him in his skivvies. He pulled on chinos and a T-shirt, towel-dried his hair, and rejoined her.

She was sitting on his reading chair, lemonade in hand, knees together, ankles tucked to the side. No question. She’d seen him sneak from the bathroom. He suppressed a grin and poured himself a glass of lemonade.

She cleared her throat. Some of her earlier paleness returned. “So, how did you find out about Lucy Baldwin?”

“I have my sources.”

“Croc,” she said with certainty. “Well, the police aren’t ready to say it was our thief. Could have been your garden-variety, strike-while-the-iron’s-hot thief, not our guy. A lot of people could have slipped into the ladies’ room, seen the watch, tucked it in their pocket, and slipped out again.”

Jeremiah sat on the couch, taking a long swallow of the lemonade. It was too sweet for his taste. A hint from Sal, maybe, to lighten up. “Croc said he followed you home.”

“Yes.” A coolness came into her so-blue eyes. “You didn’t put him up to it?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Does he always keep such close tabs on your stories?”

“No, never. I wouldn’t allow it. He knows I’m not officially on this thing, and he feels some ownership of it because he brought it to me.”

“I see.” She drank more of her lemonade, her eyes not on him. “Tell me about this Croc character. How does he know I’ve been present at all the incidents? Be straight with me, Jeremiah.”

He took another swallow of lemonade. “I don’t know how he made you as a common denominator. He won’t tell me.”

She remained calm. “Then he’s unpredictable.”

“Unpredictable, yes, but I suspect he’s just playing James Bond. I told him to stay away from you. Now. Tell me about Leonardo. What are you going to do when your year at his place is up?”

“What does that have to do—”

“Indulge me, Mollie.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do. I hope I’ll have enough saved for a condo, maybe a little house. I don’t think I want to stay in Palm Beach. I’d like to move a bit farther south, to Boca or even Fort Lauderdale.”

“As far south as Miami?”

“There’d have to be a good reason.”

Jeremiah glanced at his bare-bones furnishings, his reptile cages in the next room. Dangerous thinking. Very dangerous. He shifted back to the subject at hand. Work. It had always pushed back the dangerous thoughts. “You won’t miss Leonardo’s place? All that space, the pool, the hired help.”

She sat back, relaxing slightly. “I’ve been living in the lap of luxury. It’s been fun. But I can always pop in for a visit. Leonardo’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever known. My parents have a standing invitation to come down, but they’re always so busy and involved with their work—and they’d probably barely notice their surroundings if they did come. That kind of stuff’s wasted on them.”

“They don’t swim?”

“Mother does laps for exercise. Swimming’s purely utilitarian for her. She’d love to see Leonardo, of course.” Mollie paused, narrowed her eyes on Jeremiah, suddenly suspicious. “You don’t think I’d start stealing because I’m worried about having to give up my Leonardo Pascarelli lifestyle, do you? You know, I’m not so different from my parents that I even want that much opulence. It wouldn’t occur—”

“Mollie, I don’t suspect you.”

She inhaled, the blue of her clear eyes deepening with irritation. “But you’re neutral,” she said stiffly. “You won’t say categorically that I couldn’t possibly be the thief. You won’t take my side. You’re incapable of taking anyone’s side. That’s why you’re a reporter. You can remain apart, aloof, uninvolved.”

“I strive for balance and objectivity, yes.” His tone was steady, but he was already on his feet, already moving toward her. “It’s a goal, not necessarily something that comes easily or is even always possible. In this case, it’s not.”

And he removed her lemonade glass from her stiff fingers, set it on the floor, and drew her up to her feet. A flush of color, of anticipation, had risen in her pale cheeks. He touched her mouth. “Mollie, Mollie.” He tasted her lips. “Do you think I can be neutral where you’re concerned?” He tasted them again, felt the spark of her response. “Objective? Balanced?”

“I don’t know.”

“Really?”

And he kissed her, long and hard and deep. If she’d drawn back, if she’d even hesitated, he would have come to his senses. But she didn’t, and he let his hands drift down her back, the curve of her hips. He let himself experience the full impact of their kiss on him, on her. She tucked her arms tentatively around him, and he could see she’d shut her eyes, probably trying to convince herself this was a memory of a past encounter, not a real moment in the present.

“Open your eyes, Mollie,” he whispered, “don’t try to pretend this is a memory.”

She looked at him, her mouth close to his, her eyes half-opened. She raised one hand and brushed it along his jaw. “It’ll be a memory soon enough, won’t it?”

“It’s not one now.”

“I have to be realistic. As much as I want this…” She kissed him lightly, her hand drifting down his shoulder, and it was all he could do to stand there and listen to her. She drew back slightly. “I know it won’t last.”

“Because it didn’t last time?”

“You went into it last time wanting a weeklong diversion. I went into it…” She breathed, maintaining her calm. “I went into it not knowing what I wanted. Now, I’m not so inexperienced. I know myself better. And I know you.”

He eased his fingers into her hair, caressed the back of her neck, where she was warm and not so tense. “Maybe we’re here now because what we had ten years ago did last.”

His mouth found hers again, and their bodies melded, nothing held back as they tasted, touched, rekindled a desire like no other he’d ever known. It boiled through him like a hot river, and he knew at some point, soon, it would rage out of control, break down all his dams of resistance. Then where would they be? In the past again. Succumbing to instinct and desire instead of using their heads. Even as his palms skimmed over her soft breasts, as he explored her mouth, he knew he would have to exercise self-discipline now if he didn’t want to lose her forever. Physically, she was ready. Emotionally, she didn’t trust him. More important, she didn’t trust herself to trust him.

Slowly, with a control he’d lacked ten years ago, he slid her back down onto her chair and stood back from her. Boiling still. Not simmering. Not even close to simmering. “I know a nice, quiet Cuban restaurant a few blocks from here. Inexpensive. Good food. It’s not much on atmosphere, but if we stay here…” He smiled, shrugged. “I’m afraid my picture’ll go back up on your dartboard.”

She licked her lips, adjusted her shirt, cleared her throat. It was no use, and he suspected she knew it. Nothing she did could make him forget her response to their kiss, her body pressing wildly against his. “That sounds fine. And I don’t suppose you need Bennie and Albert and Sal to start thinking we’re going out together, which we’re not.”

“No. Absolutely not. I only kiss women I have no interest in going out with.”

“That was—” She searched for the right word. “—inevitable.”

“Inevitable?”

“We’ve had to get it out of our systems once and for all.” Her eyes fastened on him, as if she needed to make herself take a good, hard look at him. “So we’d know there are no sparks left.”

“No sparks.”

“Jeremiah, if you keep repeating everything I say like I’m not making any sense…”

“Sorry, sweet pea, but you’re not. You know as well as I do that if we don’t get the hell out of here within the next ten minutes, we’re going to end up in the sack together. Then we’ll see about sparks and what’s really inevitable.”

His frankness had her swallowing, and, he could tell, swallowing hard. Which only meant he was dead on.

“I love being right.” He scooped up the lemonade glasses, set them on the tray, and started for the kitchen. “However, I shouldn’t have said that. I lured you into something you didn’t want ten years ago—”

“No, you didn’t. It’s what I wanted to believe, but you didn’t. I knew what I was getting into when I went to dinner with you that first time. Jeremiah, I’m just as responsible for what happened between us then as you are. Yes, I was confused and twenty, but I wasn’t stupid. I understood very clearly what kind of man you are.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “What kind of man I am? Mollie, Mollie. I’m a nice Florida boy out of the Everglades who investigates crime and corruption for a living.”

“It’s more than a living for you.” She rose, her legs looking remarkably steady under her. Jeremiah’s own felt like Gumby’s on a bad day. The run, the self-restraint. Mollie tilted her chin up at him, dignified, pushing back any urge to delve into personal matters. “I didn’t come here to discuss our relationship. I want you to warn this Croc character that if I catch him tailing me again, I’ll phone the police.”

Jeremiah set the tray on the kitchen table. “The message has already been delivered.”

“Why don’t you suspect him of being the jewel thief?”

“Who says I don’t?”

She inhaled sharply, rigid, not moving, an unsteady mix of outrage and heat in her eyes, her mouth. Sparks. Definite sparks. It was like holding a magnifying glass over a dried leaf and waiting for it to burst into flames. He figured he had less than five minutes to get her out the door. She fisted one hand and pushed it into his chest, not hitting him so much as holding him in place.

“Jeremiah, I have a right to know
everything
you know about this story. You’re not compromising your ethics. It’s not as if you’re going to write it.”

“Mollie. Let’s go eat. We’ll talk.”

His calm seemed only to inflame her further. “I don’t think this thief is about you—or even me.”

“Mollie.”

“We must be missing something—some clue—”

“Mollie.”

She paused, frowned. “What?”

“Our ten minutes are almost up.”

The restaurant was small, simple, and within easy walking distance of Jeremiah’s building. The good, inexpensive Cuban food reminded her of the lunches and dinners they’d had together ten years ago. Their waiter brought her cup of black bean soup, and Mollie, feeling more in control of herself, spooned into it as she cast Jeremiah a dubious look. “You were bluffing. You wouldn’t really have dragged me off to bed.”

He smiled, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, reminding her he was no longer twenty-six. “I don’t think I’d have had to do any dragging.”

“It’s because of our past.” She tried her soup, which was thick and spicy and steaming hot. She was being pragmatic. With Jeremiah Tabak, pragmatism was the only sensible approach. “If we hadn’t already slept together, you wouldn’t be tempted.”

An eyebrow quirked. He’d ordered a margarita, no soup. “Mollie, that’s the most twisted logic—”