He leaned toward her, half-whispered, “There is, darlin’. Lots more.”
“There was. There isn’t anymore. And you, Jeremiah, have more outright audacity than anyone I’ve ever known. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She started off, stopped, and turned back. “Oh, and enjoy hunting your thief tonight. I know that’s why you’re here.”
He withdrew a gold-on-cream invitation from his dinner jacket. “I was invited.”
With an unprincess-like snort, Mollie whirled back around and gave her own invitation to a man posted at the door to the Starlight Room. Inside, Diantha Atwood’s party was in full swing. Guests wandered among a dozen small hors d’oeuvres tables and an open bar, waiters carried trays of champagne, and a harpist plucked out a pretty, soothing melody. Huge windows overlooked an ocean so calm as to be lake-like, mirroring the cloudless sky and drawing strollers to its beaches.
Mollie swept a glass of champagne from a tray and smiled pleasantly at people she didn’t know. Her parents would have found somewhere to sit and listen to the harpist, dissecting the music, unaware that anyone might consider them rude or eccentric. As she sipped her champagne, Mollie suddenly felt as if she were caught between two identities, each vying for her submission. The musicians’ daughter who hovered on the fringes of a world she’d given up, and the successful young Palm Beach entrepreneur who couldn’t afford her own designer dresses and expensive jewelry.
Except she was neither, and Jeremiah’s presence seemed to accentuate that awareness of who she was, and wasn’t, and didn’t want to be.
She could sense his eyes on her. She resisted the urge to guzzle her champagne. She already felt a little dizzy, a little out of control, a little too aware of the hard, impossible man across the room, watching her, not giving a damn that he was distracting her and making her drink her champagne too fast.
Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer and marched over to him. “You’ve your nerve, you know, Tabak?”
He laughed, unembarrassed. “A necessary evil of the profession. No nerve, no story. Enjoying yourself?”
“Not with you watching me like a hawk.”
“You noticed? I thought I was being subtle.” Even he didn’t believe subtlety was in his bag of tricks. “Planning on getting used to Leonardo Pascarelli’s lifestyle? Borrowing his ex-girlfriend’s jewelry, driving his car, living in his house, getting invited to his parties.”
“Leonardo didn’t get me invited tonight. I happen to know Mrs. Atwood myself. And I wouldn’t care if I weren’t invited.” She swallowed more champagne, a mistake. “And if you must know, I’d prefer to have my own little car and my own little house somewhere. Just because I’m Leonardo Pascarelli’s goddaughter doesn’t mean—” She stopped abruptly, fingers tensing on her glass as she digested Jeremiah’s real meaning. “You think I could be the jewel thief!”
“Do I?”
She kept her voice to a low hiss, out of range of any of Palm Beach’s notorious gossipmongers. “I won’t be able to afford my current lifestyle in another seven months. Ergo, I could lower myself to stealing. That’s what you think.”
He shrugged, calm, unrepentant. “Interesting theory.”
“It’s not interesting, it’s ridiculous. Damn you, Jeremiah, I’m no jewel thief!”
“If you are,” he said in that deep, rough, exaggerated drawl, “it sure will be fun catching you.”
Before she could respond, Griffen and Deegan cruised up. Mollie hadn’t seen them arrive and wondered how much of her exchange with Jeremiah they’d witnessed. She saw amusement dance in his eyes, the light of the chandeliers bringing out the flecks of gold. She turned to her intern and friend. “My, don’t you both look dashing tonight.”
They did, Griffen in a sparkling white dress that accentuated her dark curls and angular figure, Deegan in black-tie, looking not older than twenty-one, but, somehow, younger. Mollie quickly introduced them to Jeremiah, trying to sound as if she’d just met the Miami reporter herself. “We were just chatting,” she added inadequately when she noticed the spark of curiosity in Griffen’s dark eyes. “Are you two staying for the ball?”
“Oh, no,” Griffen said. “We’re just making an appearance to please Granny.”
Deegan grinned at her irreverence, and Mollie explained to Jeremiah that Diantha Atwood, Palm Beach widow and hostess extraordinaire, was Deegan’s grandmother. “His parents,” she added, “are Michael and Bobbi Tiernay who are…where?”