White Hot

“Right behind you,” Griffen whispered, nudging her with her elbow.

And Deegan’s grandmother with them. Just what I need, Mollie thought, noticing that Jeremiah was showing no sign of removing himself to the bar or anywhere else. Michael Tiernay, a trim, gray-haired, pleasant man, was drinking a martini, his wife hanging on his arm. Her son had inherited his looks from her. She was a striking, golden-eyed woman, wearing a tasteful dress and spectacular jewelry. Diantha Atwood, Bobbi’s mother, was even smaller and thinner, her blondish hair swept into an elegant, timeless style. She’d had various lifts and tucks and wore understated cosmetics, but there was no mistaking the high price and authenticity of the jewelry she wore. Setting the tone, no doubt, for others not to be intimidated by a potential cat burglar in their midst.

“Jeremiah Tabak,” Diantha Atwood said, sparing Mollie the need to make introductions. She smiled, playing the hostess game to the hilt. “What a coup to have you here tonight.”

“Sorry I didn’t RSVP.”

It was a crack, and Diantha knew it. “I’d never expect a reporter to let me know anything, Mr. Tabak. I see you’ve met my daughter and her husband, and my grandson, Deegan. Deegan, darling, how are you?” She offered her cheek, and he gave her a quick peck, squeezing her hand. “And Griffen. How nice to see you. I’m surprised you have an evening free at this time of year.”

“I kept it free,” Griffen replied, no hint of sarcasm in her tone. She believed—and Mollie suspected she was right—that neither Deegan’s parents nor his grandmother approved of her relationship with their son and grandson. But they’d never openly voice such disapproval.

Bobbi Tiernay turned to Jeremiah, whose eyes looked about to glaze over. “Griffen is a caterer much in demand.”

“Mollie,” Diantha Atwood continued smoothly, “I didn’t see you. Don’t you look lovely tonight.”

Mollie was half-tempted to tell her where she’d gotten her outfit; from the sudden humor in Jeremiah’s expression, she guessed he knew what she was thinking. She smiled politely. “Thank you.”

“How’s business?” Michael Tiernay asked cheerfully, apparently oblivious, or simply choosing to ignore, the frosty undertones of the conversation.

Relieved to have the distraction, Mollie engaged him in a pleasant conversation about business. That he conducted his from a glass building in Boca Raton and she conducted hers from the living room of Leonardo’s guest quarters made no difference to her, nor, it seemed, to him. They dragged Deegan into the conversation, but he wasn’t the least bit awkward talking shop with his father. Mollie was well aware that Michael Tiernay considered his son’s choice of internship something of a rebellion, and maybe it was. Maybe, when he finished his semester with her, Deegan would return to the fold and take his place at Tiernay & Jones. But that didn’t mean either Tiernay disrespected the work she did. She might be a small fish, but they swam in the same pond.

And Jeremiah, she noticed, drifted to the bar with Griffen on his heels. She would seize any excuse to make her exit from her boyfriend’s family, not to mention check out a man she’d caught talking to her friend, the new girl in town. Mollie felt a faint stab of uneasiness. It wasn’t beyond Tabak to grill Griffen about her friend the publicist, who wore borrowed dresses to attend fancy parties and just might be bored or desperate enough to help herself to other people’s jewels.

Damn him, she thought. He didn’t really believe she was his jewel thief. He was just throwing her off—or letting her throw herself off—for the hell of it, in case she started encroaching on his turf.

She remembered their tantalizing kiss yesterday on the beach. He wouldn’t want her getting too close, either. She’d proved a near-fatal distraction once. He wouldn’t want that to happen again.

Nothing would be allowed to come between him and his work.

Griffen caught her eye from the bar, registering her suspicion that there was more to Mollie’s relationship with the Trib reporter than a chance meeting at Granny Atwood’s party.

Which meant Tabak was, indeed, grilling her.

“Relentless bastard,” she muttered under her breath, and excused herself.

Griffen slid in beside her, martini in hand. “Okay, you and Tabak. Tell me all.”

“Oh, I knew him a million years ago. I just ran into him. Why?”

“I know sparks flying when I see sparks flying. Comes from too much time at a stove, I suppose. I don’t know as I’ve seen him at any parties like this. I wonder why tonight.”

“The Tribune has a table at the ball.”

“And that old prune Atwood invited him because she’d love to have a respected journalist to show off. Especially one as sexy as Tabak is.” Griffen eyed her friend, her mass of curls gleaming, softening the angles of her face. “You sure there’s nothing between you two?”