White Hot

A woman’s scream silenced Diantha Atwood’s party.

Mollie.

Jeremiah knew it in his gut. A collective gasp went through the party. Guests looked around, momentarily paralyzed. Jeremiah cast aside his drink and ran out into the hall ahead of anyone else.

Up to his left, a gleam of champagne silk and pale hair. He swore under his breath, realized she’d sunk to the floor, collapsed against the wall. She held a hand to her neck, trembling.

In two seconds he was there, kneeling beside her. “Mollie—honey, are you all right? Let me see.”

“He’s gone.” Her voice was shaky, her skin ghostly. “Down the stairs, I think. I tried to chase him…”

“Sweetheart, let me see your neck.”

“The bastard,” she said, squeezing back tears.

Jeremiah touched her hand gently, and she lifted it from her neck. Blood. Not a lot. Her diamond and ruby necklace was gone. The thief must have ripped it right off her neck, leaving a fiery, stinging rope burn where the gold chain had cut into her skin.

She attempted a smile. “I’m okay. He just grabbed the necklace and ran. It happened so fast…”

“Don’t try to talk now.”

“Bastard,” she whispered, and Jeremiah knew she meant the thief. Her neck must hurt like hell, and there’d be a bruise. But he hadn’t strangled her, knifed her, shot her, carried her off into the night.

Still, Jeremiah could feel the blackness coming into his eyes. She removed her hand from the raw streak along her neck. Her palm was smeared with blood. Another weak attempt at a smile. She would, he knew, be embarrassed at making a scene. This wasn’t her turf, her people. With a bunch of crazy musicians, she’d have felt free to scream, curse, cry, go after the guy, do whatever she damned pleased.

She sank her head back against the wall, thick locks of hair dislodging from their pins. “Really. It’s just a scratch.”

She shut her eyes, and Jeremiah could see her willing control over herself, fighting back nausea, shock, fear. People were rushing up the corridor. Someone was yelling for security, the manager, the police.

And Jeremiah remembered Croc’s words. I think this thing could get dangerous.

A warning? Or a threat?

And here was Mollie, their only common denominator, Croc’s only lead, once again in the thick of things.

“The thief,” he said. “Did you see him?”

She shook her head, wincing. “He grabbed the necklace from behind. He just snapped it and ran off.” She gulped in air, her face, if possible, even paler. “I felt the brush of his hand. I think he was wearing gloves.”

She shivered, visibly steeling herself against shaking as more people gathered round. Jeremiah stayed close to her. “It’s over now, Mollie. You can explain later.”

Her eyes, clear and so blue, focused on him, reminded him that he needed to take great care not to underestimate her. “Am I looking a bit green at the gills?”

He smiled. “More than a bit.”

“I’d hate to throw up,” she said dryly. “Then I’d feel like a real idiot. It’s bad enough as it is. No one else who was robbed screamed bloody murder.”

“No one else was physically attacked.”

A thickset hotel security man in a nondescript navy suit materialized at Jeremiah’s side, two doormen and the hotel manager coming up fast behind him. The manager—in his mid-forties, good-looking, well-dressed—calmly urged guests to return to the Starlight Room or move on to the ball. The security man spoke into a walkie-talkie, supervising a thorough search of the hotel and grounds, the protocol of handling a robbery on the premises quickly and efficiently kicking into gear.

Tiny Diantha Atwood inserted herself into the discussion. She spoke firmly, graciously to the manager, requesting to be kept advised of all developments. Despite her pleasant tone, Jeremiah detected a hint of disapproval directed at Mollie. He wasn’t sure which was her greater social error: screaming, or getting robbed in the first place.

The walkie-talkie crackled with news that the search had so far turned up nothing.

“This thief seems to disappear with ease,” Jeremiah said, and added, just to be provocative, to separate himself from the rest of the crowd, “Maybe you should consider searching the guests.”

The hotel manager blanched. Diantha Atwood inhaled sharply, lips thinning as she glared at Jeremiah, as if she’d forgotten he really was a reporter, not just a coup for her party. “That’s out of the question.”