“Thanks, but I’ll manage. I’ve got to write those press releases for the Renaissance Music Society. I’ll probably just hang in here the rest of the afternoon. I’ve got a dinner tonight.”
“Not another one—”
“It’s not business. Some friends of Leonardo’s invited me over. Anyway, if the phone doesn’t let up, I’ll just let voice mail handle it.” She smiled. “And if you see your grandmother before I do, please thank her for the flowers.”
A big bouquet had arrived first thing that morning, with a charming card from Diantha Atwood, wishing Mollie a speedy return to normal. Her thank you card was already in the mail. Deegan said, “I’ll do that,” and headed out, leaving Mollie to the phone, a stack of mail, and tons of work.
Her own parents had called last night after Leonardo, as promised, had ratted her out. They’d listened carefully to the details of the attack and offered to fly down at once—and said if she wanted to return to Boston, they’d clear out her old room, which they’d converted into a music library, and she could stay there until she got settled. Mollie had to fight back tears at their unconditional support. Unanchored in the real world as she knew them to be, she never doubted their love and affection for her, nor their total, if sometimes irrational, belief in her. But she’d assured them that the worst was over—and for a moment, she almost believed it herself—and when she’d hung up, she had to admit she felt better.
After Deegan left, she sat at the computer. The weather was as unsettled as she felt, with dark clouds, intermittent showers, and a breeze that was downright chilly. At least she wasn’t tempted to go sit out by the pool. She could just stay in and work.
The phone rang, and she briefly considered leaving it to her voice mail, but picked up. “Mollie Lavender.”
“I know.”
She sat up straight at the tinny, obviously altered voice on the other end. “Who is this?”
“Miami’s a dangerous place, Miss Lavender. Perhaps you should consider going back to Boston.”
A click, and then silence. Her hand shaking, Mollie quickly got a dial tone and hit the code for a playback of the most recent number called. But the disembodied voice said that the number wasn’t available.
She laid the portable phone on her computer desk.
“Oh my God.”
Her voice was a panicked mumble, and she thought she would throw up. Holding her stomach, she jumped to her feet and raced into the kitchen, not thinking, just reacting to the urge to get out, away from her office, her phone, her life. She grabbed keys and handbag and tore outside, not knowing where she was going, only that she had to get out of there.
“Shoes,” she said, stopping midway down the steps.
She ran back inside, still shaking, still nauseous, and pulled on a pair of old sandals she kept by the door.
Two minutes later, she was in Leonardo’s Jaguar, chewing on a knuckle as she beat back panic, not thinking, not planning, just driving. She hit winding A1A and cursed the tourists going too slow, gawking at the beautiful houses, the beautiful beaches. She spun off onto a street that connected with 95. She took the south on-ramp. A truck honked furiously when she wove into the middle lane too close in front of him.
She gripped the wheel with both hands and tried to calm herself. Concentrate on the present, she told herself, the moment. Early Monday afternoon, I-95 South, drizzle. She flicked on her wipers. She lifted her foot off the gas. She breathed.
There, she thought.
The call didn’t have to be from the man who’d attacked her on Friday night. Perhaps she’d made a business enemy who was capitalizing on her experience, which was no secret, and trying to tip the scales into having her leave town. Go home to her family and friends and old life in Boston. That scenario was bad enough, but not as bad as having whoever had attacked her in the Palm Beach Sands Hotel take another crack at her.
But she couldn’t imagine how she, with her short list of fun but not exactly wealthy clients, could be a business threat to anyone.
The rain picked up as she headed south, became briefly torrential, a perfect distraction. She turned her wipers on high and had to concentrate to negotiate the slowing, half-blinded traffic. Then the shower was over, and the sun was shining, and traffic speeded up—and her mind again raced, replaying the call, running down all the possibilities.
She spotted the Miami Tribune building up ahead, just off 95. She took the exit and found her way to the visitors’ section in the parking garage. She still wasn’t thinking, just acting on instinct. She locked up and headed for the elevator before rational thought could assert itself.