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Because it was Jamie, she obeyed, making such an abrupt detour she almost tripped over the trolley of Louis Vuitton cases a chauffeur was wielding like a feed store wheelbarrow.
Jamie appeared out of the moving crowd, cell phone at his ear.
“You dork,” she said, blinking back the moisture that sprang to her eyes. “I told you not to go to the trouble of meeting me.”
“Hey, a vacation breakup deserves an airport pick up. It’s synergy.” He dropped the phone into the pocket of his baggy khakis and put his arms around her. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t find a car to borrow. We’ll have to get a taxi.”
She pressed her face into his shoulder, just for a moment or two. Three, four, five. Her heart surged with gratitude. He felt as warm and comforting as ever, but also muscled and solid. When had that happened?
He’d been a skinny dude with an unintentionally hip geekiness when they’d met three years ago while playing Ultimate Frisbee with a group of friends in the park. In between putting in eighty hours a week at work, she’d been dating one of her typical Mr. Right Turn To Disasters. Jamie had been seeing her ex-roomie, self-proclaimed bitch diva goddess Shandi Lee—an odd couple if ever there was one. The relationships had lasted just long enough for Marissa and Jamie to avoid the awkward “should they or shouldn’t they?” moment and settle into platonic friendship.
Lucky timing, Marissa had always thought. Jamie Wilson had become the only long-term chromosome XY in her day-to-day life, the only male, aside from her cat, Harry, that she wasn’t pressured to impress.
“Marissa,” he said, patting her back. “I’m sorry.”
She squeezed him, allowing his sympathy even though too much sentiment usually made her itchy and restless. Outside of the holidays, when she was a sap about family cheer and goodwill to men, she kept her game face on. A single woman in Manhattan had to be tough.
And yet once again she felt herself relaxing into Jamie’s patented comfort zone, the one place where she let down her guard. He felt strong. He smelled good. Not like Paul, granted, who’d given off the alpha wolf eat-or-be-eaten pheromones that typically revved her engine. But surprisingly good, all the same.
Surprisingly sexy for a best friend.
What? Her head cranked back.
Beep, beep, beep. Time to back up that truck before it drove over the cliff looming ahead.
“Enough of this. I’m not dying.” Marissa pulled out of Jamie’s arms. “It’s just another breakup. I’ve survived them before.” She tucked away the cell phone that was still clutched in her hand, watching his face through her lashes while she snapped the bag shut.
Jamie seemed unaware of her instant of sexual awareness. He looked the way he always did—strong nose and jaw, blunt cheekbones, big dark blue eyes with sleepy lids beneath the mop of nut-brown hair that fell across his brow. A mouth so mobile that she’d learned to read his emotions from the shapes it made.
At the moment he was holding a faintly quizzical smile, his expression as clear and innocent as a choir boy’s. No sign of any of the messy, secret yearnings she’d occasionally worried he might harbor for her, that Shandi, among others, had sworn were there.
Who knew that Marissa, the tough chiquita from the barrio, would crack first?
She shrugged. Well, whatever had happened was only a momentary weakness. Gone like a speeding bullet, she told herself, although an alarming amount of warmth toward Jamie still simmered inside her.
Ignore it. No more mistakes, remember?
“You okay?” he asked, taking her rare uncertainty for Paul Beckwith aftereffects.
“Sure.” She tossed her ponytail. “You know me. Paul’s roadkill in my rearview mirror.”
“But this time, you’ll have to keep seeing him.” Jamie had warned her not to have a workplace affair. He was always so sensible, telling her in his evenhanded way exactly what was wrong with the man she’d chosen. That he was invariably right but never said “I told you so” was one of his most endearing characteristics.
Which didn’t mean she’d ever learn to listen to him! But it was nice having someone looking out for her.
“Not to worry,” she said. “We’re both too busy for office drama.”
“If you say so.” He scowled as he took her bag.
“Now, Jamie. I only need one stern papi and I left him behind in Little Havana.” Jamie’s brotherly concern was nowhere near as stifling as the concern of Alberto Suarez, an old-fashioned Cuban American who thought that his eldest daughter should be married and popping out babies like a good little Catholic. Two years shy of thirty and she was already considered an old maid by her family. “So don’t look at me like that.”
Jamie blinked. “Like what?”
“Like you know what’s best for me.” She kissed his cheek. Another tingle of awareness chased itself over the surface of her skin, which she continued to ignore. Jet lag could knock anyone off center.
“Someone has to,” he teased. His eyes went to the lily in her hair.
She touched it, feeling an emotion so rare she almost didn’t recognize it. Shyness.
“You look very tropical.” His voice rasped.
“Even without the tan I was promised?” She made a face. “Instead of lying on the beach, most of my time in the Caymans was wasted holed up in the suite or hanging around the bar, waiting for Paul.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Exactly. Once I realized that, I made my escape.” They walked through the exit doors. She scanned the cordoned taxi line, dismayed to see that it would be another wait for transportation. “Men don’t treat me that way more than once.”
“Like what, specifically?”
Marissa gave a snort. “Like an accessory.”
Her father had attempted to raise her to be what he considered a “good” girl—obedient and humble. Obviously that lesson hadn’t taken, perhaps because he’d also taught her pride and pugnacity by example. Instead of accepting a gender role, she’d preferred to outdo his expectations for the boys in the family, even when that
meant working as a waitress to put herself through the first years of community college, even when she was told over and over that she would never make it.
The desire to achieve a success that would show them all what she was made of had become her driving force. She couldn’t be like her cheery, tolerant mother, née Mary Margaret McBride, who was content in her little cottage, still in love with her bantam rooster of a husband after thirty-two years of marriage. Or her sister, Graciela, who’d married at twenty and now had a husband who spent more evenings out drinking with his muchachos than at home with his family.
Marissa appreciated her parents for the stability and love they’d given her and her brothers and sister. But she’d known from the age of ten that she had to be aggressive or she’d never get away. If she was single-minded and frequently too abrupt, that was why.
Until she was where she wanted to be, she couldn’t let up. She couldn’t slow down.
Except with Jamie. He was her release valve, as she was his energy pill. They went together like salt and pepper, up and down, yin and yang. Each gave as good as they got, and it worked.
“An accessory?” Jamie had to know there was more to her early return than that, but he wasn’t one to push. “For a smart man, Paul sure is dumb,” he said cheerfully. “You’re a treasure.”
Marissa shook her head. “I’m a woman in need of a giant Cubano sandwich.” Suddenly she was starving.
“Then let’s get out of here so I can feed you,” Jamie said, reverting to the reliable friend she recognized. They’d reached the head of the line and he’d stashed her suitcase in their taxi’s trunk. He held the door open, smiling at her, adorably rumpled in a tee layered over a white cotton shirt with frayed edges. No fashion plate, her friend, Jamie. Nothing like Paul, who spent more on his wardrobe than many women.
Marissa climbed into the taxi. After she was settled, she took a moment to thank her lucky stars for the Frisbee she’d mistakenly aimed at Jamie’s nose the day they’d met. She was certain that he’d never once thought of her as an accessory, even though she’d been his plus one at a number of the events that he attended in his career as an arts writer for the Village Observer, a smallish daily newspaper targeted at the city’s trendy, upscale culture vultures.
No. To Jamie, she really was a treasure.
The surprise for her was in realizing how mutual the sentiment had become.
JEAN LUC ALLARD had given the officials the slip. Child’s play, he thought as he slithered through the throng near the airport exit, though in fact he’d narrowly escaped the wide net cast by the cops and security guards that had swarmed the JFK terminal.
He’d skipped out of the boarding area in the nick of time, then taken the long detour through Arrivals to avoid crossing under their noses. But they’d also covered that area.
An unpleasant surprise. One that had forced him into ditching the goods despite the huge risk that entailed.
After making his move, he’d managed to reach a rest room, where he’d switched his dark glasses and leather jacket with the Patriots jersey and baseball cap stowed in his bag. The fake French passport he’d booked his tickets under was lodged in the crevice behind one of the sinks, replaced with an American one that claimed he was Joe Martin from Stonington, Massachusetts.
The risk made Allard’s gut churn. Fortunately he’d planned for all eventualities. But how had the bastards known where to find him in the first place?
A lucky tip from an informant…or a double cross?
Unlikely. He’d had contact with no one except his employer, a wealthy European with a large bank account and a larger ego. Allard had a number to call when he reached the rendezvous point, and no more.
He was on his own. As he preferred. His father had taught him to trust no one.
Even in the innocuous getup, passersby gave the Frenchman’s black scowl a wide berth. He paid them little heed, consumed by his racing thoughts. There would be no mercy with a fortune at stake. He would cut the throat of any person who dared stop him.
Already he had left one body behind. He’d coldcocked an interloper outside the ransacked safe of Stanhope’s Auction House, snatching the prize from the man’s hands even as he’d crumpled to the floor. Naturally, the theft of late heiress Zoey Zander’s vast collection of jewels had made the news. Every thief of international repute was reported to be a suspect.
While the New York police had paddled in place, squabbling with Interpol like ducks on the Seine, Allard had bided his time in a nondescript Brooklyn hotel room. Once he’d believed the stateside situation had cooled down, he’d booked a ticket to the Buenos Aires drop point.
To be thwarted now made his blood thin with displeasure. Merde! He’d been one boarding pass away from his escape.
That he’d become the security agent’s quarry was not in question. What remained to be seen was if they’d realized that the heist had been arranged solely to acquire the White Star, an ivory amulet so rare and revered that few had known of its existence until the auction house had publicized the contents of the Zander estate.
For these past weeks, he—and he alone—had owned the White Star. Caressed her. Held her to his lips in defiance of the legend she carried, which prophesied love for the pure of heart, a cursed future for all else.
And now she was gone.
Though Allard’s face betrayed no emotion, his tongue was bitter with frustration.
He spat. Pah.
The anxious officials’ presence had prevented him from boarding the flight to South America. He’d been cornered like a rodent, forced to take an incredible risk. Getting caught with the amulet was not an option. Therefore, regrettably, the White Star was no longer in his possession.
An extreme nuisance, that, but a necessity under the circumstances.
Carefully positioned out of the bustle, but close enough to move fast when need be, Allard cupped his hand to light a cigarette. He leaned against the building, dragging on the stinging taste of tobacco. Behind the sunglasses, his eyes zipped back and forth between the herds of American travelers, most of them waiting patiently in line like cows.
Ah, there she was.
Marissa Suarez. Stunning girl, with silken black hair and legs that went forever. It might be amusing to prolong his surveillance and seduce his way into her apartment rather than resort to the usual break-in. His employer would not approve of the indiscretion, but the man seemed to have a talent for buffing his nails while subordinates accomplished his dirty work.
Allard didn’t mind. He excelled in living on the fly, taking advantage of opportunities that presented themselves.
Smoke curled from his nostrils. Covertly he studied the girl. She was smart, aware of her surroundings, holding her straw bag close to her body while she waited at the curb. The man who had met her inside kept a firm grip on the other bag.
Allard saw he had no choice. An immediate recovery attempt was too risky. Not only were there authorities in the vicinity, but the girl could identify his face, particularly if he attracted more attention to himself.
He should have chosen a less observant mark, one of the weary tourists with their heaps of mismatched baggage. All too stupid to realize what he’d planted on them. But this one had literally fallen at his feet.
The boyfriend put his hand at her back, guiding her into a cab. The vital suitcase had gone into the trunk.
Allard ground the cigarette beneath his heel. He smiled to himself, pleased by his maneuvers. The unfortunate situation was under control. While his employer would be enraged if he knew the treasure had been out of Allard’s hands for even a minute, the man need only be told of the unavoidable delay of their rendezvous. Let him sputter and squawk. In the end, he would wait.
As would Allard. For a million euros, he could put up with any annoyance, any delay. He was beholden only to the White Star.
A sharp whistle summoned one of the gypsy cabs. He slid inside and mumbled a directive to the driver around the fresh cigarette he’d inserted in his mouth. As the vehicle pulled away, two of the security guards emerged from the terminal, their frustration as evident as their empty hands.
Smirking, Allard slunk low in the back seat while the car neatly whisked him away from beneath the officials’ noses. He’d escaped unscathed once more.
2
MARISSA YAWNED and leaned her head on Jamie’s shoulder. “How come we’ve never had sex?” she said with a throaty giggle, snuggling up to him in their favorite carved wooden booth at Havana Eva de Cuba, where he’d been plying her with carbohydrates instead of alcohol.
Jamie dragged in a deep breath before draping an arm around her. He was too nice for his own good. Definitely too nice.
“I mean, it would be so easy,” she continued, her voice muffled by his chest. He had to lean his head closer to hear her over the din of the busy and colorful restaurant, a frequent hangout only two blocks from their apartment building. Marissa liked the place for the ethnic menu and decor that reminded her of home, not that she’d ever admit to such sentimental longings.
As for Jamie, he’d go anywhere she did.
“I know you wouldn’t hurt me when we broke up,” she finished. “And then we could still stay friends.”
Since she’d spent the past ninety minutes telling him and her girlfriends that she wasn’t hurt by Paul’s betrayal, the first part of the statement was more revealing than she intended.
He touched his nose and lips to her hair, hurting for her more than she’d ever hurt for herself. Marissa pained him, she frustrated him, she exhilarated him. He’d wanted her from the day they met, but now wasn’t the time to take her question seriously. “Why would you want to start something with the intention of breaking up?”
“Not an intention. A given.” She tilted her face up, lightly knocking her forehead against his chin. Her lids were weighted and she had the dopey, slightly boozy grin that meant she was about fifteen minutes from crashing. “I’m a realist. There’s always a breakup.”
“Only because you choose the wrong men.”
She sighed and snuggled back in. He felt a shiver pass through her slender body. “We’ve already established that there’s something off about my taste in men. And since I agree that I’ve got to stop doing this to myself, next time I need to find a nice guy. Like you.” After a moment—Jamie was sure only he felt the strain of it—she chuckled. “But of course not you.”
Of course not. He looked at the tin ceiling. At least she still remembered there was a possibility of their having got together at some point. Perhaps he hadn’t wandered so deep into the “just friends” zone that there was no coming back.
Three years he’d known her. Three years waiting for the right time to tell her that he thought there could be more than friendship between them. First, there’d been other people in their lives. Then, for a long time, he’d
convinced himself that she was hopelessly out of his league—a savvy, single-minded attorney who worked and played among the upper strata wouldn’t be interested in an easygoing arts writer who counted his dog among his best friends. So he’d kept his interest buried beneath layers of playing the good guy and best friend. Told himself he was better off that way, since Marissa lost her good sense when it came to her love life. He didn’t want to be one of her regrets. To say nothing of losing her as a friend.
Cassandra Richards returned from the ladies’ room to lean over the table. She was part of Marissa’s circle of friends, a stunning blonde who worked in fashion, in some sort of public relations capacity. The type of woman who, with one flick of her lashes, could make Jamie feel like a teenager again—all ears, nose, big feet and gangly limbs. He frequently found himself wondering how a brainy boy from the Connecticut suburbs had wound up associating with such Manhattan beauties. If his teenage garage band could see him now…
“How’s our girl?” Cass asked. She had dropped by to lend her support, even though Marissa had been adamant about how very okay she was without Paul… while downing mojitos, one right after the other, before the food had arrived.
Eyes shut, Marissa aimed a sleepy smile at her friend. “Drifting.”
Cass sent her wry look Jamie’s way. “Finally.”
Marissa’s index finger twitched. “You go home. I’ve kept you too long.”
“I’ll hold your hair anytime, Mari.”
Marissa grinned at the girlfriend shorthand for their mutual support system. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “No literal pilgrimages to the porcelain goddess tonight, please.”
