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He left his arm around her the rest of the way home, whether or not she wanted the protection. She didn’t demur, but stayed tucked under his wing, now and then leaning her head on his shoulder and letting out a very quiet sigh.
He remained hyperalert to every sound and motion up and down the street. His body thrummed with excess energy, but he kept that under wraps as best as he could. Strange how the surging endorphins produced by the theft attempt and their astonishing kisses were so much alike. He suspected that something had been kick-started inside him. And he was damned if he’d go back, even if that were possible.
When they arrived at their brownstone, he took charge with the keys and luggage. “I’m going to collapse,” Marissa announced at her apartment door, forestalling him even before he attempted to get inside.
He tried not to let it bother him that she was so certain about ending their experiment that she’d given him not even the smallest opening to delay. “Let me check the place out,” he said, sliding past her without waiting for permission. What the hell. He turned on lights, glancing into the bath and bedroom, even her closet. Every room was in its usual state—topsy-turvy. Housekeeping was not one of Marissa’s talents.
“Find anything?” she called in a tone that said he was being overprotective.
“Hold on.” He swept aside a lace curtain and tested the window that opened onto the fire escape off the bedroom. More of the lace was draped over the bed. The faded rose wallpaper, white iron bed, scattered clothes, shoes and books gave the bedroom the look of an overturned Victorian wastebasket.
“It pays to be cautious,” he said, leaving the doors open behind him. “You’ve been gone for three days.”
“Is that all?” She blinked at her living room as if it were a street person’s cardboard box. Her shoulders were slumped. “I thought it was longer.”
Marissa rarely drooped. Jamie wanted to bust Paul for doing that to her, but he had to keep it cool or she’d know how deep his feelings truly ran. “You’re done in.”
She took one look at his face and moved away, masking the rebuff by lifting her arms and rubbing at the back of her neck. Avoiding looking at him again.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
He returned a minute later to find her curled up in her comfy armchair, her head tipping over. He dropped her cat into her lap. She said, “Oh-hh, Harry,” and clutched the beloved pet to her chest so gratefully that he couldn’t stay irked by her wordless withdrawal.
“Thank you for taking care of my kitty while I was gone,” she said, practically purring herself as she rubbed cheeks with the blue-eyed Angora. They were a pair— pampered, elegant, aloof, but affectionate under the right circumstances. “You’re too good to us.”
Too good? Jamie shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t touch her.
Too bad.
THREE A.M. on the fire escape outside of the apartment of Marissa Suarez, and Allard was huddled against the cold drip of a misty rain. The shallow warmth of the day had dissipated from the building’s stones hours ago. He huffed a breath into his turned-up collar to warm his face. Patience and precision were a thief’s stock in trade. Acting rashly was never wise.
A droplet fell off the tip of his nose. His mouth puckered. Resorting to an attempted snatch on the street had been a foolish mistake. He’d been seduced by the couple’s distraction into thinking he could slip the amulet from the bag before they realized what was happening.
Flimsy as it was, the plan had almost worked. The alluring White Star had been at his fingertips when Marissa’s boyfriend had torn the bag away.
A switchblade had waited in Allard’s pocket, but he’d chosen to run. Better to escape than to risk a struggle and possible identification. There would be other opportunities.
He shifted into a squat and peered through the window. Dark and quiet inside. Marissa was sprawled on the bed, her white, long-haired cat a huddled lump on her chest. The feline’s eyes shone at Allard, freezing his hand on the windowsill. He hated pets, cats especially. They were unpredictable creatures. One loud meow at the wrong moment and the girl might be jarred out of her sleep.
Allard tilted his head. There was the bag. He’d watched as a lethargic Marissa had lugged the suitcase into the bedroom and dropped it on the floor. He’d been prepared to intervene should she discover the treasure he’d hidden inside, but his luck had held. She hadn’t bothered to unpack. Instead she’d given the thing a kick to shove it under her bed.
One corner stuck out, tempting him.
The window was locked. He was certain that he could get in after a bit of jimmying. Hadn’t he already bypassed high-tech security systems in his quest for the White Star?
But there was the cat.
The damn cat. His nemesis. Allard’s father, a minor thief and total asshole, had taught him that the smallest detail, if overlooked, could ultimately exact the greatest cost. Yet when he’d seen his son’s irrational fear of cats, he’d sneeringly called Jean La Souri Noire—the dark mouse—on their midnight excursions. To this day, he believed cats were bad luck.
The feline watched Allard, twitching its fluffy tail. After a moment of debate, he eased away from the window. For now, the White Star was safe.
Unlike his drunken lout of a father, he was a patient man. He would watch and wait for his next chance and when it came, he would be ready.
Not even the cat would prevent his fated reunion with the amulet.
Someonewas breaking in!
Marissa bolted upright from a dense sleep, sending Harry shooting off the bed with his tail upright. The cat yowled and streaked away into the darkness—toward the sound of the front door closing. That was odd, but Marissa didn’t think it through. She was scrabbling over the nightstand to find her phone.
Not there. Not freaking there.
She heard a person moving around in the living room without even trying to be quiet. Marissa swallowed thickly as she slid out of bed. Fear was acrid; her mouth tasted like she’d been chewing on tin foil.
Two crimes within hours. Shocking even for a New Yorker.
A light went on in the other room. Marissa dropped down, crouching behind the far side of the bed. She felt around for a weapon, finding a silk scarf, a flimsy chain belt, a Chinese takeout container that had fallen beneath the bed. Maybe there were chopsticks? Why hadn’t she obeyed her mother, who’d said that the city was dangerous and Marissa must always sleep with a butcher knife under the mattress?
Aha. A shoe. Her fingers closed on a four-inch heel that could serve as a dagger.
She crept toward the door, shoe in hand. Would a spike heel through an eyeball work as a defense? Only in the movies, but maybe she’d gain time to run out the door.
A thud sounded from the other room, a thud she could have sworn was the sound of feet dropping onto the wood coffee table. She’d heard that thud a hundred times when Jamie came over to watch TV.
But he wasn’t out there. Unless…
She remembered how they’d kissed on the street and suddenly her lips became plump and tingly. An
absurd reaction under the circumstances. Granted, Jamie had a key, but he wouldn’t come back—would he?—hoping for…
An early morning booty break-in? Not likely.
Marissa edged out the door, ready to strike even though her confused instincts had taken the fear down a few notches. She knew something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t tell what.
One small lamp was on, leaving the room filled with dusky shadows. She narrowed her eyes. There was a person on the couch. Bent over. Making shuffling noises.
Going through my stuff. Insulted by the invasion of privacy, Marissa raised the shoe above her head.
Silently she stepped within striking distance. Harry sat on the arm of the sofa with his tail curved around his body, blinking at Marissa as if wondering what had taken her so long.
What the…?
The person on the couch was straightening.
“Freeze!” Changing tactics in an instant, Marissa pressed the sharp heel of the shoe to the intruder’s back. “Feel that? That’s a gun that’ll blow a hole straight through your spine.”
3
THE INTRUDER LET OUT a high-pitched yelp. Either his balls had crawled up into his body cavity or he was a woman.
“I said not to move.” Marissa dug the heel deeper.
She looked at Harry, who was calmly washing his face with a paw. Simultaneously, Marissa recognized the thief’s curly blond head. Her remaining fear drained away.
She dropped the shoe. “Shandi?”
The woman corkscrewed around to gape at Marissa, then flopped over on the cushions facedown. “Chh’yah, girl! You scared me to death!”
“I scared you?” Marissa stared down at her former roommate, wondering why she even bothered to be surprised. Shandi Lee was the proverbial bad penny. “I thought I was being burgled.”
Shandi rose up on her elbows. “What are you doing here? You said you were going on vacation for a week.” She was a pretty girl under the glitz, but beginning to look run down from not taking care of herself. A heavy application of lipstick, mascara and eyeliner had melted and smeared, giving her the look of a sad-eyed clown.
“I’m back early. Man troubles.” Marissa crossed her arms. “And you?”
Shandi attempted a chagrined grin, which wasn’t very convincing. Her misdeeds were too frequent to be excused as momentary lapses or bad judgment. “You caught me. Since I knew your apartment was empty, I crashed here after Ming kicked me out.”
“Ming kicked you out?” Oh, hell. Another roommatebites the dust. But Marissa wouldn’t be persuaded to provide shelter. Not again. “What did you do this time?”
“Spent my rent on a Fendi purse. Look at it.” Shandi pointed at the coffee table, where a pink leather pouch perched atop the stack of fashion magazines, newspapers and junk mail. “It’s adorable. So worth it.”
“The purse is cute,” Marissa conceded, adding quickly, “but you can’t stay.” The roommate before Ming had given Shandi the boot after a raucous New Year’s Eve party had resulted in three arrests, two infidelities and one hole punched in the wall. That time, Shandi had bunked on Marissa’s couch for a week.
“Aw, c’mon. Don’t make me pack up.” A pair of Chinese silk pajamas spilled from the open tote bag on the floor. “I’m ready to pass out.”
Harry tightroped the back of the couch to press against Marissa’s arm. She rubbed the cat’s head, weakening. Shandi was like an alley cat—superannoying when yowling at night, but scruffily irresistible when she meowed on the doorstep in the rain. “Okay, you can stay until morning. But you have to find another place tomorrow, okay?”
Shandi flopped again. “I could ask Jamie to lend me a corner.”
Marissa stiffened, but she kept her voice casual. “You could.”
Shandi’s visible eye opened. “If I can get past you.”
“I’m not his bodyguard.”
Snort. “You’re each other’s bodyguards. I wish you two would get over yourselves and just do it already.”
“Let’s not get into that again.” Marissa resisted, then couldn’t help herself. “We’re dogs and cats.”
Shandi yawned. “Like that matters when you know he wants to ride you like a mustang.”
Marissa didn’t reply. The kisses with Jamie remained a bright neon sign at the back of her brain. ¡Dios! Middle of the night and she was lit up like Broadway. If the mugger hadn’t knocked some sense into her earlier, there was no telling how naked they’d be right now.
But she didn’t want that…not really. Her resolution was to make no more mistakes. Fooling around with Jamie could be a huge one.
Shandi was smirking into an Ultrasuede sofa pillow. To avoid another bawdy comment, Marissa went to the linen closet and selected a pair of sheets, a blanket and an extra pillow from the jumbled contents. She came back and dropped them on her guest’s backside. Not up to Martha Stewart’s standards, but then, Marissa hadn’t sent out any engraved invitations. “At least take off your shoes.”
Shandi lifted her feet up and toed off her Reebok sneakers. The shoes must have weighed five pounds. They hit the floor like andirons. Better weapons than the sandals, especially when inserted into an open mouth.
Making a note of that, Marissa chirped to Harry and walked back to her bedroom. She softened her tone. “Good night, Shandi.” Then couldn’t resist. “Please don’t get makeup on my pillows.”
She left the door open a couple of inches for the cat and crawled into bed. The Habaneros T-shirt she slept in rode up around her waist and she pulled it down, humping her hips a couple of times. The bedsprings squeaked.
In a voice filled with deviltry, Shandi called, “Ride me, big Sheldon,” quoting from When Harry Met Sally, one of their favorite movie night chick flicks.
“Oh, just shut up,” Marissa murmured. She was usually quicker with a comeback, but the skin on her thighs had jumped to her own touch and she was busy thinking how she would have reacted if Jamie had been waiting in bed for her. Gone on a bucking bareback ride? With her platonic pal?
One day ago that notion would have been laughable. Now it wasn’t. And what had changed? There was her breakup, but she’d lost boyfriends before and hadn’t turned to Jamie except for brotherly comfort. Maybe she was only having an unusually adverse reaction to a bad vacation, complicated by loss of sleep.
She’d be sane by morning.
Instead of wanting Jamie like crazy.
“GIVE ME BACK MY KEY,” was the first thing Marissa said the next morning when she passed through the living room to get to the galley kitchen, her eyes crusted into slits. If she didn’t take a firm stance from the start, she’d find herself giving in, one night at a time, until she had herself a new roommate.
Her resolve was reinforced when she stumbled over the junk that had been scattered throughout the room. Shandi’s worldly possessions—basically a wardrobe, a collection of shoe boxes, one packet of important papers like tax returns and inscribed cocktail napkins and the toolbox that held an oversize makeup kit. Marissa shoved the meager belongings into one big pile. Harry danced ahead, meowing for Fancy Feast.
Shandi muttered something unintelligible and pulled the blanket over her head.
In the kitchen Marissa popped the top of a can of turkey giblets, filled the cat’s dish, then got the arabica dark roast coffee beans from the expanding igloo of her freezer. She made the grinder sing like a swarm of killer bees.
Shandi got the hint and staggered to her feet, saying, “Coffee. Need coffee,” as she lurched toward the bathroom.
“You’re going in the wrong direction.” Marissa gave the beans one more good buzz. The rich smell was waking her up too. Soon the past thirty-two hours would make sense.
She was picking at the corners of her eyes, waiting for the coffee to brew and going over all the reasons that Jamie was no good for her as a lover even though he was nothing but good as a friend, when the doorbell rang.
Jamie’s eye met hers in the peephole. Marissa wanted to run away back to the bedroom and execute a frantic
twenty-second toilette, but Shandi was occupying the bathroom. Acting differently around Jamie would only call attention to how really different Marissa felt since The Kiss.
She scrubbed her hands on her shirt and opened the door, glad she’d pulled on a pair of yoga pants.
A wet nose thrust into her crotch. “Sally!” Jamie tugged at his dog’s leash. He offered an easy smile that lessened Marissa’s self-consciousness. “Sorry. I was taking the beast out for a run at George’s when I heard your coffee grinder.”
“I’m still waking up.”
His face changed when he heard the shower. “You have company.”
Marissa weighed her options. She could tell him Paul had followed her home, they’d made up and that would be that. Except that wouldn’t be that. Anyone who’d ever seen a romantic comedy starring a Hollywood It girl knew “that” only led to more complications.
Besides, she couldn’t lie to Jamie.
Yeah, except about your feelings.
“Shandi showed up after the bars closed, looking for a soft place to land.” Marissa leaned in. “Start thinking of your excuses now.”
Jamie pulled back. “Uh, the Village chapter of the Angelina Jolie fan club is meeting in my apartment.”
“Not bad, but I have lice.”
