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She mumbled something inarticulate and retreated to her work space, shaking her head.
Poor Penelope.
CHARLIE STRODE AROUND a bundle of yellow garbage bags piled on the sidewalk, dodging tourists as he checked out the entire block around Alexandra Drake Designs.
As he took careful note of his Broome Street surroundings, snapping a few discreet photos, he pondered the nature of the woman he was about to steal from.
A woman of contrasts. Contrasts that intrigued him. When he’d first walked in, casually, a customer looking for some information, delighted to find the single salesclerk busy, he’d followed the sound of some indie rock band into the workshop of Alexandra Drake. No more than an unlocked door separated the storefront from her work space. Was she really that trusting? Her back was to him and with the music pounding she couldn’t have heard his approach.
Had he taken advantage of the perfect opportunity to check out her security system? Eyeball the safe sitting in the corner? He could have taken photos and she wouldn’t have noticed.
No. He hadn’t. He hadn’t done any of the tasks a self-respecting thief would have accomplished in seconds.
His gaze had gone straight to the hips gyrating to the beat of the music, tightly clad in jeans, her legs not long, but shapely. She had small feet encased in boots. Above the swinging hips, her torso was still. She wore a navy tank top, not an ounce of extra flesh on her. Her bare arms revealed elegant swells of muscle. Her hair was black and wound into a big messy bun with what looked like chopsticks stuck through to hold it in place.
Her eyes were glued to a magnifier and he watched her hands. Those small, efficient hands. Using some kind of tool that looked like small pliers, she was twirling a strand of hot metal as though it were a piece of cooked spaghettini, draping it around a colored stone. He knew the moment she felt his presence. Those glorious hips slowed, her back stiffened.
Still, she finished the meticulous draping of the metal before setting the ring into a clamp. Then she raised her head and turned to him. Too fast for him to pretend he hadn’t been watching her.
He couldn’t have pretended anything, anyway. He was too stunned.
The woman was gorgeous. Cool gray eyes of a tilted almond shape that suggested there was Asian blood in her. Pale skin, full, sexy lips that begged to be painted red, but which she’d only touched with some kind of gloss.
He didn’t have time for lust. He had a job to do.
And yet somehow he couldn’t help himself. He’d come on to her. Enjoyed flustering her, finding an excuse to touch her.
And now, he was preparing to steal from her.
He had a bad feeling about this. A bad feeling that he was going to break every rule he lived by and get to know one of his marks. After the dust had settled, obviously, a few weeks from now when she’d have moved on and wouldn’t think to connect a missing set of jewels with a visit from Charles Pendegraff.
He called himself every kind of fool as he made his preparations, but he knew he was going to be stupid.
As crazy as it was, he was going to see Lexy Drake again.
2
AT SIX, AMANDA PEEKED into Lexy’s work space. “I’ve closed up. I’m heading out now.”
Lexy glanced up and rubbed her tired eyes. “Good day?”
“Three engagement rings, a few pairs of earrings and about a hundred of those bracelets that were featured on Party Girls of Manhattan.”
Lexy laughed. It was amazing how slavish people could be when they saw their favorite star wearing something distinctive on a television show. She only had a small number of mass-produced designs, but since one of the women on the newest semireality show had discovered her work, her designs—especially the ones that appeared on the show—were snapped up.
“Party Girls will do for you what Sex and the City did for Manolo Blahnik,” Amanda prophesied.
“Fine with me.”
Her assistant glanced around the crowded space. “You planning to work all night?”
She rubbed the back of her neck. “No. A little longer. I want to finish this ring set, then I’ll take a break.”
“What did that woman and her daughter bring you, by the way? You seemed pretty excited. You know, that stylish woman with the perfect gray hair and her thin, pretty daughter.”
“Mrs. Grayson and her daughter—” What was the daughter’s name? She recalled the emeralds and diamonds with vivid clarity; she’d never seen such a perfect set, but recalling the details of the owners was always trickier. She closed her eyes for a second. “Judith, that was the daughter’s name.”
Lexy was becoming accustomed to the whims of rich people, and she was the first in line to recommend redesigning antique jewels into settings that would breathe new life into them, but as she’d opened the faded blue velvet box she’d had to suppress the urge to argue mother and daughter out of their idea to have this set broken down and reset.
The gems themselves were exquisite. Emeralds were funny things. The larger they came the more flawed they were likely to be. A few occlusions were expected but when she’d studied these gems through her loupe, she’d been astonished at the near perfection. And the color. Dark, clear green that she’d rarely seen outside a museum.
The setting was antique, no question. Like any personal ornamentation, jewelry went through fashions. But every age had its classics and this set was one of the most inherently beautiful she’d ever seen. Delicate strands of gold held the emeralds and diamonds in place but didn’t compete, so the green fire flashed from the necklace. “These are exquisite. Are you sure you want to reset them?” she’d finally asked.
Mother and daughter exchanged a quick look. “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Grayson had answered. “The set’s a gift to Judith, and she wants a more modern look. We both love your work. We’re excited to see what you could do with these. You are such an artist and with these emeralds, I believe Judith will be breathtaking when she wears the jewels at the diabetes fundraiser next month.” She smiled at her daughter. “I’d planned to give them to her when she got married, but now that she’s twenty-five, and unmarried, I’m going ahead. Why wait? They’ve been in the family forever, and they really don’t suit my coloring.”
Lexy suspected what the older woman really intended was to display some of the family wealth around her daughter’s throat in an unsubtle hint to potential suitors.
“You know, these emeralds are quite rare, and I suspect the pieces are hundreds of years old. You will compromise their value as antiques.”
“Oh, they’ve been in the family forever. It’s time they had a new look.”
Lexy had accepted the commission, of course. It wasn’t her business to talk clients out of her services and as lovely as the current set was, she knew she’d likely never have an opportunity to work with emeralds like this again.
Opening the safe, she withdrew the box and showed the emeralds to Amanda, who said, “Wow.” They both studied the sparkle of diamond and deep, gorgeous green.
Amanda touched the edge of the swirled gold setting. “I’ve never seen emeralds that color. They’re so rich-looking.”
“I know. The color’s spectacular. I think it’s because they are so old. They must have come out of South America centuries ago. Mayan stones are considered the purest and best.”
“How much do you think they’re worth?”
“Hard to say. But with the almost perfect diamonds and the unusual color and clarity of those emeralds, I’m guessing around a million.”
“A million dollars?” Amanda squeaked.
“Yeah.”
So Lexy had at least a million bucks worth of emeralds in her safe and a free hand to design settings that would help an unmarried twenty-five-year-old attract a rich man. Might be a little old-fashioned, not to mention Machiavellian, but this was also by far her largest commission ever.
“Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”
She knew she could trust Amanda. They’d worked together for about eighteen months. In her early twenties, Amanda Sanford was tall and thin, had slightly more than the fashionable number of tattoos and piercings and a penchant for painted leggings and army boots. She was also great with customers and seemed happy in her work.
Lately she’d been letting Amanda help her with some of the simpler settings. When she was swamped, it was amazing how useful an extra pair of hands could be. Amanda also possessed an artistic eye and Lexy often sought out her assistant’s opinion when she was unsure.
AFTER AMANDA LEFT, Lexy finished the ruby wedding set. On a whim, she called her customer and let them know. As she’d half suspected the woman was so excited she wanted to come right over and pick up the rings.
So, her workday ended with a nice fat check, a happy and excited customer and one more peek at the emeralds.
Then, realizing she was starving, she opened the barely visible door that led upstairs to her living space. It wasn’t nearly as fancy as the downstairs since she’d put every cent of her savings and a good chunk of the bank’s into her business. Her tools, the display cases, lighting, decor, everything had to be consistent with her jewelry designs. Which turned out to mean expensive.
Which in turn dictated that upstairs she had little more than a bed, the most minimal kitchen and a couple of chairs and a table she’d found at Goodwill.
Pouring herself a glass of cool water, she noticed the familiar throbbing tingle of a burn on her hand. She regarded the spot, red and shiny, and recalled the guy who’d come in earlier, burdened by too much name and too little conscience. Charles Pendegraff III. Jeez.
He had a fiancée, and was going around staring at other women’s butts and kissing their booboos all better. She shook her head. She gave that marriage a couple of years, tops.
So long as the happy couple lasted long enough to pay for her ring designs, she reminded herself, it was none of her business. For all she knew, Mr. Pendegraff III and Penelope had one of those open relationships where fidelity wasn’t part of the contract.
She didn’t understand that kind of relationship; she was firmly determined that if she ever decided to get married, she’d be the kind of woman who went after her husband with a shotgun if he ever strayed.
And, since her dad was a New York cop who worried about his single daughter, and had taught her all about self-defense and marksmanship, she could shoot the lying, no-good cheater right through the heart. Or any other part of his anatomy she felt like blasting holes in. Whoever married her better understand that.
Her mother, who was half Chinese and very traditional, would probably come back from the dead to help her bury the corpse.
The image of Charles Pendegraff rose up before her and she felt her trigger finger squeeze.
Odd that she should have such a strong reaction to a stranger, but she knew that the biggest part of her disgust was the undeniable attraction she’d felt to the man. But then she already knew her taste in men wasn’t nearly as flawless as her taste in jewels.
As she finished her water the phone rang.
She checked the call display and picked up. “Carl. Hi.”
“What’s up, Sexy Lexy?”
“Just got home from work.”
“All tired out from the long commute?” he teased. Carl Wiesenstein was one of her tight group of friends, all of them artists or craftspeople. He was a metalsmith who was making an amazingly good living considering that his specialty was house numbers and door knockers. “Come out and celebrate. I sold a five-thousand-dollar door chime today.”
She laughed. “You’ve got to love New York.”
“Oh, baby, I do. I’m getting the gang together tonight at Emo’s. Nat and Bruce are coming, Ella if she can get a babysitter, a few others. You in?”
The thought of a night out with friends was tempting. She’d been working way too hard lately. But she knew she wouldn’t go. Not tonight. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got to work.”
“You work too much.”
“I know.” For a second she was tempted to tell him about the emeralds resting in her safe, but Carl wasn’t known for discretion and all she needed was for him to be overheard while he was telling her friends about her big day—as she knew he would. Maybe when she got million-dollar pieces sitting in her safe every day she’d become blasé, but for tonight she was worried that some burglar might overhear Carl and it was dead easy to find her studio. Even though her safe was supposed to be uncrackable, she really didn’t want it tested.
“I’ve got a rush commission. You know how it is.”
Carl chuckled. “Not feeling sorry for you. You’ll charge them through the nose to turn around a design fast.”
“Gotta love New York,” she said again. Frugality might be fashionable, but not to her clientele.
“If you decide to get a life, we’ll see you at Emo’s later.”
“You got it.”
She almost changed her mind when she opened her fridge and found nothing in there but half of an old pizza and a corked bottle of wine she didn’t even remember opening.
She tossed both and called down to a Thai place for delivery, then she kicked back, cranked the music up, pulled out her sketchbook and started playing with ideas for the emerald and diamond set.
At midnight, she turned out the light, but Lexy couldn’t sleep. A restlessness possessed her. She knew it was excitement. She loved her muse, she really did, but the damn woman was a workaholic slave driver. Ideas were chasing each other through Lexy’s mind faster and more confusing than a stock car race.
After a couple of hours of tossing and turning, unable to turn off her brain, she flipped on the light, looked at the sketch pad on the floor and knew that she needed to see those emeralds again. Her latest idea was bold, almost crazy, but she thought the gems were so unusually brilliant that they could dominate a bolder setting than the one they’d rested in for half a millennium.
THE ENTRANCE TO Alexandra Drake Designs was an eye-catching blue. Bight, shiny, as close to neon as paint can get, but the dramatic look suited her storefront and was oddly in keeping with the neighborhood, a place of avant garde shoe designers, exclusive little nooks selling nothing but handmade Italian bags, lingerie boutiques.
The woman was crazy not to have a decent security system, but then Charlie doubted she’d ever had to store anything as valuable as the emeralds that he assumed were currently residing in her safe.
It was almost too easy.
Broome Street was as quiet as it ever got. He could hear his soft footfalls on the pavement. In his black slacks, turtleneck and shoes he could pass for a man taking a walk after a night at the theater perhaps, or a meal at a good restaurant. The March night air was cool, crisp, and when the wind picked up, that man could as easily melt into the shadows of a doorway. And unlock the far-too-simple mechanism on the lock of Alexandra Drake Designs. This was the kind of lock he’d started his career with as a teenager. It took him less than a minute to take care of the main lock. The dead bolts took little more than a minute.
As the door of Alexandra Drake Designs opened and he slipped inside, he wished she at least had an electronic security system, something to give him a bit of excitement.
Charlie ought to be grateful he could be in and out in only a few minutes, with the Isabella Emeralds, but he had his pride. He might be a retired thief, but he was still the best. A little challenge would be good; otherwise a man could become complacent, lose his edge.
Silent and dark as a shadow he made his swift way past the dark shapes of her display cases to the back, to the door that separated the storefront from the small workshop. He was frankly insulted to find the door wasn’t even locked. How was a thief to remain on top of his game when his marks were so damn sloppy?
He felt his way around her table, where he’d watched her work earlier, grinning at the memory of her body rocking out while her hands created magic. He’d been shocked at the punch of lust that damn near flattened him when she turned and he received the full impact of her eyes. Eyes that ought to be in a porcelain doll instead staring at him from that strong-looking body.
He’d be back.
He’d give the woman time to get through the shock of the break-in. A couple of weeks, then he’d casually stroll in here, with Penelope conveniently history. He planned to ask the jewelry lady out.
In silence, he knelt before the safe.
At least the safe put up a fight.
For the first time since he’d stood outside in the night contemplating the pathetic excuse for a lock, he felt his peculiar set of skills being called on.
The safe was an older, German model and he respected it. As safes went it was stubborn, thick walled, heavy, fireproof, blastproof, tamperproof.
But not Charlie proof.
They never were.
He flexed his fingers a few times to limber them, crouched, slipping into the zone, the blissed-out state that told him he was doing what he was born to do, and went to work.
ONE OF THE MANY ADVANTAGES of a live/work loft was that Lexy didn’t have to commute very far to her job. She didn’t even have to dress. Shoving on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, she pulled on a pair of purple and pink slipper socks and made her way downstairs.
Excitement was bubbling and she knew her imagination was working on overdrive keeping her from sleep. She’d learned to live with the quirk. Her creativity kept her designs fresh and edgy, sometimes surprising even herself. So she lost the odd night’s sleep. She’d live.
She loved her studio at night. There was a hush that was almost palpable. Even though the traffic noise never ceased, and sirens pierced the night silence regularly, there were no customers, no movement, no commerce.
She could set herself to design knowing no one would bother her.
