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.
