STOLEN MOMENTS

by Michelle Martin

  "It would be a great deal lovelier without the ragtag nouveau riche element trying to take over our street," Elise Lang retorted. "Imagine having to put up with Ivana Trump as a neighbor!"

  Well, so much for small talk.

  Elise Lang looked her critically up and down. "I thought you were a blond."

  "Strawberry blond," Harley corrected. She sifted one hand through her short brown hair. "This is my disguise. It's actually worked. No one has recognized me, except your son, of course. It's embarrassing how quickly he found me, and after all my efforts to hide my tracks, too."

  "Won't you have a seat, Miss Miller?" Elise Lang said as her husband digested this information. It did not seem to sit well.

  "Are you telling us that Duncan located you?" Colby demanded as Harley sat down on the rose brocade sofa, Duncan walking around to stand behind her.

  "Late yesterday morning, and I've been nothing but trouble to him ever since. I'm afraid it's entirely my fault that he didn't return me to Boyd Monroe. In fact, that's why he brought me here tonight. I've got a proposition for you."

  As Duncan had predicted, Colby refused point-blank to drop Boyd and take her on as a client. He used a variety of arguments, including all of the moral, ethical, and professional barriers, plus a good ten minutes' more. Harley sat through all of it, trying to look like she really cared.

  "I do understand your position," she said when she could finally get a word in edgewise, "but I don't believe you fully comprehend what's at stake here. Boyd Monroe is engaged in something—possibly something illegal, and possibly something dangerous to me. Duncan has basically fulfilled your contract with Boyd by finding me and keeping me safe. He can't take me back to Boyd because I refuse to go and, legally, he can't force me to do so.

  "With that case closed," she rolled on before Colby could argue her down, "there's no conflict of interest, so now you can take me on as a client. I promise you, Mr. Lang, that Jane Miller has far more photo ops than Boyd Monroe."

  Colby closed his mouth. Duncan lightly squeezed her shoulder. She had made a direct hit.

  It took Colby a quarter hour to reframe her logic to his taste and convince himself that it was he who had come up with the idea in the first place. He criticized Duncan for not raising the problem of Boyd Monroe sooner, apologized to Harley for his son's negligence, and assured her that Colangco International was just the company to help her and all of her hundreds of friends in the music industry. How, Harley wondered through this deadly monologue, had Duncan survived in this house? His father could squeeze the life out of a nine-hundred-year-old redwood.

  "Mr. Monroe will have to be handled delicately," Colby concluded.

  "That's why I came to you, Dad," Duncan said, speaking for the first time in half an hour. "This sort of situation is right up your alley. If anyone can allay Monroe's suspicions, convince him that Miss Miller will return to the fold after her holiday, and keep him from hiring someone else to find her, it's you."

  "I don't foresee any real difficulty," Colby murmured, considering the matter. "Very well, Miss Miller, Colangco is happy to help you in any way that it can. I'll brief my son Brandon tomorrow morning after he finishes supervising a security job, and he'll get right to work on your case."

  "But I don't want Brandon, I want Duncan!" Harley exclaimed, and then blushed. "I mean, Duncan did a good job for Boyd, he's been honest with me, and he's on top of things now. I want him assigned to my case."

  Colby would have argued with her, but to tell her, as he clearly longed to do, that Duncan wasn't fit to walk the dog let alone handle her case would be to threaten his company's credibility and his own judgment in hiring Duncan in the first place.

  "I will, of course, provide full oversight on this job," was all Colby could say.

  "Thank you," Harley said, obeying Duncan's slight tap on her shoulder and standing up. "Well, I don't want to take up any more of your time. It's been a long day for me, and I'm sure Duncan wants to get right to work."

  "Emma has already pulled up some background material and left it for me in my office," Duncan said smoothly as he began to lead Harley to the door. "I'll leave a status report on your desk for your review tomorrow morning, Dad."

  "Thank you."

  "Good night Mrs. Lang, Mr. Lang," Harley said at the double doors, "it was a pleasure meeting you."

  "And you, Miss Miller," Elise Lang coolly replied. Now there's a loving pair, Harley thought as Duncan quietly closed the doors on their escape. No kiss or hug of greeting, or farewell, for their son. Not even a goodbye.

  "Come on," he said, sotto voce, "let's get while the going is good."

  "How'd we do?" she asked as they started down the stairs.

  "Hole in one," Duncan assured her, warmly squeezing the hand he had clasped in his. She realized that there hadn't been a moment of their visit when he hadn't been touching her in some way, physically fending off the arctic chill of his parents and this house. "We should be free from Colangco's interference for a couple of days," he continued.

  "And Boyd?"

  Duncan grinned. "Consider him neutralized. Once Dad makes his play, Boyd won't know what hit him."

  "Your dad's a real piece of work."

  "Ain't it the truth."

  She glanced at him, so calm, even cheerful, at her side as they walked down the stairs. That he took his parents' coldness and lack of affection in stride spoke volumes. That he felt no compunction to explain them to her said even more. Clearly, this was normal life in the Lang household. What was there to explain?

  They reached the large ground floor reception hall. Harley looked around at the Gainsborough on the wall, at the marble beneath her, at the crystal chandelier above, at the beauty that was completely overwhelmed by a cold formality that seemed to have oozed into the very foundation of the building, and its occupants. "You really grew up here?"

  "And in a mausoleum in the Hamptons that we laughingly call our summer cottage."

  She looked at Duncan, his black curls charmingly rumpled, his 1950s leopard-print shirt and tan slacks completely out of place in this setting. "I don't see it."

  "Neither have I," he said, opening the front door. "Let's blow this joint before the walls start closing in on us."

  Harley thought about that phrase as they walked up East Sixty-fourth Street

  to catch a taxi on Fifth Avenue

  . The walls must have closed in on Duncan every day of his childhood in that house. She understood him so much better now.

  Of course he was stubborn and strong and determined. He had to be to have survived that icebox. Colby and Elise Lang were perfect for each other, but the worst possible parents, and all for the same reasons: they were cold, judgmental, harsh, and demanding. And abusive. To withhold affection from a child was abusive. To criticize him with every other sentence was abusive.

  No wonder Duncan had broken out in social excess at every conceivable opportunity. He'd been fighting for his life. He'd been searching desperately for human warmth and affection. But had he found it? Harley frowned as a cab pulled up to them at the intersection and she slid across the back seat.

  No, Duncan had said life as the Playboy of the Western World had palled. So he couldn't have found the human connection he'd been searching for. Her heart ached at the thought. She'd been locked away from human contact for nine years; he'd been locked away all of his life.

  It was no wonder he was skittish about relationships and commitment—he had his parents' example before him and a lifetime of experience that apparently had led him to believe he was incapable of loving and being loved.

  What was surprising, what was almost incomprehensible, was that he should have come away from that house and those parents and that lack of everything the human heart needed with gentleness and compassion, whimsy and insight not merely intact, but flourishing. They should have been stomped flatter than roadkill. They should have been hardened into selfishness and cruelty and soul ice.

  Yet here he sat, this
man who could blaze at her in righteous and perfectly understandable fury one minute, and then burst out laughing the next. He had compromised his honor to give her a few precious hours of freedom because he, better than anyone, understood how important those hours were. He had reassured her and strengthened her at Goodies; his black eyes had beamed encouragement and support and an absolute faith in her all during her set at the Surrealistic Pillow. Now he had done his level best to protect her from the more unpleasant aspects of his parents' company.

  "You are a very good man, Duncan Lang," she announced as their taxi turned left onto East Eighth Street

  and then made a sharp right onto Broadway.

  He glanced down at her, amusement tilting his sensual mouth. "Where did that come from?"

  "The truth."

  "My parents, I'm afraid, would not agree."

  "I guess it comes down to who you want to believe: a couple of ice sculptures or a royal pain in the butt."

  He laughed, and she knew the greatest satisfaction that she could give him laughter so soon after leaving that awful house.

  "I really am sorry I've caused you so much trouble," she said. "I hadn't really realized that my case was a career breaker for you."

  "Oh, it's been more than that. You've been the first real challenge I've had in two long years. That's why I practically tap-danced all the way to the Ritz-Carlton when Boyd first called. Little did I know…"

  She could feel more than see his eyes gazing at her with a heat that was both intimate and electric, like an Oklahoma thunderstorm converging on a farmhouse. Her heart was racing in her chest. For one wild moment, vertigo nearly tumbled her into his arms, her mouth tilting up for his kiss, but the cab made a sharp right turn, and sanity, blessedly, prevailed.

  "What are you going to do now that you've got your whole holiday before you and a Fender Stratocaster in hand?" Duncan asked, just as if he hadn't felt that electric moment too.

  "Everything on my itinerary," she replied, turning her head to hide her disappointment, "plus come up with enough material to perform at the Pillow next week."

  "You were utterly fantastic tonight, you know."

  He'd done it again. He'd engulfed her in his warmth without even touching her. "It was the best time I've ever had on stage," she said quietly, looking up at him. "You were right, I did know what to do. But it was more than that. I felt so connected to that audience. These last nine years, I haven't performed anywhere that didn't hold at least five thousand seats. Singing to a couple of hundred people is so much more immediate and satisfying."

  "Time to rethink your concert venues."

  "Oh yeah."

  "Have you realized yet that you're traveling at light speed?"

  She stared up at him as the cab screeched to a stop in front of her hotel. "I am?"

  His smile crinkled his eyes. "Oh yeah."

  Laughing and feeling oddly giddy, Harley slid out of the cab after him.

  Duncan took her hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, and led her through the Millenium Hilton's revolving glass door and into the darkly elegant lobby. He pulled her into an elevator chatting about some of his musician friends, just as if he didn't feel their hands fusing together, awakening desire that curled her toes and burned her cheeks.

  She didn't know where to look. She didn't know what to say as the elevator doors opened on the thirty-seventh floor and Duncan tugged her down the hall. He stopped and looked at her inquiringly. She suddenly realized that they were standing in front of her door. Feeling like a fool, she handed him her guitar and fumbled through her purse, found her key, and clumsily opened the door. Duncan set her guitar just inside the doorway.

  "Well…" she said, looking up into black eyes that scorched her soul and burned away every coherent thought, "good night."

  His hand reached up. Hot fingertips brushed across her cheek. She drew in a sharp breath.

  "Good night," he murmured.

  He turned and walked away.

  It was a full minute before Harley remembered to blink.

  * * *

  As promised, she walked into Colangco International the next morning at nine o'clock on the dot. She wore sandals and a Hawaiian print midriff shirt and pedal pushers that made her feel light and breezy and confident enough to meet Duncan's dark gaze again. Emma—she assumed it was Emma—was sitting at her desk, a telephone headset on her head. Her long straight black hair was pulled back from her small face by a pair of barrettes. Her gray jacket and skirt were conservative. Her large black eyes were wide as she stared at her computer.

  "Emma Teng?"

  The young woman jumped and then hurriedly pushed a button on the phone jack. "You must be Miss Miller."

  "Call me Harley."

  "Okay, Harley. It's only fair to warn you that you've entered Armageddon. I advise you to get out while you can."

  "Huh?"

  Then she heard the shouting coming from the inner office. Duncan's office. His name was on the door. She recognized the cold fury of Colby Lang's voice even through the walls.

  "What's going on?" she whispered.

  Emma leaned toward her across the desk. "We were hired to protect some diamonds that were going on display at the Bartlett Museum. They got stolen in transit two hours ago. Duncan was the one who came up with the transportation plan."

  Harley swore.

  "Exactly," Emma said grimly. "I've been listening in on the intercom. Colby, Brandon, and Duncan Lang are all in there along with two police detectives and our client's New York representative. All of them, except Duncan, think that Duncan engineered the heist."

  "What? Oh, come on! Duncan Lang is the most honest man I've ever met!"

  Emma looked her up and down approvingly. "You know that and I know that, but unfortunately it looks like that's going to have to be proven, in triplicate, to everyone else."

  The door to Duncan's office opened and two men walked out into Emma's office. One was in his late twenties, the other in his early forties. Both were white, both wore two-piece suits, the younger in dark brown, the elder in dark gray. Harley stared at them in amazement. They actually looked like what they were—cops.

  "You start the canvas in Chelsea and the Village," the older man said as they walked to the outer door, "to see if his alibi holds up, and I'll start the background check."

  "Right," said the younger man as they walked out into the hall.

  Meanwhile, the shouting in Duncan's office had escalated. The police detectives had left his door ajar. Harley and Emma glanced at each other. Neither made a move to close the door.

  "I assigned this job to you, Brandon. You!" Colby bellowed. "What in hell were you thinking of to bring Duncan in?"

  "He's my brother," Brandon said defensively, "and I was up to my eyeballs in work. I needed some help."

  "You know he can't be trusted!"

  "Excuse me—" Duncan began.

  "All right, all right," Brandon said, an angry edge to his voice. "It's all my fault. Call the cops back and have me arrested."

  "Of all the asinine ideas," Colby exploded. "Transporting a million dollars' worth of diamonds in a limousine. No armored car. No police escort! We might just as well have advertised them in the Post."

  "Brandon was in the lead car," Duncan said in a dark, carefully controlled voice Harley had never heard before. "The limo was bulletproof. We had our most trusted people in the limo and around the limo in unmarked cars. Brandon billed and cooed over the transportation plan and you signed off on it, Dad. It was a good plan."

  "If you wanted to steal the diamonds, yes!" Colby yelled.

  "I did not steal the diamonds," Duncan stated.

  "You don't honestly expect me to believe that, do you?"

  Harley stared at the door, appalled that Duncan's father and even, it seemed, his brother, could actually believe him capable of stealing the diamonds. What kind of a family were they? How could they think such awful things of Duncan? Her fingernails dug into the palms
of her hands. If this was agony for her, what must Duncan be feeling?

  "Gentlemen," said a fourth man, speaking with a heavy French accent, "I do not care who stole the diamonds, nor does my employer. Monsieur Giscard cares only that they be returned at once. You will find the diamonds, gentlemen, or the repercussions could be … fatal."

  The door opened and a man with a comfortable girth clothed in the finest of French silk suits walked out of the office. He tipped his hat at Emma and at Harley and then strolled out into the hall.

  Harley stared at Emma in perplexity.

  "French mob," Emma whispered.

  Harley's eyebrows shot up.

  "Damn you to hell, Duncan," Colby roared. "You're fired! I want you packed and out of this office in five minutes."

  "You can't fire me without cause," Duncan calmly replied, "and you have no cause because you have no proof that I had anything to do with stealing the diamonds. If you don't want a lawsuit on your hands—a highly publicized lawsuit—then I suggest you stop bellowing at me and find the real thief. I've got work to do."

  "The hell you do," Colby sputtered. "I may not be able to fire you yet, but I can suspend you. Brandon will take over the Miller case."

  "Like hell," Duncan said.

  "Duncan, be reasonable," Brandon broke in. "You're going to be so tied up with the police because of those damned diamonds that you won't have a second to think of anything else."

  "And I am suspending you," Colby added.

  "Let me explain the facts of life to you both," Duncan said in his new dark voice. "I did not steal the diamonds, so I have nothing to worry about and Colangco has nothing to worry about. The police are checking my alibi, so they're leaving me alone. I have nothing to occupy my time but the Miller case. I sold it, it's my job, and I'm going to finish it. Besides, Miss Miller has stated categorically that she will only work with me, not with you, Brandon, or you, Dad. And remember, the media will be scrutinizing Colangco with a fine-tooth comb until the Giscard diamonds are found. Any change in our routine or our caseload and they'll jump all over us."

  "Duncan, you can't possibly work under these conditions," Brandon stated. "It's ridiculous. I won't have it. I'm sure Miss Miller will understand the need to change her case assignment under the new circumstances."