Hot Rocks

by Nora Roberts

  talk to you later.”

  “I thought a davenport was a couch,” Max said when she stuck the phone back in her pocket.

  “It is, or a small sofa that often converts into a bed. It’s also a small desk with a boxlike form with an upper section that slides or turns to provide knee space.”

  “Huh. The things you learn.”

  “I could teach you all sorts of things.” Enjoying herself, she walked her fingers up his chest. “Want me to show you the difference between a canterbury and a commode?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  She took his hand, drew him toward her little library, where she could give a short lesson in antiques while they put the room back in order.

  When the tall, distinguished gentleman with the trim pewter mustache walked into Remember When, Jenny was contemplating what she might fix for dinner. Since it seemed she was hungry all the time, thinking about food was nearly as satisfying as eating it.

  After Angie’s big sale, the pace had slowed. She’d had a few browsers, and Mrs. Gunt had come on the run to see the lotus jug and snap it up. But for the next hour, she and Angie had been puttering, and the day took on a lazy tone that had her giving Angie an early out.

  She looked over at the sound of the door, pleased that a customer would temporarily take her mind off pork chops and mashed potatoes.

  “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

  “I think I’ll just look around, if that’s all right. What an interesting place. Yours?”

  “No. The owner’s not in today. Browse all you like. If you have any questions or need any help, just let me know.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  He was wearing a suit nearly the same color as his mustache and the thick, well-cut head of hair. The suit, and subtle stripe of the tie, made her think money. His voice was just clipped enough to have her assuming North.

  Her saleswoman’s instinct told her he wouldn’t mind a little conversation as he wandered. “Are you visiting Angel’s Gap?”

  “I have business in the area.” He smiled, and it deepened the hollows of his cheeks, turned his eyes into a warm blue and made distinguished just a little sexy. “Such a friendly town.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And so scenic. Good for business, I’d think. I have a shop of my own.” He leaned over to study the display of heirloom jewelry. “Estate jewelry,” he said, tapping the glass. “The buying and selling. Very nice pieces here. Unexpected, really, outside a metropolitan area.”

  “Thank you. Laine’s very particular about what we sell here.”

  “Laine?”

  “Laine Tavish, the owner.”

  “I wonder if I haven’t heard that name. Possibly even met her at one of the auctions. It’s a relatively small pool we swim in.”

  “You might have. If you’re staying in town for a while, you could come back in. She’s usually here.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that. Tell me, do you sell loose stones as well?”

  “Stones?”

  At Jenny’s blank look he angled his head. “I often buy stones—gemstones—to replace ones lost from an antique setting, or to duplicate an estate piece for a client.”

  “Oh. No, we don’t. Of course, the jewelry’s just a small part of our stock.”

  “So I see.” He turned, and those eyes scanned every inch of the main showroom. “An eclectic mix, styles, periods. Does Ms. Tavish do all the buying?”

  “Yes, she does. We’re lucky to have someone like Laine in the Gap. The store’s developed a good reputation, and we’re listed in several guides to the area, and antique and collectible magazines.”

  He wandered off, walking in the direction of a table set with porcelain figurines and small bronzes. “So, she’s not a local then.”

  “You’re not a local in the Gap unless your grandfather was born here. But no, Laine moved here a few years ago.”

  “Tavish, Tavish . . .” He angled back around, narrowing his eyes, stroking his mustache. “Is she a tall, rather lanky woman with very short blond hair? Wears little black glasses?”

  “No, Laine’s a redhead.”

  “Ah well, hardly matters. This is a lovely piece.” He picked up an elegant china cat. “Do you ship?”

  “We certainly do. I’d be happy to . . . Oh, hi, honey,” she said when Vince walked in. “My husband,” she said to the customer with a wink. “I don’t call all the cops honey.”

  “I was heading by, thought I’d stop in to see if Laine was here. Check on her.”

  “No, I don’t think she’s coming in today after all. Got her hands full. Laine’s house was broken into last night,” she said.

  “God, how awful.” The man lifted a hand to the knot of his tie, and the dark blue stone in his pinkie ring winked. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, she wasn’t home. Sorry, Vince, this is Mr. . . . I never did get your name.”

  “It’s Alexander, Miles Alexander.” He offered a hand to Vince.

  “Vince Burger. Do you know Laine?”

  “Actually, we were just trying to determine that. I sell estate jewelry and wondered if I’ve met Ms. Tavish along the circuit. I’m sorry to hear about her trouble. I’m very interested in the cat,” he said to Jenny, “but I’m going to be late for my afternoon appointment. I’ll come back, and hopefully meet Ms. Tavish. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Burger.”

  “Jenny. Come back anytime,” she added as he walked to the door.

  When they were alone in the shop, Jenny poked Vince in the belly. “You looked at him like he was a suspect.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He gave her a return, and very gentle, poke in her belly. “I’m just curious, that’s all, when I see a guy in a slick-looking suit hanging around the shop the day after Laine’s house is broken into.”

  “Yeah, he looked like a rampaging burglar all right.”

  “Okay, what’s a rampaging burglar look like?”

  “Not like that.”

  His name was Alex Crew, though he had proper identification in the name of Miles Alexander—and several other aliases. Now he walked briskly along the sloping sidewalk. He had to walk off his anger, his quietly bubbling rage that Laine Tavish hadn’t been where he’d wanted to find her.

  He despised being foiled, on any level.

  Still, the walk was part business. He needed to get the lay of the land on foot, though he had a detailed map of Angel’s Gap in his head. He didn’t enjoy small towns, or the burgeoning green view of the surrounding mountains. He was a man for the city, its pace, its opportunities.

  Its abundance of marks.

  For rest and relaxation, he enjoyed the tropics, with their balmy breezes, moon-washed nights and rich tourists.

  This place was full of hicks, like the pregnant sales-clerk—probably on her fourth kid by now—and her ex- high-school football hero turned town cop husband. Guy looked like the type who sat around on Saturday nights with his buddies and talked about the glory days over a six-pack. Or sat in the woods waiting for a deer to come by so he could shoot it and feel like a hero again.

  Crew deplored such men and the women who kept their dinner warm at night.

  His father had been such a man.

  No imagination, no vision, no palate for the taste of larceny. His old man wouldn’t have taken the time of day if it wasn’t marked on his time sheet. And what had it gotten him but a worn-out and complaining wife, a hot box of a row house in Camden and an early grave.

  To Crew’s mind, his father had been a pathetic waste of life.

  He’d always wanted more, and had started taking it when he crawled through his first second-story window at twelve. He boosted his first car at fourteen, but his ambitions had always run to bigger, shinier games.

  He liked stealing from the rich, but there was nothing of the Robin Hood in him. He liked it simply because the rich had better things, and having them, taking them, made him feel like he was part of the cream.

  He killed his first man at twenty-two,
and though it had been unplanned—bad clams had sent the mark home early from the ballet—he had no aversion to stealing a life. Particularly if there was a good profit in it.

  He was forty-eight years old, had a taste for French wine and Italian suits. He had a home in Westchester from which his wife had fled—taking his young son—just prior to their divorce. He also kept a luxurious apartment off Central Park where he entertained lavishly when the mood struck, a weekend home in the Hamptons and a seaside home on Grand Cayman. All of the deeds were in different names.

  He’d done very well for himself by taking what belonged to others and, if he said so himself, had become a kind of connoisseur. He was selective in what he stole now, and had been for more than a decade. Art and gems were his specialties, with an occasional foray into rare stamps.

  He’d had a few arrests along the way, but only one conviction—a smudge he blamed entirely on his incompetent and overpriced lawyer.

  The man had paid for it, as Crew had beaten him to bloody death with a lead pipe three months after his release. But to Crew’s mind those scales were hardly balanced. He’d spent twenty-six months inside, deprived of his freedom, debased and humiliated.

  The idiot lawyer’s death was hardly compensation.

  But that had been more than twenty years ago. Though he’d been picked up for questioning a time or two since, there’d been no other arrests. The single benefit of those months in prison had been the endless time to think, to evaluate, to consider.

  It wasn’t enough to steal. It was essential to steal well, and to live well. So he’d studied, developed his brain and his personas. To steal successfully from the rich, it was best to become one of them. To acquire knowledge and taste, unlike the dregs who rotted behind bars.

  To gain entrée into society, to perhaps take a well-heeled wife at some point. Success, to his mind, wasn’t climbing in second-story windows, but in directing others to do so. Others who could be manipulated, then disposed of as necessary. Because, whatever they took, at his direction, by all rights belonged exclusively to him.

  He was smart, he was patient, and he was ruthless.

  If he’d made a mistake along the way, it was nothing that couldn’t and wouldn’t be rectified. He always rectified his mistakes. The idiot lawyer, the foolish woman who’d objected to his bilking her of a few hundred thousand dollars, any number of slow-minded underlings he’d employed or associated with in the course of his career.

  Big Jack O’Hara and his ridiculous sidekick Willy had been mistakes.

  A misjudgment, Crew corrected as he turned the corner and started back to the hotel. They hadn’t been quite as stupid as he’d assumed when he’d used them to plan out and execute the job of his lifetime. His grail, his quest. His.

  How they had slipped through the trap he’d laid and gotten away with their cut before it sprang was a puzzle to him. For more than a month they’d managed to elude him. And neither had attempted to turn the take into cash—that was another surprise.

  But he’d kept his nose to the ground and eventually picked up O’Hara’s scent. Yet it hadn’t been Jack he’d managed to track from New York to the Maryland mountains, but the foolish weasel Willy.

  He shouldn’t have let the little bastard see him, Crew thought now. But goddamn small towns. He hadn’t expected to all but run into the man on the street. Any more than he’d expected Willy to bolt and run, a scared rabbit hopping right out and under the wheels of an oncoming car.

  He’d been tempted to march through the rain, up to the bleeding mess and kick it. Millions of dollars at stake, and the idiot doesn’t remember to look both ways before rushing into the street.

  Then she’d come running out of that store. The pretty redhead with the shocked face. He’d seen that face before. Oh, he’d never met her, but he’d seen that face. Big Jack had photographs, and he’d loved to take them out and show them off once he had a couple of beers under his belt.

  My daughter. Isn’t she a beauty? Smart as a whip, too. College-educated, my Lainie.

  Smart enough, Crew thought, to tuck herself into the straight life in a small town so she could fence goods, transport them, turn them over. It was a damn good con.

  If Jack thought he could pass what belonged to Alex Crew to his daughter, and retire rich to Rio as he often liked to talk of doing, he was going to be surprised.

  He was going to get back what belonged to him. Everything that belonged to him. And father and daughter were going to pay a heavy price.

  He stepped into the lobby of the Wayfarer and had to force himself to suppress a shudder. He considered the accommodations barely tolerable. He took the stairs to his suite, put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign as he wanted to sit in the quiet while he planned his next move.

  He needed to make contact with Laine Tavish, and should probably do so as Miles Alexander, estate jewelry broker. He studied himself in the mirror and nodded. Alexander was a fresh alias, as was the silver hair and mustache. O’Hara knew him as Martin Lyle or Gerald Benson, and would have described him as clean-shaven, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

  A flirtation might be an entrée, and he did enjoy female companionship. The mutual interest in estate jewelry had been a good touch. Better to take a few days, get a feel for her before he made another move.

  She hadn’t hidden the cache at her house, nor had there been any safe-deposit or locker key to be found. Otherwise he and the two thugs he’d hired for the job would have found them.

  It might’ve been rash to burgle her place in such a messy fashion, but he’d been angry and so sure she had what belonged to him. He still believed she did, or knew where to find it. The best approach was to keep it friendly, perhaps romantic.

  She was here, Willy was here—even if he was dead. Could Jack O’Hara be far behind?

  Satisfied with the simplicity of the plan, Crew sat in front of his laptop. He brought up several sites on estate jewelry and began to study.

  Laine woke in lamplight and stared blankly around her bedroom.

  What time was it? What day was it? She scooped her hair back as she pushed herself up to peer at the clock. Eight-fifteen. It couldn’t be A.M. because it was dark, so what was she doing in bed at eight at night?

  On the bed, she corrected, with her chenille throw tucked around her. And Henry snoring on the floor beside the bed.

  She yawned, stretched, then snapped back.

  Max!

  Oh my God. He’d been helping her clear out the worst of the guest room, and they’d talked about going out to dinner. Or ordering in.

  What had happened then? She searched her bleary brain. He’d taken the trash downstairs—outside—and she’d come into her bedroom to freshen up and change.

  She’d just sat down on the bed for a minute.

  All right, she’d stretched out on the bed for a minute. Shut her eyes. Just trying to regroup.

  And now she was waking up nearly three hours later. Alone.

  He’d covered her up, she thought with a sappy smile as she brushed a hand over the throw. And had turned on the light so she wouldn’t wake in the dark.

  She started to toss the throw aside and get up, and saw the note lying on the pillow beside her.

  You looked too pretty and too tired for me to play Prince Charming to your Sleeping Beauty. I locked up, and your fierce hound is guarding you. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow. Better, I’ll come by and see you.

  Max