by Nancy Warren
Charlie didn’t check in. It seemed Healey had done so on his behalf. He didn’t even explain the room arrangements to her, but he wasn’t a man who wasted a lot of words. She supposed she’d soon find out what was going on.
The elevator made its expensively quiet ascent to the eighteenth floor. Charlie strode to the door of their room as though he was a regular visitor. Maybe he was.
When he opened the door he stepped aside for her to enter first. She thought those kind of manners were so inbred he didn’t even think about his actions.
It was nice.
She entered and her jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? This is a suite.”
“Yes.”
She stepped in and glanced around. “I feel like I’m in Versailles.”
The old-world charm of the room was distinctly European in flavor. No simple bedroom this; it was a full two-bedroom suite including butler’s pantry, and two sumptuous bathrooms, so any idea she’d had that Pendegraff had more than business in mind could be put away for now.
They stood there for a moment. She’d unpack, but she didn’t have any luggage.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“We shop.”
“That sounds great since I have no clothes whatsoever and certainly Cinderella has nothing to wear to the ball tomorrow night, but I thought you wanted me to stay hidden?”
“I do. The shopping is coming to us.”
“Rich people really do have different rules of life.”
He put the black briefcase he was carrying on the table and carried a black leather bag into one of the bedrooms. “You seem pretty hung up about rich people. We’re not all that different, you know.”
“Putting aside our different views on morality, you fly your own plane, you book a suite at the Plaza on a whim, you don’t go shopping, you bring people to you, I’d say we have nothing in common.” She sighed, flopping back into the luxury that was the couch. “My mom and dad always worked hard. They took pride in that, and so do I. I guess I don’t have a lot of respect for people who lounge around all day living on trust funds.” She flicked him a glance. “Not to be rude.”
“Of course not.”
There was a discreet knock on the door. He glanced at his watch. “Right on schedule.”
When he opened the door and a stylish middle-aged woman sailed in with two assistants, a rolling wardrobe rack, boxes and several wardrobe bags, Lexy felt a spurt of annoyance. Where did he get off snapping his fingers and getting all this special treatment? Money, that’s how, and not honestly earned money, either.
The woman had a slight French accent and introduced herself as Francine. Her helpers she ignored. She didn’t seem to need any introduction to Charlie and was so uninterested in any details about Lexy that she almost choked not being able to tell the woman who she was and why she was here. She had no choice but to let these people think she was another Pendegraff possession, a mistress to be decorated and dressed according to his lordship’s whims.
Her temper simmered while Francine fawned all over Charlie, who seemed accustomed to the attention and not at all bothered by it. She motioned one of the helpers to the closet and after some zipping sounds and a few soft directions, she returned with her assistant holding two dresses, one in each hand.
“Black or color?” Both dresses were beautiful. She suspected Charlie had insisted on a simple gown with a low neck to showcase the emeralds. From the fact that Francine was willing to run all over town with a selection of dresses for a private showing, Lexy had to assume they were devastatingly expensive.
Charlie considered them both, then turned his gaze to her. She ought to be amused, but the way he sized her up as though he’d seen her naked a hundred times and owned her body incensed her.
“Black, I think,” he said.
“I prefer color,” she snapped. She was determined to have some say in choosing her own dress.
His slightly amused expression told her he’d read her mind. “Try them all on,” he instructed.
She stomped into the bedroom that didn’t contain his bag, only hanging on to the shreds of her temper in the knowledge that she needed to be dressed properly for the gala in order to catch Grayson tomorrow.
One of the assistants followed her in and opened a display case full of lingerie.
Lexy’s annoyance melted like ice cream on a hot sidewalk. “Oh, my,” she said, leaning forward to touch the exquisite filmy things in the case.
“Monsieur said you were thirty-four B but I brought a few sizes.”
“Monsieur was right,” and the fact that he’d checked her out so thoroughly was mildly unnerving.
The helper’s name was Marie-Anne and she became Lexy’s new bff as they matched lingerie with the first dress, a long black evening gown paired with black high heels.
The moment she was in the first of the dresses, she knew the style was wrong. It was a one-shoulder arrangement that drew attention to the sweep of fabric from shoulder to hip. Jewelry would be overkill in this dress. She was about to shake her head and step out of it when she thought, what the heck? Mr. Pendegraff wanted to sit around and look at dresses? She’d oblige. She’d never known a man who hadn’t grown bored in five minutes of shopping with a woman. Let’s see how Charlie liked a parade of dresses, spaced out as he waited for her to change. And she didn’t plan to hurry.
She walked slowly out into the main room.
Francine immediately launched into an effusive gush of praise about how beautiful it was, what a magnificent figure mademoiselle had, but she ignored the woman and concentrated on Charlie’s reaction.
Lexy was female and vain enough to be gratified at the way his eyes grew intent as they looked at her, at the drape of fabric that accentuated her curves, but his verdict was the same as hers.
“I’ve got a fine necklace I want you to wear, darling. You definitely need something with a lower neckline.”
“All right, sweetheart,” she murmured in the way she imagined a well-pampered mistress might. Not that she had any experience in the matter, or desire to find out.
She found the perfect dress on the third try. The gown could have been designed for her, so lovingly did it hug her curves, accentuating her small breasts, and leaving her shoulders bare. It was an antique-gold color, which would highlight the necklace to perfection. She looked delicate and slightly mysterious. She’d never worn a prettier dress. Or, she suspected, a more expensive one.
“It’s perfect,” Marie-Anne whispered. “Like it was made for you.”
“I know.” And she slipped the dress off.
“You’re not going to show monsieur?”
“Yes, I’m going to show monsieur. But we should save the best for last, don’t you think?”
The Frenchwoman shrugged in a “who can understand Americans” kind of way, and pulled out the next dress.
“I always think it’s good to keep a man waiting, don’t you?”
A very Gallic shrug of the shoulders. “Some men, yes. But this one? I would not care to cross him, mademoiselle.”
“How funny. I’m absolutely looking forward to it.”
14
HOW COULD WOMEN STAND shopping? Charles wondered as he tried his hardest not to look bored and to continue to speak politely to Francine. He had a strong suspicion that Lexy was dragging this thing out as long as she could to make him suffer. And it was working.
After the fifth dress he was ready to cry truce. Enough already. She looked fabulous in all of them, as she must know, but still she insisted that this one wasn’t quite perfect. The hem was too frilly, the fabric not what she had in mind, the neckline too high, too low, too wide, too wavy, frumpy, décolletage and he’d lost track of what else was wrong. He felt like yelling to her that all the dress had to do was show off the emeralds, she was meant to be a frame, that was all. But she already knew that, which was why he was pretty sure she was yanking his chain.
He guessed he deserved retribution. He’d kidnapped her,
as she kept on reminding him, which seemed to trump the fact that he’d also saved her life.
Women.
“I think this is the last one,” Francine said in her smooth way as though she could read his boredom.
“Good.”
The door opened behind him. He turned his head.
And felt his eyes bug out. Totally cartoon style. Wowza.
He’d imagined he’d seen everything a dress could do to that sweet little body, but he had been wrong.
The dress didn’t just fit her, it caressed her when she moved, making a man want to put his hands in all the places the fabric was allowed to linger and he wasn’t.
Off the shoulder, low-cut, her bosom was a white expanse waiting for the perfect jewelry.
Once you got past the small, shapely breasts, the dress showed him a trim waist without an ounce of fat, and curvy hips. He wanted to say something but he felt as if his tongue was welded to the roof of his mouth.
Even Francine’s gushing actually sounded genuine this time. She oohed, and ahhed and ooh-la-la-d and still he stared, dumbfounded.
Being in such close quarters with a beautiful woman and not being allowed to touch her had been an effort from the moment he saw her, but now that he’d seen her in this dress, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself wanting her. Who was he kidding, anyway? Since he’d been fool enough to kiss her, he couldn’t get the feel of her body out of his mind, the taste of her, the way her lips fit against his.
Lexy ignored the fussing Frenchwoman and concentrated on him. Finally, when he still hadn’t spoken, she said, “You like?”
He nodded. Enthusiastically.
Her amusement deepened. “You speechless?”
He nodded again.
“Good,” she said, her lips smiling in a mysterious fashion that hid her thoughts. “I like that in my dates.”
She nodded brusquely and he was reminded that she was a very competent businesswoman. “We’ll take this one. Including the shoes and lingerie I’m wearing.”
“An excellent choice, mademoiselle.”
“I’m also going to need two pairs of jeans, some shirts and some everyday underwear. Marie-Anne knows me pretty well by now. She can pick them out for me. Could you have them delivered today?”
“With pleasure, mademoiselle.”
When the women had all but bowed themselves out, Lexy said, “I could get used to being a kept woman.” She contemplated her new shoes. Then struck a sultry pose in front of the long mirror. The vision made him instantly, humiliatingly hard.
“I’ve never been a mistress before.”
“Not to burst your bubble, but there’s more to being a mistress than shopping.” He eyed her hungrily. “There are certain…services you’re expected to provide.”
Her gaze rose and connected with his and passion flared as it did pretty much every time they were close.
“Catch me a killer and we’ll see what we can do about that.”
“That’s a pretty tall order.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m worth it.”
He had no trouble believing it.
LEXY WENT BACK TO HER bedroom and slipped off the most gorgeous dress she’d ever worn. Not that she didn’t have a certain style all her own, but she tended to vintage pieces and young designers she knew who were just starting out. She’d even been known to barter jewels for frocks. But this? This dress was in a whole other league. Charlie’s league.
She shook her head, hanging it carefully in the closet and pulling her jeans and one of the shirts from Colorado back on.
She swept back into the living room to find Charlie immersed in his computer.
He glanced up when she entered the room and politely stopped what he was doing.
“Maybe you could Google the guest list. I’ll need a rundown of all the inbred, pampered socialites I’ll be rubbing shoulders with. Bare shoulders, too. I hope my plebian roots don’t freak them out.”
“You know what your problem is? You’re a snob.”
She drew in her breath so fast she almost choked on it. “I am not. I’m working class and proud of it.”
“Exactly. That’s what I meant. You look down your nose at me because I have a certain background and possessions without knowing anything about who I truly am.”
“That is blatantly untrue. I know you’re a thief.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and sat back. “What else do you know about me?”
“Aside from the fact that you’re arrogant, pushy and annoying, what more do I need to know?”
“Right back at you, sweetheart.”
She went to the kitchen to make tea. After a minute, she said, “I’m nervous. It makes me bitchy. Sorry.”
She didn’t realize he’d moved until she heard him behind her say, “Don’t be nervous. It’s going to be fine.”
“I’m going to walk under Edward Grayson’s nose wearing the necklace his mistress stole from him, the one he murdered her for stealing.”
“Allegedly.”
“Well, I am allegedly nervous.”
“You don’t have to do it.”
“I said I’m nervous, not that I’m a quitter. Of course we’re doing it. I like the audacity of the plan.”
He gripped her shoulders. “That’s the spirit. Look, I need to go out for a few hours. Will you be okay?”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Some business to attend to.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll run away?”
He turned to her, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Are you planning to run away?”
“Probably not.” He didn’t point out the obvious. That she didn’t have a lot of places to go.
“But I’m going to call my father.”
He nodded. “Great idea. Tell him to come by. I’d like to meet him.”
“You would?”
“Sure.”
“But he’s a cop.”
“So you said.”
“And you’re a thief.” She made an up-and-down motion with her two hands. “Cop, thief, I’m seeing a conflict of interest here.”
“Oh, we’re on the same side on some things.”
“Such as catching Grayson?”
The look he sent her was inscrutable. “Among other things.” He came forward and kissed her swiftly. “Use the peephole before you open the door.”
After he left, she was restless. Keyed up. Her spine continued to tingle. What happened over the next twenty-four hours would be critical. And she had to trust a man who was a thief and a kidnapper. Not exactly a résumé that filled her with confidence. And yet, oddly, she’d come to trust this man.
Half an hour later, her clothes arrived. If it wasn’t the full Julia Roberts wardrobe from Pretty Woman, the clothing she’d asked for was a lot more practical. She wasn’t planning to attend any polo matches or fancy dinners while she was here, only the one gala, then she’d have to go back to rebuilding her business. And her life.
Marie-Anne brought her the jeans she’d asked for, a couple of shirts, sweaters, a tweed car coat, walking shoes and a pair of boots. There was even a funky scarf to wear with the coat. “This is great, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” The woman hesitated. “I know you said your luggage went missing.”
“Yeah. Stupid airline. Still haven’t found it.”
“I was wondering if you also need some makeup.”
She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Yes. I totally forgot.”
A quick smile. “We sell these kits at the store. It’s not everything you need, but it’s a start.”
“Thank you so much.” She gave the woman an impulsive hug.
The next visitor was her father, who enveloped her in a crushing hug the second the door shut behind him. She knew he was emotional from the way he squeezed her so tight she thought her ribs would snap.
“Don’t ever put me through anything like that again,” he warned.
“No. It was awful.”
He set her away from him and glanced around. He wasn’t a tall man but he was solid and she could feel his temper simmering. “Where is he? Where’s the guy who put my baby in danger?”
He stalked around the suite long enough to figure out that there were two bedrooms and her things were in one while Charlie’s were in the other. It helped cool his temper a degree or two.
“He had to go out for a while but he said he’s looking forward to meeting you.”
Her dad grunted, never a good sign. “I got a few things I want to say to him.”
“Do you want some tea or coffee or something?”
He shook his head.
She sat beside him on the couch. “Tell me everything you’ve found out.”
“You were right. That name you gave me? Tiffany Starr? How’d you know she was the dead girl?”
“It’s a complicated story.”
“I got all afternoon.”
So she told him how the woman and her supposed mother had come into her studio, the story they’d given her and she told him about the emeralds.
“Seems to me there’s some details you’re leaving out.”
“The rest of the story is Charlie’s. He’ll have to tell you himself. He should be back any minute.”
Her father looked very grim. She hadn’t seen him like this since her mom died. She put a hand on his arm. “What is it, Dad?”
“That girl was murdered.”
Even though she’d suspected this news, it was like a blow to the gut. “Oh, no.” She swallowed, had to know. “How?”
“She was shot.”
“Oh, poor woman.”
“It gets worse.”
“Worse? What could be worse than being murdered and then burned?”
“She was killed with your gun.”
15
LEXY’S HORRIFIED GAZE flew to her father’s. “What?”
He had his cop face on, but she knew him so well. He was angry, frustrated, confused. And a little bit helpless, which he would hate more than anything.
