Hot Money

by Sherryl Woods

  Hot Money

  Sherryl Woods

  Copyright

  Hot Money

  Copyright © 1993 by Sherryl Woods

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  In any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795317248

  Nature is pleased with simplicity, and affects not the pomp of superfluous causes.

  Isaac Newton

  Contents

  eForeword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  eForeword

  Dear Readers:

  In August 1992, Hurricane Andrew swept through the setting for Hot Money. Vizcaya, the elegant estate in which the opening scenes take place, suffered more than three million dollars in damage. A twelve-foot surge of water from Biscayne Bay flooded the grounds, wiping out the electrical system and air conditioning housed in the structure’s basement. Fortunately, the damage to the interior collection and the rooms described in this book was negligible. The grounds with their beautiful gardens were turned brown by salt water, but began turning green again within weeks. However, damage to exterior statues and the offshore barge required that skilled artisans be brought in to make costly repairs, according to Assistant Director Maria Llorca. Repairs to a single broken hand on a statue could cost as much as four thousand dollars.

  Even those of us who fared with only minimal destruction (I had one window and a dining room wall blown out when wind blasted through the oceanfront condominium across the hall) now keep a wary eye on all storms forming in the Atlantic. None of us will ever take our paradise for granted again.

  As always, I’d love to hear from you. Please contact me via email at Sherry1703@gmail.com or via my website www.Sherrylwoods.com.

  Sincerely,

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  As Molly DeWitt listened to two elegantly clad women scheme to take a Miami philanthropist to the monetary cleaners, she tried to recall exactly how her neighbor and best friend, Liza Hastings, had managed to talk her into showing up for this black tie charity affair. The last thing she remembered clearly was saying an emphatic no.

  That had been a month ago. The next day the fancy, embossed invitation had appeared in her mailbox. A week after that, Liza had begun dropping pointed hints about her failure to reply, especially when the cause was so worthwhile—saving the spotted owls in Oregon and Washington, among other endangered creatures.

  “I replied. I said no,” Molly recalled saying quite clearly.

  The ensuing discussion about the responsibilities of friendship had lasted no more than one or two weighty moments. Then Liza had left her to wage a battle with her conscience.

  It wasn’t that Molly had no conscience. It was simply that she’d grown up attending lavish affairs like this and had sworn on the day of her debut that she never would again. It had always seemed to her that if the women in the room had donated an amount equivalent to the cost of their gowns, there would have been no need for a fund-raiser at all. She could recall mentioning that to Liza on a number of occasions. Liza, unfortunately, had very selective hearing and a skill at arm-twisting unrivaled on the professional wrestling circuit.

  The clincher, of course, had been Liza’s persuasive appeal to Michael O’Hara. For a hard-nosed, macho homicide detective, the man had the resistance of mush when it came to saying no to a woman as committed to a cause as Liza was. He’d looked shell-shocked as he’d written out his sizable check.

  “What are we doing here?” he asked now as he nabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  Molly thought he sounded rather plaintive. She scowled at him. “We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t succumbed to Liza’s pressure. You had your checkbook out and those tickets in your hands before she even finished saying please.”

  “You could have stopped me.”

  “How was I to know you intended to drag me along with you? For all I knew you planned to ask that charming go-go dancer who was all over you at Tío Pedro’s a few weeks ago.”

  He grinned. No, actually he smirked.

  “Go-go dancer? Your claws are showing, Molly. Marielena is in the chorus of a Tony Award–winning musical on Broadway.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Besides, I was hardly likely to ask her when this is your friend’s event. I’m almost certain Liza indicated this was a package deal—you and the tickets, all for a paltry five-hundred-dollar contribution.” He groaned. “Do you know how many tickets to Miami Heat games I could buy with that?”

  “Don’t tell me. Tell Liza. I’m wearing a dress that cost nearly double that.”

  “I thought a former debutante would have an entire collection of ball gowns.”

  “I do. In size four. I’m an eight now,” she said, giving him a warning glare, “and if you make one single snide remark about how I could have starved myself back into those fours, I will personally dump the next tray of champagne I see over your head.”

  He regarded her curiously. “Are you always this charming at galas?”

  Molly felt a momentary pang of guilt. She squashed it. “I get testy when I spend more than a week’s pay on a dress that with any luck I will not wear again in this lifetime.”

  “At least you can save it for the Academy Awards or the Emmys, even the Miami Film Festival. Surely in your position with the film office sooner or later you’ll have to drag it out again. Where is a cop supposed to wear a tux?”

  “Save it for your wedding,” she shot back. Considering Michael’s avowed status as an eligible bachelor, it was as close to a curse as Molly could come. The alarm in his eyes improved her mood considerably. She linked her arm through his. “Toss down the last of that champagne and let’s go mingle.”

  Actually, now that she was beginning to resign herself to an endless, tedious evening of polite chitchat and lavish praise of the canapés, Molly discovered that she could appreciate the setting, if not the reason for her presence.

  For the event Liza had commandeered Vizcaya, the closest thing Miami had to a palace. Built on a grand Italian Renaissance scale between 1914 and 1916, the former winter home of industrialist James Deering faced Biscayne Bay, which dutifully shimmered like a sea of diamonds under the full moon. A soft breeze, laced with the tang of salt air, swept over the estate. Most of the crowd was milling around under a striped refreshment tent on the south lawn or walking through the surrounding gardens, as formal and lavish as any in Europe, no matter that the gatehouse across the road now served as Molly’s own office.

  The romantic setting was perfect for stealing kisses or seducing the high rollers into parting with their money. Molly caught sight of Liza amid a cluster of Miami’s well-to-do socialites, including the event’s chairwoman, Tessa Lafferty. They were all preening for the photographer from the morning paper. Liza’s dramatic, off-beat dress in a shade referred to as tangerine—at least in the produce
section, if not on the fashion pages—looked as out of place in the midst of all those pastel beaded gowns and stiff hairdos as a bold bird of paradise would among sweet and fragile magnolia blossoms.

  As she and Michael got close enough to identify the women with Tessa, Molly guessed they would ante up a good thousand dollars apiece before Liza let them escape. Most would consider it a small price to pay to have their friends see them on the society page a few days from now.

  Molly watched in amusement as Liza went into her hard sell.

  “How does she do that?” Michael asked in wonder as checks and promises changed hands.

  “Liza has no shame when it comes to protecting the environment and any critter living in it. She will grovel if she has to.”

  “How much do you figure an event like this will net?”

  “Fifty to seventy-five thousand, maybe more,” she said as Michael’s eyes widened. “If Liza had actually chaired the event, she would have tried to lure a couple of celebrities into town. With a little star power and maybe one of those fancy silent auctions, she could have doubled the profits. A shindig like this in Los Angeles could pull in a cool million.”

  “The soccer team raised seventy-five dollars at a bake sale last month and considered it a coup,” he said. “Why didn’t Liza go for the big bucks?”

  “Because, as I understand it, the chairwoman did not take kindly to suggestions from her committee.”

  “The chairwoman is an egotistical idiot,” Liza muttered under her breath as she joined them just in time to catch the gist of their conversation.

  “She did manage to get all the uppercrust scions of the oldest Miami families to turn out,” Molly reminded her, pointing to the women who still surrounded the chairwoman.

  “Sure, but she ignored the rest of the community,” Liza countered. “If a few of us hadn’t set out to corral people like you and Michael, we would have had to have a nurse on duty to hand out vitamins at the door or the whole crowd would have fallen asleep by nine.”

  “Don’t you think you might be exaggerating just a little bit?” Molly asked. “You’re just miffed because you wanted Julio Iglesias to sing and she’d never heard of him.”

  “Forget Julio Iglesias. I doubt I could have talked her into inviting Wayne Newton. When I mentioned holding an auction, she practically choked. She claimed it had no class.” Liza stood on tiptoe to kiss Michael’s cheek. “Thanks for coming, you two. Mingle. Have fun. I’ve got to go see if I can get old man Jeffries to cough up a few thousand bucks before he dies. I’ve heard he’s willing to save the manatees. Maybe I can get him together with Jimmy Buffet and put together a benefit concert.”

  Liza disappeared around a hedge, leaving the two of them staring after her.

  “Where does she find the energy?” Michael marveled.

  “I think it takes about twenty minutes and the mention of a cause to recharge her batteries.” Molly glanced up. “Are you interested in checking out the food?”

  He shook his head. A wicked gleam lit his dark brown eyes. “Not right now. I’m more in the mood to shock this stuffy crowd.”

  “Oh?” Molly replied cautiously. The last time Michael had that look in his eyes he’d kissed her senseless. It had played havoc with her already wavering resolve to keep this man at arm’s length.

  “Follow me.”

  He held out his hand, and after a momentary hesitation, Molly took it. “Exactly what do you have in mind?”

  “I intend to start by removing selective pieces of clothing.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “You what?” It wouldn’t do to get too elated under the circumstances. She had a discouraging feeling he wasn’t about to lure her into one of the mansion’s many bedrooms and have his way with her, thereby settling the matter of her resolve once and for all.

  He grinned. Those wicked sparks intensified. “Scared, Molly?”

  “Of you? Never!” she declared staunchly.

  “Then let’s go.”

  As they crossed the lawn, stopping several times along the way to chat, Molly’s pulse reached an anticipatory rate that would have her in the hospital down the block if it continued unchecked. The music drifted on the night breeze, swirling around them. The slow, romantic beat was counterpointed by laughter that grew more distant as they reached the shadowy fringes of the estate. Michael’s hand curved reassuringly around hers.

  “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he instructed, standing before her. “Lift your foot.”

  “Is this anything like that game where you put different body parts on different squares until everyone ends up on the ground in a tangle?”

  “Sounds fascinating,” he said, “but no.” He removed her shoe and tucked it in his pocket. “Other foot.”

  “Michael, I do not intend to romp around this place barefooted.”

  “Careful, amiga. Your stuffy social graces are showing.”

  In return for that remark, she nearly planted her remaining spiked heel atop his foot. Unfortunately, as a volunteer soccer coach, to say nothing of being witness to a fair amount of gunplay, Michael possessed reflexes that tended to be lightning quick. He stepped nimbly aside. Molly’s heel dug into the dry, sandy soil, which effectively removed her shoe just as he’d intended in the first place.

  He glanced at her stocking-clad feet. “How about those?” he inquired of the sheer, iridescent hose that shimmered against her legs.

  “Is this one of those kinky things I’ve read about?”

  “Last I heard there wasn’t anything kinky about sitting on a dock by the bay, but I’m game if you want to show me.”

  “You would be,” she muttered darkly, trying not to let her disappointment show. Kinky with Michael O’Hara might have had its good points. She wasn’t about to be the one to initiate it, though. She glanced at the limestone ledge, worn smooth by time, then at the water lapping gently against it. “You don’t actually expect me to sit on that, do you?”

  “Of course not,” he said, sweeping off his jacket and spreading it before her.

  Molly had a hunch the gesture wasn’t entirely due to gallantry. In fact, she was almost certain she heard him sigh with relief as he shed the hated, restrictive attire. She glanced from Michael to his quite probably ruined jacket, then to the water that seemed ominously dark in this shadowed corner.

  “What do you suppose is in there?”

  “A little seaweed. A few fish. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Maybe you don’t consider having barracuda nibbling at your toes to be risky, but I’m not all that enchanted with the idea.”

  “I doubt there are any barracuda lurking down there.”

  “Not good enough,” she said. “I want conviction in your voice or my toes stay on land.”

  “Ah, Molly. Where’s the romance in your soul?” he murmured, just close enough to her ear to give her goosebumps. His finger trailed along her neck, then over her bare shoulder.

  Molly shivered and halfheartedly wished she’d selected a gown with more fabric. She was entirely too responsive and Michael was entirely too skilled at this seduction stuff. Another five minutes and the society grandes dames truly would have something to shock the daylights out of them. As an alternative, Molly practically dived for the ledge. She stuck her feet, outrageously expensive stockings and all, into the bathwater-warm bay.

  Michael’s amused chuckle was entirely too predictable. As he sat down next to her, she considered—for no more than an instant—tumbling him into the bay so he could cool off his … libido.

  As if he guessed her thoughts, he grinned at her. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

  “What?” she inquired innocently.

  Suddenly something brushed past her foot, ending all thoughts of retaliation. As it made contact again, it became clear that it was something considerably larger than a guppy or even a damned barracuda, she thought as a scream rose up in her throat and snagged.

  “What—” she asked in a choked voice. “What is that?”


  “What is what?” Michael said, instantly alert to the change in her voice.

  She was already standing, water pooling at her feet as she pointed at the murky depths. “There’s something in there.”

  “Probably just some seaweed.”

  “I don’t think so. It felt …” She was at a loss for an accurate description. “Slimy.”

  “That’s how seaweed feels,” he said, sounding so damned calm and rational she wanted to slug him.

  “Does it also feel big?” she snapped.

  “Big like a manatee?” he said, obviously refusing to share her alarm. “Maybe one is tangled in the mangroves.”

  Molly wasn’t sure exactly how she knew that Michael was wrong, but she was certain of it. “Maybe we should go get a flashlight.”

  “By the time we do, I’m sure whatever it is will be gone.”

  “Michael, humor me. If it is a trapped manatee, we ought to free it or Liza will never forgive us. If it’s …” She swallowed hard. “If it’s something else, we ought to do, hell, I don’t know. Just get the flashlight. I’ll wait here,” she said before she realized that she’d be left alone with something that every instinct told her was very human and very dead.

  Michael had taken two steps back toward the house, when she grabbed his arm. “Never mind. I’ll go for the flashlight. Give me the car keys. You stay here.”

  His expression suddenly serious, he handed over the keys without argument, either to humor her or because his own highly developed instincts for trouble had finally kicked in. “Don’t say a word to anyone, Molly. There’s no point in alarming everyone unnecessarily.”

  She nodded, then took off across the lawn, oblivious of the stares she drew as she raced barefooted through the guests, across the central courtyard of the house and down the driveway to the parking lot. It could have taken no more than ten minutes, fifteen at the outside, but it felt like an eternity before she made it back to where Michael was waiting. She’d grabbed a glass of champagne and chugged it down on the way. She had a hunch she was going to need it.