Hidden Gems

by Carrie Alexander

  “Do I look like I’m fresh off the farm?” Shandi asked. She was from Nebraska, where her single mom was a Mary Kay consultant. Shandi liked to say that foundation ran in her veins.

  “No, but knowing you, you’d have thought his dimples were cute and five minutes later he’s your best bud and you’re feeding him macadamia-nut cookies from my secret stash.”

  Shandi considered. “He wasn’t that type of guy. In fact, I just realized that he wasn’t your type of guy at all, even though he wore a suit.”

  “I’m done with ‘my type,’” Marissa said from the bathroom. The pipes clanked inside the wall when she turned on the taps. C’mon, baby, she pleaded with the recalcitrant plumbing. She shed the robe, always the optimist. The showers at her gym were hot and hard enough to satisfy any single girl, but she couldn’t go another minute without washing away the stink of the bad trip with Paul. Maybe any lingering inclinations for her old type of guy would also go down the drain.

  “One question,” Shandi said, practically following her into the tub.

  “Go ahead.” Marissa stuck her head under the thin, lukewarm spray. “But if you’re going to ask me about Jamie, don’t bother because I have no idea.” No idea, that is, except for the one where he’s a Bedouin raider and I’m a captive princess, lying naked in a desert tent when he comes to me with his body all hot and hard and whooo, boy, talk about libidos in overdrive.

  Shandi stuck her head past the shower curtain. “All I want to know is where you hide the cookies.”

  “WHAT’RE YOU WORKING ON?” asked Skip Sisman, the metro reporter who’d never met a pastry he didn’t like. “A revival of Sound of Music?” He guffawed around a bite of something crusty and oozing. Singing nuns were high humor in Skip’s world.

  Jamie closed his laptop and slid it out of pastry flake range. Early that morning, he’d e-mailed a book review to the copy desk. But after leaving Marissa on the phone with Paul, he’d been too antsy to sit at home. He’d come into work to pick up his mail and whip out a few hundred filler words on the new CD from Overdog, four teenagers from the lower East Side who were too cool to realize they were basically just another boy band. His comments were kind. He’d been there with his own band, back when he didn’t yet know that he was hopelessly uncool.

  Jamie tilted back in his chair and gave Sisman the fish eye. “What are you working on? The fascinating ins and outs of the fifth day of the garbage strike?”

  “Following up on the theft at Stanhope’s. There was a rumor the thief was caught trying to leave the country with the goods, but my inside source says that was bull. Nobody’s in custody.”

  Sisman was always citing his inside source, as if everyone at the paper didn’t know the big contact was his aunt Dena, who worked the switchboard at One Police Plaza and was the queen bee of information gathering. Her drones were in every precinct in the city, from property clerks to the receptionist at the coroner’s office. As sources went, Aunt Dena was a valuable one. Sisman rarely left his desk, except for bakery runs.

  “I thought there’d been a break in the case.” One of the pieces had supposedly shown up in a Queens pawn shop. Sisman had made a big deal of his “investigation.”

  “That went nowhere,” the reporter admitted. “But I hear the people at Stanhope’s are screaming to the right people. Ergo, the mayor’s office is tightening the screws on the police force.” Sisman sat on the corner of Jamie’s desk, getting cozy. A ring of fat lapped his belt like an overinflated inner tube.

  Jamie reminded himself to cut out the midday doughnuts if he wanted to keep up with Marissa. “Then you’d better get on the big story.”

  Sisman licked filling out of the pastry. “You’re the arts guy.”

  “I am.” The staff at the Village Observer was small, so most of them doubled up on responsibilities. Jamie’s duties included every opening from gallery to letter.

  “Then you’d know about the White Star.”

  The ancient ivory amulet known as the White Star had been one of the pieces stolen from Stanhope’s. Jamie shook his head. “Never heard of it until the heist.”

  “Yeah, that’s the rub. Here’s this supposedly rare and valuable tschotske and nobody knows about it, not even you art-loving types. How come?”

  “It’s been in private collections.”

  “Interesting.” Sisman popped the last bite into his mouth.

  “Not really.” Jamie opened his laptop, then closed it again while Sisman brushed off his sweater. “What are you after, Skip?”

  “The Wart Hog wants a sidebar on the amulet. You could research it.”

  “You kidding me? I’m not doing your work.”

  “Okay, so you write the piece and get a byline.”

  “Go talk to Alice in Features.”

  “I tried. She sent me to you.”

  To the moon, Alice. “Then go bug someone else. Anyone else. The intern or the bike messenger. I have enough on my plate.”

  Sisman poked the thick ARC—advance reader copy—that had come in yesterday’s mail from one of the big publishers, along with a packet of promo materials and a plea for column inches. “The Savvy Woman’s Guide To Breast Feeding. Yeah, that sounds fascinating.”

  The man had a point. “But there are breasts involved. Which makes it far more fascinating than some dusty old relic.”

  Sisman heaved himself off the desk. “Any pictures in there?”

  Jamie laughed. “Changing your tune, huh?” Maybe he could turn the tables and con Sisman into writing the review or taking over his tickets to the Streetcorner Player’s experimental version of Guys and Dolls.

  “So you won’t help?” Sisman pushed.

  “Nope. Unless you’re willing to make a deal.”

  “Not if it involves breast pumps.”

  After Sisman had lumbered away, Jamie reached for the phone, feeling like he was fifteen again and calling for his first date.

  “Hey, Jamie,” Marissa said after the second ring.

  “You’re picking up again.”

  “Only when I recognize the number.”

  “Paul’s still in the Caribbean?” Subtext: he’s not racing home to win back your heart?

  “As far as I know. Let’s not waste our time talking about him, okay?”

  He heard her panting and for a moment thought she was overwrought until the rhythmic whirring sound penetrated his brain. “You’re at the gym.”

  “Yep.”

  “Got plans after that?”

  Whirr-whirr-whirr. “Nope, except for a few errands. Since I’m officially on vaycay, I gave myself a day all to myself. Tomorrow’s soon enough to go back to work.”

  Technically she didn’t have to return until Monday, but he didn’t bother to point that out. The law firm was her surrogate family, workaholic style. “Want to have lunch?”

  “We already had breakfast.”

  “A late lunch.”

  The whirring picked up its pace. “No, I’ll just get a smoothie at the juice bar.”

  Jamie swallowed. “Dinner?”

  “I think—” she panted “—I’m going out with Shandi.”

  “Oh. She’s still at your place?”

  “For one more night.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  Marissa laughed. “She caught me at a moment of weakness.”

  “You have those?”

  “You of all people know that I do.”

  “Yeah, but you bounce back so fast, I wonder if you purposely choose men you don’t truly care about so the split won’t slow you down.”

  “My moments of weakness don’t all involve men.” Whirr. Whirr. Whirr. She was thinking faster than she was pedaling. “Well, maybe they do.” More pedaling. “So you think I’m calculating?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But I am without mercy.”

  “That depends.”

  “Fierce? You’ve got to give me fierce.”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Cold-blooded?”

/>   “Not necessarily. You run hot and cold.”

  She stopped pedaling. He heard only the more distant whirring of the other bicyclists, underlaid with the clank of weights and peppy aerobic music. He waited, drumming his fingers on the desktop.

  Finally she let out a big breath. “Hot and cold, huh? Then how come you make me feel warm?”

  He leaned forward in his chair, took a quick glance around the newsroom, then dropped his head so low it almost hit the desk. His voice came out like gravel. “When do I make you feel warm?”

  “When your voice gets like that.”

  He couldn’t reply.

  She was whispering. “When I know you’re keeping your feelings inside so you don’t spook me.”

  “Fierce women spook?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I don’t want you spooked.”

  “But you do want me.”

  “Yes.”

  There was another long silence.

  “You don’t feel the same way,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I do, but I don’t. Shandi says that the only way for me to get over Paul is to get under someone else. You know how she is. So that’s why we’re going out—manhunting. I didn’t tell her…”

  “That I’m the man.” He was surprised by the confidence that poured into the statement. Given one small opening, his suppressed desire would erupt like a volcano.

  Marissa had better be sure.

  So had he, after hesitating for three long years.

  “Shandi’s always suspected it, way before I did. I thought she was loco, at first, going on about how you had it bad for me.”

  He felt his face redden. “No kidding? You never said. How long has this been common knowledge?”

  “Oh, you know. Girl talk. But it wasn’t knowledge. Only supposition.”

  He’d thought she told him everything, including the girl talk. It was good to hear he’d been wrong.

  “So how about an early dinner?” he suggested. “You know Shandi won’t be ready to go out for hours.”

  Marissa answered quickly. “No. We can’t go out romantically when we’ve decided to stay friends.”

  Stabbed in the gut. “I didn’t mention romance.”

  “It’s in your voice.”

  And she wasn’t having any.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t.”

  “Then I’ll see you around.”

  “Don’t go away mad.”

  “Just go away?”

  “For now, yes.” Her voice was gentle.

  He hung up, feeling almost as crummy as he had when Carly Bibb, tenth-grade siren, had turned down his invitation to see Wayne’s World. He’d hung up the phone four times before he’d worked up the courage to say hello.

  An unsettling similarity.

  Was it only the adrenaline that had rushed him into kissing Marissa?

  5

  AS SOON AS DARKNESS had fallen, Jean Allard scaled the fire escape, a rusty structure that clung to the backside of the five-story brownstone via a zigzag pattern of ancient bolts. The steps would rattle menacingly under the weight and motion of any normal person. La Souri Noire, however, passed without a sound. He was accustomed to squeezing in and out of much tighter spots.

  At the third floor, he moved nearer the window, where a shadow was thrown against the blocks of stone. He waited there, uneasy.

  It was too early—lights were on in many of the windows of the surrounding buildings. He ran a great risk of being spotted.

  Allard’s employer had not been pleased with the delay in the delivery of the White Star, but he had understood what was necessary. Now that the officials were stepping up their search for the thief, he must move even more carefully. Haste would be disastrous.

  As would seeing the White Star slip away between his fingers, Allard thought as he leaned away from the wall. He had to be positive that the girl hadn’t discovered the amulet in her luggage.

  Beyond the lace curtain, a small lamp glowed within Marissa Suarez’s bedroom. She was home. The roommate, also. He’d already known that, having watched their front door from the street most of the day.

  The roommate had been an unpleasant surprise. In his preliminary survey, he’d checked the label on the mailbox for Apt 3C, even picked its lock to go through the contents. All of the mail had been under one name: Marissa Suarez. And yet the girl with the curly hair had been home when he’d expected the apartment to be empty.

  Another small complication, but no matter. He knew where to focus.

  Allard’s eyes narrowed. Marissa was in bed, already sleeping.

  He admired her bare legs, the curve of her hip. She wore a pair of bikini panties and a small T-shirt that rose above her ribs. Jet hair spilled across the pillow.

  He almost smiled at the sight, before remembering that he wasn’t here to admire the girl’s beauty.

  Was the amulet safe? Allard’s eyes searched.

  At first he believed that the suitcase had been moved. A blade of apprehension sliced through his calm. Beads of perspiration popped up along his hairline, above his lip. But he didn’t flinch, except for the near-frantic flicker of his eyes.

  Ah, yes! There was the bag—still under the bed, but pushed farther back, almost hidden by the ruffled bedskirt.

  Allard was not comforted. Since the suitcase had been moved, there was a good chance she’d unpacked.

  Had she found the amulet?

  He told himself that was unlikely. He had followed her, first to breakfast, then later while she went on a few errands and to the gym. There had been no sign of the sort of fuss the discovery of the White Star would create.

  And yet…he couldn’t know for certain. He might have to risk a recovery attempt sooner than was safe.

  On the bed, Marissa murmured in her sleep. She became restless, a tremor moving through her lithe body like a wave on the shore. She flipped from her side to her back, frozen for an instant before she relaxed with a sigh.

  Dreaming. Allard watched, momentarily forgetting his concern for the amulet. Her hand slipped across her thighs, the fingers moving, caressing. She writhed. She moaned, opening her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  His detached interest stirred into arousal. Perhaps he’d been too quick to dismiss the option of introducing himself to Marissa and gaining access to her bedroom through her delectable body.

  He leaned closer, intent on seeing more.

  The cat sprang into the window with a loud miaow, its eyes reflecting an eerie sheen split by narrow black pupils.

  Allard jerked back from the glass. The creature bared its small, sharp teeth and hissed.

  Marissa had awakened. “Harry?” Allard heard her say, but then he was gone, gliding down the rusty steps, swinging over the railing and landing in a crouch before he scurried off through the narrow, dank span between buildings.

  IT WAS half past two in the morning when Marissa returned alone to the apartment after the girls’ night out. She was tired even though she’d napped earlier to combat jet lag. Shandi had taken off with a guy, ostensibly to try a hip new club. Marissa wasn’t expecting her to return, which was just as well. After having the nap interrupted by a sexy dream that had expanded on her Bedouin fantasy—starring Jamie!—and then Harry’s restlessness, she could use a good night’s sleep.

  She needed a clear head to deal with the Jamie decision.

  Oh, Jamie. She’d been so blind about him and their physical attraction. But the thought of losing her best friend over a brief fling filled her with dread.

  Her key didn’t work. She put her shoulder to the door and jiggled the key in the lock until it turned, noticing the scratches as the door swung open.

  The apartment was black. Too black.

  Her hackles rose. She imagined she heard breathing, then realized it was her own.

  The sconce near the front door should have been on. Perhaps the bulb had burned out.

  At first she couldn’t
put her finger on what else was wrong. Then she knew. She should have been able to see the red digital clock on the DVD player even when all the other lights were off.

  Maybe the electricity was out?

  The light switch was near the door, but Marissa was frozen. The scratches on the lock…

  She’d been burgled.

  “Harry?” she quailed. That broke her paralysis. The standard for break-ins was to leave the apartment immediately in case the burglar was still inside, but she wasn’t fleeing without her cat.

  She hit the switch and the lights came on. The apartment was beyond its usual state of upheaval. Every item on the shelves on the opposite wall, including the TV and DVD player, had been overturned. Drawers were open, couch cushions thrown around. The coatrack was tipped over, with the bags that usually hung from it scattered all around, every one of them yawning open. Their contents littered the floor—forgotten jewelry, coins, receipts, tubes of lipstick.

  “Harry?” Marissa called, pushing the door open wider. It seemed to be blocked by something bulky. She took one cautious step inside. “C’mere, kitty, kitty.” He was probably hiding under the bed.

  Two things happened at once. The cat streaked out of the bedroom, his tail the size of a bottle brush. And the door that Marissa had pushed against came back at her—hard. She staggered.

  A man leaped out. He was dressed in black, with his face covered by a ski mask. She saw eyes rimmed in white, a mouth pulled into a snarl.

  And then his hand was locked around her wrist and he yanked her into the apartment. The door slammed behind her.

  Marissa screamed.

  The intruder jerked her arm behind her back, bending it to the breaking point. A gloved hand slapped over her mouth. “Make another sound and I’ll snap your arm in half,” he rasped into her ear.

  He’d pulled her against his thick, muscled body. She caught the scent of liquor and rotting teeth and jerked her head aside.

  Hard fingertips dug into her cheek, holding her still. “Where is it?”

  Her heart knotted in her throat. She shook her head.