“What a romantic you are,” she said. She might have been blushing a little. “I’m glad I rank so well.”
“Top of the list, babe.”
“They smell so good. Thank you.”
He offered his arm. “Shall we go inside?”
“Certainly, kind gentleman.”
They joined the small trickle of ticket holders entering the theater and found their seats in a narrow shoebox of a room. Marissa looked around her, past the shabbiness to the faux-painted murals of cartoon theatergoers. She kept sniffing the flowers. And smiling at him.
He didn’t know what to say. He was dating Marissa and he’d reverted to his tongue-tied high school days. “Uh.” He swallowed. “So tell me. If I’d asked you on a date when we first met, what would you have said?”
She hesitated with her head cocked. He knew she’d tell the truth. Why the hell had he asked the question?
“I would have said yes.”
“I don’t think so. You only dated a certain type of man then.”
“Yes, and you know why? That’s who approached me. Successful businessmen. The interesting, arty types never asked. You didn’t.”
“True.”
“I’ll concede that I became accustomed to certain expectations in a date. But I was never one of those women who’d turn her nose up at picnics in the park or Italian ices at a softball game.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Actually, if you think about it, that was the kind of stuff I always did with you.”
He raised his brows. “So we’ve been dating all along?”
She smiled. “It seems so. But you never brought me flowers before.” She took another sniff of the bouquet. He could smell the sweetness, too, and it was making him heady. Especially when she leaned in as the lights dimmed and said in his ear, “I’m glad you finally stepped up your game.”
After that, he relaxed and enjoyed the date.
The play, an overenthusiastic revival of Guys and Dolls, would have been a bust if he hadn’t been with Marissa, who shared his sense of the absurd. When the actor who played Nathan Detroit came on stage in a shiny purple zoot suit, they couldn’t look at each other. Miss Adelaide’s gyrations at the Hot Box put them over the top. Marissa had pinched his arm until he stopped snorting and choking back laughter.
Afterward they went to dinner at a familiar neighborhood trattoria with candlelit and linen-draped tables. Between courses, she “helped” him with his notes for the review. By the time dessert arrived, they were played out and sitting in pleasant, companionable silence.
“I’m glad we haven’t lost this,” he said, carving off a bit of his tiramisu to offer her.
“Calorie gorging? That’s why I work out so often.” Her lips closed around the sweet bite. “Mmm, yummy.”
Watching her mouth pucker and release was almost obscene. His blood thickened. Even with all the drama and danger they’d undergone since getting together, she could have him stimulated beyond belief in under five seconds.
“You know what I mean. We’re still friends.”
“Friends with benefits,” she said in a lilting tone it was hard to take exception with.
But he did. “Friends and lovers.” He nudged her foot under the table. “Remember, we’re dating now. Don’t act like I’m just your bed buddy.”
She smiled over the rim of her wineglass. “No, that would be our pets.”
All right. She’d accepted the date, even though she was still determined to avoid his attempts at a serious moment. Some progress had been made.
Time would be his ally. When she finally recognized that he wasn’t going anywhere, unlike her past lovers, he’d be ensconced so deeply in her life that she wouldn’t be able to separate him from her from them.
“I know what you mean,” she said. “We always have a good time together. It’s just that now that happens to include unclothed fun, too.” She brushed her foot against his ankle. “Honestly, you’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had. I like the boy, I like the friend, I like everything about you.”
Not a declaration of undying love, but it would do.
“Guess what?” he said, feeling very pleased that more progress had been made than he’d first thought. “I get better as time goes by.”
“Better?” She fanned her face. “I don’t know if I can stand the excitement.”
“You’re holding up well so far.”
“And you—” Her foot, sans shoe, slipped beneath his pant leg. Her warm little toes pattered against his calf. She was a dexterous girl. “You surprise me. Always rising to the occasion.”
He made a gruff sound in his throat. “Eat your dessert.”
Her foot retreated. She took a bite of her ricotta cheesecake, watching his face as she licked the fork with a catlike tongue. Her hair hung in loose waves across her shoulders, the ends brushing over the curves of her breasts every time she moved. Her dress was the color of pale morning sunlight, cut straight across the top with narrow straps around her shoulders. In contrast, her skin was almost golden, warmed by the dancing flame of the candle. A small pair of diamonds winked at her ears. The dainty gold crucifix dangled near her cleavage. Looking at her made him fill up with love.
“You know, there could be anything in that briefcase,” she said out of the blue. He thought she was purposely deflecting the mood until her foot touched his thigh.
He caught her heel before she went any further.
Her face remained guileless. “Papers, files. It doesn’t have to be money or drugs or whatever you’re thinking.”
“You’re still defending Paul.”
“Maybe I don’t want him to be irredeemably bad.”
He jiggled her foot. “No reflection on you.”
“Pah. You know when to lie. I like that about you.” Her foot squirmed out of his grasp. “See what I mean? I have bad judgment.” The nimble toes rubbed his thigh. “I’m rash, I’m wild, I’m headstrong.”
The sole of her foot pressed firmly against the fullness at his fly. She blinked. “Are you headstrong? I think you are. You just hide it well.”
“Marissa.” He closed his legs, squeezing her foot between them. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I seem to have lost my shoe. Want to dive under and find it?”
“I’d find more than your shoe.”
“Promises, promises. It’s a ballet flat with a practical low heel. I never wear high heels when there’s a chance I might have to run for my life.”
He released her foot. “Don’t even joke about that.”
She was smiling. Glowing. “It’s going to be all right, Jamie. Somehow, I’m sure of that. Ever since the airport, when I saw you in a brand-new way, I’ve had this knowledge. A confidence that we’re…oh, I don’t know, maybe destined to be.”
Leaps and bounds of progress.
“To be what?” he asked, swinging for the fences.
Her mouth curved into a smile. “That’s all. To be. No question.”
To be together, he thought. She still wouldn’t say it, but he could wait. She’d already given him more than he’d expected.
THERE WAS A FEELING between them tonight that was different. A little scary, but very arousing. Tantalizing in its purest form, as headily intoxicating as champagne bubbles rising in a flute.
Marissa felt as if she could fly.
Jamie took her hand, pulling her close to him with a strength she hadn’t expected. She let out a little “Oh!” of resistance, but then let herself melt. Aside from the little stumble when she declared this a date, he was so sure and confident these days. All that overprotective, macho testosterone.
“Don’t look now,” he said, “but someone may be following us.”
She stiffened her neck, trying not to turn when every instinct demanded it. “Who?”
“I don’t know. I only caught a glimpse of a man’s reflection in a window. I might be paranoid.”
“I want to look.”
“No use. If he’s really following us, he’s s
taying far back.”
“Come with me,” she said. They hurried along West 4th to Washington Square Park, where leafy trees overhung rows of iron benches and fence. Still fighting her instincts, but this time to keep running, Marissa sat, pulling Jamie down beside her. Her heart was pounding double-time as she turned toward him. She reached for his face.
“What are you doing?” he blurted right before she kissed him.
“Shush. Keep kissing me.”
His hands tightened on her back as he pulled her in. She closed her eyes, not even fighting it, and let the kiss take over. For a minute. A surprisingly glorious minute, considering that she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about the kiss at all.
After another minute—she was weak—she cracked an eye, trying to see past Jamie’s head. There were a number of people out enjoying the perfect evening. One passerby smiled at her; another looked away. Most barely noticed, but a group of boys with skateboards watched avidly as they scooted back and forth, twirling and flipping their boards.
No sign of anyone shadowing them.
She closed her eyes again. “Keep kissing me.”
“No problem,” he muttered. “But our guy’s no fool.”
She was. A fool for love, or some facsimile of it. Why else would she be getting so turned on? Had to be the crazy hormones, shooting her brain full of a volatile, giddy infatuation.
“Kiss my neck,” she crooned. His warm lips and tongue worked their way lower, titillating her nerve endings so that she felt her skin light up like a glittering fireworks show. It was becoming difficult to keep her mind on the plan.
Her head fell back, her neck arched. Only because in that position, she was able to watch the street through her lashes.
They’d lingered a long while over dinner, but the light had held on as the days grew longer. An amber dusk was falling across the park, hushed and beautiful, for the moment held at bay by the lights along the street.
At last she saw the sign she’d been waiting for. The brief flame of a match or a lighter, instantly lost when the figure turned away. The spy was sticking to the shadows cast by the trees.
She waited. Jamie’s tongue licked along her collarbone. His thumb stroked beneath her breast.
Her nostrils flared, trying to catch the scent of tobacco. Something about the odor was unique, perhaps even familiar.
He was too far away. She dropped her head forward to whisper into Jamie’s ear. “I think I saw him. I can’t be sure he’s following us.”
“What for? What do we know?”
“It’s what we have—the photos.” They were in the breast pocket of Jamie’s jacket. The negatives were in a Ziploc bag at the bottom of Sally’s dog food.
He pondered that with a pleated forehead. “Doesn’t feel right. The parts don’t add up.”
“Ah, that’s the intriguing puzzle of it.” She kissed his cheek, trying to get another glimpse of their follower. No luck. “You know, we’re sitting ducks, like we were that night on the street when he went for my suitcase. Should we hop in a cab?”
“Exactly my point. Paul didn’t know about the photos when that happened.”
She was too intoxicated to concentrate on details as they walked out of the park. “There’s a cab.” She raised a hand to hail it.
Jamie caught her wrist. “No, let’s run. That will tell us if he’s really following us or if I’m seeing things.”
“I’m game.”
They went flying down the street, crossing under the cherry tree at the Thompson Street entrance. Pigeons flapped across the sidewalk. Pedestrians dodged out of the way.
They slowed at the corner, turning it instead of waiting to cross with the light, then picking up the pace again. There was a break in traffic and Jamie stepped off the curb, pulling her along.
At the other side, Jamie’s head swiveled back the way they’d come. “Is he following us?” she asked between gasps.
“Yes. Come on.”
They put on another burst of speed.
They turned another corner, gradually pulling up as they reached the midblock point. Jamie turned, searching the pedestrians, even the cabs that slowed and honked. “I don’t see him.”
Marissa looked up at a large stone Presbyterian church looming nearby. “Let’s go in here.” She tugged on Jamie’s hand. “Quick. Before he sees us.”
They raced up the circular cement steps and pushed through the heavy double doors into the narthex. Bountiful bouquets of creamy roses and tulips decorated the space. Two tall floor candelabras flanked the doors into the church proper, which reverberated with the stirring strains of organ music.
“A church service,” Jamie said.
“A wedding,” Marissa guessed. Her heels tapped across the stone floor. “Let’s take a peek.”
“We shouldn’t interrupt.”
“We’ll be quiet as mice.” She put her finger up to her lips, then eased open the door. A glowing light spilled out. The music expanded, accompanied by voices raised in song.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered to Jamie, who was looking over her shoulder. A white carpet ran up an aisle trimmed with more of the flowers and candles. The pews were almost filled, only those at the back of the church left open. She nodded to the front of the church. “Look.”
Beneath the high arched beams and gilded decor of the altar, a bride and groom stood in a pool of candlelight, holding hands as the hymn ended. The guests sat to the sound of rustling silk. A minister garbed in black and white began speaking about the sanctity of marriage.
An usher appeared at the door. “Bride or groom?”
Jamie stepped back, but she grabbed hold of his sleeve. “Bride,” she said, tiptoeing inside and slipping into the very last pew.
Jamie joined her. “What if—”
“Shh.” Whether it was the sanctified aura of the church, or the intimacy of the marriage ceremony, she was cocooned in a sense of warm, safe serenity. Her body settled, her mind calmed. When she looked at Jamie, she saw that he felt it too. His eyes were large, dark, flecked with the reflections of the candlelight. He reached for her hand.
Somehow, it seemed inevitable that they’d ended up here.
And very right.
The bride and groom radiated with their love for each other as they took their vows. Marissa didn’t hear every word, but she felt them inside herself, resonating with a strength and reverence that was greater—far greater—than her previous reluctance to accept an emotional need she couldn’t control. One that might overwhelm her. That would surely change everything about the way she looked at the world.
She and Jamie looked at each other at the same moment. She studied his face as if this were the first time she’d ever seen it. He was bravery, goodness, sex and compassion. And so much more.
I’m in love with him.
Their linked hands gripped tighter. She felt her heart expanding to accept Jamie’s love for her, and hers for him. It was a pure love, a true love.
Deeper than the earth’s very core.
Longer than time itself.
When the minister pronounced the couple at the altar husband and wife, it was Marissa and Jamie who kissed first.
ON THE STEPS outside the church, despair overtook the seething anger that Jean Allard had contained for so long. He hurried away without caring where he went.
They had toyed with him. Like a cat played with a mouse, teasing and taunting, giving him a moment’s hope only to snatch it away.
He’d known in his heart that they didn’t carry the amulet, but he no longer trusted himself. He’d followed them on a fool’s errand all around the city on the remote chance that they had found the treasure and intended to bring it to the authorities.
Too long, he thought bitterly. The White Star had been out of his grasp for too long. It was slipping away.
The bloodred scratches across his face were a constant, pulsing reminder that he had failed, and failed again. There seemed no more opportunity for him to get into the girl
’s apartment. She was on guard now. She was defended.
Allard sped up his pace. His mind darted, wriggled, burrowed, searching for one small opening. One speck of light.
Suddenly he saw it. An answer so simple it was genius.
He wanted Marissa Suarez to find the amulet.
When she did, when she stepped onto the street with the White Star in her possession, she would be vulnerable. Even if the boyfriend was there.
Allard reached into his pants’ pocket. He turned the knife over in his palm, cradling its lethal promise.
The White Star was his.
He’d killed for much less.
13
MARISSA HOVERED in the doorway to the senior partner’s office, watching Thomas Howard as he wielded a pen over a contract, striking out sections with heavy slashes as he dictated notes at the same time. Her stomach roiled. She’d timed her visit when Mr. Howard’s executive assistant was on break. This conversation must be as private as possible.
She cleared her throat to gain his attention. “Mr. Howard? May I speak to you?”
He looked up. “Marissa! Certainly.” He stood, gesturing her toward a chair. “Please sit.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed her skirt across the back of her thighs and sat in one of the webbed white-leather-and-aluminum chairs that faced his desk. The box-shaped chair bristled with steel braces and bolts, looking strangely like a cross between a straitjacket and an electric chair. The comparison was not a comforting thought.
“How can I help you, Marissa?” Mr. Howard asked. He was gray-haired, bespectacled and smiling. Even though she considered him to be a friend, in a stern, fatherly way, she suddenly felt as flustered—and determined—as when she’d asked her mother’s kindly gynecologist for birth control.
“I have a problem, Mr. Howard.”
“I’ll be happy to help.” He folded his hands atop the desk. “But you must remember to call me Thomas.”
“Yes, sir. Thomas.” She swallowed. “It’s about Paul Beckwith.”
Behind chrome glasses with blue lenses, Howard’s eyes took on a speculative gleam. “Personal problems?”
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