by Anne Stuart
“DID YOU SEE THE expression on her face?” Rupert demanded for the third time. “I thought she was going to have a fit.”
“Very satisfying,” Blackheart drawled in agreement as they climbed the front steps to his apartment an hour and a half later. “What I can’t figure out is why she looked so damned surprised. And why she’d moved them from her first hiding place. Hiding the emeralds under her underwear seemed just a bit too obvious for someone like Olivia.”
“Her husband certainly thought so,” Rupert chortled. “It was just like ‘Perry Mason.’ The accomplice takes one look and starts ratting on the other. The police couldn’t even keep up with him to take notes. I love it, just love it.”
“There’s still something that doesn’t seem quite right about it,” Blackheart murmured, punching, the elevator button. “I can’t get rid of the feeling that something more was going on. Why did Olivia look so surprised, when she’d been so smug beforehand? And why was that room cleared out, if she wasn’t expecting the place to be searched?”
“The less you tell me, the better,” Rupert warned him. “I don’t want to know what you were doing last night.”
“Rupert, you’re my lawyer,” Blackheart drawled, gesturing for the shorter man to precede him into the tiny elevator. “You’re allowed to hear privileged information.”
“Well, I don’t want to. I’m too cheered by how things worked out. Stop raining on my parade, will ya? For once just appreciate that everything worked out and stop trying to find problems. Jeez, you’re such a downer, Patrick.”
“Sorry,” Blackheart murmured, unmoved. “I can’t help it.” He began unlocking the three locks. If only there was some way he could rid himself of that nagging feeling that something had gone wrong. Over the years he’d learned to rely on an almost mystical instinct, and that instinct was clanging loudly inside him, and had been for hours now. He’d been almost as surprised as Olivia when the jewels turned up. He’d taken one look at that smugly opened inner door and been prepared for the worst.
The apartment was dark and silent when he opened the last lock, and his feeling of foreboding increased. She’d said she’d be there, waiting for him. It was getting darker—she must have been gone for some time. Where the hell had she gone?
Without betraying his uneasiness, he flicked on the light. “I don’t know where Ferris is, but I imagine she’ll be back in a while. Do you want to meet us for dinner? I imagine love’s young dream will want to be alone.”
Rupert laughed. “Kate and Trace were pretty funny, weren’t they? He seemed almost glad she’d helped with the robbery. I’ve never seen so many meaningful glances in my life.”
Blackheart shrugged. “They’re in love. Trace is the most tolerant man I know—he doesn’t give a damn what she did, he only cares about what she’s feeling now. I guess he was so busy being her buddy that he didn’t realize he was in love with her. And of course, given her earlier standoffishness, he didn’t think he had a chance with her. You can tell it’s the real thing—the two of them look absolutely ridiculous together.”
Rupert snorted. “Ain’t love grand?”
Blackheart grinned. A month ago, ten days ago, he would have echoed Rupert’s cynicism. But that was before Francesca Berdahofski had argued her way into his life. “Yes, it is,” he drawled. And then stopped short, as that instinct began clanging loudly inside his head.
“Something wrong, Patrick?” Rupert was quick to pick up the sudden tension.
“The apartment’s been searched.”
“Oh, surely not. It’s a little messier than usual, but no one’s trashed the place.”
“No one had to,” he said grimly, taking in the cushions still askew, the desk drawers left haphazardly open. “She had plenty of time to go through it—she didn’t need to dump everything on the floor.”
“She? Surely you don’t think Ferris . . . ?”
Blackheart turned a bleak face to his lawyer and friend. “Of course it was her. I left her here, with a set of keys. Anyone else would have had to break in.”
“Think about it, man. Why would she do such a thing? What could she expect to find? She knew the emeralds were at Olivia’s. Maybe she was just curious. Women are like that sometimes.”
“Simple curiosity wouldn’t involve a thorough search like this. And she wouldn’t have been so clumsy. I think maybe she wanted to see if I was involved after all. Maybe see if I had some jewels left over from before. Maybe she didn’t think it was before, maybe she thought I was still working even if I didn’t do the Von Emmerling job. Damn her.” His voice was furious.
Rupert stared at him for a long moment. “Listen, Patrick, give her a chance to explain. There may be a perfectly logical reason for this.”
“There is. She didn’t trust me,” he said bitterly, flinging his tired body onto the sofa. “Get me a drink, will you, Rupert? Something strong. And get something for yourself.”
Rupert paused, looking at his friend. “Okay,” he said finally. “But think about it before you start making accusations. You want me to stay in the kitchen?” They could both hear the fumbling with the unfamiliar locks.
“I don’t give a damn,” Blackheart said. “Do what you want.”
“See you in a while,” Rupert said hastily, vanishing into the kitchen as Ferris finally opened the door.
She looked tired, Blackheart thought, feeling not an ounce of pity. She dumped his keys on the hall table and looked up, and the exhaustion on her face vanished, replaced by a look of intense joy as she moved toward him, limping slightly.
“Blackheart, you’re back,” she cried happily. “What happened? Did . . .” her voice trailed off, and the joyful look on her face disappeared, leaving a wary expression in its place. He just sat there on the sofa, looking up at her with a cold, bleak expression. “Didn’t they arrest Olivia?” she asked.
“They did. Caught red-handed, and Dale started blabbing and nothing could stop him. There’ll be no problem. The charges against Trace and me were dropped, and Rupert says Kate will probably get off with a suspended sentence.” His voice was clipped and dry.
“Then what’s the problem?” Ferris demanded, relief warring with the wariness. “Everything’s wonderful. Blackheart, I have to tell you what I did. I—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” he interrupted in a savage voice. “It’s more than clear.”
She had started toward him, but the cold words stopped her. “What is it you think I did, Blackheart?” If he’d bothered to look at her, he would have recognized the pain and surprise that washed over her face. But he kept his eyes on the skyline.
“You searched my apartment. Couldn’t quite trust me, could you? Despite all those pretty words, when it came right down to it you had to make absolutely certain that I wasn’t still a felon. Didn’t you?”
“Didn’t I what?” she asked very calmly.
“Didn’t you search my apartment?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes,” she said again. She stood there for a long moment, not moving. “Good-bye, Blackheart.”
He didn’t turn his head until he heard the door shut quietly behind her. And then he began to swear, steadily, obscenely.
Rupert appeared from the kitchen, two dark drinks in his hand. “You got rid of her, I see. Didn’t listen to my advice, did you?”
“When I want your advice I’ll ask for it and pay for it,” Blackheart snapped.
“I do think I ought to mention something to you,” Rupert said casually, handing him the drink and sitting down opposite him. “Your kitchen is a mess. She was in a bigger hurry when she got to it.”
“So?”
“So, there are coffee beans all over the counter and the floor, and the bag that held them is ripped apart.�
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Blackheart just looked at him. “This is supposed to be edifying? Maybe she didn’t like my kind of coffee.”
“It wasn’t your kind of coffee, Patrick. You drink Sumatran coffee exclusively. This was a bag of Colombian beans.”
He’d finally gotten Blackheart’s interest. “I don’t like Colombian coffee.”
“Exactly.”
“And what does your analytical mind tell you, Rupert?” Blackheart was genuinely curious.
“Oh, I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions, unlike you who thinks he knows everything. But I will mention that the police noted one curious thing about the emeralds. There was a coffee bean wrapped up in the plastic wrap.”
Dead silence filled the room as Blackheart looked at his friend in horrified comprehension. “I’m an idiot!” He slammed his drink down and was at the door two seconds later. There was no sign of her—she was long gone. He turned to look for his keys, and swore again. Sitting there on the hall table were his butchered lock picks and a shredded American Express card. And a key to the Bontemps Hotel.
Chapter Twenty-two
BLACKIE GREETED her at the door when she let herself in. The apartment had that faintly stale, musty odor places get when they’ve been closed up for a while. It hadn’t been that long since she’d been home, she thought wearily. Only a lifetime ago.
Seaside Surprise wasn’t compensation enough for her outraged gray tomcat. The look of contempt in his yellow eyes was unnervingly like Blackheart’s, and Ferris hastily rummaged for a tin of people tuna. Blackie gave her a look that said, Don’t even try.
“Well, what do you want?” she demanded, harassed. He raised his tail with supercilious grace and she gave in, reaching for the leftover bit of Brie. She wouldn’t be entertaining Phillip again, anyway, so there would be no one to begrudge its absence.
Very carefully she stripped off the black denims, dropping them in the middle of the kitchen floor. Her fall had scraped layers of skin off her shin and knee, and the blood had crusted over, sticking to the denim. She moaned softly as she pulled the cloth away, and Blackie looked up from the cheese for a moment, offering a questioning “mrrrow?”
“It’s nothing, kid,” she murmured, peeling the turtleneck over her head and dropping it on top of the discarded jeans. “Just a battle scar.” Clad in her underwear, she limped into the bathroom. For the time being she wasn’t going to think about Blackheart, wasn’t going to tear her heart out over him. She was going to sink into a hot, soothing bath and soak all the aches and pains out of her bones, then she was going to eat everything she could find in the house, short of Seaside Surprise. And then maybe she’d feel like thinking about Patrick Blackheart.
SHE WAS IN THE kitchen when the doorbell rang. She was clad in a pair of powder-blue ladies’ boxer briefs and matching tank top, and for a moment she considered ignoring the summons. If it was Blackheart he could find his own way in there, and she didn’t know whether she felt up to facing anyone else. Especially if her afternoon’s activities weren’t as discreet as she had hoped, and someone had seen her clambering over the rooftops.
The bell rang again, and she reached for her old terry-cloth bathrobe, padding to the front door on bare feet. Peering out the tiny peephole, all she could see was a huge basket of red roses.
“It’s me,” a tinny voice said. “Mrs. Melton from next door. These were delivered for you earlier today and I took them in.”
She controlled the immediate pang of disappointment, hastily opening the door to let the little woman in. “You were out,” Mrs. Melton continued, eying Ferris’s bathrobe as if she knew full well what lay underneath and disapproved of it heartily. “I told them they could leave them with me, but they ought to be watered.”
“Who are they from?” The question was desultory. If they arrived this afternoon they couldn’t be from Blackheart, complete with a heartfelt apology.
Mrs. Melton drew herself up to her full height of four feet eleven inches, bristling with outrage. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Ms. Byrd. I wouldn’t think of looking. I’m not a nosy neighbor.”
Mrs. Melton was an extremely nosy neighbor, but Ferris let that pass. She was rummaging through the roses, looking for a card, when her neighbor spoke again.
“It’s in the back,” she said, and blushed. “I didn’t read it, I just happened to notice it was there.”
Ferris gave her her nicest smile. An overwhelming curiosity about one’s fellow man surely wasn’t the worst trait in the world to possess. The card wasn’t sealed, and there was a smudgy fingerprint on it.
The roses had to be from Phillip. But the card was a definite surprise.
“I understand,” it read. “Love, always. Phillip.” What did he understand? Mrs. Melton was craning her neck, trying to read the card, but Ferris tucked it back in the envelope. “Do I owe you any money?” she inquired tranquilly.
“What for?” She was still looking forlornly at the card.
“Did you give the messenger a tip?”
Mrs. Melton sniffed. “Of course not. He’s paid for delivering things, isn’t he?”
Ferris controlled the smile that threatened her. “Of course. Thank you again, Mrs. Melton.”
There was nothing the woman could do but leave. Ferris watched her go, refastening the ineffectual locks with an abstracted air. Phillip understood, did he? The note sounded like a farewell. A farewell that was long overdue, but she had expected it was going to be more of an ordeal.
Well, maybe things were improving. She’d send Phillip back his ring, and perhaps that would be the end of it. She only hoped she could remain friends with Regina. She’d always liked Phillip’s mother a tiny bit more than Phillip himself. It would grieve her more than she liked to admit to lose that relationship.
Phillip’s ring was nowhere to be seen. She searched over every available surface, under the bed, in the drawers, in her pockets. Don’t panic, she told herself. It’ll turn up. You never lose anything for good. When did you last see it?
The memory wasn’t reassuring. She didn’t remember seeing it since the night of the Puffin Ball. Had Olivia somehow managed to get her slender, patrician fingers on that, too?
It was late, after midnight, when she gave up and finally headed for bed. She’d been avoiding that room like the plague. It was ridiculous—she’d lived in the apartment for three years, and after one night it had taken on all sorts of unshakable memories.
There was no way she could summon up a great deal of self-pity, she thought with determined fairness. She’d condemned Blackheart without a hearing the moment the theft was discovered. It served her right to have the same lack of trust thrown back in her face.
The red shoes were sitting on top of her dresser. She slipped them on her feet, giving her reflection a wry grin. Powder-blue jockey shorts and red high heels. Too bad Blackheart wasn’t here to enjoy it. Flopping down on the bed, she grabbed a pillow and tucked it underneath her as she flicked on the TV. And flicked it right off again. Channel 12 was still running its series of caper movies, and the last thing she was going to do was lie on her big empty bed and watch To Catch a Thief.
She lay there, staring at the sheets for a long moment. They were new, a deep wine color. Blackheart would look beautiful on them.
Damn, there was no way she was going to get him out of her mind. She may as well watch the movie—his memory was going to drift in and out like the Ghost of Christmas Past as it was.
And damn Blackheart. Cary Grant he wasn’t, but there was still no way she could lie there and watch and not be inundated with the memory of Blackheart. The sound and smell and feel of his supple flesh, the memory of his laughing eyes and mocking, arousing mouth.
She was lying at the opposite end of the bed, the shiny red shoes on one of the pillows, her head at the foot, watching the television set intently. Hugging the pill
ow as Cary Grant sank onto the couch with Grace Kelly and the fireworks flashed overhead. She moaned miserably into the sheets. Maybe ice cream would help her forget her sorrows.
“Where did the flowers come from?”
She kept very still, her fingers still clutching the pillow beneath her. Maybe that low, warm voice was a figment of her imagination. Maybe she’d died and gone to heaven. Slowly she lifted her head, to look straight into Blackheart’s dark, rueful eyes.
“From Phillip,” she replied breathlessly.
“Did he have anything interesting to say?” Blackheart was determinedly casual. Blackie was reposing in his arms, and one long-fingered hand was stroking the furry gray head.
“I guess he was saying good-bye.” She tried to summon a tentative smile. “He beat me to the punch. You can get rid of them, if you want.” She held her breath, waiting for his response.
“I already did.” Blackie jumped out of his arms then, stalking back toward the living room without a backward glance.
“I’m going to have to find Phillip’s engagement ring to send back to him,” she said, still not able to gauge Patrick’s mood. “I looked everywhere for it, but I couldn’t find it.”
“Are you accusing me of stealing it?” he asked, and she flinched.
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t think—”
“Because I did,” he continued smoothly.
“—of accusing you of . . . You did?”
His smile was entrancing. “Guilty. I couldn’t resist. It was just sitting there, abandoned, and my palms started itching.”