STOLEN MOMENTS

by Michelle Martin

  With a weary sigh, Duncan picked up the package of background material on the Giscard diamond job Emma had sent to his apartment and dumped it out onto his round Victorian dining table. Maybe this case would help demonstrate his competency and edge him back into his father's good graces. If he came up with something that actually worked, that is.

  An hour's review gave him the glimmerings of a plan. Catherine the Great's former diamonds were too important—and their current owner too treacherous—to take this job lightly. But that needn't cancel out creativity. Most transport plans involved armored cars surrounded by security agents and maybe a police escort. It didn't seem like the kind of attention a French mob kingpin would relish. Perhaps the key to this job was to not draw attention to the transportation of Armand Giscard's diamonds from his private Lear jet to the Bartlett Museum. Maybe it was time to once again deviate from the book.

  By three A.M. he had printed out the completed plan. He left a laundry list of tasks for Emma on her office voice mail and then left a reassuring message on Colby's voice mail, using his crisp, businesslike voice to explain an unexpected side trip taken by the Princess of Pop and his personal guarantee that he would return her to Boyd Monroe the next evening.

  Finally he slid into bed and was asleep before fifteen minutes had passed. His energetic alarm clock woke him up three hours later. Groaning, he forced himself out of bed, dressed in his sweats, and hit the streets for his habitual morning jog through Chelsea and Greenwich Village. His parents, of course, had been appalled when he chose to live downtown, not in midtown or uptown, and horrified when he chose a neighborhood that hadn't even been fully gentrified yet.

  But Duncan liked the real life of his neighborhood. He liked that none of the mostly brick buildings were more than five stories tall. He liked the black iron gates and the hopeful flower boxes and the fact that there was a dry cleaners, a pet store, and a really good corner deli not half a block from his Chelsea flat. He even liked the other tenants in his three-story building: a lesbian couple from Miami on the second floor and a grizzled World War II vet and his apple dumpling wife of fifty-four years on the first floor.

  At seven-thirty, Duncan carried the Giscard transportation plan into Brandon's office, stifling his disappointment when he found his older brother already at his desk. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how hard he tried, Brandon was always there first, doing it better.

  Brandon waved him into the office, propping his phone receiver between his left shoulder and ear, while he played with a half-dollar in his right hand, making it appear and disappear, over and over again, as he spoke in fluid French on the phone.

  Surmising that his brother was talking with Monsieur Giscard, Duncan sat down in a midnight blue upholstered guest chair in front of Brandon's desk and waited. Brandon made the half-dollar disappear again, winked at Duncan, and continued talking.

  Brandon had been hooked by magic from the time be was four. Duncan could remember all the amateur magician kits he had bought with his allowance, the shows he had given for his classmates as he got older, the tricks he had used to impress girls when he had first started dating. Duncan had tried and failed to follow in his footsteps, as he had always failed. Brandon was more graceful, more skilled. Duncan had given up on magic by the time he was ten, but not Brandon.

  Duncan had expected his brother to become the next David Copperfield—he had the looks, the flair, the skill, the inventiveness. But Brandon had shocked him by calmly acceding instead to their father's decree that he enter the family firm. It was the first and only time he'd ever seen Brandon give up on something he wanted.

  Watching him cheerfully reassuring their nervous French client now, Duncan thought his brother seemed happy enough in his work and his life. He couldn't detect any regrets at being forced to give up a childhood dream. It was yet another arena in which Brandon had succeeded and Duncan had failed, because more and more Duncan did regret giving up his own youthful rebellion.

  Even in the midst of resenting Harley for messing up his life, he could still see the lesson she was learning about the importance of rebellion and freedom, and he wondered—suddenly—if that lesson was infectious.

  Brandon bid Monsieur Giscard adieu, hung up the phone, and smiled at his brother. "You're in early."

  "I knew you wanted this," Duncan said, tossing the manila envelope onto the desk, "and I figured it would be wise to get in and get out before Dad comes in."

  "Very wise," Brandon wryly agreed. "He's livid, to say the least. How on earth did you lose Jane Miller?"

  "I didn't lose her," Duncan said, standing up, eager to get out and get on with the day. "I just made a field decision that the world would not end if the Princess of Pop had another day of freedom."

  "Don't be a fool, Duncan. Why risk another official reprimand from Dad? Get the Miller woman back to Monroe and get her back now."

  "It's my case, Brother. I'll handle it as I see fit."

  "Look, Duncan, Monroe's just the kind of guy to make trouble for us if we don't come through and come through now."

  "I'll come through for the company tonight and not before."

  Brandon looked as if he would argue further, then stopped himself. "It's your neck."

  "And the guillotine's been sharpened. I know," Duncan said wryly. "I'll be fine. Let me know what you think of the transportation plan. It's a bit different from the usual scheme. I'll be out of the office today, but Emma can always reach me if you want me to make any changes."

  "I'm sure it's fine," Brandon said smoothly.

  "Of course you are."

  "No, really, Duncan. I'm grateful for your help. Colangco's name will be in every paper thanks to all the hype Giscard's diamonds are going to get. Our rep's on the line with this one and I'm responsible if anything goes wrong."

  "Brandon, stop sweating. Nothing ever goes wrong on your cases."

  "Until now," Brandon ruefully retorted. "Have you seen the Bartlett security layout?"

  Duncan grinned. "It was in the background material. Pretty archaic. You've got your hands full, Brother."

  "That's why I'm so grateful for your help."

  "Any time," Duncan replied, heading for the elevator.

  Colby Lang arrived at the office punctually at eight every morning he was in town, and Duncan had no intention of enduring a face-to-face confrontation with his father just yet. Instead, he went to breakfast a few safe blocks away from the Sentinel Building. Then, fortified by coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, he pulled out his cellular phone and called Boyd Monroe at the Ritz-Carlton.

  It was almost as bad as listening to one of his father's diatribes. After suffering nine minutes of stinging personal abuse, Duncan finally interrupted and provided enough information about Harley's activities to convince Boyd that he really was working on the case and close to netting the Princess of Pop for him once and for all.

  Somewhat mollified—at least he wasn't screaming anymore—Boyd issued a few threats and then slammed the phone down with such force that Duncan's ear kept ringing for a good twenty minutes afterward. He began to hope Boyd Monroe was up to something. There would be a definite pleasure in hanging him out to dry.

  Soothed by a latte, Duncan pulled out his cellular phone once again. His former life in the fast lane, it turned out, had provided him with some surprisingly useful contacts. He placed an international call to an old acquaintance in Monaco. Then he called Carmine Bellini, one of the best-connected bookies in New York. Between them, he would find out if Boyd owed money anywhere in the world. Boyd's illogical concern for his schedule might be connected to the payment of debts, legal or otherwise. It at least seemed a good place to start.

  Just after nine o'clock, he called Emma.

  "You hear those blood-curdling yells in the background?" she greeted him in a lowered voice. "That's Colby Lang demanding your head on a platter. He's put Brandon on the Miller case. You're on suspension."

  "Good. Now you won't have to come up with creativ
e excuses for why I'm not in the office today," Duncan philosophically replied. "Besides, Brandon will be too busy with the Giscard job today and tomorrow to give Harley much attention. But play it safe and don't give him anything more than the bare minimum of information, Emma, and don't mention your investigation of Boyd Monroe's bank account, let alone Harley's world tour schedule."

  "It's Harley now, is it? What's going on, Sherlock?"

  "Nothing lascivious, so don't sound so suspicious." Duncan cringed at the sharp retort and forcibly mellowed his voice. "I just decided that she deserved one more day of freedom."

  "I can't argue with you there. I've got her world tour schedule. Monroe didn't give her time to breathe."

  "Fax your report over to the New York Hilton and Towers under my name. I'll pick it up in about half an hour. Oh, and just to be safe, go ahead and book Harley a room at the Millenium down on Church Street

  . I think it's best to move her again this morning just in case Brandon does stumble onto her trail. She'll pay cash as usual. Let's call her … Babe Hitchcock."

  "You got it. Keep a low profile, Holmes."

  "Count on it, Watson." Duncan hung up from Emma and then called Harley. "I hope you're packed," he said by way of hello. "You're moving this morning."

  "I am packed and I was planning to move to the Mansfield," she replied.

  "Uh-uh," Duncan countered. "That fits your pattern of midtown hotels too well. Emma's making a reservation for you under the name Babe Hitchcock at the Millenium downtown."

  "Babe? As in Hog?"

  "You are clever," Duncan said admiringly.

  "Put a talking pig in a movie and I'll watch it every time. Who's Emma?"

  "My able assistant. She does all the work, I get all the glory. I'll meet you in the Hilton lobby in twenty minutes."

  In ten minutes he strode into the lobby of the New York Hilton and Towers and found the appropriate desk clerk to fetch him Emma's fax. He carried it over to the Mirage Lounge near the bank of elevators, sat down amidst marble, brass, bronze, and greenery, and considered Harley's world tour schedule. The illogic of it was amazing for a man of Boyd Monroe's experience.

  All of the different countries and cities fell into place neatly enough, but why throw Harley onto a midnight flight just minutes after her Berlin concert had ended, when her next concert (in Paris) wasn't scheduled until three days later? Surely he could have let Harley, the band, and the roadies sleep in the next day and leave for Paris in the afternoon or early evening, or even the day after that. And why do a one-day turnaround in Tokyo when she wasn't scheduled to perform in Sydney until five days later?

  Duncan's antennae were quivering like crazy. This schedule reeked of Boyd's hysteria about not getting to L.A. at the right time on the right day this week. Damn! He was up to something.

  Duncan pulled out his cellular phone and called Emma again.

  "Good news!" she greeted him. "Brandon just left a message saying he loved your Giscard transport plan and thanking you for all your hard work. Even Colby signed off on it."

  Brandon loved his nonconformist plan? "Huzzah," Duncan murmured. "Look, Em, I need some more help on this world tour schedule. Find out if any of it was altered during the actual tour. I'm particularly interested in learning if Boyd did any last-minute scheduling of press conferences, interviews, TV or radio appearances, that sort of thing. If he changed hotels or concert venues, I would be very interested."

  "What do you think he's up to?"

  Duncan slumped down in his chair. "Lord, I wish I knew. Whatever it is, it seems to be tied to Harley's schedule, so that's the thread we follow. Call me if you find anything interesting. And keep digging on those bank records."

  "Got it."

  Duncan slipped the slim cellular phone back into the inside pocket of his dark blue Zegna sports coat and stood up. He realized—almost with wonder—that he felt nervous and that it had nothing to do with his father's rage or Boyd's scheduling, and everything to do with seeing Harley again. How in the world had he regressed to the emotional development of a pimply teenager?

  "Hi, there."

  He turned. His ears began to ring.

  A gamine in an emerald green midriff top, khaki shorts, and green sneakers stood before him. She was delectable. It vaguely occurred to Duncan that a trained investigator should not be thinking that the object of his professional search was delectable, but it was a little hard to focus just at present. Big turquoise blue eyes stared up at him. If the wallop they had just imparted to his solar plexus could be packaged, the world would be nuclear free in a year.

  "Thanks for losing the contacts," he managed.

  "Believe me," she said, a tinge of pink creeping into her slightly freckled cheeks, "it is entirely my pleasure. I have never liked sticking things into my eyes. I've got one of the doormen loading my stuff into a cab. You ready?"

  "Of course," Duncan said, blessedly getting his second wind. "Come on. Work before boredom."

  "I bet you anything that you'll like playing a tourist today."

  "Boyd was right: you do live in a fantasy world."

  Twenty minutes later Harley's luggage had been redeposited in a guest room at the Millenium Hilton Hotel on Church Street

  , just across the street from the World Trade Center. The furniture was carved from light maple and wrapped itself around the corners and walls of the room in clean modern European lines. The colors—toast, off-white, pale blue—seemed deliberately chosen to efface everything except the stunning view out the large windows. Harley's thirty-seventh-floor room looked north over the entire city, without a single building to impede the view.

  "Not bad," Harley said, staring out the windows.

  "Thank you," Duncan said.

  "Pity I won't be staying the night."

  "Isn't it, though?" be blandly replied.

  She stuck her tongue out at him. "Come on," she said, pulling him out of the room, "we've got work to do. My work. Central Park first," she announced as she led Duncan to the elevator.

  "God help me," Duncan groaned. He followed her out of the cherry wood lobby and into a cab, careful to keep a good five feet between them. Being in a hotel room with Harley had not felt safe. The surprise of that realization had led to some equally disturbing questions, like what the hell was wrong with him? She was a pampered and sheltered princess who insisted on having everything her way and messing up his career and his father's blood pressure and his brother's already packed work schedule.

  She was also someone he was beginning to like way too much for his own comfort and peace of mind. Somehow he had to find a way to fend off the pleasure of her company, and fast.

  "We'll start at the Lenox Avenue

  entrance on Central Park North and work our way south," Harley announced as the cab pulled out.

  "You don't seriously intend to walk through all of Central Park?" Duncan demanded. "That'll take all day."

  "It will?"

  "Yes. Even half would be more than I can bear."

  "Well, you're stuck. I've heard about Central Park all of my life and I am going to see as much as I can pack into … well … half a day." She consulted a map she pulled from her shoulder purse. "We'll start at East Eighty-fifth Street

  . I want to see the Great Lawn and the Obelisk and Belvedere Castle."

  "You're deliberately trying to make me suffer, aren't you?"

  "Oh stifle it," she said, frowning at him.

  But he didn't. He complained all the way up Sixth Avenue

  . He grumbled as she led him around and through Belvedere Castle. He groused as she looked for turtles in Turtle Pond. He lowered himself to bellyaching as she dragged him into the Ramble. The horrible part of it all was that none of it helped him fend off the growing pleasure of Harley's company.

  He had never in his life known anyone who burbled, but Harley did. She couldn't say enough about the lushness of the trees and lawns and ivy and flowers. Brazen squirrels and the short tree-to-tree flights of red-winge
d blackbirds, bluejays, and robins were rapturously enthused over. When she wasn't burbling she was skipping, yes, skipping at his side, apparently as an alternative to flinging herself into orbit in a blue sky she couldn't extol enough.

  He had never met anyone so adept at enjoying the moment. He could almost hate her for it, because it made him feel how hollow his own life had become.

  Brimming over with honest-to-God happiness, she led him across Bow Bridge and then south along the lake, rhapsodizing over the white heron moving in slow jerky steps near the shoreline in search of food.

  "They look good," Duncan conceded, "but they're not the most tasty of birds. Now ducks—"

  "That's it, I've had it!" Harley seethed, taking him completely by surprise as she grabbed fistfuls of his teal blue polo shirt and shoved him back hard against a mature elm. "I am sick to death of your wet blanket routine, Duncan Lang, and it ends right here, do you hear me? You are going to give this glorious day its due. You are going to enjoy the sunshine and the beauty all around you and that's final!"

  Duncan couldn't help it. He grinned down into flashing blue eyes. A woman of strong emotions. How wonderful! "Did you know that your freckles become more pronounced when you're angry?"

  A strangled scream of frustration gurgled up from her slender throat. "Look, bub," she said, pushing hard on his chest, "I didn't want you to come along today, but you insisted, and I will not have you ruining my first and only visit to Central Park. Either you straighten up and fly right or I will drown you in the lake here and now!"

  Duncan grinned at her. "You would, wouldn't you?"

  "In a hot minute."

  Duncan laughed. In all the delightful years of wine, women, and song before he had settled down to being good, Duncan couldn't recall ever meeting anyone who was this much fun. He impulsively caught her hand in his. Startled, he stared at their clasped hands. A perfect fit. A lovely fit. Better than he had let himself remember from last night.

  Laughter vanished even as something warm and lovely took its place. Only a fool would resist the pleasure of Harley's company. "I'll be good," he vowed, immersing himself in turquoise blue depths.