Be Mine, Miss Valentine

by Patricia Kay

  "Yes. Would you like a piece?"

  "I shouldn't," Ronnie said, "but I will."

  Miss Agatha turned. Her sharp black eyes scanned Ronnie's body. "Why shouldn't you? You aren't fat."

  Ten minutes later, ensconced at the big walnut table in Miss Agatha's huge kitchen, a fragrant piece of hot apple pie in front of her, Ronnie listened to Miss Agatha's story while Hannah Richardson looked on.

  "Then, Veronica, after looking around for perhaps a few moments, no longer, he coolly said goodbye and left." Miss Agatha paused dramatically. "It wasn't until a few minutes before I called you that I realized the brooch was gone."

  Hannah, a tall, spare-looking woman with frizzy gray hair, nodded her agreement.

  Ronnie frowned. "Describe this man for me."

  Miss Agatha squinted as she stared off into space. "He's about six feet tall, I should think. Maybe not quite that tall. Perhaps only five-feet-eleven or thereabouts. Dark hair with streaks of silver running through it. Gray eyes. Strong-looking body. Very tanned. Good-looking face. Square and strong. A cleft in his chin. Well-spoken."

  Oh, great, Ronnie thought. Unless Alex Summerfield had a double in Juliette, Miss Agatha had described him perfectly. "Miss Agatha, from your description of the man, I know who you're talking about. But I think you're mistaken about him being a thief. He's a famous playwright from New York City, and from what I know about him, he's very rich. He wouldn't steal from you." Ronnie wiped her mouth on her napkin. He might be conceited, but she'd bet her last dollar he wasn't a thief.

  Miss Agatha frowned. Ronnie could tell she didn't believe her. "But, Veronica," she said reasonably, "the brooch has disappeared. No one else was here today. Even Hannah was out in the kitchen all morning."

  "Are you sure the brooch was there this morning?"

  "Positive. I saw it when I came downstairs. In fact, this morning I dusted the outside of the case it was in. That's how I'm so certain."

  "Show me," said Ronnie.

  Leaving Hannah in the kitchen, the two women walked to the front of the house and into what used to be the dining room. It was now crammed with every type of furniture imaginable, as well as antique jewelry, pottery, and knick-knacks of all kinds.

  Miss Agatha walked straight over to a glass-enclosed case. She pointed through the glass to a spot in the middle of the velvet-covered table which was blacker than the faded cloth surrounding it. "See?" she said, dark eyes glittering. "You can see for yourself the brooch is no longer there."

  "Well..." Ronnie hedged.

  "Veronica," Miss Agatha said, "he is the only person who could have taken the brooch. No one else was here."

  "How did he take it if you were in here the whole time?"

  "I wasn't. That's the point. I walked across the hall to answer the telephone, leaving him alone in here." She smiled in satisfaction. "That's when he pocketed the brooch."

  Just then, as if on cue, the phone rang, and Miss Agatha excused herself, leaving Ronnie to speculate on the mystery of the missing brooch.

  "Why, yes," Miss Agatha was saying, "I keep my shop open until six in the evening every day except Thursdays, when I stay open until nine ...Yes, it's easy to find. Come into the center of Juliette and take a right on Bishop Avenue. Yes, Bishop. My shop is about two blocks down on the left hand side. You can't miss it. That's Miss Agatha's Antique Shoppe, with two 'P's and an 'E.' "

  Ronnie grinned. Two "P"s and an "E." She'd never heard Miss Agatha say it any other way. She heard the older woman hang up the telephone.

  "How much was that brooch worth?" Ronnie asked as Miss Agatha returned. Why would Alex Summerfield take it?

  "About seventy-five dollars," Miss Agatha said.

  Surely Alex Summerfield could afford dozens of seventy-five dollar brooches. "Miss Agatha ... are you sure about all this?"

  Miss Agatha folded her arms in front of her. The sun slanting in through the window fell across her soft-looking skin. Ronnie could see the fine dusting of powder across her nose and the faint tinge of pink rouge she'd applied to her cheeks. She pursed her lips stubbornly.

  Oh, darn, Ronnie thought. Miss Agatha wasn't going to budge on this. With a resigned sigh, Ronnie said, "All right, Miss Agatha. I'll go ask Alexander Summerfield about your brooch. But that's all I'm going to do. Ask him if he knows anything."

  Miss Agatha smiled. "Thank you, Veronica. That's all I wanted—that you go talk to him."

  Sighing again, Ronnie said, "I'll let you know what happens."

  "And Veronica..."

  "Yes?"

  "Now don't get mad..."

  Ronnie rolled her eyes. "Now what?"

  "Don't you think you should put on some makeup and fix your hair before you go to see him?"

  Chapter 3

  Alex's morning had been difficult. He got up early, intending to get started on the rewrite of Act II while his brain was still fresh. He'd always liked writing early in the day. But today he hadn't been able to concentrate.

  Signposts. He'd been so enthusiastic when he'd first had the idea for the play. It was the story of a young man coming of age in modern-day America. He was faced with a monumental decision and torn by doubts. The premise of the story was that in each life there are signposts along the way, but sometimes people miss them or take the wrong road. Sometimes the signpost is so small and insignificant the person doesn't realize it is one, and they ignore it, thereby changing the course of their lives.

  Alex knew that if he could only write the story the way he'd first envisioned it, it would be wonderful. Oh, yes, he thought. How simple it sounds. Just write the damned thing.

  The trouble was, until three years ago, it had been simple for him to write terrific plays. Every day he'd just sit down and do it. He'd been obsessed by his ideas and had always been able to push every other thought out of his mind and focus his entire being on the task at hand. Why had that ability deserted him? he asked himself for the thousandth time. And, as usual, Margo's face popped into his mind.

  Margo. He'd been besotted by her. She had become his obsession, taking the place of his writing. From the moment Alex had laid eyes on her, he hadn't been able to think of much else. He'd fallen so easily into the trap of thinking it couldn't do any harm to take her to Cannes for a week. He would write twenty-four hours a day when they returned. Why not make her happy? But when they'd return, there would be someplace else Margo wanted to go, and Alex would find himself once more delaying the start of a new project. "Just a week, darling. Is that too much to ask?" Margo would plead, and he couldn't resist her.

  Yes, she'd bewitched him. All he'd wanted was to be with her, see her smile, make her happy. But in the end, he hadn't made her happy. She'd left him, and ever since he'd been trying to pick up the pieces. She hadn't been a part of his life for nearly two years now. Two years. Certainly a long enough time for Alex to snap out of his lethargy.

  Coming to Juliette had been a last ditch attempt to recapture the magic touch that had deserted him. And so far, it had worked. Until this moment, he hadn't once thought of Margo. No, he thought wryly. Instead of thinking about Margo, you've been thinking about a tiny brunette with huge blue eyes.

  When he'd first seen her, he'd simply been intrigued by her and irritated with himself. Then, when she and Barzini had come to rescue the cat, he'd found himself amused and charmed. She'd seemed terribly young and vulnerable, entirely unsuited to the job of sheriff.

  Then yesterday afternoon, when she'd run up the driveway, he'd been seized by desire at the sight of her in those short shorts and skimpy T-shirt. She was one sexy woman—her innocent-looking face a perfect foil for her delectably curved body. Alex smiled as he remembered her deliciously full lower lip and how it quivered when she was angry. For a moment yesterday, he'd been sorely tempted to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she was senseless. He smiled as he remembered the look of pure outrage on her face when he'd told her she looked sixteen years old. Sixteen, my foot. Lolita in a Stetson.

  Good gri
ef, Summerfield, he thought. Get Veronica Valentine out of your mind. Don't trade one female obsession for another! Haven't you learned your lesson yet? Women and writing plays don't mix. At least not for you.

  And rehearsals for Signposts were starting in less than three months.

  Alex stared at the paragraph he'd just typed. Garbage. That's exactly what it was. In frustration, he yanked the sheet of paper out of the old manual typewriter he refused to stop using, crumpled it up, and threw it into the already-full wastebasket. "Hell's bells," he said. He took off the steel-rimmed glasses he wore while working, pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked to the open window.

  It was another gorgeous June day: cloudless, pure blue sky, cool air starting to warm up under the golden sunshine, birds chattering in the trees. This was a day he should be glad to just be alive. Rubbing his forehead, he decided to put on some music. Sometimes that helped him concentrate. Soon the lilting sound of Chopin filled the air, and Alex settled himself back down in front of the typewriter.

  "Now," he said aloud, "put everything else out of your mind ... especially the little sheriff..."

  Before he'd even finished the thought, he heard the sharp rapping of the knocker against the front door.

  "Damn it," he swore. "Now what?" Striding rapidly to the hall, he yanked open the door. Standing outside his door, looking like a teenager playing dress-up in her khaki uniform and jaunty Stetson, stood Veronica Valentine, an uncertain smile on her face.

  "Well," he drawled, "what have we here?" All his anger over the interruption to his work and all thought of his abandoned manuscript fled his mind.

  "Hello, Alex," Ronnie said. She smoothed her hands over her hips in a nervous gesture.

  He stood aside. "Come in," he said. She followed him into the bright living room and sat primly upright in one of the big wing chairs flanking the fireplace. She removed her hat, placing it in her lap.

  Alex sat in the other chair, leaned back, grinned and said, "Does this visit mean you've forgiven me?"

  "For what?" she asked, but there was a telltale hint of pink in her cheeks.

  "You know what."

  "If you're referring to the remark you made last night, that's not why I'm here."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Well, what is it, then?" He snapped his fingers. "I know. You don't like Chopin."

  She winced, and Alex wondered why she seemed so uneasy this morning. Surely she knew he was teasing her.

  "What's the matter?" he said.

  She bit her bottom lip, then took a deep breath. Alex watched in fascination as her chest rose, then fell. "Listen, Alex," she said, "were you in Miss Agatha's Antique Shoppe yesterday afternoon?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "I got a call from Miss Agatha this morning, and ... well ... it seems as if a brooch is missing from her shop." The words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush, as if she had to hurry or she wouldn't say them.

  "I'm sorry to hear that, but how does it concern me?" Alex watched as her thick brown eyelashes dropped to cover her eyes. The bright sunlight glinted on her shining hair, and he was struck by how utterly lovely she was. Sexy as well as sweet. A potent combination.

  She ran her tongue over her lips, and Alex's hands tightened in his lap.

  "Miss Agatha thinks you might have taken the brooch," she murmured.

  "What?" Alex said incredulously. "Me?"

  Ronnie raised her head, and now the pure blue of her eyes dazzled him. "I'm afraid so."

  "But that's ridiculous! Why would I steal a brooch?"

  "That's what I told her, but she insisted I come and talk to you. She said no one else was in the shop yesterday, and you must have taken it."

  Alex chuckled. The accusation was so absurd it was funny. The old lady must have slipped her switch. And here he'd thought she was so interesting and intelligent when he'd met her yesterday. They'd had a fascinating conversation. She'd asked him all sorts of questions about himself, and he'd had the feeling she liked him. He must be losing his ability to judge people, because she'd certainly fooled him. He'd have been willing to bet money on her sanity.

  "Well," he said, "you're welcome to search the house if you like. You won't find the brooch, though." Then, in a moment of pure devilry, he added, "You can even do a body search, if you feel it's necessary."

  Ronnie's face flamed red. She lifted her chin and stared at him.

  Alex laughed. "Well, I wouldn't want to stand in the way of you doing your job properly."

  She sat up straighter in her chair. "I know you're making fun of me, and in a way I can hardly blame you. It is a ridiculous accusation, but Miss Agatha accused you of taking the brooch, and as a law enforcement officer, it's my job to follow through and investigate the alleged crime." She said the words with dignity, and Alex's chest tightened. Without conscious thought, he stood up, walked slowly over to her chair, and reached for her hands.

  She hesitated for a second, then placed her small hands in his. He pulled her up. They were standing only inches apart. She swallowed as she raised her eyes to meet his. He could see the little pulse beating in her throat and smell the faint scent of roses on her skin.

  Alex slid his arms around her, watching as her thick eyelashes drifted down, fanning across her cheeks. She fit into the nook of his arms as if she'd been made for him. He knew he was asking for trouble, he knew it was stupid, but he couldn't seem to help himself. His mouth lowered, and he whispered, "I'm not making fun of you, sheriff. I'm surrendering."

  * * *

  Ronnie was so stunned when Alex pulled her into his arms, she didn't even try to resist. All thought vanished from her mind, and her emotions took over. Sensations crowded her consciousness: the feeling of safety and strength his strong arms and body evoked, the musky scent of his skin, the heady jolt of joy that shot through her at the touch of his cool, firm lips, the lightheadedness that threatened to overwhelm her as the kiss went from a gentle brushing of their two mouths to a heated surge of mutual passion. Ronnie had never experienced a kiss that had shaken her so deeply.

  When Alex gradually released the pressure of his arms and slowly broke the connection between their lips, Ronnie trembled with delayed reaction. She drew a deep, shaky breath and tried to pull away from him, but Alex held her in the loose circle of his arms and said huskily, "If this is what I have to look forward to as your prisoner, I may take up a life of crime."

  "Please let me go," said Ronnie. She couldn't look at him. She felt exposed and too vulnerable to his charm. Forcing herself to keep her voice even and her feelings hidden, she raised her head and met his laughing eyes. Later, away from that amused gaze, she would allow herself to examine her feelings, but not now.

  She turned away from him, and he dropped his arms. Smoothing down her uniform, she said briskly, "Now that you've had your fun, I think it's time I left." Lifting her chin, she said, "I'll inform Miss Agatha that you didn't take her brooch."

  Ronnie was gratified to see the amusement disappear from his eyes and a slight trace of confusion pass over his face. "I wasn't making fun of you."

  "Come on, Alex. Let's not play games. We both know why you kissed me. But there's no reason to worry about it. I've been kissed before. I know the score." She smiled and prayed the smile looked real. "Don't give it another thought." Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the room. She didn't look back.

  Damn him, she thought as she drove back to her office. Angry tears welled into her eyes, and she furiously blinked them back. Why was she letting him get to her? She clenched her teeth. She'd show him she could be just as cool as he was. And really, what was she so upset about? It had just been a kiss. Not a declaration of undying love or anything. A simple kiss. Big deal. It'd be something she could laugh about some day. Something she could tell her grandchildren about.

  "I was kissed by a famous playwright once," she'd say, and they'd all smile and think how dotty their grandmother was.

  By the time Ronnie reached her office, she'd managed to recover so
me measure of equanimity. But for the rest of the day, her treacherous mind kept wandering back, conjuring up images and sensations she would have preferred to bury forever.

  * * *

  Now why the hell had he done that? What was it about Veronica Valentine that made him forget all his good resolutions? How many times over the past two days had he told himself that he wasn't going to become involved with her? She wasn't like the women in New York City—the beautiful actresses and models and other sophisticated women he'd dated after his breakup with Margo. They really did know the score. Sure, he'd shared some casual sex with a few of them, but that's all it had been: casual. They had known it, and he had known it. He'd never made them any promises; he'd never treated the encounters as anything but what they were—a way to forget the hurt and Margo.

  With each brief liaison, Alex had been careful to choose women who didn't want or expect anything more from him than he had been willing to give. As far as he knew, he'd never hurt anyone or used anyone. And he didn't want to start now. So he'd better be very careful. Because instinctively he knew that Veronica Valentine would never fall into the category of someone who would indulge in a casual love affair. That would not be her style. She was the type of woman who would never give any part of herself casually. So, if you knew that all along, he asked himself, why in the name of heaven did you kiss her?

  Suddenly furious with himself, he grabbed a plump pillow from the couch and threw it against the wall, knocking over a lamp in the process. The base of the lamp shattered, scattering pieces of painted porcelain all over the shining hardwood floor.

  Alex released a chain of invectives, and after he was through, he felt enormously better. Now he would owe Barzini compensation for the lamp. For the next half-hour Alex cleaned up the pieces of porcelain and chastised himself for his thoughtless action in kissing Veronica. No matter how irresistible the impulse, no matter how tempting she was, he should have steered clear of her. Thank God she had treated the incident lightly.