Читать книгу Hidden Gems - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 5

1

“I HAVE NOTHING to declare,” Marissa Suarez told the customs agent in a voice like broken glass, “except that my boyfriend’s a swine.”

A snicker rose from the crowded line behind her.

The bored official merely stamped her customs declaration form without looking up. “You can’t bring pork products into the country, ma’am.”

Marissa squinted. “Oh, don’t worry. I left his bacon miles behind.”

Paul Beckwith, forthwith known as Cheating Slime, was still in the Cayman Islands hobnobbing with his clients. If he’d missed Marissa it was only because she wasn’t there to slather sunscreen on his perfectly trapezoid shoulders and back. But any bunny off the beach could handle that duty. Paul would have no objections. When he hadn’t been ditching her for “vital” meetings, he’d been drooling over every pair of bouncing breast implants on Seven Mile beach.

Marissa Suarez was not a woman who put up with that kind of bullshit.

She was, unfortunately, a woman who chose the kind of man who shoveled it.

Every…damn…time.

With a clenched-teeth smile, she took the card from the customs official and tucked it into her passport. She truly had nothing to declare. Returning five days early from a supposedly romantic getaway, she was not only sans boyfriend, but minus the promised toasty tan and post-coital bliss, too.

However, she had acquired a resolution during the flight into JFK: no more bad choices, no more mistakes.

Next time—because, let’s face it, she wasn’t going to swear off men altogether—she would pick a guy who was the antithesis of the handsome, career-driven charmers she usually went for. Someone sweet, tender, laid-back.

So what if she wasn’t sweet, tender or laid-back herself? Opposites were supposed to attract.

New arrivals jostled into the roped-off customs line. A fat woman with a bad sunburn and a floppy hat jarred Marissa’s elbow just as she’d twisted to tuck her official papers into the straw bag hanging off her shoulder.

The documents flew from her hand. When she bent to reach for it, the woman beaned her in the head with a bulging carry-on.

Marissa bounced off the cordon and pitched forward in her spike-heeled sandals, falling onto her hands and knees. “Ouch!”

“Let me help,” said a deep male voice. The French accent seemed to be authentic, but in Marissa’s current state of mind she was prone to doubt the sincerity of the entire male species. “These people have no manners.”

The stranger knelt near her suitcase, smoothly offering one hand to help her stand while swooping up the passport with his other. He was dark and slight, with a seriously I’m-too-French-for-razors stubble happening below his gaunt cheekbones. He reeked of tobacco. Smoky sunglasses concealed his eyes, but she sensed he’d evaluated her in one lizard-like blink.

Marissa rose and brushed away the strands of hair that had come free of her ponytail. Her knees stung. “Thank you, but please let me have that,” she said, being politely firm as she reached for her passport.

The Frenchman had maneuvered her around so that her back was to the bustling meet-and-greet area. His eyes crawled over her photo ID and return ticket. Marissa steeled herself to deflect a suave compliment on her ebony hair or exotic eyes—she’d heard them all—but he simply handed over the passport without comment.

After a glance past her shoulder, then the faintest twitch of a smile, he melted away into the nattering crowd of arrivals who’d cleared customs. “Good day.”

Odd. Marissa snapped the passport shut and pressed it to her breastbone, feeling the way she did when a shadow passed over the sun. She checked her luggage, half expecting that he’d lifted her wallet. But all was intact, including the tagged and processed bag sitting at her feet.

“Outta my way, supermodel,” said the fat woman in a Bronx patois that hacksawed through the moment of unease. She trundled by with a large stack of luggage.

“Pardon,” Marissa trilled. Thankful that she’d traveled light, she reached for the small suitcase that was packed with little more than damp bikinis, shorts, tanks and a couple of sundresses. The big straw carry-all she’d purchased on the island held a stash of Evian, her wallet and passport, makeup bag, camera, the current issue of French Vogue and five crumpled sheets of stationery from the Grand Cayman Beachcomber.

Paul—Sorry, but I’m leaving. I was annoyed when you abandoned me at the hotel bar, but to ditch

Paul,

Next time you invite a girlfriend on a business trip, don’t claim it’s a romantic getaway.

Dear Paul,

Clearly, we are not working out. It was a mistake to get involved in the first place, so I’m sure we can agree to pretend that this never hap

Dickhead—I’m so out of here!

Dear Paul—I’ve booked an earlier flight with my return ticket. First class. Don’t worry, I paid the difference myself. Enjoy the rest of your midnight “business” meetings.

Your ex,

Marissa

THE FINAL VERSION of the letter was the one she’d stuck on the mirror in their suite, then removed at the last moment. She was better at face-to-face confrontation. But there’d been no time to wait around for that, and, anyway, he’d deserved to be left in the dark about her sudden departure.

She’d swept the wadded-up notes into her bag so he wouldn’t find them, grabbed her swimsuits off the shower curtain rod and hurried to the lobby to catch the late airport shuttle. After making a couple of calls to friends to let them know she was on her way home, she’d turned off her cell phone for the duration of the trip.

She had no intention of listening to Paul’s outrage at being left in the lurch. Recriminations weren’t her thing. Neither was wallowing and weeping. She always recognized when a relationship was over and believed in lopping off dead meat with a quick, decisive cut.

Which would be much easier if she hadn’t made the colossal mistake of hooking up with a workmate from Howard, Coffman, Ellis and Schnitzer, the Manhattan law firm where she’d been employed since graduation from Columbia Law. Fortunately, Paul would be even less inclined to bring their breakup into the office. She was still one of the multitude of associates, while he was on the fast track to junior partner. He had more to lose.

Marissa left the customs area and stepped sideways around a couple of city cops with radios clipped to their shoulders and holsters at their hips. They were coordinating with an airport official and his uniformed security staff, passing out photocopies of a suspect’s mug shot.

Uh-oh. Security sweep. Get a move on.

Marissa slipped in and out of the crowds of huggers and criers, still worrying about her job. She’d known it was a foolish move to get involved with Paul, yet she’d done it anyway. Even in the early days of the romance, when he was charming and attentive and neither of them had been thinking of practical matters, she hadn’t expected to avoid office gossip entirely. The legal secretaries always knew which of the firm’s employees were getting their briefs filed, even when the senior partners were oblivious.

Worse, she couldn’t blame Paul for the bad decision. She’d made the choice. She’d believed he was worth a risk. She’d believed maybe this time…

“When will I ever learn?” she muttered, digging into the straw bag to find her cell. She flipped it open and checked her messages, dodging an overzealous gypsy cabdriver who tried to snag her arm.

Four messages from Paul. She got a petty but satisfying spurt of retribution by deleting them with a punch of her thumb.

She almost bumped into a young woman in religious sect garb: head kerchief and a plain calf-length dress with a white collar and black stockings. The girl turned, smiled modestly and offered Marissa a bloom from the bucket of daisies and tulips at her feet.

A pure white Stargazer lily.

“Beautiful,” Marissa said, surprised. Even though she didn’t usually slow for hucksters, she dug into the straw bag and pulled a five out of her wallet.

“Blessings on you.” The young lady nodded. “May you find true love.”

“Yes, here’s to love.” Marissa meant to be sarcastic, but no conviction remained. Although coming home early was a smart step, she would have to continue traveling in a new direction if she hoped to find true love.

Ah, but did she? That was a question to ponder. Not looking for love wasn’t working. How likely was it that she’d have any luck if her expectations were even higher?

Juggling the phone, she tucked the lily behind her ear, then returned to her messages. One was from her mother in Miami, who had the notion that any time Marissa flew over Florida she should stop in to say hello, as if the airlines issued parachutes along with packets of stale peanuts.

The last message put a smile on Marissa’s face. Jamie Wilson. Her best friend, guy version. If there was anyone who could untwist her insides and aim her in the right direction, it was Jamie. She speed-dialed him.

He answered on the first ring. “Where are you, babe?”

“Back on U.S. soil. Making my way to the taxi lane.” Jamie was the only man she let call her “babe.” From a snake like Paul, the pet name would ooze with condescension. From Jamie, it was about cozy familiarity, as if they were an old married couple who finished each other’s thoughts. Which they almost were. Jamie was the straight Will to her Grace, proof that men and women truly could be “just” friends.

“Did you practice your yoga breathing on the plane like I said?” Jamie was always telling her she needed to slow her usual pace—full speed ahead.

“With a carpet salesman from Jersey and his horking wife at my elbow? Not a chance. But after the attendant had removed the airsick bags, I did wind down with one of those itty-bitty bottles of rum.”

“You’ll be dehydrated then.”

“I know. Want to meet me for drinks? Maybe a little cheese with my whine?”

“How about actual food?”

“I guess.” Her stomach was hollow, but she was too hyper to eat. Normally she’d channel her energy into a good workout—either at the gym or in the bedroom— but that was out for the time being. Tomorrow, she’d get back on the treadmill, literally and figuratively. If she never found an appropriate man, at least she’d qualify for the fitness Olympics.

“I need to stop by home first to dump my luggage,” she said, tugging at the shoulder strap of the suitcase. “Meet you there.” Jamie lived upstairs from her, in a vintage brownstone in the Village.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

She glanced up. “Almost to the exit. If the taxi line isn’t too long, I’ll be in the city by—”

“Turn left,” Jamie said.

“But—”

“Just do it.”

Because it was Jamie, she obeyed, making such an abrupt detour she almost tripped over the trolley of Louis Vuitton cases a chauffeur was wielding like a feed store wheelbarrow.

Jamie appeared out of the moving crowd, cell phone at his ear.

“You dork,” she said, blinking back the moisture that sprang to her eyes. “I told you not to go to the trouble of meeting me.”

“Hey, a vacation breakup deserves an airport pick up. It’s synergy.” He dropped the phone into the pocket of his baggy khakis and put his arms around her. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t find a car to borrow. We’ll have to get a taxi.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder, just for a moment or two. Three, four, five. Her heart surged with gratitude. He felt as warm and comforting as ever, but also muscled and solid. When had that happened?

He’d been a skinny dude with an unintentionally hip geekiness when they’d met three years ago while playing Ultimate Frisbee with a group of friends in the park. In between putting in eighty hours a week at work, she’d been dating one of her typical Mr. Right Turn To Disasters. Jamie had been seeing her ex-roomie, self-proclaimed bitch diva goddess Shandi Lee—an odd couple if ever there was one. The relationships had lasted just long enough for Marissa and Jamie to avoid the awkward “should they or shouldn’t they?” moment and settle into platonic friendship.

Lucky timing, Marissa had always thought. Jamie Wilson had become the only long-term chromosome XY in her day-to-day life, the only male, aside from her cat, Harry, that she wasn’t pressured to impress.

“Marissa,” he said, patting her back. “I’m sorry.”

She squeezed him, allowing his sympathy even though too much sentiment usually made her itchy and restless. Outside of the holidays, when she was a sap about family cheer and goodwill to men, she kept her game face on. A single woman in Manhattan had to be tough.

And yet once again she felt herself relaxing into Jamie’s patented comfort zone, the one place where she let down her guard. He felt strong. He smelled good. Not like Paul, granted, who’d given off the alpha wolf eat-or-be-eaten pheromones that typically revved her engine. But surprisingly good, all the same.

Surprisingly sexy for a best friend.

What? Her head cranked back.

Beep, beep, beep. Time to back up that truck before it drove over the cliff looming ahead.

“Enough of this. I’m not dying.” Marissa pulled out of Jamie’s arms. “It’s just another breakup. I’ve survived them before.” She tucked away the cell phone that was still clutched in her hand, watching his face through her lashes while she snapped the bag shut.

Jamie seemed unaware of her instant of sexual awareness. He looked the way he always did—strong nose and jaw, blunt cheekbones, big dark blue eyes with sleepy lids beneath the mop of nut-brown hair that fell across his brow. A mouth so mobile that she’d learned to read his emotions from the shapes it made.

At the moment he was holding a faintly quizzical smile, his expression as clear and innocent as a choir boy’s. No sign of any of the messy, secret yearnings she’d occasionally worried he might harbor for her, that Shandi, among others, had sworn were there.

Who knew that Marissa, the tough chiquita from the barrio, would crack first?

She shrugged. Well, whatever had happened was only a momentary weakness. Gone like a speeding bullet, she told herself, although an alarming amount of warmth toward Jamie still simmered inside her.

Ignore it. No more mistakes, remember?

“You okay?” he asked, taking her rare uncertainty for Paul Beckwith aftereffects.

“Sure.” She tossed her ponytail. “You know me. Paul’s roadkill in my rearview mirror.”

“But this time, you’ll have to keep seeing him.” Jamie had warned her not to have a workplace affair. He was always so sensible, telling her in his evenhanded way exactly what was wrong with the man she’d chosen. That he was invariably right but never said “I told you so” was one of his most endearing characteristics.

Which didn’t mean she’d ever learn to listen to him! But it was nice having someone looking out for her.

“Not to worry,” she said. “We’re both too busy for office drama.”

“If you say so.” He scowled as he took her bag.

“Now, Jamie. I only need one stern papi and I left him behind in Little Havana.” Jamie’s brotherly concern was nowhere near as stifling as the concern of Alberto Suarez, an old-fashioned Cuban American who thought that his eldest daughter should be married and popping out babies like a good little Catholic. Two years shy of thirty and she was already considered an old maid by her family. “So don’t look at me like that.”

Jamie blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you know what’s best for me.” She kissed his cheek. Another tingle of awareness chased itself over the surface of her skin, which she continued to ignore. Jet lag could knock anyone off center.

“Someone has to,” he teased. His eyes went to the lily in her hair.

She touched it, feeling an emotion so rare she almost didn’t recognize it. Shyness.

“You look very tropical.” His voice rasped.

“Even without the tan I was promised?” She made a face. “Instead of lying on the beach, most of my time in the Caymans was wasted holed up in the suite or hanging around the bar, waiting for Paul.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Exactly. Once I realized that, I made my escape.” They walked through the exit doors. She scanned the cordoned taxi line, dismayed to see that it would be another wait for transportation. “Men don’t treat me that way more than once.”

“Like what, specifically?”

Marissa gave a snort. “Like an accessory.”

Her father had attempted to raise her to be what he considered a “good” girl—obedient and humble. Obviously that lesson hadn’t taken, perhaps because he’d also taught her pride and pugnacity by example. Instead of accepting a gender role, she’d preferred to outdo his expectations for the boys in the family, even when that

meant working as a waitress to put herself through the first years of community college, even when she was told over and over that she would never make it.

The desire to achieve a success that would show them all what she was made of had become her driving force. She couldn’t be like her cheery, tolerant mother, née Mary Margaret McBride, who was content in her little cottage, still in love with her bantam rooster of a husband after thirty-two years of marriage. Or her sister, Graciela, who’d married at twenty and now had a husband who spent more evenings out drinking with his muchachos than at home with his family.

Marissa appreciated her parents for the stability and love they’d given her and her brothers and sister. But she’d known from the age of ten that she had to be aggressive or she’d never get away. If she was single-minded and frequently too abrupt, that was why.

Until she was where she wanted to be, she couldn’t let up. She couldn’t slow down.

Except with Jamie. He was her release valve, as she was his energy pill. They went together like salt and pepper, up and down, yin and yang. Each gave as good as they got, and it worked.

“An accessory?” Jamie had to know there was more to her early return than that, but he wasn’t one to push. “For a smart man, Paul sure is dumb,” he said cheerfully. “You’re a treasure.”

Marissa shook her head. “I’m a woman in need of a giant Cubano sandwich.” Suddenly she was starving.

“Then let’s get out of here so I can feed you,” Jamie said, reverting to the reliable friend she recognized. They’d reached the head of the line and he’d stashed her suitcase in their taxi’s trunk. He held the door open, smiling at her, adorably rumpled in a tee layered over a white cotton shirt with frayed edges. No fashion plate, her friend, Jamie. Nothing like Paul, who spent more on his wardrobe than many women.

Marissa climbed into the taxi. After she was settled, she took a moment to thank her lucky stars for the Frisbee she’d mistakenly aimed at Jamie’s nose the day they’d met. She was certain that he’d never once thought of her as an accessory, even though she’d been his plus one at a number of the events that he attended in his career as an arts writer for the Village Observer, a smallish daily newspaper targeted at the city’s trendy, upscale culture vultures.

No. To Jamie, she really was a treasure.

The surprise for her was in realizing how mutual the sentiment had become.

JEAN LUC ALLARD had given the officials the slip. Child’s play, he thought as he slithered through the throng near the airport exit, though in fact he’d narrowly escaped the wide net cast by the cops and security guards that had swarmed the JFK terminal.

He’d skipped out of the boarding area in the nick of time, then taken the long detour through Arrivals to avoid crossing under their noses. But they’d also covered that area.

An unpleasant surprise. One that had forced him into ditching the goods despite the huge risk that entailed.

After making his move, he’d managed to reach a rest room, where he’d switched his dark glasses and leather jacket with the Patriots jersey and baseball cap stowed in his bag. The fake French passport he’d booked his tickets under was lodged in the crevice behind one of the sinks, replaced with an American one that claimed he was Joe Martin from Stonington, Massachusetts.

The risk made Allard’s gut churn. Fortunately he’d planned for all eventualities. But how had the bastards known where to find him in the first place?

A lucky tip from an informant…or a double cross?

Unlikely. He’d had contact with no one except his employer, a wealthy European with a large bank account and a larger ego. Allard had a number to call when he reached the rendezvous point, and no more.

He was on his own. As he preferred. His father had taught him to trust no one.

Even in the innocuous getup, passersby gave the Frenchman’s black scowl a wide berth. He paid them little heed, consumed by his racing thoughts. There would be no mercy with a fortune at stake. He would cut the throat of any person who dared stop him.

Already he had left one body behind. He’d coldcocked an interloper outside the ransacked safe of Stanhope’s Auction House, snatching the prize from the man’s hands even as he’d crumpled to the floor. Naturally, the theft of late heiress Zoey Zander’s vast collection of jewels had made the news. Every thief of international repute was reported to be a suspect.

While the New York police had paddled in place, squabbling with Interpol like ducks on the Seine, Allard had bided his time in a nondescript Brooklyn hotel room. Once he’d believed the stateside situation had cooled down, he’d booked a ticket to the Buenos Aires drop point.

To be thwarted now made his blood thin with displeasure. Merde! He’d been one boarding pass away from his escape.

That he’d become the security agent’s quarry was not in question. What remained to be seen was if they’d realized that the heist had been arranged solely to acquire the White Star, an ivory amulet so rare and revered that few had known of its existence until the auction house had publicized the contents of the Zander estate.

For these past weeks, he—and he alone—had owned the White Star. Caressed her. Held her to his lips in defiance of the legend she carried, which prophesied love for the pure of heart, a cursed future for all else.

And now she was gone.

Though Allard’s face betrayed no emotion, his tongue was bitter with frustration.

He spat. Pah.

The anxious officials’ presence had prevented him from boarding the flight to South America. He’d been cornered like a rodent, forced to take an incredible risk. Getting caught with the amulet was not an option. Therefore, regrettably, the White Star was no longer in his possession.

An extreme nuisance, that, but a necessity under the circumstances.

Carefully positioned out of the bustle, but close enough to move fast when need be, Allard cupped his hand to light a cigarette. He leaned against the building, dragging on the stinging taste of tobacco. Behind the sunglasses, his eyes zipped back and forth between the herds of American travelers, most of them waiting patiently in line like cows.

Ah, there she was.

Marissa Suarez. Stunning girl, with silken black hair and legs that went forever. It might be amusing to prolong his surveillance and seduce his way into her apartment rather than resort to the usual break-in. His employer would not approve of the indiscretion, but the man seemed to have a talent for buffing his nails while subordinates accomplished his dirty work.

Allard didn’t mind. He excelled in living on the fly, taking advantage of opportunities that presented themselves.

Smoke curled from his nostrils. Covertly he studied the girl. She was smart, aware of her surroundings, holding her straw bag close to her body while she waited at the curb. The man who had met her inside kept a firm grip on the other bag.

Allard saw he had no choice. An immediate recovery attempt was too risky. Not only were there authorities in the vicinity, but the girl could identify his face, particularly if he attracted more attention to himself.

He should have chosen a less observant mark, one of the weary tourists with their heaps of mismatched baggage. All too stupid to realize what he’d planted on them. But this one had literally fallen at his feet.

The boyfriend put his hand at her back, guiding her into a cab. The vital suitcase had gone into the trunk.

Allard ground the cigarette beneath his heel. He smiled to himself, pleased by his maneuvers. The unfortunate situation was under control. While his employer would be enraged if he knew the treasure had been out of Allard’s hands for even a minute, the man need only be told of the unavoidable delay of their rendezvous. Let him sputter and squawk. In the end, he would wait.

As would Allard. For a million euros, he could put up with any annoyance, any delay. He was beholden only to the White Star.

A sharp whistle summoned one of the gypsy cabs. He slid inside and mumbled a directive to the driver around the fresh cigarette he’d inserted in his mouth. As the vehicle pulled away, two of the security guards emerged from the terminal, their frustration as evident as their empty hands.

Smirking, Allard slunk low in the back seat while the car neatly whisked him away from beneath the officials’ noses. He’d escaped unscathed once more.