Too Hot to Handle Read online

  The gems themselves were exquisite. Emeralds were funny things. The larger they came the more flawed they were likely to be. A few occlusions were expected but when she’d studied these gems through her loupe, she’d been astonished at the near perfection. And the color. Dark, clear green that she’d rarely seen outside a museum.

  The setting was antique, no question. Like any personal ornamentation, jewelry went through fashions. But every age had its classics and this set was one of the most inherently beautiful she’d ever seen. Delicate strands of gold held the emeralds and diamonds in place but didn’t compete, so the green fire flashed from the necklace. “These are exquisite. Are you sure you want to reset them?” she’d finally asked.

  Mother and daughter exchanged a quick look. “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Grayson had answered. “The set’s a gift to Judith, and she wants a more modern look. We both love your work. We’re excited to see what you could do with these. You are such an artist and with these emeralds, I believe Judith will be breathtaking when she wears the jewels at the diabetes fundraiser next month.” She smiled at her daughter. “I’d planned to give them to her when she got married, but now that she’s twenty-five, and unmarried, I’m going ahead. Why wait? They’ve been in the family forever, and they really don’t suit my coloring.”

  Lexy suspected what the older woman really intended was to display some of the family wealth around her daughter’s throat in an unsubtle hint to potential suitors.

  “You know, these emeralds are quite rare, and I suspect the pieces are hundreds of years old. You will compromise their value as antiques.”

  “Oh, they’ve been in the family forever. It’s time they had a new look.”

  Lexy had accepted the commission, of course. It wasn’t her business to talk clients out of her services and as lovely as the current set was, she knew she’d likely never have an opportunity to work with emeralds like this again.

  Opening the safe, she withdrew the box and showed the emeralds to Amanda, who said, “Wow.” They both studied the sparkle of diamond and deep, gorgeous green.

  Amanda touched the edge of the swirled gold setting. “I’ve never seen emeralds that color. They’re so rich-looking.”

  “I know. The color’s spectacular. I think it’s because they are so old. They must have come out of South America centuries ago. Mayan stones are considered the purest and best.”

  “How much do you think they’re worth?”

  “Hard to say. But with the almost perfect diamonds and the unusual color and clarity of those emeralds, I’m guessing around a million.”

  “A million dollars?” Amanda squeaked.

  “Yeah.”

  So Lexy had at least a million bucks worth of emeralds in her safe and a free hand to design settings that would help an unmarried twenty-five-year-old attract a rich man. Might be a little old-fashioned, not to mention Machiavellian, but this was also by far her largest commission ever.

  “Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

  She knew she could trust Amanda. They’d worked together for about eighteen months. In her early twenties, Amanda Sanford was tall and thin, had slightly more than the fashionable number of tattoos and piercings and a penchant for painted leggings and army boots. She was also great with customers and seemed happy in her work.

  Lately she’d been letting Amanda help her with some of the simpler settings. When she was swamped, it was amazing how useful an extra pair of hands could be. Amanda also possessed an artistic eye and Lexy often sought out her assistant’s opinion when she was unsure.

  AFTER AMANDA LEFT, Lexy finished the ruby wedding set. On a whim, she called her customer and let them know. As she’d half suspected the woman was so excited she wanted to come right over and pick up the rings.

  So, her workday ended with a nice fat check, a happy and excited customer and one more peek at the emeralds.

  Then, realizing she was starving, she opened the barely visible door that led upstairs to her living space. It wasn’t nearly as fancy as the downstairs since she’d put every cent of her savings and a good chunk of the bank’s into her business. Her tools, the display cases, lighting, decor, everything had to be consistent with her jewelry designs. Which turned out to mean expensive.

  Which in turn dictated that upstairs she had little more than a bed, the most minimal kitchen and a couple of chairs and a table she’d found at Goodwill.

  Pouring herself a glass of cool water, she noticed the familiar throbbing tingle of a burn on her hand. She regarded the spot, red and shiny, and recalled the guy who’d come in earlier, burdened by too much name and too little conscience. Charles Pendegraff III. Jeez.

  He had a fiancée, and was going around staring at other women’s butts and kissing their booboos all better. She shook her head. She gave that marriage a couple of years, tops.

  So long as the happy couple lasted long enough to pay for her ring designs, she reminded herself, it was none of her business. For all she knew, Mr. Pendegraff III and Penelope had one of those open relationships where fidelity wasn’t part of the contract.

  She didn’t understand that kind of relationship; she was firmly determined that if she ever decided to get married, she’d be the kind of woman who went after her husband with a shotgun if he ever strayed.

  And, since her dad was a New York cop who worried about his single daughter, and had taught her all about self-defense and marksmanship, she could shoot the lying, no-good cheater right through the heart. Or any other part of his anatomy she felt like blasting holes in. Whoever married her better understand that.

  Her mother, who was half Chinese and very traditional, would probably come back from the dead to help her bury the corpse.

  The image of Charles Pendegraff rose up before her and she felt her trigger finger squeeze.

  Odd that she should have such a strong reaction to a stranger, but she knew that the biggest part of her disgust was the undeniable attraction she’d felt to the man. But then she already knew her taste in men wasn’t nearly as flawless as her taste in jewels.

  As she finished her water the phone rang.

  She checked the call display and picked up. “Carl. Hi.”

  “What’s up, Sexy Lexy?”

  “Just got home from work.”

  “All tired out from the long commute?” he teased. Carl Wiesenstein was one of her tight group of friends, all of them artists or craftspeople. He was a metalsmith who was making an amazingly good living considering that his specialty was house numbers and door knockers. “Come out and celebrate. I sold a five-thousand-dollar door chime today.”

  She laughed. “You’ve got to love New York.”

  “Oh, baby, I do. I’m getting the gang together tonight at Emo’s. Nat and Bruce are coming, Ella if she can get a babysitter, a few others. You in?”

  The thought of a night out with friends was tempting. She’d been working way too hard lately. But she knew she wouldn’t go. Not tonight. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got to work.”

  “You work too much.”

  “I know.” For a second she was tempted to tell him about the emeralds resting in her safe, but Carl wasn’t known for discretion and all she needed was for him to be overheard while he was telling her friends about her big day—as she knew he would. Maybe when she got million-dollar pieces sitting in her safe every day she’d become blasé, but for tonight she was worried that some burglar might overhear Carl and it was dead easy to find her studio. Even though her safe was supposed to be uncrackable, she really didn’t want it tested.

  “I’ve got a rush commission. You know how it is.”

  Carl chuckled. “Not feeling sorry for you. You’ll charge them through the nose to turn around a design fast.”

  “Gotta love New York,” she said again. Frugality might be fashionable, but not to her clientele.

  “If you decide to get a life, we’ll see you at Emo’s later.”

  “You got it.”

  She almost changed her mind when she opene
d her fridge and found nothing in there but half of an old pizza and a corked bottle of wine she didn’t even remember opening.

  She tossed both and called down to a Thai place for delivery, then she kicked back, cranked the music up, pulled out her sketchbook and started playing with ideas for the emerald and diamond set.

  At midnight, she turned out the light, but Lexy couldn’t sleep. A restlessness possessed her. She knew it was excitement. She loved her muse, she really did, but the damn woman was a workaholic slave driver. Ideas were chasing each other through Lexy’s mind faster and more confusing than a stock car race.

  After a couple of hours of tossing and turning, unable to turn off her brain, she flipped on the light, looked at the sketch pad on the floor and knew that she needed to see those emeralds again. Her latest idea was bold, almost crazy, but she thought the gems were so unusually brilliant that they could dominate a bolder setting than the one they’d rested in for half a millennium.

  THE ENTRANCE TO Alexandra Drake Designs was an eye-catching blue. Bight, shiny, as close to neon as paint can get, but the dramatic look suited her storefront and was oddly in keeping with the neighborhood, a place of avant garde shoe designers, exclusive little nooks selling nothing but handmade Italian bags, lingerie boutiques.

  The woman was crazy not to have a decent security system, but then Charlie doubted she’d ever had to store anything as valuable as the emeralds that he assumed were currently residing in her safe.

  It was almost too easy.

  Broome Street was as quiet as it ever got. He could hear his soft footfalls on the pavement. In his black slacks, turtleneck and shoes he could pass for a man taking a walk after a night at the theater perhaps, or a meal at a good restaurant. The March night air was cool, crisp, and when the wind picked up, that man could as easily melt into the shadows of a doorway. And unlock the far-too-simple mechanism on the lock of Alexandra Drake Designs. This was the kind of lock he’d started his career with as a teenager. It took him less than a minute to take care of the main lock. The dead bolts took little more than a minute.

  As the door of Alexandra Drake Designs opened and he slipped inside, he wished she at least had an electronic security system, something to give him a bit of excitement.

  Charlie ought to be grateful he could be in and out in only a few minutes, with the Isabella Emeralds, but he had his pride. He might be a retired thief, but he was still the best. A little challenge would be good; otherwise a man could become complacent, lose his edge.

  Silent and dark as a shadow he made his swift way past the dark shapes of her display cases to the back, to the door that separated the storefront from the small workshop. He was frankly insulted to find the door wasn’t even locked. How was a thief to remain on top of his game when his marks were so damn sloppy?

  He felt his way around her table, where he’d watched her work earlier, grinning at the memory of her body rocking out while her hands created magic. He’d been shocked at the punch of lust that damn near flattened him when she turned and he received the full impact of her eyes. Eyes that ought to be in a porcelain doll instead staring at him from that strong-looking body.

  He’d be back.

  He’d give the woman time to get through the shock of the break-in. A couple of weeks, then he’d casually stroll in here, with Penelope conveniently history. He planned to ask the jewelry lady out.

  In silence, he knelt before the safe.

  At least the safe put up a fight.

  For the first time since he’d stood outside in the night contemplating the pathetic excuse for a lock, he felt his peculiar set of skills being called on.

  The safe was an older, German model and he respected it. As safes went it was stubborn, thick walled, heavy, fireproof, blastproof, tamperproof.

  But not Charlie proof.

  They never were.

  He flexed his fingers a few times to limber them, crouched, slipping into the zone, the blissed-out state that told him he was doing what he was born to do, and went to work.

  ONE OF THE MANY ADVANTAGES of a live/work loft was that Lexy didn’t have to commute very far to her job. She didn’t even have to dress. Shoving on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, she pulled on a pair of purple and pink slipper socks and made her way downstairs.

  Excitement was bubbling and she knew her imagination was working on overdrive keeping her from sleep. She’d learned to live with the quirk. Her creativity kept her designs fresh and edgy, sometimes surprising even herself. So she lost the odd night’s sleep. She’d live.

  She loved her studio at night. There was a hush that was almost palpable. Even though the traffic noise never ceased, and sirens pierced the night silence regularly, there were no customers, no movement, no commerce.

  She could set herself to design knowing no one would bother her.

  The door to her living space connected to the back room of the shop. As she neared the door she stopped, certain she’d heard something.

  What?

  A tiny scrape of sound, possibly nothing at all, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was behind that door.

  Probably it was nothing. The creak of an old building, some animal she’d rather not think about nosing around in the alley, but not only had she been raised by a cop, she’d watched too many horror films to open any door behind which ominous sounds could be heard.

  Instead she retraced her steps silently, grabbing the gun from her bureau drawer and taking her cell phone from its charger.

  Deep breath, and down she went again. Silently.

  At the door, she paused and listened. Was that a scrape? A click?

  She eased open the door and flipped on the light.

  And her eyes widened in surprise.

  Charles Pendegraff III was standing nonchalantly in front of her safe. Her wide-open safe. The same one that was supposed to be unbreachable. And in his gloved hands, he was holding Mrs. Grayson’s emeralds.

  For a second neither of them spoke or moved. Then he motioned to the gun in her hand and said, “At least you have some idea of security. Is it loaded?”

  Not that she’d ever surprised a burglar before, but she’d have expected a little more drama. Maybe false protestations of innocence or an attempt to run. At least you’d think the man would replace the emeralds in the safe, but he did none of those things. Simply leaned against the safe like it was an open refrigerator and he was in search of olives for his martini.

  “Not only is it loaded, but I am an excellent shot. Put your hands up, Mr. Pendegraff. Or whatever your real name is.”

  “Oh, it’s Pendegraff all right.” His eyes crinkled with sudden humor. “And this is a very interesting situation.”

  “It’s not interesting. It’s disgusting. You’re stealing from me.”

  “Not you, technically. Look, let me explain.”

  She raised the gun so it pointed at his heart. “Don’t move another inch.”

  Somebody started banging loudly at the front door of the store.

  The noise startled her. She’d never had so much action after hours before. “Open up, police,” a harsh voice yelled.

  Pendegraff glanced at the phone in her hand. “You called the cops? I wish you hadn’t.”

  “I didn’t. They must have followed you.”

  His lazy and most puzzling amusement vanished. “You didn’t call them?”

  “No.”

  “Then, sweetheart, those are not the cops.”

  “You’re a pretty lousy thief, aren’t you? Both I and the police nab you?”

  She started for the door that separated her work space from the front of the store, keeping her gun trained on him. “Put the emeralds back in the safe and let’s go talk to the cops.”

  “Think,” he said softly. “If you didn’t call them, how would they have tracked me? You don’t have a security alarm I could have tripped.” She could have sworn he sounded petulant. “No security cameras. And I’ve been in here ten minutes. If they’d followed me
, they’d have been in long before now.”

  “Maybe—” A crash had her turning her head. The cops had broken down her front door without giving her a chance to open it? That was pretty aggressive.

  One second, Pendegraff was leaning so lazily against the safe you’d have thought he was napping, and the next second he was behind her, one hand grabbing her hard against him, the other wresting the gun from her grip.

  She was no weakling and she fought to keep control of the weapon, jabbing him with her elbow, stamping on his foot, but her sweater socks were useless and her assailant was stronger than he looked.

  Crashing sounds continued out front, she was sure she heard breaking glass, and then her own gun was jabbing her in the back. “Scream and I’ll shoot. Let’s get out of here.”

  3

  HE HAULED HER OUT THE SAME door she’d come from and dragged her up the stairs to her apartment. “Fire escape. Where is it?”

  “I’m not telling you.” She was furious with both of them. With him for the whole escapade and with her for losing control of the situation. Not to mention her gun.

  “Trust me, those guys downstairs are a lot meaner than I am. We really don’t want to run into them.”

  She heard another crash. Pendegraff ran to her window and peered out.

  She flipped open her cell, tried to call 9–1-1 but he grabbed it out of her hand before she could complete the call, tossing the phone onto her bed.

  He yanked up the window sash. “Out,” he said, pushing her through the window and onto the fire escape, dropping out beside her. “I swear to God if you make a sound or do anything I don’t like, I’ll shoot you. Now climb down.”

  “I’m wearing socks,” she told him in a furious undertone as the crisscrossed wrought-iron bit into the soles of her feet.

  “Good. It’ll keep you quiet. Now move!”

  He stayed right beside her as she stepped down, surprisingly as quiet in his shoes as she was in her slipper socks.