He withdrew a gold-on-cream invitation from his dinner jacket. “I was invited.”
With an unprincess-like snort, Mollie whirled back around and gave her own invitation to a man posted at the door to the Starlight Room. Inside, Diantha Atwood’s party was in full swing. Guests wandered among a dozen small hors d’oeuvres tables and an open bar, waiters carried trays of champagne, and a harpist plucked out a pretty, soothing melody. Huge windows overlooked an ocean so calm as to be lake-like, mirroring the cloudless sky and drawing strollers to its beaches.
Mollie swept a glass of champagne from a tray and smiled pleasantly at people she didn’t know. Her parents would have found somewhere to sit and listen to the harpist, dissecting the music, unaware that anyone might consider them rude or eccentric. As she sipped her champagne, Mollie suddenly felt as if she were caught between two identities, each vying for her submission. The musicians’ daughter who hovered on the fringes of a world she’d given up, and the successful young Palm Beach entrepreneur who couldn’t afford her own designer dresses and expensive jewelry.
Except she was neither, and Jeremiah’s presence seemed to accentuate that awareness of who she was, and wasn’t, and didn’t want to be.
She could sense his eyes on her. She resisted the urge to guzzle her champagne. She already felt a little dizzy, a little out of control, a little too aware of the hard, impossible man across the room, watching her, not giving a damn that he was distracting her and making her drink her champagne too fast.
Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer and marched over to him. “You’ve your nerve, you know, Tabak?”
He laughed, unembarrassed. “A necessary evil of the profession. No nerve, no story. Enjoying yourself?”
“Not with you watching me like a hawk.”
“You noticed? I thought I was being subtle.” Even he didn’t believe subtlety was in his bag of tricks. “Planning on getting used to Leonardo Pascarelli’s lifestyle? Borrowing his ex-girlfriend’s jewelry, driving his car, living in his house, getting invited to his parties.”
“Leonardo didn’t get me invited tonight. I happen to know Mrs. Atwood myself. And I wouldn’t care if I weren’t invited.” She swallowed more champagne, a mistake. “And if you must know, I’d prefer to have my own little car and my own little house somewhere. Just because I’m Leonardo Pascarelli’s goddaughter doesn’t mean-” She stopped abruptly, fingers tensing on her glass as she digested Jeremiah’s real meaning. “You think I could be the jewel thief!”
“Do I?”
She kept her voice to a low hiss, out of range of any of Palm Beach’s notorious gossipmongers. “I won’t be able to afford my current lifestyle in another seven months. Ergo, I could lower myself to stealing. That’s what you think.”
He shrugged, calm, unrepentant. “Interesting theory.”
“It’s not interesting, it’s ridiculous. Damn you, Jeremiah, I’m no jewel thief!”
“If you are,” he said in that deep, rough, exaggerated drawl, “it sure will be fun catching you.”
Before she could respond, Griffen and Deegan cruised up. Mollie hadn’t seen them arrive and wondered how much of her exchange with Jeremiah they’d witnessed. She saw amusement dance in his eyes, the light of the chandeliers bringing out the flecks of gold. She turned to her intern and friend. “My, don’t you both look dashing tonight.”
They did, Griffen in a sparkling white dress that accentuated her dark curls and angular figure, Deegan in black-tie, looking not older than twenty-one, but, somehow, younger. Mollie quickly introduced them to Jeremiah, trying to sound as if she’d just met the Miami reporter herself. “We were just chatting,” she added inadequately when she noticed the spark of curiosity in Griffen’s dark eyes. “Are you two staying for the ball?”
“Oh, no,” Griffen said. “We’re just making an appearance to please Granny.”
Deegan grinned at her irreverence, and Mollie explained to Jeremiah that Diantha Atwood, Palm Beach widow and hostess extraordinaire, was Deegan’s grandmother. “His parents,” she added, “are Michael and Bobbi Tiernay who are…where?”
“Right behind you,” Griffen whispered, nudging her with her elbow.
And Deegan’s grandmother with them. Just what I need, Mollie thought, noticing that Jeremiah was showing no sign of removing himself to the bar or anywhere else. Michael Tiernay, a trim, gray-haired, pleasant man, was drinking a martini, his wife hanging on his arm. Her son had inherited his looks from her. She was a striking, golden-eyed woman, wearing a tasteful dress and spectacular jewelry. Diantha Atwood, Bobbi’s mother, was even smaller and thinner, her blondish hair swept into an elegant, timeless style. She’d had various lifts and tucks and wore understated cosmetics, but there was no mistaking the high price and authenticity of the jewelry she wore. Setting the tone, no doubt, for others not to be intimidated by a potential cat burglar in their midst.
“Jeremiah Tabak,” Diantha Atwood said, sparing Mollie the need to make introductions. She smiled, playing the hostess game to the hilt. “What a coup to have you here tonight.”
“Sorry I didn’t RSVP.”
It was a crack, and Diantha knew it. “I’d never expect a reporter to let me know anything, Mr. Tabak. I see you’ve met my daughter and her husband, and my grandson, Deegan. Deegan, darling, how are you?” She offered her cheek, and he gave her a quick peck, squeezing her hand. “And Griffen. How nice to see you. I’m surprised you have an evening free at this time of year.”
“I kept it free,” Griffen replied, no hint of sarcasm in her tone. She believed-and Mollie suspected she was right-that neither Deegan’s parents nor his grandmother approved of her relationship with their son and grandson. But they’d never openly voice such disapproval.
Bobbi Tiernay turned to Jeremiah, whose eyes looked about to glaze over. “Griffen is a caterer much in demand.”
“Mollie,” Diantha Atwood continued smoothly, “I didn’t see you. Don’t you look lovely tonight.”
Mollie was half-tempted to tell her where she’d gotten her outfit; from the sudden humor in Jeremiah’s expression, she guessed he knew what she was thinking. She smiled politely. “Thank you.”
“How’s business?” Michael Tiernay asked cheerfully, apparently oblivious, or simply choosing to ignore, the frosty undertones of the conversation.
Relieved to have the distraction, Mollie engaged him in a pleasant conversation about business. That he conducted his from a glass building in Boca Raton and she conducted hers from the living room of Leonardo’s guest quarters made no difference to her, nor, it seemed, to him. They dragged Deegan into the conversation, but he wasn’t the least bit awkward talking shop with his father. Mollie was well aware that Michael Tiernay considered his son’s choice of internship something of a rebellion, and maybe it was. Maybe, when he finished his semester with her, Deegan would return to the fold and take his place at Tiernay & Jones. But that didn’t mean either Tiernay disrespected the work she did. She might be a small fish, but they swam in the same pond.
And Jeremiah, she noticed, drifted to the bar with Griffen on his heels. She would seize any excuse to make her exit from her boyfriend’s family, not to mention check out a man she’d caught talking to her friend, the new girl in town. Mollie felt a faint stab of uneasiness. It wasn’t beyond Tabak to grill Griffen about her friend the publicist, who wore borrowed dresses to attend fancy parties and just might be bored or desperate enough to help herself to other people’s jewels.
Damn him, she thought. He didn’t really believe she was his jewel thief. He was just throwing her off-or letting her throw herself off-for the hell of it, in case she started encroaching on his turf.