“Here’s the deal, Mollie.” He walked steadily beside her, his mind clearly made up to say whatever he’d come to say. “I lied to you ten years ago.”
“Yes. We’ve been over that ground. You wanted your story, and you used me to get it. It happened a long time ago. And I forgave you a long time ago.” She smiled. “Sort of.”
He didn’t smile back. There was a seriousness about him, a weightiness, that hadn’t been there this morning. In the harsh late afternoon light, she saw lines at the corners of his eyes she hadn’t noticed, either. “I wanted the story,” he said, “but I didn’t lie to you or use you to get it.”
Mollie kept walking, ignoring the catch in her knees. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I thought it would be easier for you if you hated me. So I made up the story about using you.”
“Whoa, back up. You’re saying you didn’t use me for your drug-dealing story?”
“Correct.”
“And you thought painting yourself as a morally corrupt journalist who’d bed a twenty-year-old flute player-i.e., me-to get a front-page story would be easier on me?”
He nodded, expressionless.
Mollie sputtered, nearly speechless. “Easier than what?”
“The truth,” he said.
“You mean it gets worse?”
He squinted against the wind and sun, regarding her with infuriating calm. “I guess that depends on your point of view. The truth is I did fall in love with you that week.”
“Well, hell,” Mollie breathed.
A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “But I knew it never could have worked, and so I tried to spare you-spare myself is more like it-by making sure you went back to Boston in high dudgeon over having been used by your first-what was it you called me?”
“A son of a bitch, I believe.”
“Your first ‘dark and dangerous’ man. That was it.”
She scowled. “I was young.”
“So you were.”
“And you were dumb, Jeremiah. Good God, what were you thinking? Here you were, caught in this inconvenient, impossible relationship with a Boston flute player, trying to end it as gently as possible-and so you make sure I hate your guts. Boy. That makes sense.”
Now that he’d said what he’d had to say, he seemed more at ease. The wind gusted, kicking up the surf. Down the beach, a middle-aged couple packed it in for the day. Jeremiah just kept walking, the water lapping almost at his toes. “I was trying to be honorable.”
“The truth, Tabak, is honorable. A lie is a lie.”
“What can I say? I was twenty-six, I wanted to do the right thing, and now, here we are.”
“Yes. Well, no wonder you wanted witnesses.”
He smiled, and she thought she saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes, half-closed as they were.
“Did you pine for me?” she asked.
“For weeks.”
“Good. Would you have lied to me if I hadn’t been a virgin?”
“Mollie, you weren’t a virgin when I made the decision to lie-”
“That was at the end of the week. At the beginning of the week, I was a virgin. Did it matter?”
“Of course it mattered, just not in my decision.”
“Well,” she said, “I know how you men can get all chivalrous and protective and make perfect asses of yourselves when you’ve realized you’re a woman’s first lover.”
Jeremiah stopped and stared at her. “Mollie, we men didn’t sleep with you. I did.”
As if she needed the reminder. But she’d brought up the subject. “All right. So I have to adjust my thinking about your journalistic ethics. I’m just not sure how that plays into your visit this morning. You are on this jewel thief story, aren’t you?”
“Unofficially. I can’t write it now that your name’s come up.”
She swallowed hard. “How in hell did my name come up?”
“It came to my attention that you’ve attended every event that the thief’s hit so far.”
“I’m sure a lot of people have-”
“I don’t think so. You’re the only common denominator we have right now.”
“We?”
He shrugged, some of his natural cockiness returning. “Consider that an editoral we. In any case, hearing your name, discovering you were in Palm Beach and a publicist, piqued my curiosity.”
“Jeremiah, the last thing I’d want to do is pique the curiosity of a Miami investigative reporter. That it’s you just makes it worse. How can I un-pique your curiosity?”
“Tell me what you know,” he said.
“I don’t know a damned thing. I didn’t even realize a jewel thief was on the loose until a few minutes before I called you.”
“Oblivious as ever, eh, Mollie?”
“I just don’t have a suspicious mind. Plus I’ve got a lot of work to do,” she added, “and I’m new in town. I’m not tapped in.”
“You’re still an outsider.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“But because of Leonardo and your work, you have an insider’s access. You didn’t see or hear anything-you have no reason to believe your name came up as a common denominator except by coincidence?”
She shook her head. She was feeling chilled now, the sand shifting around at the bottoms of her shoes, grinding in between her toes. “None. I’m not a witness, and I’m not a credible suspect. If you want to go back right now and search Leonardo’s place from top to bottom for jewels, clues-”
“Mollie, it’s way too early to consider you a suspect.”
“It’s more than too early, Jeremiah, it’s nuts.”
He paused. “You could be right.”
She tightened her hands into fists. “I am right!”
“I’m just trying to remain objective.” He turned to her, the wind at his back, his mouth a hard line. “Which isn’t easy.”
Her breath caught at what she saw in his eyes. “Jeremiah…”
He took another step closer, and he brought his mouth to hers, said, “In fact, objectivity where you’re concerned is downright impossible,” and kissed her lightly, softly, as if he’d appeared in one of the countless dreams she’d had about him over the past ten years, elusive, there but not there. He straightened, becoming real, yet somehow also more distant. “We should go.”
“I should…” She cleared her throat, her insides quivering, burning. “I should take some time to digest what you’ve told me. I can walk back to Leonardo’s.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded.
He fished a dog-eared card out of a pocket. “Here’s my number at work and at home. If you want to call for any reason, don’t hesitate.”
She took the card and tucked it into a pocket without looking at it, and he headed off across the sand. She continued along the beach, watching seagulls and children and waves, hearing laughter carried on the wind, and remembering herself at twenty, in love with a man she wanted to believe she knew.
Two hours of four constant, humming lanes of traffic had a strangely calming effect on Jeremiah, and he felt pretty good when he took the causeway to South Beach, a barrier island of eighty blocks, with much more than just the expensive, trendy stretch of renovated Art Deco buildings along the water. His street was a few blocks inland, untouched by celebrities, speculators, and tourists. He found a space in front of his building, which did not have security gates, fancy landscaping, or a pool, and said hello to the handful of bony old retirees sitting out front on lounge chairs, enjoying the warm evening.
He turned down their offers of beer and a whittling knife and took the stairs up to his fourth-floor apartment. One bedroom, one bathroom, a living room, an eat-in kitchen. No maid, no gardener, no high-tech security. The upkeep was minimal, his neighbors were all so deaf they didn’t object to his state-of-the-art sound system, and his landlord didn’t come by often enough to know about his snake, turtle, and lizard, castoffs from a friend’s pet shop. He kept their cages on his kitchen table. He’d found that lizards in the bedroom were a deterrent to romance. He didn’t eat in much himself, and only his snake ate the occasional live animal, so it wasn’t as if his critters were disgusting on a regular basis. Nevertheless, when he had company, he removed their cages from the table.