She buzzed down the passenger window and said across the seat, “By the way, there are no electric fences. And no need to worry about the Dobermans.”
He frowned at her. “What Dobermans?”
“Mozart, Ludwig, Cosima.”
“Cosima,” Jeremiah repeated.
“Wagner’s wife.”
“Mollie, that’s three Dobermans.”
“Yes, and they’re all sweethearts. They’ll probably be inside tonight,” she added, “because of the rain. So, not to worry.”
He looked at her darkly, no doubt reconsidering his role as her musketeer, but she resumed her trip up the driveway, leaving him to whatever he planned to do with himself for the next two to three hours.
Within five minutes of her arrival, Mollie knew she wasn’t going to relax and forget about Jeremiah outside, listening to the crickets and on the alert for Dobermans and God only knew what as he kept her-and by extension Leonardo’s friends-from the clutches of a jewel thief. A jewel thief, she reminded herself, who had never, once, broken into one of the parties he’d robbed. What he was doing was making sure he hadn’t made a mistake about her after all and she wasn’t the thief herself.
She was absolutely sure of it, no matter how convincing he was about caring about her.
No matter how much a part of her wanted to be convinced.
If his peculiar sense of honor had misled her into believing the worst about him ten years ago, it could just as easily compel him to keep an open mind about discovering the worst about her now.
Fortunately, Leonardo’s friends were so boisterous and fun, so much like him, that she had a hard time sulking about Jeremiah’s motives. She did feel an occasional pang of guilt at having dropped him off on their property, but she knew, too, that they would understand. She was blessed, she thought, with indulgent family and friends.
And she was proud of herself for resisting a giggle of pure delight when it started to drizzle, and another when they let out the three Dobermans. They were well-trained, beautiful dogs who wouldn’t hurt an intruder, although they might converge on him if they found him, which could be scary. Apparently they didn’t, because after a few minutes, they bounded back to the roofed terrace overlooking the water, where their masters’ guests had gathered for dessert and after-dinner drinks.
It wasn’t until Mollie was halfway through her chocolate mousse cake that the subject of her Friday evening attack came up. One woman, a tireless volunteer for virtually every arts organization in Palm Beach, said Diantha Atwood was still upset about what had happened. “You can imagine how personally she would take having one of her guests attacked. It must have been horrible for you, Mollie.”
“And I understand Jeremiah Tabak was the first on the scene,” the woman’s husband said. He was a high-profile attorney, and he spoke of Jeremiah with a measure of grudging respect.
As subtly as she could, Mollie encouraged her fellow diners to tell her what they knew about him-which, she quickly discovered, was a fair amount, certainly more than she did. They said he kept reptiles and lived beneath his means. He was a frequent, popular guest on national television news shows, especially when a Miami story broke, but had no interest in television work on a full-time basis. He was known as an opinionated, irascible speaker on the rare occasions anyone got him to speak in public. He’d been linked with a number of women, but had never married. His lifetime commitment, it seemed, was to his work. He was doing what he wanted to do, and he did it well.
This was not a man who wanted the same things out of life that she did, Mollie thought. She enjoyed her work, too, but it wasn’t her life. Starting her own business had taken up much of her time in recent months, but she wanted balance in her life. Family, friends, vacations, afternoons with her feet up.
She considered herself forewarned. Or rewarned. Jeremiah was a formidable journalist, and although he hadn’t behaved unethically ten years ago, he hadn’t permitted her inside his world. Ultimately, perhaps that was why he’d lied-not for her sake, but for his own, to make sure she went back to Boston and out of his life. Loving someone scared the hell out of him.
She’d worked up a good head of steam by the time she bid her hosts good evening and started down the long, dark driveway. To hell with Tabak. She didn’t know why she’d wanted him around tonight. He was just keeping his options open. Damn him, anyway.
“Oh, shit!”
She was twenty yards up the main road before she realized she’d forgotten him. She turned around and went back, this time keeping an eye out for him and going slow enough that he’d have a chance to flag her down.
As she started around a curve, her headlights caught him.
No, not him. Another man. Thin, young, wearing dark clothes.
She stomped on the brake and held her breath, her window open to the sounds of the wind and the ocean, the pungent-sweet smells of the brush and trees. The man darted back behind a banyan tree. With a shaking hand, Mollie hit the lock on her door. She would drive up to the house and have her hosts call the police. Even if he was just a transient, he had no business on their property.
A tap came at the passenger window, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Jeremiah.
She rolled down the window. “You almost gave me a heart attack. Did you see that man? Where did he go?”
“He’s right behind me. His name’s Croc, and he’s a friend of mine.”
She blinked dumbly. “Croc?”
The skinny man poked his head out from behind Jeremiah and grinned. “Hey, Miss Mollie, how you doing?”
“I’m not doing very well at all at the moment. Who are you?”
“Jeremiah’s friend.”
Jeremiah grimaced. “That’s stretching it right now, Croc.”
Croc laughed. “He’s ready to string me up because I followed you two out here.” He cuffed Jeremiah on the shoulder. “But you spotted me, man. You’re not bad at this cloak and dagger shit.”
“Wait just a minute,” Mollie said. “Jeremiah, would you mind explaining to me what in hell’s going on here?”
“On our way back to your place-”
“Uh-uh. Now.”
He sighed, his patience obviously stretched beyond its meager limits. “I noticed Croc in a car behind us on our way over. I didn’t mention it because I wasn’t positive who it was, and because Croc’s not the easiest person to explain.”
“He’s your informant.” Mollie suddenly felt a chill. “He’s the one who discovered I was a common denominator.”
“The common denominator,” Croc corrected proudly.
Jeremiah shot him a look that would have silenced half of south Florida. His expression softened when he shifted back to Mollie. “I’m sorry if he scared you. He’s having trouble sorting out what’s his business and what’s not.”
“Boundary problems,” Croc said. “They go way back with me. Tabak’s been working on getting me on the straight and narrow.”
“I’ve known Croc about two years,” he said.
Mollie took in his words, trying to remain as cool as he was, as calmly professional. “And you couldn’t have told me about him.”
“Under the circumstances, no.”
“Until I meet him on a dark road in the middle of the night. Then you can tell me.”
Croc frowned. “It’s what, ten o’clock? That’s not the middle of the night.”
Mollie directed herself to him. “I could have run you over.”
“Not me. I’ve got quick reflexes.” He patted her rooftop. “Even a Jag I could dodge.”
“Croc,” Jeremiah said darkly, “if you don’t want Mollie to back up and try again, I’d shut the hell up.”
“Right,” Croc said.
Mollie felt like rolling her window up on both of them. “If anyone turns out to be missing so much as a dime-store ring tonight, I’ll have the police pay you two a visit. Consider yourselves lucky I don’t call them right now.” She gave them a fake smile. “Good night.”