Too Hot to Handle

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 opened 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.