“What? Why-”

“That’s why you told me about your dinner tonight, isn’t it?” His voice softened. “So I’d be there.”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking-”

“Think now.”

She sighed. “I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on. I can’t stand sitting around waiting for the next phone call. I guess I wanted to find a way to help you-or for you to help me-”

But he was shaking his head. “Mollie, we can’t be a team, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I don’t work that way.”

“I know. You don’t need to remind me.” She hoisted her handbag onto her shoulder, tried to ease the lingering effects of the eerie call. “I understand. Really. Thanks for putting me in touch with Frank. Maybe the police will find this guy.”

He touched the collar of her linen shirt, just a flick of the finger that nonetheless sent shock waves through her. “You’re trying to tell yourself it’s strictly business between us, Mollie, but it’s not. It can’t be.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She sounded prim and unconvincing even to herself. She imagined he could see through the facade, straight into all the parts of her that still wanted him. “Of course it can.”

“You’re remembering. Right now, you’re remembering.”

Her knees quavered. “Remembering what?”

“I was your first lover.” His voice was low, not much above a whisper, a caress. “You remember.”

“Jeremiah…” She swallowed, telling herself this was a test, a way for him to establish terms. He liked making the rules. It was why he worked alone, it was why he stayed alone. She steeled herself against the onslaught of desire, the knot of confused emotions. “Jeremiah, I assure you, I’m long over you. I put your photo on my dartboard for my amusement, nothing more. It could have been a picture of Darth Vader.”

He seemed amused. “And yesterday when I kissed you, could I have been Darth Vader then, too?”

“The Emperor,” she said, unable to stop a smile.

“And if I kissed you right here, right now, what would I be?”

“Very forward.” But her head spun, her body burned at the thought of his mouth on hers.

“I like being forward.”

And his mouth descended to hers, his hand drifting to the back of her neck, where she wasn’t injured. She threw a hand back on the hood of her car, steadying herself as his tongue slid between her lips, tasted, probed, her entire body responding.

He drew back slightly, his eyes dark, his own arousal evident. “That wasn’t too forward, was it?”

Mollie straightened, tried to ignore the strain of her breasts against her linen top, the agony of wanting him. She was shaking with it, unsteady, her mind flooded with memories of him slowly, erotically exploring her body with his hands, then his mouth, teeth, and tongue, until, finally, when she was hot and quivering, taking her with hard, deep thrusts.

His dusky gaze told her that he, too, was remembering.

She willed coherency upon her thoughts. “Look, Jeremiah-” She swallowed, adjusting her shirt so her pebbled nipples wouldn’t show. “I know what you’re doing, but you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to fall for you. It was my choice to drive down here. And I take full responsibility for the consequences of that choice.”

“Hell, it sounds as if you decided to climb Mount Everest.”

She smiled. “You just concentrate on doing your job, okay?”

He dragged one finger along the line of her jaw, sending a stream of liquid heat straight into her bloodstream. “I always do.” He winked. “See you at six-twenty-five.”

Jeremiah went back to his desk feeling grumpy, out of sorts, and way too damned much as if he should have taken Mollie back to his apartment for the rest of the afternoon. He checked his messages. Nothing. He plopped into his chair and stared at his blank computer screen. Neutrality and objectivity had gone straight to hell with the appearance of Mollie and her bottomless eyes, bruised neck, and tale of a nasty phone call.

Helen Samuel couldn’t wait to accost him. “Okay. Tell me what Mollie Lavender was doing here.”

Jeremiah swung around in his chair. Bad coffee and frustration burned in his stomach. Fatigue pounded behind his eyes. “You know why you’ve lasted as long as you have, Helen? You’re by nature a very nosy woman.”

She grinned at him, unoffended. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just in a bad mood because you wanted to write the story about Friday night and couldn’t. You’re feeling conflicted.”

“Conflicted? Jesus, Helen. A reporter has to make these kinds of calls all the time.”

“Bullshit. You’ve got a woman wearing a necklace owned by one of the most famous tenors in the world. You’ve got the necklace ripped off at a fancy private party. You’ve got a gloved hand. You’ve got a daring, clever cat burglar. And you were right there. Jesus. It has to kill you. No wonder you’re a grouch.”

He shoved back his chair and stood up. “That’s right, Helen. I was right there. I was a part of the goddamned story. No way could I write it. I did the right thing. So I’m not conflicted.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a grump. You’re still on this thing, aren’t you?”

He sighed. “Damned lot of good it’s doing me. I don’t have a clue who’s behind the robberies, or why, or how he’s getting into exclusive parties without being noticed. I don’t know if it’s a man or woman. I don’t know if it’s someone acting alone or a group. You know, even if the Trib had reported that Mollie Lavender, Palm Beach publicist, was robbed at Diantha Atwood’s party Friday night, it would only have filled two inches on page thirty-seven.”

“All right, all right.” Helen studied him with an air of superior knowledge and experience that quickly got on his nerves. “You sure you’re not in over your head, Tabak?”

“If I were,” he said irritably, “I wouldn’t tell the Trib’s goddamned gossip columnist. I’m going home and feeding my lizard. He’s better company than what I get around here.”

Helen grunted, unintimidated. “Your lizard have any say about what kind of company he has to put up with?”

Traffic on the causeway out to South Beach was miserable, the lousy weather bringing the tourists off the water and into the shops and restaurants. Although he groused and grumbled, Jeremiah supposed if he were a tourist, he’d be here, too.

He had to hunt a parking space, which didn’t improve his mood, and when he got to his building, he found Croc out front with Bennie, the ex-tailor, and Albert, the ex-mobster. Not once in two years had Croc shown up at Jeremiah’s home, always preferring to meet at public places on Ocean Drive. He looked like a street bum with his scraggly hair and clothes. Bennie pointed at him with his whittling knife. “This guy says he’s a friend of yours. We were letting him hang around for a while, see if you showed up.”

“I called the paper,” Croc said, “and some woman picked up your phone and barked into it, said you’d gone home.”

Helen. After his low blow, she might feel fewer compunctions about picking through his desk-and about telling an unknown on the phone where to find him. On the other hand, Croc could be very charming. Jeremiah figured Bennie and Albert had let him stick around because they had knives. A little adrenaline rush, wondering if Croc was legit or if they’d have to take him down. They seemed almost disappointed when he followed Jeremiah inside.

“I don’t know why those old geezers haven’t cut their hands off yet,” Croc said on his way up the stairs. “Whittling’s hard. You ever try it?”

“I grew up in the Everglades, Croc. I can whittle just fine.”

When they reached his floor, Jeremiah unlocked his door, pushed it open, and motioned for Croc to enter first, noticed he was even more jittery than usual. “You smell my animals?” Jeremiah asked, trying to be conversational, get Croc to relax.

He paused, inhaled deeply, shook his head. “No, why?”