“Hello, beautiful.”
My mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. He looked like trouble. But it was the kind of trouble that sent a delicious thrill down my spine.
He held up a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks for this. I needed cab fare.”
I stared at him aghast. “That’s mine?”
“It was in your back pocket. You should really keep your cash in a zippered purse. It’s more of a challenge.”
“You stole it?” I searched my now empty pocket. How had I not felt his hand? Granted, his hips had been on my ass the entire time, but fingers were different.
“Borrowed.”
“Are you seriously playing the semantics game again?” I forced myself to give him a harder look. Were those gold flecks in his warm brown eyes or was it just the glitter of ill intent? Was that a smile or a smirk on his handsome face? Was the devil-may-care attitude masking something more sinister? And were those jeans molded to his narrow hips for ease of running away? Or to entice a sex-starved candy store employee who couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a hookup?
“I’d play any game with you, but this isn’t the time.” He walked back into the bushes, and a few moments later, he was up on the retaining wall.
“Wait,” I said. “If you’re going to steal my money, at least give me your name.”
“Oliver.”
“Oliver what?”
“Twist.”
Five
Someone had forgotten to tell Detective Garcia that he was supposed to be middle-aged and balding with a face worn by trauma and heavy drinking. Wasn’t mid-thirties—I had to guess when he wasn’t forthcoming about any personal details—too young to become a detective? With all the crime in the city, how did he have time to build biceps as big as beer kegs? And why would someone who looked like he should be on a runway in Milan become a detective? What a waste of deep, rich, chocolate brown eyes and a strong square jaw. Millions of women could be fantasizing about him, but instead he was sitting in a windowless interrogation room at Chicago’s 18th Precinct questioning a woman who was so clearly not guilty of any crime, it was almost laughable.
“Can we take off the handcuffs now?” I rattled the chain that attached the cuffs to the metal table in the interrogation room. “Look at me. Do I look like a threat?”
He lifted a nicely groomed eyebrow. “It’s standard procedure when we catch someone in the back garden of a museum during a theft.”
“The theft had already occurred by the time I got there,” I said. “And you didn’t catch me. I volunteered to come to the station to corroborate my friend’s story. I wasn’t expecting to be cuffed, tossed in an unmarked car, and frog-marched through the police station like a criminal. Where is Chloe? She’s going to be very distressed. I should be with her.”
“She said the same thing about you when I mentioned you were here,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me the facts, and then I’ll see what I can do.”
He leaned back in his chair, blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar to show off the corded muscles of his tanned throat, manspreading just enough to make me wish the metal table between us wasn’t quite so wide. The dude was solid muscle. He had to spend hours at the gym to get shoulders that huge. And that chest. Phwoar. I’d never hooked up with a police officer before, but I liked the idea of being with a man who could protect me with his body alone.
I gave Garcia a brief outline of the facts, since he loved facts so much. Chloe’s excitement when she’d been approached about the freelance museum job. Her growing online attraction to the consultant who hired her. The invitation from the executive director to the private viewing and her decision to go with the black dress instead of polka dots or flowers. Her frantic call. My cab ride—I didn’t mention the part about speeding. And finally, my failed attempt to rescue her.
“It must be hard for Chloe as a single mom,” Garcia said. “Lots of bills to pay and no one to help. Sometimes people get desperate.”
My spider senses tingled. This was not where I had expected the conversation to go.
“Olivia is safe, healthy, and happy,” I said. “Chloe works three jobs to support her. They’re renting the first floor of a nice house that has three other lovely tenants, and although money is tight, the only real issue she has is an ex who has consistently refused to pay child support or alimony. He’s someone you should investigate, not Chloe. He’s a nasty piece of work. His parents disinherited him after they found out he’d abused her. He barely scraped through college, and now he’s involved with a bad crowd.”
“No one is trying to take Olivia away,” he said, understanding.
“Then I don’t appreciate your attempt to insinuate that my friend would resort to theft to make ends meet. It’s beneath you and the dignity of your profession.”
He bristled, like I’d hit a nerve. Maybe he was one of those TV detectives who’d lost a partner or came home one night after solving a murder to find his best friend sleeping with his wife, and now he spent his days working and his nights drinking whiskey out of a bottle until he fell down drunk on his unmade bed in the dingy apartment he felt he had to live in because it was a reflection of how wrecked he felt inside.
“My apologies.” He held up a hand in a gesture of capitulation. Detective Garcia had nice hands. Strong. Tanned. A light dusting of tawny hair on his forearm. I’d never thought about a man’s forearm as being sexy before, but something about the way he moved . . .
While Detective Garcia flipped through his black notebook, I silently indulged in a few fantasies. Detective Garcia and I on a tropical island where nudity was encouraged. Detective Garcia and I dancing with our bodies plastered together in my favorite nightclub. Detective Garcia crying with happiness as I walked down the aisle in a red-and-gold lehenga and a pair of gold stilettos with a relieved parent on each arm.
“I have to consider all scenarios,” he continued. “We’re not talking about the theft of a candy bar. The necklace that was stolen is an antiquity called the Wild Heart. It was loaned to the museum by a private collector for a special exhibit. It’s made entirely of diamonds and emeralds and is valued at $25 million.”
$25 million. I couldn’t even conceive of that amount of money. How many bags of candy would I be able to buy with $25 million? Or candy stores? I could pay off my loans and Chloe’s loans, my brothers’ loans, and my parents’ mortgage. I could buy a house with a yard and a gate to keep aunties and suitors out. I could hire Garcia to protect me 24-7. I would never have to worry about money again.
Garcia opened his file and slid a picture of the necklace across the table. I’d never seen such a beautiful piece of jewelry. A huge heart-shaped pink diamond surrounded by tiny diamonds rested at the center of a chain of pink diamonds surrounded by diamond and emerald leaves in a floral arrangement.
“Wow. Just wow,” I said. “I didn’t know diamonds came in pink.”
“It wouldn’t be worth $25 million if the diamonds were clear, or so I’ve been told,” he said. “Not really a jewelry man. No time for that kind of thing. Crime doesn’t sleep.”