Too Hot to Handle. Nancy Warren
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.
The door to her living space connected to the back room of the shop. As she neared the door she stopped, certain she’d heard something.
What?
A tiny scrape of sound, possibly nothing at all, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was behind that door.
Probably it was nothing. The creak of an old building, some animal she’d rather not think about nosing around in the alley, but not only had she been raised by a cop, she’d watched too many horror films to open any door behind which ominous sounds could be heard.
Instead she retraced her steps silently, grabbing the gun from her bureau drawer and taking her cell phone from its charger.
Deep breath, and down she went again. Silently.
At the door, she paused and listened. Was that a scrape? A click?
She eased open the door and flipped on the light.
And her eyes widened in surprise.
Charles Pendegraff III was standing nonchalantly in front of her safe. Her wide-open safe. The same one that was supposed to be unbreachable. And in his gloved hands, he was holding Mrs. Grayson’s emeralds.
For a second neither of them spoke or moved. Then he motioned to the gun in her hand and said, “At least you have some idea of security. Is it loaded?”
Not that she’d ever surprised a burglar before, but she’d have expected a little more drama. Maybe false protestations of innocence or an attempt to run. At least you’d think the man would replace the emeralds in the safe, but he did none of those things. Simply leaned against the safe like it was an open refrigerator and he was in search of olives for his martini.
“Not only is it loaded, but I am an excellent shot. Put your hands up, Mr. Pendegraff. Or whatever your real name is.”
“Oh, it’s Pendegraff all right.” His eyes crinkled with sudden humor. “And this is a very interesting situation.”
“It’s not interesting. It’s disgusting. You’re stealing from me.”
“Not you, technically. Look, let me explain.”
She raised the gun so it pointed at his heart. “Don’t move another inch.”
Somebody started banging loudly at the front door of the store.
The noise startled her. She’d never had so much action after hours before. “Open up, police,” a harsh voice yelled.
Pendegraff glanced at the phone in her hand. “You called the cops? I wish you hadn’t.”
“I didn’t. They must have followed you.”
His lazy and most puzzling amusement vanished. “You didn’t call them?”
“No.”
“Then, sweetheart, those are not the cops.”
“You’re a pretty lousy thief, aren’t you? Both I and the police nab you?”
She started for the door that separated her work space from the front of the store, keeping her gun trained on him. “Put the emeralds back in the safe and let’s go talk to the cops.”
“Think,” he said softly. “If you didn’t call them, how would they have tracked me? You don’t have a security alarm I could have tripped.” She could have sworn he sounded petulant. “No security cameras. And I’ve been in here ten minutes. If they’d followed me, they’d have been in long before now.”
“Maybe—” A crash had her turning her head. The cops had broken down her front door without giving her a chance to open it? That was pretty aggressive.
One second, Pendegraff was leaning so lazily against the safe you’d have thought he was napping, and the next second he was behind her, one hand grabbing her hard against him, the other wresting the gun from her grip.
She was no weakling and she fought to keep control of the weapon, jabbing him with her elbow, stamping on his foot, but her sweater socks were useless and her assailant was stronger than he looked.
Crashing sounds continued out front, she was sure she heard breaking glass, and then her own gun was jabbing her in the back. “Scream and I’ll shoot. Let’s get out of here.”
3
HE HAULED HER OUT THE SAME door she’d come from and dragged her up the stairs to her apartment. “Fire escape. Where is it?”
“I’m not telling you.” She was furious with both of them. With him for the whole escapade and with her for losing control of the situation. Not to mention her gun.
“Trust me, those guys downstairs are a lot meaner than I am. We really don’t want to run into them.”
She heard another crash. Pendegraff ran to her window and peered out.
She flipped open her cell, tried to call 9-1-1 but he grabbed it out of her hand before she could complete the call, tossing the phone onto her bed.
He yanked up the window sash. “Out,” he said, pushing her through the window and onto the fire escape, dropping out beside her. “I swear to God if you make a sound or do anything I don’t like, I’ll shoot you. Now climb down.”
“I’m wearing socks,” she told him in a furious undertone as the crisscrossed wrought-iron bit into the soles of her feet.
“Good. It’ll keep you quiet. Now move!”
He stayed right beside her as she stepped down, surprisingly as quiet in his shoes as she was in her slipper socks.
The fire escape was in good shape, but it was rickety and creaked as they made their way down. Still, no one came to investigate. Thanks a lot, New York’s Finest, she thought bitterly.
They hit the pavement below and she felt a stone bite through her socks.
“Run,” he ordered, grabbing her arm and breaking into a sprint, giving her no choice but to follow.
They ran, but cobblestone streets weren’t designed for a woman in slippers. He didn’t seem to care, hauling her along at a fast pace. She prided herself on being in pretty good shape, but she could barely keep up with his long-legged sprint. If his goal was to keep her too breathless to yell for help, he was doing an excellent job. She prayed she wouldn’t step on broken glass or a nail or something.
“Hey,” a man’s voice yelled.
“Don’t turn around,” Pendegraff warned her. “Move.”
They pounded down toward Canal Street and she saw a black limo glide toward them. She waved the vehicle down, almost sobbing in relief as it stopped.
Pendegraff didn’t flinch, but with a quick glance over his shoulder, he dragged her toward the car, opening the back door and shoving her inside. The limo was sailing away before he’d closed the door. She heard the click of the locks sliding smoothly into place even as she grabbed for the door.
“Nice timing,