Because he’d wined and dined her, lowering her defenses with charm and gifts, giving every i
mpression he was a privileged jetsetter. And she’d bought it, hook, line, and sinker. Damn it, she’d been flattered and dazzled by his good looks, unable to imagine that someone like him would be interested in someone like her.
Idiot.
When he said he wanted access to her kitchen to cook her a special meal for their three month anniversary, she’d thought, Oh, how sweet, and given him a key.
Moron.
He cleaned her out. TV. Laptop. Jewelry. The Christmas presents she’d bought to mail home to her family in Alabama. The deposit from the gallery that she hadn’t taken to the bank the night before because of the crappy weather. Every single thing of value in her apartment. He’d even found her rainy day emergency stash in the toe of her favorite boots.
Of course, Sylvie had called the cops. They’d taken her statement, cataloged her missing things. And informed her that the bastard had done the exact same thing to three other women. They were still looking, but the investigating officer surmised that Neal—who’d used other aliases with the other victims—had probably blown town. He suggested that she file a claim on her renters’ insurance.
Right. The renters’ insurance she didn’t have because she hadn’t been able to afford it.
She was, in a word, screwed.
At least the bastard hadn’t gotten keys to the gallery and hadn’t been able to access the stock. Now next month’s rent was almost due on her apartment and the shop, and her landlords were not what you could call sympathetic to her plight. She’d have to move out of the apartment. There was no question of that. But she had to find a way to save her gallery.
The only thing Sylvie had left that was worth anything was her grandmother’s engagement ring, which she habitually wore on a chain around her neck. She thanked God that the bastard hadn’t gotten away with it, too. It was the only thing she had left of her grandmother. And it could mean the difference between saving the life she’d built here and conceding defeat and slinking home to Alabama as a failure.
If she could make herself go inside.
But how could she part with it? What would Mawmaw say?
Sylvie, my girl, it’s just jewelry. I believed in you when you decided to head out to Colorado in the first place. If this ring will help save you, don’t let a little thing like sentiment hold you back. Think of it as me giving you another little boost.
“Easy for you to say,” Sylvie muttered.
The door of Vandevelde’s opened and a man stuck his head out, a polite, but wary expression on his face. “Can I help you, ma’am? Do you need directions?”
Sylvie jolted and looked around. But, no, he was talking to her. She realized she probably looked like a crazy person trying to decide whether to rob the store.
“Oh! I…no. That is, I don’t need directions.”
It’s now or never, girl.
She braced herself. “And yes, you can help me. I have a ring I was hoping you could take a look at.”
The man’s face relaxed and he held the door open wider. “Certainly. Please, come in.”
Sylvie stepped out of the December cold and into the hushed space of the shop. It wasn’t a huge room but the air somehow felt heavy and kind of reverent, like a museum. Glass cases ran in a U along the sides and back, with room for the jeweler behind. He stepped through a little half door into his arena and pulled a pair of bifocals from his shirt front pocket.
“Now, what can I do for you, Miss?”
With only a moment’s hesitation, Sylvie pulled the necklace from her sweater and removed the ring. Gently, she handed it over. “It was my grandmother’s.”
The jeweler took it, examining the art deco setting. “It’s lovely craftsmanship.”
“I’ve always loved all the filigree. It seems so classy and elegant. Like she was.” As he examined it, Sylvie continued to talk. “She was an actress back in her day. Stage productions, mostly. Tallulah Bankhead was a cousin and helped her get her start up in New York. Mawmaw loved the stage, all the lights and the applause. When she met my granddaddy, she was headlining in America’s Sweetheart on Broadway. He swept her off her feet. So much so that they were married in less than two months, and he gave her this ring. Granddad always used to say that was how he stole America’s sweetheart for his own.”
The jeweler smiled. “That’s a lovely story.”
Sylvie flushed. “Sorry. I tend to go on a bit.”
“S’fine. It’s nice to know the history of a piece.” He peered at her over the glasses. “None of the stones seem to be loose. Did you need it resized?”
“She absolutely had smaller fingers than I do. Wore a five. Tiny, tiny hands.” You’re babbling, she chided herself. Get to the point. “The fact is, I’m looking to sell it.”