She supposed the logical step would be to find a discreet and reputable jeweler and sell her glitters. It would hold her level until she decided what step to take next. She toyed with the square-cut sapphire on her hand; she didn't have a clue what she had paid for it.
It hardly mattered, did it? she decided. Kate had calculated the worth, and it was what she could get for it now that mattered. She pushed herself up and hurried into the bedroom. After unlocking the safe built into the cedar chest at the foot of her bed, she began pulling out boxes and pouches. In moments, the lamplight beamed on a pile of glittering treasures worthy of Ali Baba's cave.
Dear God, did she really own a dozen watches? What was wrong with her? And what had possessed her to buy that jeweled collar? It looked like something out of Star Trek. Marcasite hair combs. She never wore hair combs.
The tension began to ease from her shoulders as she examined, separated, began to make decisions. There were dozens of pieces, she discovered, that she could part with without a qualm. Certainly she would reap enough to keep her head above water until she had time to think.
And clothes.
With manic energy she leapt up, scattering jewelry and dashing to her closet. It was enormous, lined with dresses, suits, jackets. Lucite shelves held shoes, bags. Built-in drawers were packed with scarves and belts. A triple mirror ringed with lights reflected her image as she frantically pushed hangers to and fro.
There were secondhand shops that specialized in designer clothes, she knew. Indeed, she had purchased her first Fendi bag at one in Knightsbridge a lifetime ago. If she could buy from a secondhand shop, then by God, she could sell to one.
She tossed jackets, blouses, skirts, slacks over her arm, rushed out to drop them on the bed, dashed back for more.
She was giggling when the doorbell rang, and she ignored it until the constant buzz cut through what she realized abruptly was the edge of hysteria. It was a struggle to swallow the next bubble of laughter, and for the life of her she couldn't remember the deep breathing exercises from her yoga class.
"Maybe I'm having a breakdown." The sound of her own voice was tight and nervy. The doorbell continued to buzz like a swarm of angry bees. "All right, all right, all right!" she snapped as she stepped over suede boots that had fallen out of her arms. She would face whoever was at the door, get rid of them, and then deal with the latest mess she'd created.
Ready to fight, she yanked the door open and stared. "Josh!" Why, she wondered, was he always the last person she expected to see?
He took a quick survey of the tousled hair, the flushed face, the robe that was slipping off her shoulder. His first jealous thought was that he'd interrupted sex. "I was in the neighborhood."
She folded her arms. "You're checking up on me."
"Laura made me." The charming smile flirted around his mouth, but his eyes were hot. Who the hell was in the flat? Who'd been touching her? "I had a little problem to iron out at Templeton Milan, so I promised her I'd swing by, see how you were." He angled his head. "So, how are you?"
"Tell Laura I'm fine."
"You could tell her yourself if you'd answer the phone occasionally."
"Go away, Josh."
"Thanks, I'd love to come in for a while. No, no," he continued as he nudged by her, "I can't stay long." When she stood firm and left the door open, he shut it himself. "All right, but just one drink."
God, he was gorgeous, she thought. Arrogance fit him as sleekly as his linen shirt. "Maybe I'll call security and have you tossed out."
His quick laugh had her clenching her fists. As he wandered the room, she measured him. In leather bomber jacket and snug jeans, he looked tougher than she would have expected. She wondered if cheerful little Marco, who manned the door, could bite him on the ankle.
"This oil of the Spanish Steps is new since I was here last," he commented, eyeing her painting with mild avarice. "It's not bad. Sixty-five hundred for the French Quarter watercolor."
She arched a brow. "You go up five hundred every time you make an offer. I'm still not going to sell it to you."
It belonged in the lobby of Templeton New Orleans. He shrugged off her refusal. He would pry it away from her sooner or later. He picked up a paperweight, icy white shapes swimming inside icy white glass, passed it from hand to hand. He hadn't missed the way she kept glancing back toward the bedroom.
"Something else on your mind, Josh?"
Murder. Mayhem. But he smiled easily. "Hunger. Got anything to eat around here?"
"There's a nice trattoria just down the street."
"Good, we'll walk down later, but I'd love a little wine and cheese now. Don't trouble yourself," he added when she didn't budge. "I'll just make myself at home." Still carrying the paperweight, he headed for the bedroom.
"The kitchen's back here," Margo began, panicked.
His mouth turned grim. He knew exactly where her kitchen was. He knew where everything was in her flat, and whoever was in the bedroom was going to discover that Joshua Templeton had staked prior claim.
"Damn it." She caught at his arm and was dragg