"How's your stomach feeling?" I asked her, opening the envelope.

"Why?" Jillian asked, eyeing Tara warily. "Do you have the flu? Are you contagious?"

Tara shrugged. "Maybe. Lots of bugs going around school."

Jillian immediately distanced herself. "Okay, then. I hope you're better soon. Gotta run." She blew kisses and dashed out the door.

"She's such an easy target." Tara cupped her hands around her eyes to gaze into the gla.s.s-fronted display case. "I almost feel bad about doing that."

Tara was so much like me, it scared me. I removed the contents of the envelope-a half dozen samples of wedding invitations, and a newspaper advertis.e.m.e.nt of a sale at a bridal salon-and immediately put them back with an exasperated sigh.

"They're from Aunt Portia, too," Tara said, referring to my brother Jonathan's model-thin wife, "but she didn't have the strength to stuff the envelope. Mom says if she'd eat more than a teaspoon of applesauce a day, she might have more energy." Tara took a yellow daisy out of the case, tucked it behind one ear, and checked her reflection in the gla.s.s. "How's this for a junior bridesmaid look?"

"The next customer who needs a junior bridesmaid, I'll give them your number."

Suddenly, Tara gasped, then swung around, staring saucer-eyed out the bay window. "It's Spook Face," she whispered, and quickly looked away.

"Nils Raand? The guy from the Home and Garden Show?"

Tara barely nodded. "I saw his reflection in the gla.s.s. He's watching us. Don't look!"

"I have to look." I moved toward the bay window and peered cautiously outside. "Where is he?"

"On that bench across the street. He's staring right at us! Call Unc. Hurry."

I spotted Raand. He was sitting alone on the bench, dressed in a light gray topcoat, one arm draped across the back of the bench, one leg crossed over his knee. Despite his casual posture, he was clearly and intently watching the shop, like a cat watching a mousehole. Was he waiting for me to come outside? Did he want me to see him? Was he trying to unnerve me? Because it was working.

I stepped back behind the counter to pick up the phone, but dialed Reilly's number instead of Marco's. As I waited for him to answer, I said to Tara, "Did you call Marco Unc?"

"You won't let me call him Uncle Marco," she said, trying not to move her mouth.

"Raand can't hear you, Tara."

"He might read lips."

"Reilly, hi, it's Abby. Nils Raand is sitting on a bench on the courthouse lawn watching my shop."

"That's not against the law, Abby," Reilly said.

"But I think he's trying to intimidate me."

"Still, unless you can prove it . . . Look, tell you what, I'll drive by and make sure he sees me eyeball him. If that doesn't do it, I'll walk over and have a talk with him."

"Thanks, Reilly. You're the best." I hung up and said to Tara, "Cops are on their way."

Tara turned her head just enough to see out the window; then she relaxed. "Never mind. He left."

I ran to the window to look out. Not only had Raand left the bench, but I couldn't see him anywhere on the courthouse property. I searched people getting into cars parked around the square but caught no glimpse of him. Thank goodness both of us had seen him. If it had been only me, I might have thought I'd imagined him.

By the time Marco came down to Bloomers to get me at five thirty that evening, I'd had a full day and was ready for a quiet evening. Reilly had stopped by to tell me he hadn't located Raand and to ask if I was sure I'd actually seen him. After a.s.suring him that Tara could back me up, I asked him to make out a report for the theft of my mom's brooch. Since it was the second such theft, I thought it important to do so. No one had notified Mom yet. None of us wanted to be the one to break the news.

"Losing one brooch I can almost understand," I told Marco on the ride home, "because it wouldn't be difficult to lift a small piece like that. But then to have the second one stolen makes me think it's more than a coincidence. And then to spot Nils Raand watching us through the window on the same day . . ." I shuddered. "Why would he do that? Is he playing games with me?"

"I don't know, but next time you see him, call me. I can be there sooner than the cops. Is Tara okay?"

"A bit shaken. She had Kathy pick her up right after Raand left."

"Are you okay?"

"A little unnerved, which I'm sure is what Raand wanted."

Marco was mulling something over. I could see his jaw muscles working. "Was the brooch the only item stolen both times?"

"As far as we can tell, yes."

"And both times, it was Jillian who wanted to purchase a brooch?"

"Yes, but she didn't know anything about the first one until Grace told her. Why? What are you thinking?"

"Maybe Jillian is the one playing games."

"By stealing Mom's brooches? Why would she do that?"

"Think about it. You wear a beret; Jillian wears a beret. You wore a brooch; then she wanted to buy a brooch. You were engaged to an Osborne; she got engaged to an Osborne. See where I'm going with this?"

"Yes. You're saying my cousin is a thief with bad taste in men."

"She likes to copy you-that's all I'm saying."

"If she wanted the brooch, she has the money to buy it."

"Maybe it's more fun to make you look for it. It's something to keep in mind, anyway. By the way, did Jillian tell you whether she identified anyone in the lineup?"

"She picked out Hudge as the van driver. And Lottie picked him out as the UPS guy."

Marco shook his head. "I can't believe how inept Hudge was to let Jillian see his face. It's as though he never considered she might ID him."

"So wouldn't you think that after Hudge and Charlotte botched the first attempt to kidnap me, Raand would find someone else? Or if not, then surely after the second failed attempt? It bothers me that he continued to let them try, because it seems out of keeping with Raand's character."

"I'm with you on that. Raand was surely savvy enough to realize that the more those two screwed up, the more likely they were to be caught and lead the police back to him. Still, we can't discount the evidence Morgan mentioned. If it decisively connects Raand to the kidnappers, then he's their guy."> "I'd feel better knowing what that evidence was."

"You just have to have a little patience, Abby, while the detectives do their job. In the meantime, I'm doing my job-keeping you safe."

At my apartment building, Marco pulled the Vette into my a.s.signed parking s.p.a.ce and shut off the engine. "We're home. What's for supper?"

I was supposed to have supper ready?

"Just kidding," he said. "I brought food." Then he reached for a bag in his backseat.

As long as it wasn't more greasy pork, it worked for me.

Marco took out a package of ground beef, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and a pound of whole wheat pasta and set them on the counter. "Perfect," I told him.

Then he pulled out a thick mailing envelope and set it on the counter, too. "From my mom. Take a guess what's inside."

"Another bridal magazine." I opened it up and showed him. "I stand corrected. It's a pattern book for bridal wear. She's branching out."

"Now her comment makes sense. She said to tell you she's an excellent seamstress."

"Your mom wants to make my gown?"

Marco shrugged. "I'm only the messenger."

"Tell her I said thanks-again." I opened the front hallway closet and tossed the pattern book onto the growing pile of wedding-themed magazines.

Marco washed his hands at the sink. "If you show me where the ingredients are, I'll whip up a salad."

I pointed to the refrigerator.

"How about a knife?"

I pointed to the knife block on the counter.

"Olive oil?"

I pointed to the cabinet where we kept our supplies. "Are you new in town?"

"How about spices?"

"Same cabinet. Wait. What spices do you put in a salad?"

"Italian spices, I guess."

"Seriously? I use sea salt and black pepper."

He reached for the phone. "I'll call my mother and find out what she uses."

I grabbed the phone from him. No way did I want Francesca Salvare to know I was a bland, uninspired cook. Her meals could rival those of the best chefs in Italy. I opened the cabinet and searched among the spices, pulling out oregano and basil. "Italian spices. There you go."

While Marco tore lettuce and chopped tomatoes, I browned beef in a skillet and cooked the pasta. It wasn't easy for two adults to work in a small galley kitchen, so we found ourselves constantly b.u.mping into each other, until soon the b.u.mping became more deliberate, more sensual . . . and then more than just the pasta was cooking in that kitchen.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"Abby," Marco murmured, his breath hot against my throat as I sat on the edge of the counter, my legs wrapped around his hips, "it's burning."

"Same here," I panted.

"The beef, Abby."

Oh. Right.

Fortunately, we were able to save our meal from total annihilation. And once the candles were lit, the wine was poured, and the food was on the table, I was ready for a relaxing meal with my hero. We sipped wine, smiling at each other across the glow of the candle. "So," I purred, "what do you have in mind for dessert, Hotshot?"

With an apologetic glance, Marco explained that he'd taken on a new PI case and would have to leave soon to do surveillance work.

"So you'll be gone all evening?"

"Right. And you'll need to decide whether you want to come along on the stakeout with me or find someone to stay here with you."

Those were my choices? Be babysat or hunch down in Marco's car in the dark for hours on a cold, workday evening? Not a chance. "I choose to stay here but I don't need a sitter. No one is going to get past that new dead bolt you installed on our door."

"Locks aren't foolproof, Abby. I'd feel better if someone was here with you. How about my sister?"

Right, and spend my evening watching Gina change diapers and make comments about how she is positive Marco wants to be a daddy soon? "No, thanks, Marco. Your nephew's bedtime is eight o'clock. I wouldn't want to disrupt their schedule when it's not even necessary for someone to be here with me."

"Okay, then how about Jillian?"

"How about I jump out the window?"

"Abby."

"Marco, I'll be fine. Stop treating me like I'm helpless."

He thought about it while he finished his wine. "You're right. You're anything but helpless. Let's clear the table; then I need to get going."

An hour after Marco left, he phoned. "Everything okay?"

"You bet. I was just doing some research to see if I could locate Charlotte's sister."

"Abby."

"I'm bored, Marco. I need something to keep my mind occupied. Anyway, there are two Bebes in the phone book but neither is related-"

"Sorry to interrupt, but I have to take some photos." The line went dead.

At eight thirty, he phoned again, asking quietly, "How's it going?"

"Still bored," I said. What I didn't say was how frustrated I was, as well. Except for the article about the kidnapping in yesterday's paper, I hadn't found anything on the Internet about Charlotte or any Bebe relatives.

"Sorry, Sunshine. I'm on the move. I'll give you a call later." He hung up.

Not sure whether to be grateful to him for checking on me or annoyed that he felt the need, I continued my search. Finally, I located a listing for C. H. Bebe in Maraville, a city a half hour away, but when I dialed the number, there was no answer and no machine to pick up.