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thrilled.
    Maybe
the seclusion of the hotel bungalow was too quiet after the taxing day. I
looked around at its living room and bedroom. I shouldn’t have been surprised
that all traces of Brock were gone. Did I expect to find him in the reading
chair or out on the patio? Was he supposed to stay in bed all day?
    No red
roses. No yellow roses. No yellow sticky note, for that matter. I took in a
deep breath, well aware that I was trying to pick up the scent of his musky
aftershave. Fresh bed linens and the lemony fresh smell that follows the maids,
as thick as contrails of a jet, had removed any lingering waft of the salty
sultry man-smell from the night before.
    I
functioned on autopilot, finding myself exhausted and exhilarated at the same
time. I opened the bedroom entertainment armoire, then peered through the wood
blinds to make sure no cameras were aimed my way, then laughed at myself for
the paranoia. I lunged onto the empty bed with the TV remote in hand. After
mindlessly surfing the channels for a few minutes I settled on the local
evening news.
    A
bleached-blond bimbo advertised her new line of jewelry. Instantly I felt a
pang of guilt. Damn. She reminded me of Sterling. I needed to call her. I
promised her I would as soon as I arrived into town. I can’t explain my friendship
with Sterling, except that everything outrageously over- glitzed about her seemed to be matched by the songs of heaven’s laughter.
    When I
reached for the phone to call her, I spied the three athletic bags the would-be
car thieves left behind. The bellhop must have brought them in by mistake. They
sat beneath the luggage bench with my half-opened cases on top.

Chapter Ten
    Stolen
Goods
    CURIOSITY
KILLS THE CAT. I jumped off the bed, grabbed the bags and zipped open the first
one, heavy but also almost empty. Auto parts? The only pieces I could positively
identify were a small CD/DVD car component, a GPS, and a couple sets of car
keys. One had the familiar Jaguar emblem and another one, Porsche. I presume
the thieves had a productive night. And excellent taste.
    Unzipping
the second bag, I pulled out two brand new shoeboxes. Running shoes. If I
remembered the ads in the newspaper, they ran about three hundred dollars a
pair. No receipts, of course.
    Crumpled
newspaper filled the inside of the third bag. Reaching deep inside, I pulled
out three wallets. The little bandits weren’t just in the auto business.
    It
appeared they hadn’t yet rummaged through the wallets. Cash, credit cards and
drivers’ licenses all seemed to be intact.
    “Just
great,” I mumbled aloud to myself. “I’ve been here less than 48 hours and I’ve
witnessed an attempted car heist, engaged in mindless sex, and now I have three
stolen wallets in my possession.” Brock was right. The police wouldn’t consider
it a high priority. I’d mail the wallets to the addresses listed on the
licenses in the morning. I tossed the shoes back in the bag and zipped it
closed, wishing I could do the same with Brock Townsend.
    The
stresses of the day gnawed at me, and sometime after the early evening news I
drifted into a deep sleep. The phone stirred me to consciousness. I couldn’t
believe the time.   The sunset was casting
shadows of orange on the wall; its light show competed with the muted news
broadcast still running on the television.
    Leave
Brock horny, I thought. He’ll come running back for more, every time.
    “Hey
there,” I answered.
    “Hey
there to you. Forget about me?” The sharp soprano voice drilled my ears.
    “I’m
sorry. Who’s calling?” I mumbled.
    “Jeez,
Lauren. It’s Sterling. As in Sterling Falls. Supposed to be a dear friend of
yours. At least any time you want to borrow some ten-carat bauble.”
    “Sterling.
I meant to call. I just got into town and I’ve been slammed.”
    “That’s
not what Brock said. He told me you came in yesterday.”
    “Brock
told you that?”
    “We went
to the theater tonight, decided we were hungry and