Manolos In Manhattan. Katie Oliver

diamond choker and matching earrings, were reported missing after Honoria Van Landingham and her husband Thomas returned from a charity ball held at the Ritz Carlton late last night. Police Chief Anthony Smith stated there was no sign of a break-in.

       As in recent burglaries, the security system was armed. Mrs Van Landingham informed police that she activated the system before leaving her apartment, and notified authorities upon discovering the jewels, valued at $1.9 million, were missing from the apartment safe.

       There are currently no suspects and no leads.

      “Goodness,” Natalie murmured. A cat burglar? Images of a suave thief, dressed in black as he rappelled from a tenth-story window following a successful heist, flickered through her head.

      It was all terribly mysterious and exciting. But not, of course, for poor Mrs Van Landingham, who’d had her jewels stolen.

      Natalie had a sudden thought. Rhys’s silver cufflinks – which the movers assured her they’d put in the enamel box on his dresser – had gone missing. Was Rhys right – had one of the movers pocketed them?

      Or had someone – the cat burglar, perhaps – stolen them?

      Her eyes widened. After all, she’d seen someone in the apartment on Sunday night...someone with a gun.

      She set her cup down on the table and hurried to the bedroom, and reached for the little enamel box on Rhys’s dresser.

      It was empty; a quick search confirmed that her husband’s cufflinks were, indeed, gone. And although she searched the entire bedroom for evidence of a visit from the burglar, there was nothing.

      Those bloody thieving movers, Natalie thought indignantly as she returned to the kitchen, and her coffee. We certainly won’t be using their services again.

      Still, she knew she’d seen someone in the apartment the night before, looming over her in the darkness with a gun in hand.

      Was it the cat burglar? Had he been there to rob their apartment?

      What if she hadn’t screamed and wakened Rhys? Who knew what might have happened?

      All these thoughts of burglaries and cat thieves made her a bit nervous. She went to the phone and dialed Rhys’s number.

      “Good morning, Dashwood and James, Rhys Gordon’s office,” Chaz chirped. “How may I help you?”

      “Hello, Chaz. I’d like to speak to my husband, please,” Natalie said.

      “Good morning, Mrs Gordon. I’m sorry, but Mr Gordon just got here, and he’s already in a meeting. May I take a message?”

      Ordinarily Natalie would thank him politely, leave a message, and ring off, but the newspaper article had left her more than a bit rattled.

      “I need to speak with him straight away. It’s important.”

      “Very well,” Chaz said doubtfully. “One moment, please.”

      A few minutes later Rhys picked up the phone. “Natalie, what’s wrong? Is it the baby?” There was a trace of alarm in his voice.

      “No, nothing like that. The baby’s fine. So am I.”

      “Thank God. Why did you call, then? I’m in the middle of a meeting. Chaz said it was important.”

      “It is important, very important. Oh, Rhys,” she wailed, “there’s been another cat burglary, and practically next door! I was reading about it in the papers just now. I think the burglar must’ve stolen your cufflinks on Sunday night, right after he robbed the Van Landinghams.”

      To her surprise – and annoyance – he began to laugh.

      “Rhys,” she said crossly, “it isn’t funny. I’m alone and pregnant in an apartment that’s been struck by the most notorious burglar in Manhattan, and all you can do is laugh?”

      “Sorry, darling,” he told her. “But I hardly think the thief would break in to our apartment for a pair of cufflinks.” He paused. “I should’ve told you.”

      “Told me what?”

      “I found the cufflinks in my suit pocket on the way in to work this morning. So there’s no need to worry. And there was no burglar in our apartment on Sunday night. I checked, remember?”

      “Yes, but—”

      “I’m sorry, Nat,” he cut in impatiently, “but I have to go. Don’t worry – you’re perfectly safe. We’ll talk later, when I get home.”

      And before she could respond, he rang off.

       Chapter Eleven

      Why, Holly wondered as she eyed the stacks of shoe boxes crowding Dashwood and James’s shoe department the next morning, had she agreed to work today?

      Even though Monday was normally her day off, she’d promised her father she’d help prepare for the grand opening – which meant making sure all was in readiness for Karl von Karle’s personal appearance at the store’s launch.

      According to Natalie, von Karle was the hottest shoe designer since Manolo Blahnik.

      “There you are, Holly.” Alastair strode down the aisle, Coco just behind him. “Thank you for coming in to help today.”

      “Good thing I did,” she observed as she eyed the teetering stack of von Karles waiting to be arranged on the display shelves. “With all the buzz his appearance is generating, you’d think that silly German shoe guy was a rock star.”

      “That ‘silly German shoe guy’ is a gifted designer,” Coco informed her coolly. “Every woman wants a pair of von Karles.”

      “I don’t,” Holly retorted. “I get vertigo just looking at those stiletto heels. They look ridiculous. Not to mention unsafe. And uncomfortable.”

      “Fashion isn’t about comfort, Holly,” Coco said, “it’s about style.” Her glance swept dismissively over Holly’s belted, short-sleeved sweater and creased linen skirt. “Something you obviously don’t understand.”

      “And you obviously don’t understand the concept of asking before you give out personal information.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      Before Holly could respond, her father, oblivious to the hostile current between the two young women, consulted a clipboard in his hand. “Holly, I need you to help Coco upstairs for a couple of hours, if you would.”

      “Okay,” she said, even as her heart sank at the prospect. “Dad,” she added as Coco turned away to take a call, “I need to leave early this afternoon. I’m meeting Ciaran. He’s looking at apartments and asked me to go with him.”

      “Ciaran?” Alastair echoed, and his brow rose. “But you just spent all day with him yesterday.”

      “Yes, for publicity,” she reminded him. “His TV show starts filming soon, and he’s looking for a permanent place to live. He wants me to help him look before he returns to London. What’s wrong with that?”

      “Doesn’t he have an estate agent?”

      “I’m not showing him properties, Dad, I’m just going along to look at a couple of apartments. He wants my opinion.”

      “Ciaran is a charming young man,” her father said, his jaw set in a hard line, “but he’s not someone I’d chose as a potential suitor for my daughter.”

      “Well, it’s a good thing you don’t get to choose, then, isn’t it?” she retorted. “And I’m already engaged – or have you forgotten? Besides, Ciaran’s just a friend.”

      “He’s a film star, Holly, and he’s accustomed to women throwing