Late. She was late. Then again, why should that surprise him? Jason Foxx lobbed his head from side to side, cracking his neck as he waited impatiently in his car for Monica to return home. I don't have all day for this. Damn it, why does she have to be fashionably late for everything, including an argument?
If he didn't need the stuff he'd left in her house when he'd hastily moved out a couple of months ago, he wouldn't have bothered. Especially knowing she'd think his return was some kind of half-hearted attempt on his part to reconcile.
No way that was going to happen. He'd had enough of self-centered, high-maintenance Monica Starke to last a lifetime. The next woman he dated would be different, the complete opposite, right down to the color of her hair.
He glanced at the clock on his dashboard again. Damn it! He was going to be late for his appointment. He looked up the phone number of the gentleman he was scheduled to meet and punched it in his cell phone, apologizing profusely and rescheduling for later that afternoon. Just as he hit the end button, Monica pulled in the drive, grinned and waved, and shut off the engine.
"Sorry. I had to take care of a few things first. You look great, by the way."
Not in the mood to listen to her compliments or excuses, especially since they'd rescheduled this simple task at least a dozen times because she'd had a scheduling conflict, he grumbled, "I had an important appointment this morning. You said you'd be here an hour ago."
Hands on hips, she stood defiant, her chin lifted just enough to get on his nerves. "Would you let it go? I said I'm sorry. What more do you want me to say?"
"Nothing. Please, do me a favor and say nothing. Just let me get my things and we won't have to talk about anything anymore Fine." She teetered to the front door on her high heels and unlocked it, pushing it open and motioning for him to go in first.
He shook his head and waited for her to enter then followed her. "I'll only be a minute." "Don't you dare take any of the artwork. It stays with the house."
"I promise I won't touch a single knick-knack." He shook his head. The woman was selfish right to the bitter end. "I just need a few personal things. I forgot about some stuff I left in the spare bedroom closet."
"Fine." She followed him through the foyer and up the stairs. "But I cleaned that closet. There wasn't anything in there but old junk."
He spun around to face her, panic and rage threatening to burst more than a few vital blood vessels. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying the closet's empty."
Desperately hoping she was lying, he rushed into the room and pushed open the doors. "Damn it! Those were my family's heirlooms! How could you?"
To her credit, she looked a little surprised and remorseful. "I thought they were just trash. Some old, crusty-looking coins and ugly dishes and pottery. I sold the whole shebang to a dealer for a few bucks. Why would you leave it here if it was important? Why wasn't it in storage somewhere?"
"You know I don't trust those storage lockers. They aren't secure. Wait a minute, you said a few dollars? How few?" Her face paled. "Please tell me those old pots weren't worth anything."
"How few?" he repeated, wondering if there was a legal defense for strangling an ignorant person who'd basically given away a priceless collection of art deco art glass. "Is it insured?"
"Yes, against damage or theft, not against them being sold for pennies on the dollar by some-" He didn't say the rest. Insulting her wouldn't do a damn bit of good. "You should have called me before you did anything. You knew those things weren't yours."
"You're right, I should have. I just assumed you didn't care since you left them."
He bit back a cliché about the hazards of making assumptions, figuring it would fall on deaf ears anyway. He'd never met a more irresponsible human being in his life. "Who'd you sell them to and how long ago?"
"About two weeks ago. I don't remember the man's name. I found him in the paper." She hurried toward the stairs. "Maybe his ad's in yesterday's News. I have it down in the kitchen."
His anger receding slightly, replaced by hollow grief, which hardly suited him any better, he followed her. "By any chance, he didn't give you a receipt...or a card...or anything?" "No. Should he have? He paid me cash."
And made off like a bandit before she figured out what she'd done. Goddamn thief.
She hurried into the kitchen and rifled through the newspaper sections. "The ad was in last week's classifieds. Here! This is the section." She ran her brightly polished fingertip down the columns.
He wondered if the proceeds from the sale of his precious heirlooms had paid for her manicure. "I'm looking. Give me just a minute."
His energy spent, the hope of finding his grandmother's possessions nearly dashed, Jason slumped against the counter. "Okay."
"It isn't here." She looked up, genuine regret in her eyes. "I'm so sorry. If I'd known they were valuable I wouldn't have done that. Honest. You know I'm not that vindictive, don't you?" Mute, he just nodded and walked toward the front door. "Please forgive me. I know you think I'm a cold bitch, but I didn't mean to give away something precious. I swear. I'm verysorry. Can I make it up to you somehow? Do you want the money?"
"No. What's done is done. Goodbye, Monica. I hope you have a very happy life." She looked tired as she watched him exit. "Goodbye, Jason."
