2000 Kisses (5 page)

The saleswoman, who Tess had immediately dubbed Madame X, hovered superciliously. “May we be of assistance?”

There was only one person in sight. Probably she enjoyed the royal
we
, Tess thought. “I'm just looking right now.”

Tess felt the chill radiate as the saleswoman dismissed her as someone who was far out of her league in this store. Irritation blended with embarrassment, and Tess was poised to leave when her tattered dignity resurfaced.

She studied the display of boots, then tilted her head, staring down her nose in a perfect rendition of Grace Kelly dismissing Gary Grant. “Don't you have anything of higher quality?” Her voice was arctic.

“We have some custom boots behind the counter.” The woman's green eyes flickered, reassessing Tess. “But you will find that they are considerably more costly.”

Tess gave a negligent wave of the hand. “I'd like to see the red ones.” She gave a slow grin. “And the blue ones and the gray ones and the brown ones.”

Ten minutes passed in an orgy of perfect hedonism. Tess tried on boots, belts, jackets, and sweaters, instantly transported by the drape of the butter-soft leathers and cashmeres. She turned one of the price tags, gave it a casual glance, and shrugged.

Madame X suddenly grew more responsive. “Something to go with the jacket, perhaps? We have a lovely silk jersey shirt with matching skirt. And of course, our cashmeres are exceptional.”

Tess tried on everything in every color available, then turned to scrutinize the exquisite display of lace lingerie. Unable to resist, she slid on an old-fashioned pleated tulle camisole with matching silk crepe tap pants. The lavender silk fabric kissed her skin and left her feeling elegantly sensual.

“I'll take it,” Tess said calmly even though her heart was pounding. “And the charmeuse nightgown and the suede jacket.”

Madame X's lacquered smile nearly cracked as she calculated her commission. “And the boots?”

“Absolutely. The red ones with the silver studs.” Tess ran a finger along a corselet of Alenson lace and threw caution to the winds. “This one too, I think.”

As the saleswoman nearly sprinted from the room to begin ringing up the purchases, Tess called her back. “Oh, yes, I'll take that cashmere sweater set in the window, too.” She did a quick mental calculation and smiled. “Actually, I'll take one in every color.”

“Yes, madam. Of course.
Immediately.
And would you care for a cup of cappuccino while you're waiting?”

Tess nodded. She would indeed.

Two hours after she'd entered the boutique, Tess floated out into the street, foil bags draped over both arms. So far, so good. She wasn't prostrate from guilt yet.

She passed a travel agency and hovered over a rack of bright brochures, Anally scooping up all of them. A specialty cooking store was next, netting her a gleaming silver cappuccino machine, an indulgence she had always craved.

Wind whipped at her cheeks as she swayed out into the street. She was clutching her packages, calculating how she would possibly get everything home, and then she spotted two huge sale signs emblazoned across the street, where cars glittered beneath a light dusting of snow.

Blue cars, red cars, silver cars.

Tess had always planned to get a car, but had never made the commitment. Now that she had some vacation time coming, maybe a grand road trip was the answer. She could go somewhere hot and colorful with lots of history. She thought about Damien Passard's cryptic comments and smiled.

She started toward the filled lot. Not that she actually meant to
buy
one of those sleek, gorgeous convertibles. Even though she'd always wanted one. No, she would simply window shop and ask lots of questions. Then
she'd head for someplace that sold nice, sensible cars with good gas mileage.

Two hours later, Tess sat behind the leather console of a gleaming Mercedes CLK320 in metallic baby blue with oyster-leather interior. Normally, there was a two-year wait on this particular model, but the buyer had had to leave the country on short notice (translation: the IRS was hot on his heels) and his dream car was up for bid.

Tess stared at the blinking instrument panel, then at her bags and boxes stowed on the leather seat. Maybe she was getting a little
too
good at this shopping stuff. Not that she couldn't afford the car. It had been priced low as a 1999 model already custom designed for someone else. But Tess could live with a custom sound system, and there were all those safety features like four full air bags, emergency roadside assistance, and automatic rain-sensor wipers.

If she did happen to have an accident, the onboard global positioning system would automatically dial 911. How safe could you be!

Her checkbook was still burning a hole in her pocket after she'd parked, maneuvered her packages up the stairs, and unlocked her door, laden with shopping bags and the memory of the most excitement she could remember having in her adult life.

Dumping the bags in her foyer, she walked over to her elderly neighbor's apartment and slipped an envelope under the door.

She'd taken a great deal of pleasure in writing this particular check, which she was certain would cover the cost of Agatha Spinelli's long-postponed operation. What good was money if you couldn't make someone else happy with it?

She was certainly happy.

Now Agatha would be, too—as soon as she had that operation.

Once she was inside her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and flipped on the TV news. So far the new millennium was relatively calm. There had been limited power failures, and a few cases of food hoarding in the Northeast. Some graphic footage showed grim survivalists digging in across Idaho and the Southwest. Meanwhile, the Hong Kong stock market was extremely volatile, and a host of European businesses had discovered their Y2K compliance programs were too little too late.

Tess sat up straighter as a reporter described problems closer to home. A few small banks had experienced liquidity problems, and ATMs across the country were producing flawed information or failing outright. Tess made her first cappuccino, watching the reports stream in and feeling a trace of uneasiness.

As she sipped her cappuccino, she stared at her bank receipt.

Had Richard made an error in the amount? Or was this not her bonus at all?

She saw the bank's twenty-four-hour information number on the receipt and dialed impatiently, only to be told by a recorded message that full customer service would resume on Monday morning, after the holiday.

Tess paced the room and considered trying to track down Richard's accountants, then realized that would also be impossible until Monday.

With growing uneasiness, she flipped to another TV channel in time to see a report on survivalist groups. Two bearded men in camouflage jackets demonstrated how to kill a snake, skin it, and then toast the remains over a log fire made by rubbing two sticks together.

Shaking her head, she put Andrea Bocelli on the stereo and wrote checks to two charities. After that came another check to her old college friend whose husband had recently absconded with the contents of their joint bank account, leaving her flat broke. Finished with her spending, Tess dragged out the travel brochures and started making vacation plans.

A night of tossing and turning had left Tess feeling edgy and restless. She put in a call to the office, only to reach the answering machine. A call to Richard's home was equally useless.

Tess studied the table strewn with bags and boxes in growing uneasiness. What if the deposit amount wasn't a simple mistake by Richard? What if it wasn't from Richard at all?

She tried to stay calm as she dialed the bank and listed her account information. A customer service agent answered, asked for Tess's social security number and her banking code, then waited while Tess explained the situation.

A pause followed. Tess heard the click of a keyboard and a muted hum of voices.

“Yes, Ms. O'Mara, I have your account on the screen now.” The agent clicked more keys. “I see two recent deposits to your account. One is a check from Mainwaring Services, which appears to be your usual salary deposit. The second …” More keys clicked. “Here it is. One million dollars.” Papers rustled. “That's odd.”

“What?”

The agent cleared his throat. “Usually we have an internal code for every transaction, listing the source. In this case the code seems to be missing.”

“What does that mean?”

The voice grew guarded. “I'm not at liberty to go into detail at this particular moment. I'm going to transfer you to my supervisor.”

Tess's hands closed around the telephone as a new voice came on the line.

“We have checked your account, and there seems to be a missing code, Ms. O'Mara. But rest assured, we will be investigating the deposit to your account thoroughly.”

Tess glared at the phone. “Is this some kind of Y2K thing?”

“I'm not at liberty to answer that. We will make every effort to find the source of those funds, but it may take some time.” The supervisor was firm, entirely controlled. She had no doubt been well schooled for just this sort of procedure.

Tess rubbed her arms, feeling like some kind of criminal. But that was ridiculous;
she
wasn't the one who had made the mistake. “How long before you have some answers?”

“That might be difficult to say. A week. Possibly longer.”

“A week?”

“Excuse me, where can you be reached today?”

“At this number, but—”

“All day?”

Tess took a quick breath. “Yes, of course, but how—”

“Very good. We will contact you when our inquiry is complete. Have a good day, Ms. O'Mara.”

Tess stared at the receiver in shock.
Have a good
day?
With a million dollars that she couldn't account for?

After some teeth grinding and angry muttering, she put down the phone and stood staring out the window. White flakes swirled in little eddies around skeletal trees. Another cold front was expected that night, bringing at least six more inches of snow.

Tess looked down and realized there were goose bumps all over her arms. Despite her heavy cotton sweatshirt, she was shivering.

The whole thing was absolutely ridiculous. This wasn't the Middle Ages, and bankers didn't work with an abacus and knotted strings. If there was some kind of electronic glitch, they would track it down, and that would be that. Meanwhile?

Andrew.

Her competent, practical big brother would know what to do.

Andrew O'Mara was Harvard '82 and Wharton '86, top drawer all the way. Brilliant, witty, and successful, he was everything her parents had always hoped he'd be and they'd never bothered to hide the fact. Andrew had always been stable and cautious, while Tess had been the creative, offbeat one ever willing to take risks. Andrew's top-level job at the Treasury Department had reinforced all his innate conservatism. Now his frequent junkets took him to Indonesia and Berlin, and Tess seldom saw him anymore.

But a brother was a brother. Andrew would have answers—assuming that he wasn't off in the Middle East or South America battling economic crises.

Tess breathed a sigh of relief when a crisp-voiced secretary finally put her call through.

“Andrew O'Mara here.”

“Andrew, it's Tess.” By now her palms were sweaty.

“Are you in trouble, Tess? You sound upset.”

“I'm fine.”
At least I think I'm fine.
“It's about my bank account.”

“You're overdrawn? I can wire you some money. How much do you need?”

“I don't need money,” Tess said tightly. “As a matter of fact, that's the problem.”

“I'm not following you here, Tess.

“Money has been transferred into my account and I'm not sure that it's mine. I figured that you could tell me what I should do about it.” Tess outlined her conversation with the bank.

“Sounds simple enough. Give your bank another twenty-four hours to straighten things out.”

“When I mentioned a possible Y2K problem, I thought they'd reach right through the phone and strangle me.”

“It's a sensitive issue right now,” he said guardedly. “Until the dust settles, everyone's worried about possible litigation.”

“What am I supposed to do until the dust settles? I have a million dollars in my account that in all likelihood isn't mine.”

“Say that again.” Tess heard a chair squeak. “You've got how much in your account?”

“One million.”

Andrew O'Mara gave a low whistle. “And the bank hasn't given you any information? They should have a timed transaction code.”

“The first agent I spoke to said he couldn't find any code. He thought it was strange.”

“You bet it's strange.” Her brother's voice sounded serious now.

“I'm expecting a large bonus from work, but Richard took off for Polynesia, and I can't reach him. Now the bank won't give me any answers.”

“Give me the number of your account, and I'll see what I can dig up at this end. Meanwhile, sit tight. And whatever you do,
don't
spend any of it.”