The Collector by Nora Roberts Page B

you—a most excellent wardrobe. She even liked her looks most of the time, especially since she’d hired the Marquis de Sade as a personal trainer the year before.
    She was a buff, attractive, interesting, independent woman. And she couldn’t maintain a relationship for more than three months, not happily, she amended. Not happily for her.
    Maybe she wasn’t meant to. She shrugged it off, took the water with her across the living area with its warm, neutral colors and electric splashes of modern art, into the bedroom.
    Maybe she should get a cat. Cats were interesting and independent, and if she could find one as sweet as Thomas, she’d . . .
    She stopped short, a hand on the light switch. She caught the fading scent of perfume.
Her
perfume. Not her signature daytime scent, the Ricci Ricci, that stood as her go-to for work, but the heavier, sexier Boudoir she used only on dates, and then only when the mood struck.
    In any case, thanks to salsa, what she wore now was a light hint of sweat, but she knew that scent.
    It shouldn’t have been there.
    But the pretty gold-topped pink bottle should have been, and it wasn’t.
    Baffled, she crossed over to her dresser. The antique trinket box sat in its usual spot, as did her workday perfume, the tall, slim silver vase with its single red lily.
    But the bottle of Boudoir was gone.
    Had she moved it somewhere without thinking? But no, why would she? Yes, she’d been a bit hungover that morning, a little slow and blurry, but she
remembered
seeing it there. She’d dropped the back of her earring. Even now she could visualize herself trying to fumble it on,cursing when it dropped onto the top of the dresser—right beside the pink bottle.
    Muttering to herself, she moved off into the bathroom to check. Looked in the train case she used for makeup. Not there, she mused. And, what the hell, neither was the YSL Red Taboo lipstick, or the Bobbi Brown liquid eyeliner. She’d just put them in there last week after a trip to Sephora.
    She marched back to the bedroom, checked her evening bags—just in case, the travel makeup bag she kept at the ready and had used for the Hamptons Wedding Week From Hell.
    She stood in her closet, hands on her hips. Then gaped when she saw—or rather didn’t see—her brand-new, yet-to-be-worn Manolo Blahniks—five-inch platform sandals, diamond pattern in coral.
    Frustration turned on a dime as her heart began to pound. She made a wild run back to the kitchen and her bag, dragged her phone out and called the police.
    Just after midnight, Lila opened the door.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Julie said immediately. “Just what you don’t need after last night.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. Are you okay?”
    â€œI don’t know what I am. The cops think I’m crazy. Maybe I am.”
    â€œNo, you’re not. Here, let’s take this into the bedroom.”
    She took the handle of Julie’s overnight herself, wheeled it into the guest room.
    â€œNo, I’m not. I’m not crazy. Things were gone, Lila. Strange things, I’ll give you that. Who breaks in, takes makeup and perfume, a pair of shoes and a leopard-skin tote, apparently to carry it all in? Who takes that and leaves art, jewelry, a really nice Baume & Mercier watch and my grandmother’s pearls?”
    â€œA teenage girl maybe.”
    â€œI didn’t misplace them. I know that’s what the cops think, but I didn’t misplace those things.”
    â€œJulie, you never misplace anything. What about your cleaning service?”
    Julie dropped down on the side of the bed. “The cops asked about that. I’ve been using the same service for six years. And the same two women come in every other week. They wouldn’t risk their jobs for makeup. You’re the only other one who has the key and the code.”
    Lila X’d her heart with her finger. “Innocent.”
    â€œYou