Excerpt of Hidden Gems by Carrie Alexander

"I HAVE NOTHING to declare," Marissa Suarez told the customs agent in a voice like broken glass, "except that my boyfriend's a swine."

A snicker rose from the crowded line behind her. The bored official merely stamped her customs declaration form without looking up. "You can't bring pork products into the country, ma'am."

Marissa squinted. "Oh, don't worry. I left his bacon miles behind."

Paul Beckwith, forthwith known as Cheating Slime, was still in the Cayman Islands hobnobbing with his clients. If he'd missed Marissa it was only because she wasn't there to slather sunscreen on his perfectly trapezoid shoulders and back. But any bunny off the beach could handle that duty. Paul would have no objections. When he hadn't been ditching her for "vital" meetings, he'd been drooling over every pair of bouncing breast implants on Seven Mile beach.

Marissa Suarez was not a woman who put up with that kind of bullshit.

She was, unfortunately, a woman who chose the kind of man who shoveled it.

Every...damn...time.

With a clenched-teeth smile, she took the card from the customs official and tucked it into her passport. She truly had nothing to declare. Returning five days early from a supposedly romantic getaway, she was not only sans boyfriend, but minus the promised toasty tan and post- coital bliss, too.

However, she had acquired a resolution during the flight into JFK: no more bad choices, no more mistakes.

Next time — because, let's face it, she wasn't going to swear off men altogether — she would pick a guy who was the antithesis of the handsome, career-driven charmers she usually went for. Someone sweet, tender, laid-back.

So what if she wasn't sweet, tender or laid-back herself? Opposites were supposed to attract.

New arrivals jostled into the roped-off customs line. A fat woman with a bad sunburn and a floppy hat jarred Marissa's elbow just as she'd twisted to tuck her official papers into the straw bag hanging off her shoulder.

The documents flew from her hand. When she bent to reach for it, the woman beaned her in the head with a bulging carry-on.

Marissa bounced off the cordon and pitched forward in her spike-heeled sandals, falling onto her hands and knees. "Ouch!"

"Let me help," said a deep male voice. The French accent seemed to be authentic, but in Marissa's current state of mind she was prone to doubt the sincerity of the entire male species. "These people have no manners."

The stranger knelt near her suitcase, smoothly offering one hand to help her stand while swooping up the passport with his other. He was dark and slight, with a seriously I'm-too-French-for-razors stubble happening below his gaunt cheekbones. He reeked of tobacco. Smoky sunglasses concealed his eyes, but she sensed he'd evaluated her in one lizard-like blink.

Marissa rose and brushed away the strands of hair that had come free of her ponytail. Her knees stung. "Thank you, but please let me have that," she said, being politely firm as she reached for her passport.

The Frenchman had maneuvered her around so that her back was to the bustling meet-and-greet area. His eyes crawled over her photo ID and return ticket. Marissa steeled herself to deflect a suave compliment on her ebony hair or exotic eyes — she'd heard them all — but he simply handed over the passport without comment.

After a glance past her shoulder, then the faintest twitch of a smile, he melted away into the nattering crowd of arrivals who'd cleared customs. "Good day."

Odd. Marissa snapped the passport shut and pressed it to her breastbone, feeling the way she did when a shadow passed over the sun. She checked her luggage, half expecting that he'd lifted her wallet. But all was intact, including the tagged and processed bag sitting at her feet.

"Outta my way, supermodel," said the fat woman in a Bronx patois that hacksawed through the moment of unease. She trundled by with a large stack of luggage.

"Pardon," Marissa trilled. Thankful that she'd traveled light, she reached for the small suitcase that was packed with little more than damp bikinis, shorts, tanks and a couple of sundresses. The big straw carry-all she'd purchased on the island held a stash of Evian, her wallet and passport, makeup bag, camera, the current issue of French Vogue and five crumpled sheets of stationery from the Grand Cayman Beachcomber.

Paul — Sorry, but I'm leaving. I was annoyed when you abandoned me at the hotel bar, but to ditch

Paul,

Next time you invite a girlfriend on a business trip, don't claim it's a romantic getaway.

Dear Paul,

Clearly, we are not working out. It was a mistake to get involved in the first place, so I'm sure we can agree to pretend that this never hap

Dickhead — I'm so out of here!

Dear Paul — I've booked an earlier flight with my return ticket. First class. Don't worry, I paid the difference myself. Enjoy the rest of your midnight "business" meetings.

Your ex, Marissa THE FINAL VERSION of the letter was the one she'd stuck on the mirror in their suite, then removed at the last moment. She was better at face-to-face confrontation. But there'd been no time to wait around for that, and, anyway, he'd deserved to be left in the dark about her sudden departure.

She'd swept the wadded-up notes into her bag so he wouldn't find them, grabbed her swimsuits off the shower curtain rod and hurried to the lobby to catch the late airport shuttle. After making a couple of calls to friends to let them know she was on her way home, she'd turned off her cell phone for the duration of the trip.

She had no intention of listening to Paul's outrage at being left in the lurch. Recriminations weren't her thing. Neither was wallowing and weeping. She always recognized when a relationship was over and believed in lopping off dead meat with a quick, decisive cut.

Which would be much easier if she hadn't made the colossal mistake of hooking up with a workmate from Howard, Coffman, Ellis and Schnitzer, the Manhattan law firm where she'd been employed since graduation from Columbia Law. Fortunately, Paul would be even less inclined to bring their breakup into the office. She was still one of the multitude of associates, while he was on the fast track to junior partner. He had more to lose.

Marissa left the customs area and stepped sideways around a couple of city cops with radios clipped to their shoulders and holsters at their hips. They were coordinating with an airport official and his uniformed security staff, passing out photocopies of a suspect's mug shot.

Uh-oh. Security sweep. Get a move on.

Marissa slipped in and out of the crowds of huggers and criers, still worrying about her job. She'd known it was a foolish move to get involved with Paul, yet she'd done it anyway. Even in the early days of the romance, when he was charming and attentive and neither of them had been thinking of practical matters, she hadn't expected to avoid office gossip entirely. The legal secretaries always knew which of the firm's employees were getting their briefs filed, even when the senior partners were oblivious.

Worse, she couldn't blame Paul for the bad decision. She'd made the choice. She'd believed he was worth a risk. She'd believed maybe this time...

"When will I ever learn?" she muttered, digging into the straw bag to find her cell. She flipped it open and checked her messages, dodging an overzealous gypsy cabdriver who tried to snag her arm.

Four messages from Paul. She got a petty but satisfying spurt of retribution by deleting them with a punch of her thumb.

She almost bumped into a young woman in religious sect garb: head kerchief and a plain calf-length dress with a white collar and black stockings. The girl turned, smiled modestly and offered Marissa a bloom from the bucket of daisies and tulips at her feet.

A pure white Stargazer lily. "Beautiful," Marissa said, surprised. Even though she didn't usually slow for hucksters, she dug into the straw bag and pulled a five out of her wallet. "Blessings on you." The young lady nodded. "May you find true love."

"Yes, here's to love." Marissa meant to be sarcastic, but no conviction remained. Although coming home early was a smart step, she would have to continue traveling in a new direction if she hoped to find true love.

Ah, but did she? That was a question to ponder. Not looking for love wasn't working. How likely was it that she'd have any luck if her expectations were even higher?

Juggling the phone, she tucked the lily behind her ear, then returned to her messages. One was from her mother in Miami, who had the notion that any time Marissa flew over Florida she should stop in to say hello, as if the airlines issued parachutes along with packets of stale peanuts.

The last message put a smile on Marissa's face. Jamie Wilson. Her best friend, guy version. If there was anyone who could untwist her insides and aim her in the right direction, it was Jamie. She speed-dialed him.

He answered on the first ring. "Where are you, babe?"

"Back on U.S. soil. Making my way to the taxi lane." Jamie was the only man she let call her "babe." From a snake like Paul, the pet name would ooze with condescension. From Jamie, it was about cozy familiarity, as if they were an old married couple who finished each other's thoughts. Which they almost were. Jamie was the straight Will to her Grace, proof that men and women truly could be "just" friends.

"Did you practice your yoga breathing on the plane like I said?" Jamie was always telling her she needed to slow her usual pace — full speed ahead.

"With a carpet salesman from Jersey and his horking wife at my elbow? Not a chance. But after the attendant had removed the airsick bags, I did wind down with one of those itty-bitty bottles of rum."

"You'll be dehydrated then."

"I know. Want to meet me for drinks? Maybe a little cheese with my whine?"

"How about actual food?"

"I guess." Her stomach was hollow, but she was too hyper to eat. Normally she'd channel her energy into a good workout — either at the gym or in the bedroom — but that was out for the time being. Tomorrow, she'd get back on the treadmill, literally and figuratively. If she never found an appropriate man, at least she'd qualify for the fitness Olympics.

"I need to stop by home first to dump my luggage," she said, tugging at the shoulder strap of the suitcase.

"Meet you there." Jamie lived upstairs from her, in a vintage brownstone in the Village.

"Where are you now?" he asked.

She glanced up. "Almost to the exit. If the taxi line isn't too long, I'll be in the city by —"

"Turn left," Jamie said.

"But —"

"Just do it."