by Elise Noble
The room was nice enough—light, spacious, and with a view over the golf course. Tiny men in poncy trousers strolled from hole to hole while caddies lugged their stuff. Rafael stood behind me, looking over my shoulder.
“What kind of pussy doesn’t carry his own bag?” he asked.
“Don’t knock it. Students need summer jobs.”
“True.” Rafael’s breath tickled my skin. His closeness didn’t bother me anymore, not the way it used to. “I worked as a caddy once.”
“You did?”
“For a month. I needed to kill a politician. I injected him with potassium chloride right after he got a hole-in-one, and everyone thought he had the heart attack out of excitement.”
“Sometimes you scare me.”
“I’d never hurt you, Sky. Not on purpose.”
“I know. But… Fuck, I can’t believe I went from pouring drinks to this.”
“The thought of killing people bothers you?”
I’d spent plenty of nights considering precisely that question and come to the conclusion that no, it didn’t. The logistics made me nervous, but not the outcome. Some people were monsters, and they didn’t deserve the privilege of living. If a man—or a woman—spent their whole life hurting others, why should they get off scot-free? The punishment should fit the crime, and some people had no chance at redemption. They felt no remorse. I’d seen enough scrotes get away with shit on the streets of London to understand suffering, and once millionaires were involved, the amount of harm they could do went up by an order of magnitude. Somebody needed to police them, and there were times when the judicial system couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do its job.
“The thought of getting caught bothers me.”
“So don’t get caught.” Rafael broke his rule, just for a second, and ran a finger over the back of my neck. “I’d break you out of jail, Sunshine.”
“Aw, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
There he was, back to making me feel as if I mattered again. Rafael confused the hell out of me. I half wished Hallie hadn’t mentioned his other women, but at the same time, I was glad I knew what I was dealing with. Forewarned was forearmed.
He stepped back. “Enough distractions; we need to get to work. Find your gun, your body camera, and appropriate footwear for walking outside.”
“I need a gun? Here?”
“Unless you’re wearing a bikini or going through a metal detector, you should be carrying a weapon at all times. Let it become a part of you. That way, you won’t fidget and give the game away because it’s unfamiliar.”
I picked out a loose linen jacket that would cover the subcompact Glock 43 holstered at the small of my back and found a pair of sandals. Sandals. I’d never worn sandals before I came to America. All I’d ever owned was stilettos for work and trainers for everything else. But now I had jewelled leather sandals courtesy of Bradley, the kind of thing Maximus Decimus Meridius might have worn if his final battle had been at Hobby Lobby rather than the Colosseum. On the bright side, I could run in them if I needed to. And probably sword fight too.
Behind me, Rafael grimaced as he unrolled a camping mattress on the floor at the foot of the bed. I felt guilty about that, but Emmy said Black had managed perfectly well on it, so I figured Rafael could cope too. I pinned the brooch with the camera in it onto my pink silk dress, Rafael checked the gun in his ankle holster and draped a sweater over his shoulders, and we were ready to go.
“Time to act like two trust fund babies,” he said, offering me his arm.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
CHAPTER 11 - SKY
THREE DAYS LATER, the moment finally arrived. Preparations weren’t perfect, but we’d done the best we could. Nate, Ravi, and an electronics specialist from Blackwood’s LA office had done a little rewiring work, we knew the main building at the Grove like the backs of our hands, and both Spirit and the Picasso were temporarily ensconced in the ballroom—the Picasso on the wall, and Spirit of the Lake in pride of place on a stand on the stage. There were obvious gaps in our planning—we hadn’t been able to have a full rehearsal, although the team had been practising with a replica layout at Riverley, and there were still question marks over the staff and guests. Tables were booked in the name of the host only, and the Grove seemed to use a lot of agency workers. Who would turn up for the gala was still something of a mystery.
On the bright side, Marshall had landed the job, so at least we didn’t have another team of art thieves to worry about. The Master had thoughtfully sent his confirmation in a “Good Luck” card.
“Ready?” Rafael asked.
“Nearly. Can you help with my zipper?”
We’d all worn long dresses in solidarity with Mack, whose poufy number looked like one of those dolls grandmas put over the spare toilet roll. Except for Rafael’s grandma—she most probably kept a cattle prod in the middle of hers. My dress was made from teal satin, and it fit me like a second skin. Which was a slight problem when it came to underwear. I wasn’t wearing any. And even Rafael had to concede there was nowhere for me to put a gun or even a knife.
“What do you want me to do?” I’d asked as he stood there studying me with a Benchmade Infidel in his hand. It was his favourite model of knife, and it certainly looked the part. A mini black dagger. “Stuff it up my—”
“Okay! Enough. I’ll hold on to it, all right?”
I felt weirdly naked as he slid the zipper up. Vulnerable. I suppressed a shiver and told myself to knock it off. I was the baby of the team, the newbie, and I couldn’t let Emmy or Rafael down. They’d both taken a chance on me.
“Now are you ready?” he asked.
“I just have to finish my make-up and sort out my earpiece.”
Hallie was upstairs in the honeymoon suite, and she’d helped with my hair. Bradley had offered to come to the Grove and assist, but Emmy had vetoed that idea because we were undercover and Bradley didn’t know how to do subtle. I also wondered whether there was an element of her protecting him too. The outcome of this job was far from certain, and although Emmy and Bradley bickered constantly, it was clear they cared about each other.
“In that case, I’ll take one last look at the camera feeds before we head downstairs,” Rafael said. “Back in five.”
I applied lipstick, then put in my earpiece. For the moment, we were in push-to-talk mode, both to save battery power and because it was less annoying. There was a button on my bracelet. Later, for the actual job, we’d run with open channels to give us one less thing to worry about.
Five minutes gone. I figured I’d head for the stairs and meet Rafael halfway. Anything was better than sitting alone with my butterflies.
Well, almost anything.
I was so busy trying to work out what to do with my room card because hello, no pockets, that I walked right into Brock fucking Keaton.
Right. Into. Him.
“Sorry, sorry,” I muttered before I realised who it was. Before the stink of his aftershave burrowed its way into my lungs and choked me.
“No worries.”
There wasn’t the slightest flicker of recognition in his blue eyes. Why would there be? Last time he saw me, I’d been hawking shots in a London nightclub, and now I was on the other side of the world dressed up like a society girl. Besides, he hadn’t exactly spent much time looking at my face.
Tonight, he must have mistaken my horror for awe because after a quick glance at my cleavage, he turned to the gorilla of a bodyguard walking behind him.
“Hey, Frank. Give the lady a signed postcard, would ya?”
The guy thrust a card at me, and the whole entourage carried on along the hallway as it fluttered to the carpet, leaving me clutching at the doorjamb for support. My knees buckled as an iron fist clamped around my chest, squeezing harder, harder, harder. I couldn’t breathe. The air wouldn’t go in. Stuck. Stuck.
What had Rafael told me to do? Think of five things I could see. I tried, but Brock Keaton’s smug face
stayed front and centre of my vision even after he’d gone.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
I managed half a ragged lungful of air before my legs gave way completely, and then I was on the floor. Carpet. I could see carpet. Swirls of pink and cream, all fuzzy and blurry.
“What the fuck, Sky?”
Then I was in Rafael’s arms. He snatched the room card out of my hand and bundled me back through the door. It slammed behind us, and then the tears came, a salty flood that did nothing to wash away the shame and anger and dismay inside me.
I clung to Rafael as he sat on the bed, and after a moment, his arms wrapped around me.
“Shh, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
I’d fucked up yet again.
“He can’t get near you, Sunshine.”
“But he did. He’s here.”
“What?”
That was the first time I’d ever heard Rafael sound shocked.
“He’s right here in the hotel.”
“Are you sure?”
“I didn’t bloody imagine it.”
“Lo siento. I should have known better than to ask.”
A little more air trickled into my lungs, and along with it came Rafael’s musky scent. I let it filter through me, let it push all the cloying fear away. He handed me another pocket square, and I wiped at the mess on my face. There would be no fixing it this time.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Rafael blew out a long breath. “It’s okay. Take a few minutes to calm down and fix your make-up. I’ll let the others know we’re running late.”
“I can’t go to the gala.”
“Don’t talk yourself down. You managed to get through Marshall’s dinner.”
“You don’t understand. He was wearing black-tie. He’s going to be there. When Emmy and the others get started, there’ll be chaos, and if I bump into him in the middle of it…”
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Rafael tore a hand through his hair, and I wished I’d never come to Virginia. Wished I’d never set eyes on him or Riverley because now that I’d had a taste of this life, leaving it would be so much harder. But how could I stay? I cracked under pressure like a rotten egg.
“Just go, okay? Get the job done.”
“Stay in here. We’ll talk about this later.”
I didn’t confirm that I would because there was a good chance I’d have been lying. Instead, I scrambled off Rafael’s lap so he could do what he needed to. Never before had I felt like such a failure, and considering some of the places I’d woken up, that was a big statement to make.
“You’re stronger than you think, Sunshine,” he whispered right before the door clicked shut behind him.
No, I wasn’t. He’d got that completely wrong. In London, I’d acted tough enough to fool Emmy and the rest of them, but in America? I’d been found wanting.
CHAPTER 12 - EMMY
“I LOOK LIKE I’m constipated,” Mack complained.
She was right; she did. But it couldn’t be helped. The problem was that we’d had to build a collapsible frame for the painting, and once it was all rolled up and stuffed between Mack’s legs, it was kind of bulky.
“Most women would kill to have something that long and hard between their legs,” Dan said.
“It’s lumpy. Do most women want herpes?”
“Okay, I see your point.”
“Bless your freaking heart.”
“Just lean on Xav,” I suggested. “Maybe shuffle along?”
“Next time, I’m staying with my computer and you can strap the painting to your leg.”
“I’d have done it this time if I was four inches taller.”
The door opened, and Rafael stomped in. Hadn’t he just left? And why did he look as if he’d swallowed a wasp nest?
“Hallie, get your ass in a dress,” he said.
What the…?
“Wait, wait, wait. Where’s Sky?”
“Sick. Puking her guts up in the bathroom.”
“Since when?”
“Since five minutes ago. She wasn’t feeling great earlier, but she thought she’d be okay, and now she isn’t.”
Oh, fuckety fuck. Still, this was why we had backup plans and backup people. “Hallie, find a damn dress. Dan, can you help with her hair?”
“Sure.” She peered at Rafael’s hand. “What’s that? Why do you have a signed photo of Brock Keaton?”
“It’s nothing. I found it on the floor downstairs.”
“Throw it in the trash. Keaton’s an asshole.”
“Why do you say that?”
“His manager keeps asking Ethan to work with him, but one of Ethan’s session singers says Keaton assaulted her backstage at a charity gig. Stuck his hand up her dress. So Ethan told the manager hell would have to freeze over first, and yet still he keeps calling.”
“If he assaulted someone, he should face the consequences.”
“That’s what Ethan told his singer, but she said it would be her word against Keaton’s and she didn’t want her name dragged through the mud.”
“Ethan believed her?”
“Yeah, he did. But why does that matter to you?”
“Just curious.”
Now wasn’t the time or the place for this conversation. “Be curious another time, okay? Does Sky need a doctor?”
“She says not. It’s probably a virus.”
“Well, let’s hope it’s not food poisoning since we’re all about to eat dinner here.”
Hallie was in the bathroom now, complete with half a dozen spare dresses. For once, I wanted to kiss Bradley for the ridiculous amount of clothes he’d made us bring. Something would fit her. And she was naturally pretty, especially now that she’d filled out a bit, so her make-up wouldn’t take long.
“It’s the curse,” Alaric said in my ear. Nate had a live link to Riverley open so Alaric could hear everything we said. “Told you.”
“Shut the fuck up, Negative Nelly.” I didn’t need that shit, not tonight. “I’m gonna head downstairs with Black to check things out. Ravi, Dan, Xav, Ana, and Quinn—you come next in a group around Mack. Rafael and Hallie can bring up the rear.”
“I found a dress that works,” Hallie called through the door.
“Great. If you need jewellery, there’s plenty in my bag.”
Come on, come on. This was the part of the job I hated most. The waiting. The lull between all the planning and preparation being done and the actual execution. Tonight’s op wasn’t difficult, per se, but there was so much that could go wrong. So many people, any one of whom could react in an unexpected way. I’d almost prefer to face a group of terrorists than try to second-guess what David and Madeleine Fullbright from Connecticut might do when the party turned into a crime scene. At least terrorists were predictable. They shot at you, usually somewhat wildly, and then they lost their heads.
Black held out his arm, and I linked mine through it. I was still really fucking pissed at him. The anger had been simmering away ever since I found out he’d switched Emerald’s pay-off eight years ago, and it wouldn’t cool until he made amends. And by amends, I meant getting Emerald back into the Becker Museum and restoring Alaric’s reputation as far as possible. Half of the intelligence community still thought he was a thief. Black had a ways to go with fixing things, but he was making an effort, so I’d play my part. And even though I didn’t trust him the way I used to, he was the best team leader for the job tonight, of that I was confident.
Time to go.
I pasted on a smile as we walked through the hallways, nodding at the occasional person as we passed. I recognised a few from the fundraiser circuit. Usually, I found gala dinners tedious, but for a rare moment, I was glad we’d been to so many because it meant our presence here tonight wouldn’t be considered at all unusual.
Our table was in the third row back, second from the left as we faced the stage. Being closer would have been handy, but Laurelin Möller had accommoda
ted us as a favour so we could hardly ask to move. When we’d spoken to her earlier, she’d smiled and explained that she thought we might like to sit near the Picasso, forgetting that it was ours so we saw it all the time anyway.
Black and I took our seats, a waiter leapt forward to pour us wine we wouldn’t drink, and I opened the gift bag left beside my chair. It contained a self-help book, a miniature bottle of gin, and a bottle of Chateau Miel’s ZingZing eye cream among other things. I’d need all of it if I survived tonight. In the meantime, the bags just gave us something else to trip over.
Mack and co. appeared in the doorway, and when I saw the two guards stationed there start turning towards her, I pushed my water glass off the table. Oops.
The tactic worked. The pair—and the other half-dozen members of the security team dotted around the room—all swung their heads in my direction, and Mack made it to her seat without incident.
Objective one: achieved.
The waitstaff cleared up the mess and replaced my glass, and I forced a giggle.
“A thousand apologies. I’m such a butterfingers.”
“Not a problem, ma’am. Accidents happen.”
A band struck up on stage, and rather than the usual classical, Laurelin had gone for rock-slash-pop. As a “special last-minute treat,” Brock Keaton got up and sang what I presumed were his greatest hits, but in my opinion, they weren’t so great. Perhaps I was getting old? The younger guests seemed to be enjoying the performance. Maybe Sky would have too if she’d been there? At thirty-four, I was technically old enough to be her mother, which was a terrifying thought. Although not as terrifying as actually being a mother. I was fine with parachuting into hostile territory to assassinate a well-guarded despot, but the idea of having responsibility for a tiny person I couldn’t communicate with scared the crap out of me.
Three, two, one, back in the room, bitch.
While Keaton sang or lip-synced or whatever, Mack extricated the rolled-up painting from under her skirt, and after we’d eaten our appetisers, we began the fiddly task of assembling the frame. Rune and Beth had designed it and spent the last week turning it into a reality—a wooden affair with tiny hidden clips that kept it rigid once they’d been slid into place. We’d spent half of Thursday practising with a dummy canvas under a table in the ballroom at Riverley, and now we knew how to assemble the thing with our eyes shut. The final step yesterday had been to attach the just-about-dry-enough forgery for one last run-through. As we went through the moves for real, the other guests were too busy watching Keaton and his hip thrusts to notice the slight movements of the tablecloth.
