Sadie flicked a glance at her sister and smiled for real this time. Clarissa’s face was still drawn and she still had bruise-like circles under her eyes, but she was in her element talking about fashion, and seemed lit from within.
“Now, is this a super chic-chic kind of black tie thing or is this more of a cocktails and hors d’oeuvres type of thing?”
Clarissa grilled her for the rest of the ride and, less than an hour later, she found herself at Play It Again Samantha’s Frock Shoppe trying on the last of four dresses her sister had picked for her. All of them had been stunning and all of them had cost more than she made at Roberto's in a week.
She peered down at the tag of the one she was wearing and gasped. “Four hundred dollars?” She popped her brows at Clarissa, who sat on a little chair in the corner tsking and shaking her head like her own personal Tim Gunn.
“You can't look at it like that. It's an investment,” her sister reasoned. “Do you want to be known as the girl who showed up at a fancy gala wearing a cheap-ass dress? It’s gorgeous. It’s Prada. Make it work.”
Four hundred dollars, though. And that didn't even account for the shoes. Even with the ten bucks she’d found in her jeans that morning, she was still --she mathed mentally and frowned-- two-hundred and eighty dollars short.
She turned to face the mirror again and opened her mouth to argue.
“That's the one, sis, so cut the crap. You look amazing. Like, seriously. Angelina Jolie Oscar worthy. J-Lo at the Grammy's kind of deal.” Her sister sniffed in mock disgust. “Who woulda guessed that underneath that beautiful dress is an oatmeal-colored sports bra and a pair of Wonder Woman boy-cut underpants.”
“Hey! I like my superhero panty collection. They make me feel powerful. Like I can kick-ass and take names if I need to.”
“Well, I'll tell you what's not kick-ass. That god awful hair-don't you’re rocking.” Clarissa closed one eye and framed Sadie with her fingers like a picture. “I'm thinking blowout. Fat waves, lots of body, loose and shiny. What do you think? We can stop at Tina's Salon and have her do it.”
Sadie was still doing mental gymnastics trying to figure how she was going to pay for the dress. Now she lifted a hand to her sloppy topknot and cringed. She’d planned on saving a few bucks and putting her own hair in an updo, but her sister's eyes were filled with a spark she hadn't seen in months. She was having a blast getting her dolled up for her night out, and Sadie didn’t have the heart to let her down. Some things were more precious than money. She’d just have to find a way to work it out.
“Okay,” she said, turning to face her sister. “And then we'll get yours done too. If you let me buy you a Cinnabon first and scarf down the whole thing, along with a Jamba Juice.”
Clarissa's smile dimmed a little and she shook her head. “That's a silly waste. My hair’s still too short for a style. And no one is even going to see it except the nurses at the hospital.”
She pulled her gaze away, but not before Sadie saw the wistful look in her eyes.
“Puh-lease,” she snorted. “You lay around in bed all day surrounded by hot doctors. I'm pretty sure there’s no better time to make sure your hair is looking good. Especially now that you're feeling a little better. I let you slide for a couple weeks, but come on, sis, there’s no earthly reason for the lack of lip gloss and those nails?” She sent a disparaging look at Clarissa’s un-manicured fingertips. “How about a shape-up and polish while we're there?”
It was impulsive. It was short-sighted. It was positively frivolous. But the look on her sister's face was worth whatever it cost, tenfold.
She was beaming.
“Okay. But not Cinnabon. I’m hungry for food-food. Get that dress off and we’ll go next door to Chuck's Chicken Shack. I'm about to clean them out.”
Sadie laughed as Clarissa called over the dressing room door to the saleswoman who'd helped them.
“We’ll take it!”
When she left Clarissa four hours later, her sister was exhausted, a little paler, but gorgeous and still beaming. They'd passed the security guard at the front desk, Grace the receptionist and one of her regular nurses on their way in, and every one of them had fawned all over Clarissa’s new haircut.
Sadie made her way out the rotating hospital door, feeling lighter and more positive than she had in months. While she sent Clarissa to Chuck’s Chicken next door, she and the saleswoman at the dress shop had made a deal. So long as Sadie returned the dress in good condition the next day, she could rent it for the bargain price of fifty dollars. Everything was going her way. She'd needed this. Some silver linings. Some time with Clarissa to remind her what it was all for. And her sister had needed it too. Now, Sadie felt renewed. Refreshed.
A tiny nugget of hope bloomed in her chest as she started her car on the first try. Maybe today had been a sign of things to come and tonight was going to be a game changer for them.
In a few hours, she’d hop into the back of her rented limo and spend the evening with Alistair Hannigan.
And when it was over, just maybe, she could close this chapter of her life and start fresh…
Chapter Three
Jake took a long pull from his glass of scotch and looked around the room. Opulence was apparently the theme of the day for this event. From the trays piled high with lobster tempura and shrimp puffs, to the flutes filled with Moet and Dom, it was a high class affair. Once this was over for good¸ he vowed to spend the next six months eating nothing but fish and chips and the occasional burger. He was full to the gills of all the fussy food and drink.
"So I look up and there's this Italian woman standing in the doorway, and let me tell you, she was en fuego.” Alistair bit his knuckles and rolled his eyes for effect. “Ass for days.”
As his host prattled on, Jake tried to recall a time he'd been more bored, but he was coming up empty. An hour in and all he'd been able to find out that he hadn't already known was that, during parties, Hannigan closed off the personal wing of the house. Not because he feared anyone stealing from him, he'd explained. It was because the house was so big, people would get lost and it would take them hours to find their way back to the party.
Jake had nodded like he was impressed, but the boasts and jokes were grinding on his nerves more and more every day.
He should be happy. After all this time, he’d finally gotten into the hive of the bee. He’d played it perfectly, making Alistair all but beg him to show up tonight. Now that he had, he was Hannigan’s new favorite. All he had to do was stay aloof, stringing him along with this bogus investment opportunity until he was able to get the information he needed.
You're almost through. See it to the end now, man.
He tossed back the last of his scotch, setting his glass down on the nearest empty table. Tomorrow, he'd give it a rest. Drop a line in water, enjoy the weather, have a long think out on the boat. Maybe Mike would be able to take half a day and join him. It had been months since he’d spent any time with his brother, and he was sick of avoiding him.
"Well, when I was done with her, she could hardly walk," Hannigan continued, face stretched into a leer.
Jake forced a tight smile, but even that made him feel oily so he excused himself to the men's room, leaving Alistair staring after him. Bollocks. He had to get his head back in the game or he'd never be done. Half the battle was getting the inside track. Making Alistair want to impress him. Maybe even get him to brag about something other than his female conquests. It required trust. If he didn't have that, he had nothing, and all these years would've been wasted.
He'd just managed to get his head right and re-enter the ballroom when he saw her. A woman in a gold dress. Maybe “dress” wasn't the right word for it. It was a second skin, really. A waterfall of effervescent fabric so thin, so sheer, that it cascaded over her body like water. Her hair was black as pitch and tumbled down her bare back in a mass of waves, nearly touching her pert backside.
His cock went instantly hard and he reached out and pl
ucked a glass of champagne off a passing tray to wet his suddenly dry throat. Who the fuck was that, and why wouldn't she turn around?
"Countess Ilya Van Bergen,” Alistair said, sidling toward him. “Word is that she's only in the States for a few more weeks. Here raising money for an arts school in Bavaria. I'll tell you what, I'll give those starving artists fifty grand if she'd bend over and let me get a little paint on that canvas, if you know what I mean."
Jake tuned him out, totally enthralled with the woman in front of him as she turned, giving him her profile. He hated the thought of staring at her the way Hannigan was, but he couldn’t look away, either. From this angle, he could tell her face was as lovely as her figure, featuring full lips, wide eyes with impossibly thick lashes and a long, elegant neck that he had the sudden urge to nip.
"I'm going in," Alistair said. "Wish me luck."
Apparently it was a rhetorical request so he didn't wait for Jake’s blessing, which was good, because he wasn’t going to get it. In fact, Jake had to grip the side of the mahogany bar to keep from physically restraining the bastard so he couldn’t get his greasy paws all over that beautiful woman. He'd just have to hope his game was as terrible as the shit he talked to the guys he spent time with because, if that was the case, surely a woman like that would send him packing in a New York minute.
But she didn't.
Jake watched from his spot by the bar as Alistair Hannigan seemed to charm the knickers off the young Countess. He still couldn't see her face, but her shoulders shook with laughter at points, and she'd reached up and toyed with both Alistair's lapel and his hair in the past few minutes. He was no expert, but he’d had his share of women and to his mind that was a sure sign of interest.
He shook off the passing disappointment, set down the too-sweet champagne and ordered a second scotch. It was better this way. He might not be able to get the information he needed tonight, but he still had to be on top of his game and Countess Van Bergen would have split his attentions. Not to mention, she clearly had terrible taste, so she and Hannigan made a perfect pair. What he couldn't allow, though, was for her to monopolize Alistair's time. Tonight, it was crucial that he not only get a tour of the place, but also whet Hannigan’s appetite about the investment deal again. If not tonight, he'd have to go to the poker game on Friday as well, and he wasn't sure his stomach could take even one more story about how he'd made this woman scream so loud, the housekeeper called the police because she thought someone had been murdered.
He scooped up his drink and handed the bartender a five dollar tip before crossing the room to where Alistair and the Countess stood, heads bent together like childhood conspirators, chuckling.
"Alistair, there you are. A word, please?"
Hannigan met his gaze with a sulky frown that would have looked less out of place on a fifteen-year-old boy. "Little busy here right now, Callahan."
"Apologize, just need a quick second…"
He felt, rather than saw, the second set of eyes trained on him and turned his head to meet the Countess's irritated gaze, nearly jerking in surprise. Not because she was as beautiful up close as she’d been a half dozen yards away, although she was. Stunning, actually. Wide-set blue eyes were a stunning foil for all that black hair. The effect made her look more gypsy than Countess. But what was even more shocking was that he'd seen that face before. Sure, it had been hidden under a pair of unflattering glasses and obscured by terrible blondish fringe, and yes, those eyes had been the darkest of browns and not blue, but that face? He would know it anywhere.
Sadie the Waitress.
Mind racing, he tipped his head and tried to block everything else out and observe. Her expression gave away nothing, but that posture, the way she held herself, and that mouth? She was a dead ringer. Could she be a doppelganger? Or a twin, maybe?
Not likely. Sadie was a waitress. Odds of her having a true twin who was a Countess were near impossible. But he'd never seen two people look so similar, in spite of the trappings around them.
Which left only one explanation.
"Have we met before?" he asked softly, keeping his gazed locked with hers. To her credit, she didn't even flinch. In fact, the responding confusion knitting her smooth brow and the questioning tilt of her head were so convincing, if he was someone else, he might have let his wild conspiracy theory go right then and there.
But he wasn't someone else. He was Jake Callahan, con artist extraordinaire, son of Scotland Yard’s most decorated detective, and his young Countess had a tell.
"I don't believe so. But then, I travel extensively, perhaps we've crossed paths at one time or another." Her red lips curved into a gracious smile, but all the while, the pulse in her neck was beating like a drum at a ceili. "Countess Ilya Van Bergen. And you are?"
She held out an elegant hand and he took it in his, letting his fingers trail over her wrist down her palm where he found exactly what he'd been looking for. Soft, familiar skin.
"Jake Callahan.” What are you playing at, pretty Sadie? “You know, Countess, I'm usually a crack-shot at guessing accents, but I can't place yours."
“I’m from Bavaria.”
"Ah, German,” he said with a nod. “Ich spreche ein wenig Deutsch.”
Her eyes widened just a bit and he almost grinned.
Gotcha.
But then she wrinkled her nose and winked. "Nicht sehr gut, leider.”
He barked out a laugh, unable to hold it in. Witty and sexy. A lethal combination if there ever was one, and he had no doubt this girl was trouble.
“What’s so funny?” Alistair demanded.
“I was telling the Countess here that I speak some German and she very graciously let me know that, while that may be technically true, I don’t speak it very well. She’s right about that. I think it’s the Irish coming through.” He’d learned just enough of four major languages --French, Spanish, Italian, and German-- to get by, but his German accent was shit. The thing was, he’d heard it enough to know that hers was almost as bad.
If this woman was a Countess, he would eat his proverbial hat.
"Mr. Hannigan and I were just talking about my foundation for the arts. If you have something more important than charity that you need him for, though…?"
Whatever fear she'd felt when she'd thought he recognized her was gone now, replaced by determination. She wasn't a hundred percent sure whether he’d bought what she was selling or not, but either way, it wasn't going to sway her from whatever she was about with this little farce. He’d liked her spunk, and he was intrigued beyond belief, but he couldn’t let her interfere with his plans.
"Hold that thought, Countess,” Alistair said with a frown as he peered down at the mobile phone in his hand. “I have some business I need to take care of. Give me five minutes.”
He strode off and Sadie the Countess Waitress stared after him like he was the last life boat on the Titanic.
She sucked in a breath and turned back to Jake with a cheery smile. "I should probably take a moment to step into the powder room and freshen up," she murmured and made to sweep past him in a cloud of citrus perfume that made him want to lean closer and smell her nape. Before she got by him, he reached out and clasped his fingers lightly over her wrist.
"Why don't you dance with me first?" Said the spider to the fly.
She stiffened and he could tell she was about to refuse but when she met his gaze, to his surprise, she nodded. "Certainly. Maybe we can use the time to talk about my foundation."
The surge of disbelief that followed her words was only eclipsed by the surge of admiration. That was the second mention of what he was almost one hundred percent certain was a fake charity run by a fake Countess.
Sadie the Countess Waitress wasn’t sure if he recognized her or not, but in the interim, she was trying to work him over.
The irony of it all was enough to make him want to belly laugh. How long had it been since he’d felt that way?
Too long. But as much as he was enjoying t
his little detour from his regularly scheduled program, he needed to get to the bottom of this before it actually became a problem. Now that he was in the villain’s lair and in the middle of the only con that ever mattered, he couldn’t allow himself be swayed.
He led his companion to the dance floor just as the band struck up another song.
The plan had been to call her out right there, while she was trapped in his arms. Flat out ask her who the hell she was trying to fool. Tell her he knew who she was, and send her packing.
Until she’d looped her arms around his neck, and her soft breasts had brushed his hard chest, and then the very last thing he wanted was for her to go away.
He couldn't deny that a part of him, long dormant, had come roaring back to life the second he'd seen her. The past few years especially, this thing with Hannigan had consumed him and it seemed like his joy for life was leaking out of him one drop at a time. Now, though, with the mysterious Sadie’s lithe body pressed against his and her scent filling his head, he felt alive again, and made a split second decision.
He'd still have to set her straight and send her on her way soon enough, but for now? For just a minute, he was going to kick this game of cat and mouse into high gear and have some fun…
***
Irish Spring soap.
The scent had haunted her since they’d collided at the restaurant and she’d practically plastered herself against him, swiping at his muscular chest with that bar rag. She’d figured it was him right off. He was the only guy with enough confidence to skip the cologne, but the fact that she’d known it all along didn’t make it any easier to think straight this time or the last.
In fact, being this close to the man again and trying to think at all was an exercise in futility.
He was so tall and broad, she should’ve felt dwarfed by him, even in her high heels. Instead, it was like their bodies had been sculpted to fit one another. Not cool. He was already suspicious of her at the very least, and what she needed to do was find out exactly how suspicious, so she could determine whether to scrap plan A and move to plan B.
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