Just as she was plotting a way to get him to sit down and talk before she melted into a puddle at his feet, he tipped his head so that his lips were close to her ear, and a puff of warm breath sent a shiver through her.
"That dress should come with a bloody fire extinguisher,” he murmured.
So should that accent, she wanted to reply, but she managed to restrain herself. He was a wedge. A barrier between where she was and where she needed to be. Time to kick it out of the way and move things along.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said with a smile, hoping against hope he didn’t test her rusty German again. Luckily, this wasn’t her first rodeo as a Bavarian aristocrat, so she’d muddled through, but it had been a close call. Her dad had been a big proponent of preparedness to the point of overkill, and it was exactly that overkill that saved her bacon more times than she could count. What she still didn’t know for sure was whether it had saved her tonight…
“So tell me, Mr. Callahan, how do you know Alistair?”
“We’re business associates.” He pulled back to gaze down at her. “And you?”
“We just met this evening, actually,” she replied through her suddenly dry lips. “We had corresponded via email for several months when I contacted him about a painting I was interested in acquiring. We got to discussing our passion for art and my organization, and he invited me to the gala.”
She ran the tip of her tongue over her mouth, flushing when his eyes followed the motion, his pupils dilating as they did. An ache started in her belly and spread lower. Jesus, all he’d done was look at her and she wanted to jump his bones. Maybe it was the thrill of it all. The chemistry of a healthy female in close proximity to a sexy man in a risky, adrenaline-charged situation.
He chose that moment to twirl her, and then pull her back in, flush against him.
“And what do you do when you’re not…Counting?” he asked, flashing that panty-melting grin again.
“A little of this, a little of that,” she whispered lamely, her brain temporarily glitching out as the heat of his body fried her motherboard. What the hell was going on here? She pulled back, putting some space between them, and took a steadying breath. Think about Clarissa.
“And you? Do you deal in art and antiquities as well?”
"No. I’m an investor. But you probably already know that, don’t you, Sadie?"
Busted.
She willed herself to stay loose and fluid in his arms as her heart banged wildly against her ribs. To not tense up and pull back and let her eyes pop open like a cartoon character. It was only years of training that allowed her to work up a smile and tilt her head back to look up at him in spite of the riot going on inside her.
"Excuse me?"
Okay, so it wasn’t looking good, but maybe she could still talk her way out of this. It wasn't like all was lost if she could keep him in the dark and get out of Dodge before he asked too many questions. He and Alistair were clearly friends --which in and of itself should’ve marked him as a grade A asshole worthy of her scorn-- but they weren't tied at the hip. Even if she didn't have time to charm Alistair out of a hefty wad of cash tonight, she still had other ways to get his money when Jake Callahan wasn’t around. If only she could come up with a plausible excuse to buy a little time and escape the formidable prison of his arms before he pressed the issue.
"Coy doesn't suit you, Sadie. And frankly, neither did that dishwater blond hair. The dark is much more flattering. Perfect, really. Now if we get rid of the contacts…”
She could feel her cheeks going hot, but she refused to break eye contact, knowing it would be a dead giveaway, broadcasting her guilt.
“What say we be honest with one another, yeah?” he said, not missing a step as the song ended and flowed into another. “You tell me what you're doing here and I'll tell you what gave you away so you don't do it in the future. Deal?"
It was tempting. A little. She was pretty sure she knew. She’d gotten too close back at the restaurant. Let him see her.
But what if it was something else? It would haunt her, the not knowing. Maybe her accent had faltered. Or maybe it was the dress? It was used, but it looked new. Maybe she should've gotten something brand new from this season. Or, just maybe, it was him. She prided herself on her disguises, and blending in when she had to, but maybe he had a knack for faces.
As much as she wanted to know, though, there was one hard and fast rule for the Leighton clan when it came to grifting. The rule that came even before rule number one.
Never tell.
Never never never. Didn't matter if they had you dead to rights. With enough tears and enough illusion and deception, there was still a chance to wriggle out of it and she wasn't going down until the fat lady sang.
"In truth, you are making me a little nervous, good sir. I'm not certain who this…Sadie, is it?” She shrugged and shook her head, keenly aware that her German accent had gone all British Victorian miss, for some reason. “I'm not sure who this woman is to you, but I can assure you, I am not her. Now, I'm feeling parched and would love to head back and get another glass of champagne."
She firmed up her stance and tried to wrestle the lead from him, steering him in the direction of the bar, but he was quick and light on his feet, and managed a neat little turn, leading her back to the center of the floor again effortlessly.
"Come now, Sadie.” Even with that ever-present musical lilt, he still managed to sound disappointed. “I've pieced together a lot of things about you but I hadn't marked you for a coward."
He’d made her nervous as hell, but nothing else he'd said had gotten her back up until now, and she jerked back to glare at him.
"You don't know me at all, and unless you want to carry your balls home in a doggy bag, you should refrain from calling me a coward again. Good sir," she added with a sweet smile. The accent had totally shit the bed by then, but she didn’t care anymore. She was a lot of things, but she was nobody's coward. That topped the list of the worst things one person could call another.
To her surprise and his credit, the light in his eyes dimmed and he nodded. "Absolutely right, lass. I apologize. But if I'm to give you the benefit of the doubt, maybe you could give me just a little taste. A hint of the truth. If you tell me one true thing about you, I'll let you walk out of here scot-free. I won’t call the cops and won't say a word to anyone about your identity. You have my word as a man on that."
Oddly enough, she had the feeling that meant something to him. She'd made a living reading people, and something told her this man's word meant as much to him as her lack of cowardice meant to her. So she considered it, honest and truly.
Could she tell him some vague detail that would lead to him letting her go? There was no question that, if he chose to, he could send the whole thing tumbling down. She hadn't committed a crime --yet-- but having to explain why she’d pretended to be a Countess who didn't actually exist and lied to Alistair would make things very sticky and bring attention her way that she definitely didn't need. Worse, it would render these past few weeks useless. With Clarissa's medical bills piling up, she didn't have the months she’d need to vet a new mark properly and go through this whole process again before another came past due.
No. If they wanted to keep their heads even close to above the rising water, she couldn't walk away from this one. And if making a deal with this Irishman was the only way to move forward, she would do it. Time to get her Rumpelstiltskin working.
"All right. So I tell you one true thing, any thing, you let me walk out. No cops, and you swear not to rat me out to Alistair. Have I got that exactly right?"
He inclined his head, his grin lighting his gray eyes to the color of heated mercury. "That's the deal, lass." He twirled her toward one of the empty balconies. “And if you dig deep and tell me something good, I might even let you kiss me.”
"What makes you think I want to kiss you?" she asked, her throat going so tight, the words came out on a choked gasp. Not what one would
hope when trying to convince a man she wasn't interested. It didn’t help that her heart was pounding so hard he could’ve heard it from five yards away.
"I don't think it, lass." He dipped her backward over his arm and flashed that dimple. "I know it."
He couldn’t be more right. And if he kissed her, she knew she’d be lost.
She took a quick look over her shoulder, panic threatening to drag her under. If she didn’t get away from him, she was liable to do something even more stupid than she was about to do.
She pressed her hands to his chest until he straightened, pulling her up with him.
"Okay, then. One true thing about tonight." She rolled up onto her tiptoes and whispered into his ear. "I'm not wearing any underwear.”
The shock-value of her words was enough to make him slacken his grip and, the second he did, she wrenched herself from his grasp.
Then, with a wriggle of her fingers, she jumped, ass-first off the balcony.
Chapter Four
Sadie the Countess Waitress had jumped two stories into a row of blooming hydrangeas to escape him.
Unreal.
He’d had time to sleep on it and reflect, but still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. At first, he didn’t know what she was about. She’d backed them up to the low railing, giving him a come hither smile, and he thought he might actually get that kiss.
Then, swoosh. Right over the bloody side.
Heart in his throat, he’d made a lunge for her, but she was already half the distance to the ground from the second story. He slumped in relief when she landed like a pro --aside from the muffled oof-- and rolled to her feet. She’d even spared him a wink before she tugged off her heels, straightened the dress that had rolled up to her waist, and started running. But not before he realized, holy mother of Christ, she hadn’t been lying.
She really wasn’t wearing any underwear.
His blood ran hot now just thinking about it. The real kicker, though? When he’d gone to tip the valet he found out the little scamp had also stolen his wallet.
He should’ve been furious, but for some reason, the very idea that she managed to get the drop on him like that only made him want her more. The question now was, what to do about her?
Nothing, his brain supplied helpfully. Absolutely nothing. He had a job to do and she was a hindrance at best and a catastrophe waiting to happen at worst. Not to mention that, until he did what needed doing, getting involved with a woman who was already taking up far more mental real estate than she should, was a terrible idea.
So then why was every instinct blaring at him to go find her? To figure out what her game was and, just as urgently, if she was even half as hot for him as he was for her.
He shook off the thought for the dozenth time today. No, as long as she stayed away from Alistair --and she would, because now that her cover was blown, surely she wouldn’t show her face again-- Jake would leave her be.
For now.
Once Alistair Hannigan was dealt with? All bets were off.
Now, as he gazed out into the open sea with the warm June sun on his face, he realized he was smiling just thinking about seeing her again.
“What’s so funny?” Mike asked from his spot at the captain’s chair, pulling him from his reverie.
Jake spared a glance at his older brother and raised his beer bottle high in the air. “Women.”
“Can’t live with ‘em, but damn, they sure are soft and warm.” Mike snorted out a rueful laugh, holding up his water bottle in kind before taking a swallow. “What are you complaining about, though? I didn’t even think you had a woman. Keeping in mind, it makes perfect sense that I wouldn’t know considering we live in the same city but I never see you.”
Guilt pricked at Jake and he made a show of reeling in his line like maybe he’d gotten a nibble. He’d known when he invited his brother to go fishing odds were Mike was going to give him a raft of shit about not being around the past few months, but they’d been out on the water for two hours now and already he’d brought it up three times.
“I don’t have a woman, exactly. Just one in particular on my mind, is all.”
Mike’s stormy blue gaze narrowed on Jake’s face and Jake could almost hear the gears grinding.
“That’s good to hear. You know, it’s been a long time now that Pop’s been gone. Seven years next month. Now that Ma is gone too, do you think maybe it’s time to start living again?”
And there was the rub. The exact reason he spent more time avoiding his brother than he did in his company. Same speech, different day.
“I’m not a monk. I have lady friends I take out for meals and the like,” he muttered, wishing he’d remembered to bring his headphones.
“I’m not talking about fucking.”
Funny how Mike had forced the better part of the Emerald Isle from his voice over the past couple years, but when he swore, there was no hiding it.
“I’m talking about connecting with people, brother mine.”
Jake hitched one ankle over the other and went stonewall, staring out at the water. There was no point in trying to explain it all again because Mike would never understand. Until he avenged their father, there would be no connecting. Not with anyone. Once he lost focus, the anger would settle to a slow burn, taking a backseat to other things…other relationships. It was only a matter of time before it cooled to an ember and then winked out altogether. He’d pretend it never happened and the world would go on thinking his father was a dirty cop.
He deserved better than that.
“Fine. But you’re being a stubborn asshole,” Mike finally said, blowing out an exasperated sigh before settling back against his seat.
Time for a change of subject before they let this ruin yet another day together.
"How are things at the station?"
When Pop had passed away, twenty-three-year-old Mike had stayed the course, moving back to Ireland with their grief-stricken mother and charging ahead with his plans to become a detective so he could follow in their father’s footsteps. His goal was to live his life and work his way up the chain. Someday, he hoped to find himself in a position to take down Alistair Hannigan, and he would do it by the book.
But Jake wasn’t content to wait for someday. He also knew that Alistair was just one of many people responsible for what happened to his father, and he didn’t give fuck all about “the book”.
He wanted blood.
So he’d stayed in London alone at the age of twenty-two, abandoned his beloved cabinet-making business and put every spare moment into becoming Jake Callahan, venture capitalist. It took him three years of business school, studying languages and learning investment techniques, but he was smart and determined, and pretty soon, he had the connections and the capital to pick off his first target.
Chief Inspector Harold Pierce. He had been key in the frame-up of their father Tom, and at the top of Jake’s list. Pierce had been on the take, and Tom knew it, so when Alistair Hannigan needed someone on the inside to help, he was happy to do it, if only to get Tom out of his hair.
Three and a half years after Tom’s arrest and subsequent death, Pierce got his just desserts.
Jake created a fake identity as a Russian mafia money-man. Over the course of a year, he established a relationship with the chief, fabricating some illegal dealings going on in London and paying Pierce envelopes full of cash to look the other way. Then, as Pierce began wiring that money to an offshore bank, Jake used his connections to get the numbers and passwords for his accounts. A quick root through the man’s trash to find a sample of his signature, and voila. Instant access to what turned out to be one point two million pounds, only a third of which was from Jake. Quite a hefty bottom line for a public servant.
The next day, Pierce was dead broke, with nothing left but broken dreams and an email instructing him to resign the next day or risk being exposed as the dirty copper he was. Pierce resigned, and Jake, vengeful bastard that he was, exposed him anyway. Then,
he took every pound of that one point two million and sent it to Pierce’s ex-wife Anna who he’d dumped when they’d had a late-in-life-daughter born with Down Syndrome.
Jake had checked up on them since. Anna was re-married and had a beautiful home in Leeds and a husband who cared for her daughter like she was his own.
And it had been so easy. All Jake had to do was give Pierce enough rope to hang himself, and he’d done it. In the years since, he’d taken down four others who had contributed to his father’s death in one way or another. Alistair Hannigan was the last of them. He might not have been the hand that held the blade, but he was the catalyst that had started it all and Jake couldn’t wait to see his life in ruins.
For the most part, Mike had stayed out of his way and they’d operated under an unspoken “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. But when their mother passed away and Hannigan moved his headquarters from London to New York City two years ago, Jake had followed. And so had Mike.
He now worked for NYPD as a Major Case Squad detective.
"Things have been pretty busy,” Mike said in a tight voice. “Stressful."
Jake had figured as much. His brother seemed tense and pre-occupied all morning long. He had hoped it would wear off as the sea air worked its magic, but so far, no luck.
"More so than usual?” he asked, tugging his line and giving his pole a jiggle. They hadn’t gotten a single bite, but he'd scarfed down two hulking roast beef sandwiches from Gold’s Deli on Fourth Street and an ice cold bottle of lager, so he was still feeling pretty all right about his accomplishments for the day.
"I’ve got a lead on Hannigan. Me and my partner have been running it down, and so far, nothing, but we’re close. I can feel it.” His brother's sharp blue eyes locked with Jake’s, and sent a jolt through him that made the beer go sour in his belly.
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