"Hey guys," she whispered as they ran in her direction. Didn't matter that they'd already run this drill twice. When two ninety-pound Rottweilers came barreling at a body, it was hard not to get a little nervous. Her already pounding heart beat double-time until they slowed in front of her and began to lick her outstretched hands.
"Hello there, big fella, how's your night going? Your asshole daddy playing poker, I hope?"
The dogs kept licking away, drenching her fingers in slobber until she reached into her pocket and pulled out two, meaty rib bones.
"Have fun," she whispered and tossed them a few feet away. Her fair weather friends followed the food and she jogged unimpeded the rest of the way to the house.
She wiped her hands on her pants, and donned a pair of black gloves, the only real nod to her profession. The rest of her was frumped out in a servant’s shapeless housecoat with padding underneath for effect and her powdered hair in a bun. On quick inspection, she could pass for forty-five and definitely looked like she was carrying an extra thirty pounds around the middle. As much as she loved the freedom of movement and the way a stretchy pair of black pants and a fitted top made her feel like a Bond girl, this was far safer. If Alistair happened to catch her in the house, she was screwed either way, but at least if one of his guests bumped into her when they left the poker room, they likely wouldn't look twice at her.
She lowered her bag onto the ground, sidling up to the kitchen window. It was far enough from the poker room that she wouldn't be heard if she made a little noise, which was precisely why she’d picked it. She rooted through her bag and pulled out several tools: Glass cutter, wire cutters and a suction cup. She pressed her finger to her ear again, using her headphones to amplify any area ambient noise, but heard nothing alarming. If the dogs had gotten Alistair’s attention with their initial barking, there was no indication of it.
She flipped on the glass cutter and settled it against the window. With breath suspended, she began to cut. This was always the scariest part. She knew she hadn't forgotten anything, knew that it should go off without a hitch, but every time she breached the exterior of a house --whether by using a duplicate key or through a window of balcony-- she couldn't help but flinch and wait for the alarms to blare.
All was silent, though, as she worked slowly and meticulously, cutting a perfect, tennis ball sized circle into the glass. When there was only an inch between the end of one line and the beginning of the other, she paused and laid the suction cup against the circle, pressing softly until it held. A moment later, she completed the circle and set down the cutting tool.
Again, she paused to check her watch, relieved to find she’d only used up three minutes. She was making great time. At this rate, she'd be home and counting her money by midnight. Maybe she'd even have a glass of wine before bed to celebrate.
She re-focused on the task, holding a hand to the window before giving the suction cup a sharp, steady tug.
It came free without incident and she couldn't help a little fist pump of adulation. Next came the wire cutters, and she palmed them in one expert hand as she reached through the hold and felt for the wires she knew were there. It took some doing, but she finally located the one she needed and held her breath as she clipped it.
Again, silence reigned.
All good. Time to get in and then, hopefully, get out. She packed everything she'd used back into her bag, and then hitched it back onto her shoulder. She pushed open the window with a mighty shove, pausing to take a steadying breath.
You got this, kid.
She rubbed her gloved hands together and grabbed hold of the sill, using it to hoist herself into the window and onto the marble countertop. The place looked like a freaking showroom, making up for the lack of warmth with straight up glam. All white, from the gleaming travertine floors to the cabinets, the only color was the bottom of the high-shine copper pots hanging from a rack that circled above the granite island.
She shimmied to the edge of the countertop and dropped lightly to her feet. Then, she pulled a large stone from her bag and laid it on the floor along with the circle of glass, which she crunched underfoot. She eyed her handiwork with a nod before turning back to the window. It was a quick matter of taking out a tiny soldering iron to fix the wiring at the window and then roughing up the edges of the glass in the pane to make it look like some vandals had just tossed a rock through it.
The longer it took for Hannigan to realize he was robbed, the better.
She packed her gear away and padded slowly from the kitchen into the foyer and eyed the wide staircase. The poker room was up and to the right, tucked in the corner of the west wing. Luckily, Alistair’s bedroom was down the opposite hallway. She slunk up the stairs and made the seemingly endless trek down the hallway, not daring to breathe until she was inside the dimly lit bedroom. Once there, she worked quickly and efficiently.
Just like she’d figured, Alistair was careless with his trinkets in the way only a person who thought they had an endless supply of them was. His walk-in closet had an entire shelf dedicated to watches and cufflinks. Rather than take them all, she selected the best of the Rolexes from the back row and then rearranged the rest to hide the space.
Next, she chose two pairs of diamond cuff links from the dozen there, easily worth five grand apiece. She paused then, eyes lighting on a crooked painting on the back wall of the closet.
People were so predictable. She moved toward it with a sense of purpose, her hands trembling with a fresh rush of adrenaline. Could be anything in that safe, and she couldn’t wait to--
"Good evening, Countess."
The voice was so familiar, the accent so distinct, she didn’t need to turn to see who was behind her.
Fuck fuck fuck.
She squeezed her eyes closed, heart slamming so hard, she wondered if it could take the abuse.
Christ, who was this guy, Nostradamus? Criss Angel? Frigging Beelzebub himself? How was it that he seemed to catch her over and over again? It couldn't simply be a case of right place right time…
She wouldn’t let herself travel down that rabbit hole right now. What mattered now was talking her way out of this mess. A part of her wanted to just throw caution to the wind and tear ass out of the house to her car. Her instincts were telling her that he wouldn’t physically hurt her if she tried. He could’ve done that the last time he found her up to no good. If she could get past him, maybe...
But she couldn't afford to roll the dice on a maybe. Sure, could be that hitting a woman wouldn't sit well on his conscience, but that didn't mean he wouldn't do it. And even if he didn't want to hurt her, he definitely wanted something. The question was, what?
Slowly, she shifted her now sweaty fist to the front of her uniform and slipped the cufflinks and the watch between the buttons of her house dress and into the waistband of her underwear.
She turned and stood stock still. "Good evening, Mr. Callahan."
His gaze ran over her from head to toe, and she bit back the urge to ramble. To ask him a million questions or talk to cut the tension, but anything she said would add more ammo to the rapidly growing stockpile that could eventually land her in the clink, so she waited for him to ask the questions.
"Seems like we can't stay away from each other.” His voice was low, husky and totally in control. In fact, he didn’t seem surprised to see her in the least. “Why do you think that is?"
It was the same question she'd been asking herself, so she kept her lips zipped and shrugged.
He nodded slowly, and then crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyeing her assessingly. "I imagine you're on a pretty tight schedule, yeah?”
She chose to assume that it was a rhetorical question and opted not to answer that one either.
“Which puts us in a bit of a bind,” he continued, taking a step closer to her. “Because I’m afraid I can’t let you leave until you tell me what’s going on."
She shifted from foot to foot without meeting his gaze, sure that he
r eyes would tell the tale. Her adrenaline was off the charts and her whole body was thrumming with the need to move.
Fight or flight, at your service.
He was right about one thing. Time was not on her side. "Look,” she moistened her dry lips and squared her shoulders. “Why don't we skip the nonsense and you tell me what you want? Clearly, you have an agenda of your own, or else you'd have contacted the authorities. Both times. So what's it going to take?"
That was as close as she wanted to get to offering him a bribe, because she still wasn't sure what side of the law he was on. Could he be a cop or some Interpol agent who was investigating Hannigan for illegal activity? Or was he just a bored, rich friend compelled by the mystery of the pretty little chameleon?
Then, there was option number three. And the harder she looked at all the options, the surer she became.
"He's your mark?" she whispered. Holy shitballs. It made perfect sense. Jake needed her out of the way because she was mucking up the works for him and his own con. “Hannigan is your mark,” she repeated, not bothering to frame it as a question this time.
He offered her a clipped nod. "He is."
"And he's also mine." Things had just gotten a whole lot more interesting. The shaking in her hands stopped and her brain buzzed with new possibilities. Could she entice him with a promise of the cut? Or get him to cut her in on whatever he was doing? This could be big. Huge, even.
“So what do you suggest we do now?” she asked softly.
“I’m going to need you to walk away.” He paused and took a step toward her and then another, closing the gap between them until only a few inches remained. “And that’s not a suggestion, Countess.” His voice was low and silky, but there was no mistaking the edge there.
She swallowed hard and forced herself not to take a step back even as the scent of Irish Spring washed over her, doing terrible things to her insides. "Maybe we could work together,” she managed. “Like partners.”
“I work alone.”
“But-”
He uncrossed his arms and held up a finger to silence her. “Let’s not forget, lass, I’m supposed to be here tonight. If I get caught, my presence here is easily explained. Yours however…”
He didn’t have to remind her. She could almost hear the sands trickling through the hourglass. Time to cut her losses. She wasn’t going to jail, which was more than she had hoped for even two minutes before. And it wasn’t like she was leaving empty-handed.
“Fine. I’ll go.” She kept her tone as steady as she could. “If you just move to the side and let me pass-”
“I’m going to need whatever you took before you go,” he murmured softly, turning to block her body with his as she attempted to shimmy by him.
“Sure. Sure thing. I didn’t get anything yet, though. I was just going for the safe behind the painting when you came in." She made to move past him again, but he was like a wall of muscle, hard and immobile.
"If he finds out he was robbed, he's going to suspect it was one of us at the card game. I'm the only one who left the room for any period of time. I’m going to have to ask you again. Are you sure you don’t have anything?” His gaze hammered into hers and it took everything she had to hold it.
She swallowed hard as he glanced at her bag. "I told you. I didn’t have a chance to hit the safe yet." She handed him the bag and he took it but didn’t bother to open it. The smile she'd noted on each occasion they'd met appeared again, but this time took on a quality she hadn't seen before.
"So you're telling me you took nothing."
"Yes, that's what I'm telling you." She could feel a bead of sweat sliding down her back and hoped it wasn't dotting her upper lip too. Nothing looked guiltier than sweating in the face of an interrogation.
"So then it won't bother you if I pat you down?"
She drew back and gasped like he’d slapped her. "It certainly would." She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "I don't know if you just want to cop a cheap feel, or what your deal is, but surely you know there’s a code of honor among thieves and I wouldn’t lie about-"
She felt it the second before she heard it. The watch she had wedged in the hip of her underwear slinking down her leg. She flexed, hitching her hip to the side in hopes of saving it, but a second later it fell to the marble floor with a jangle and a ping that echoed like a gunshot.
She stared at Jake and held her stance like it didn't even happen but her hands had gone icy cold, and her pulse was racing so fast she felt dizzy. What the fuck was she going to do now? And then her father’s voice rang in her head, clear as a bell.
When in doubt, kick 'em in the balls and run, girlie.
"I'm real sorry about this," she whispered. Then, she drew back and let her knee fly, nailing Jake square in the tackle. He grunted and doubled-over. And she?
Well, she scooped up the watch and ran like hell.
Chapter Six
Forty minutes later, Sadie threw the door open to her tiny apartment and tossed her keys into the bowl on the kitchenette table. Then she collapsed onto a chair to take the first full breath she'd taken since she'd left Hannigan's estate.
That had been a close call.
No.
A close call didn't even come close to describing the near disaster of her night. Even as she’d flown down the stairs and out the front doors of the estate, she was sure Jake Callahan would be hot on her heels, loaded for bear. It was only after she’d gotten into her rental car and driven a full mile without him following her that she had any expectation of getting away.
God, what an idiot. She should've aborted this mission after the gala debacle. Rule number three of a good con? You catch a whiff of something fishy, then you move on to the next one. There was a whole world full of assholes with money. No reason to get stuck on one particular asshole.
But she'd gotten sloppy. Personal issues had clouded her mind, and that had almost been her downfall. Still might, actually. Who knew if she was in the clear?
She'd have to quit Roberto’s. There was no question that Jake would go there at some point to try to find out where she lived. Maybe she should call tomorrow and warn Monica that a violent ex would come in looking for her and not to give him any information.
Not that they had much to give. She'd used a fake address and last name to land that job for exactly this reason. He'd be looking for a Sadie who lived in the twenty mile radius of the Manhattan bistro and that would be a pretty tall order with just a first name to work with. She’d just have to keep a low profile for a few months. Unfortunately, that was going to be much harder to do now that she’d only gotten twenty-grand worth of merch from Hannigan rather than the fifty-plus she’d been counting on. Definitely not enough to take care of Clarissa for the next year while she took some classes and tried to go legit.
She blinked back the hot tears of frustration that rushed to her eyes and shoved herself to her feet. No use crying about it. Tears wouldn’t change a thing.
She dragged her ass to the bedroom to take a hot shower, wash the powder from her hair and change into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. When she finished, she headed straight for the couch as the last of the adrenaline drained from her blood leaving her physically exhausted and emotionally drained. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would have a long, hard think and figure out where to go from here. At least the jewelry she’d gotten would pay the rent and get Clarissa home. That was something.
She’d just gotten up to make herself a cup of tea when the cell phone she’d left charging before she’d gone out began to ring. Her heart ramped up again as she stared at it from across the room.
Midnight calls only happened for three reasons. Booty, death or trouble. She knew it wasn’t the first and prayed it wasn’t the middle as she crossed the room to scoop up her mobile. She didn’t recognize the number, and she blew out a relieved sigh. At least it wasn’t the hospital. Her thumb hesitated over the green button for a long moment before the phone went silent. They’d hung u
p. Wrong number, maybe?
She stared at the phone like it was a nest full of vipers, waiting to strike, but it stayed quiet in her hand. Just as her heartbeat leveled off, it chimed in her hand and a text message scrolled across the screen.
Meet me at the restaurant. Thirty minutes, or I come to your apartment. Don’t fuck with me, Sadie Leighton. My patience is wearing thin.
Shit and double shit.
She glanced at her watch and leaned forward to lay her head against the wall with a groan. There was no way of knowing if he was bluffing about coming to her apartment or if he even had her address, but the fact that he knew her real name and that he’d called it an apartment at all wasn’t filling her with hope. The last thing she wanted was to deal with him right now. Her legs were still trembling from the near clusterfuck of the past two hours, but what choice did she have? Better to meet him in public and hope for the best than have him here.
She changed into a pair of jeans and a blouse and stuffed her hair into her waitress wig before calling a cab. If she needed to make a run for it, she was better off not being tied to a vehicle.
By the time she sat down at Roberto’s bar, she was prepared for the worst and mentally penning an apology to Clarissa for letting her down. Jake wasn’t even going to show. There were probably half a dozen uniformed officers surrounding the place. She’d just have to hope none of them had twitchy fingers.
"Hey there, can I buy you a drink?" A youngish blond guy sat in the stool next to her and offered her his hand. "The name is Dennis."
“Look, Dennis. I appreciate the offer but unfortunately, I-"
"Can't accept your drink," a familiar, silky brogue finished over her shoulder. "Because she's with me. Have a great night, Dennis."
She squeezed her eyes closed and dropped her chin to her chest, weak with relief. Okay, so no cops. Not yet, at least. She spun her leather stool around to face her nemesis.
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