"Are you going to have me arrested?" she asked, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. She'd spent a lifetime playing a tough guy game, and hadn't cracked yet, so she wasn't about to start now. It was only the thought of Clarissa alone at the hospital that made her start to shake again.
His hooded gaze was thoughtful, but surprisingly less angry than she'd expected, which wasn’t as comforting as it could have been. Maybe he was loony. Why else would he not be mad that a woman had kneed him right in the balls before running away like that? Prison was bad. Getting murdered by a psychopath was way worse.
She eyed the door, but he shook his head once.
"Don't even think about it." The warning in his voice had her sinking back into her seat with a sigh of resignation. It was the end of the road, and now all that remained was to find out her punishment.
"You want that drink, Countess? No reason we can't keep it civil."
She shrugged and when Monica came over, Sadie said a quick hello and ordered a Manhattan on the rocks. He held up two fingers, and Monica smiled before flitting off to make their drinks, but not before she turned, wide-eyed, and bit her knuckle in Sadie's direction.
If she only knew.
"Sadie Leighton, yeah? Is that the name you were born with?"
"It is," she said with a nod.
"I wish I could believe even that, but already we have a history together, don't we? I ask you questions and you tell me lies."
"Well, that's kinda your fault though, am I right?" She shrugged and picked up the cocktail that Monica set before her and drained it in one long gulp before swiping the back of her hand over her mouth. "If you minded your own beeswax instead of sticking your nose into my affairs, I wouldn't have had to lie to you." She let her gaze drift pointedly below his waist. "Or kick you in the ding-ding.”
Maybe it was stupid, but she couldn’t find a single fuck to give anymore. Whatever was going to happen was already in motion. She was just along for the ride now.
She had to give him some credit, though, because even then, he didn't get mad. In fact, his lips quirked in a half-smile and he raised his glass in her direction before following her lead and swallowing it down. He set the glass back on the bar with a chink and motioned for Monica to give them a refill. Sadie considered refusing and then stopped herself. She was about to be on the receiving end of a prison sentence, blackmail, or an indecent proposal, and any of those scenarios would be easier to cope with if she was drunk.
"Now, though, we see that our past interactions aren't really working for either one of us. Would you agree?"
She nodded and eyed him speculatively. She been grifting long enough to see an offer coming and she could hardly contain her curiosity.
"I would agree. So let's change the tide. What do you really want from me and why, Mr. Callahan?"
His gaze traveled over her hair and her face, lingering on her lips, which had her fighting not to moisten them in response. Her pulse started to thud again, but this time it wasn't from fear.
"All right. I'll show you mine," he murmured, leaning in to finger a lock of hair that had fallen over one eye and tucking it behind her ear. "And then, I want you to show me yours."
The innuendo wasn't lost on her and she was still trying to squash the vision of the two of them tangled in a set of satin sheets when Monica dropped off another round.
He held up his glass and clinked it to hers. "Slainte."
She mimicked his toast, and knocked it back.
"I'm going to tell you something about me, and then you tell me something about you, how’s that for a start?” He set his glass down, pinning her in place with his intense gaze. “I'm sure I don’t have to tell you that, if this game doesn't go the way I want it to, we're not going to be able to play together anymore and you're going to find yourself in the back of a black and white car, yeah?"
She nodded and pursed her lips. "Shoot."
"My name is Jake Callahan, but that wasn't always my name. I used to be called Jake Reilly. When my father died, I changed my name to match my mother's. Now you."
She snatched up the fresh cocktail that was just set in front of her, but this time took a slow sip, letting it roll around her tongue and slide down her throat in a warm rush. Liquid courage, they said. She hoped “they” were right. "My name is actually Sadie Leighton. I'm not a Countess but I am a waitress…sometimes. And a damned good one, at that."
“All things I knew before or found out an hour ago with a simple call to a PI friend.” He raised a brow and wiggled his finger in a "keep going" motion.
"And my parents are both dead."
"May they rest in peace,” he murmured, and they drank together in tacit agreement before he eyed her again. "Who is Alistair Hannigan to you?”
She thought the question over and shook her head. There was no reason she could think of not to answer honestly. "He's no one. Just a random bad guy who does bad things. Not to mention, he's a shit tipper and an even shittier customer. He treats the staff like he owns them, and I don't like him.”
“And so you wanted to steal from him?”
She reached out to scoop up a handful of bar nuts. "He's what my father would call the cleanest of marks."
"Odd choice of words,” he said with a frown. “I'd hardly call that bastard clean."
She quirked a brow at him, taken aback by the barely contained hatred in his tone. Clearly, there was a history between the two men that went deeper than just an average con.
"Right, I'm with you there. He’s as dirty as they come, but I think my dad looked at it the other way. A clean mark doesn't leave a smudge on your soul, you know? Like, even after you hit ‘em, you can still sleep at night."
That felt too real…too honest, and the weight of his stare felt like a tangible thing. She looked away, taking a few seconds to shore up her defenses. She’d already said way more than she should have, and if she wanted to get out of this mess, she was probably going to have to continue down that treacherous path. The thought scared the shit out of her.
He’d already cost her thousands by cutting her little night trip short, and something deep down told her that, in the long run?
It was going to cost her far more than that.
Jake let the words play over in his mind for a while and took a sip from his glass. He'd used a lot of people on the way to nailing Alistair Hannigan and all the people before him. Secretaries he’d had to lean on, hotel workers and cleaning people he’d bribed, bank officials and trash collectors he’d used. And then there was Mike. His own brother, his flesh and blood, who he'd lied to countless times. Most of the people he'd dealt with were only out for themselves or a buck, but some of the things he'd done? Had definitely left a smudge on his soul.
"By that definition, I'd have to agree. There is little that I could imagine doing to Alistair Hannigan that he wouldn't deserve and then some."
She shifted in her seat to face him, swallowing him whole with those dark eyes. "It's not too often you can say that in this line of work,” she said. “Sometimes, you spend months gathering intel on a mark. You think they're perfect. Some slum lord who doesn't fix the heat in the wintertime who’s cheating on his wife, to boot. And then, you happen to be tailing him only to find out that his wife is cheating too. And they have a daughter who has spina bifida, and sure, he's a shit of a person, but when he leaves from visiting her, he lays his head on the steering wheel and bursts into tears."
She swallowed hard and looked down, making a show of tapping out a little ditty on the bar with her fingertips. "That's when it's hard. Because no matter how much you want them to, most people don't fit into a box like that. Everybody's got their shit that they've lived with, everyone has their struggles. There's always some guilt there. That's the nature of the beast, but it's nice when it's easy. When you've spent months following a person's every move and you realize more and more that they have almost no redeeming qualities. Makes me feel...justified, or something. I know that sounds fucked up. I can
hear it when I'm saying it, how hypocritical it is, but you wanted honesty so I'm giving it."
And fuck if that didn't impress the hell out of him.
It shouldn't. She'd been nothing but a fly in his soup. A thorn in his side.
But as he watched her through half-lowered lids, he wondered if that was the reason for this bizarre, insane attraction. He'd never liked easy, preferring women who challenged him mentally, gave him a run for his money. Because of his financial success and that cursed dimple, those women seemed few and far between, but this one? She intrigued him, trouble or no. He liked to listen to her talk, see how her mind worked, watch her move.
If he wasn't careful, he was going to find himself nursing a serious case of infatuation. And if he thought she was causing him trouble now? She’d wreak havoc if they took this any further.
“What is it that you want, Jake?”
What did he want? He couldn’t tell her the whole truth. That, since the first day he'd seen her at the restaurant, he'd wanted to see her sprawled out naked on his bed while he did all number of wicked things to her with his mouth. And that he wanted to see Alistair Hannigan with his life in ruins around him because the need for vengeance had kept him from a decent night sleep for years.
She might be a slick little cat burglar, but she obviously wasn't in the business of ruining lives and who knew at what point she'd balk. She'd done nothing but show herself to be immoral and a compulsive liar, but his instinct told him different. She claimed to steal because she liked nice things, but he eyed her cheap purse and her well-worn jeans with a practiced eye. He'd been around women who liked to shop and spend money, and she wasn't one of them. And her real hair, while amazing, was due to good genes. Color like that didn't come from a bottle. She was a natural beauty, he'd stake his considerable fortune on it. So what was she spending all her ill-gotten gains on?
He tucked that question into his pocket for another day and focused on the most immediate problem.
Time to cut to the chase.
"I want you to give me the things you stole.” He hadn't even gotten the words out before she started to shake her head. "Let me finish. If you give me what you've got, I will pay you the equivalent of the value in cash. It's a win-win. You'd save yourself the trouble of having to find a fence, and I'd get back the jewels. You can keep your job here if you want, and move on to another mark. I promise I won’t get in your way."
She stared at him, her liquid brown eyes stirring all sorts of thoughts up in his head that he shouldn't be thinking.
“Why?” Her smooth brow wrinkled. “What’s so special about the items I took?”
"Nothing except that you took them and I need to put them back."
She squinted at him suspiciously, and he could practically hear the gears grinding as she tried to work out his angle. “If you think he’s as bad as I do, why do we have to give the stuff back?”
“If Hannigan realizes he’s been robbed, he's going to look for someone to blame,” he said, lowering his voice as Monica walked past. “I can’t have him looking too hard at me." He had covered his past well, but he didn’t want his fake identity under that kind of scrutiny. It was an unnecessary risk.
“Even if I agree --which I haven’t-- how would you get the stuff back into his bedroom before he noticed it was missing?”
“He’s going to the Hamptons to golf tomorrow and then heading straight back to Manhattan for the rest of the weekend for some art show. He’ll spend his week in the city like always, so he won’t be back at the Long Island estate until the next poker game. Unless he noticed already, it’s unlikely that he will before Friday. You give me the stuff, and I’ll worry about putting it back then.”
She crossed one leg over the other and closed her white teeth over the plump maraschino cherry she’d plucked from her glass. Some of the juice dripped down her chin and it took every ounce of discipline he had not to dip in and lick it off. How could he want a woman as confounding as this one, so desperately? He literally couldn't take his eyes off her.
She studied him for a long moment before leaning toward him. "Okay. I’ll give you the stuff. But I don’t just want the cash.” She dipped her head close to his ear and whispered. “I want in."
She was stubborn and ballsy as hell, he’d give her that. "Look, Sadie, you don’t have any idea what you’re even asking and-"
"Whatever this long con is, it's obviously way more lucrative than the twenty thousand dollars worth of jewelry I lifted from him. And I want a piece of it." She sat back in her seat and lifted her chin defiantly. “We both get what we want.”
“This isn’t about finances for me. What I stand to gain is nothing that can be divvied between us.”
Her face dropped but she rebounded quickly. "Okay, so bring me with you to the poker game next weekend, then."
"He’s already met you. Twice, I might add. Do you honestly think he's stupid enough to not recognize you as a third person?" Even as he said it, he wondered about the answer himself. She was good, and Alistair was dumb enough to let a nice pair of breasts sway him into believing just about anything.
"Actually, I do," she answered, reiterating his own thoughts on the topic, "But we don't need to take it there. I can go as the Countess. You can tell him you ran into me and invited me along, can't you?"
"Do you have twenty-five thousand dollars to buy in with?"
"No. But once you pay me for the jewelry I will."
"Do you know how to play poker?"
"Of course," she snorted, rolling her eyes with disgust. "What do they play, Seven-card Stud? Omaha? Hold 'Em?"
"Hold 'Em. But I'm not sure how they feel about women at the table."
She thought about that long and hard before giving him a curt nod. "I'm going to put my pesos on me," she said, slapping her hand on the bar. "All you have to do is ask him if the Countess can come to his poker game. If he says no, I sell you the jewelry, no harm no foul."
"And if he says yes?"
A smile spread over her luscious lips sending a pulse of heat to his groin. What would those lips feel like under his?
"Then I bring the jewelry with me, go as your date and you let me work my magic at the poker table. I’ll split my winnings with you fifty-fifty.” She held up her glass and smiled. “What do you say, Jake? Shall we drink on it?"
Chapter Seven
Maybe she should've said no on that last drink. Or the one before that. Jake had stopped at two, but she was wrung out and they were so cold and delicious, with all those cherries…
Laughter bubbled from between her lips, broken by a loud hiccup. "Scuse me," she murmured, letting her head loll back on the plush, leather headrest. She sat up with a grumble and yanked the itchy wig off before letting her head fall back again, breathing in deeply. "Mmm. This is a nice car. Someday I'm going to have a car like this."
Jake’s response sounded more like a chuckle than anything else, and she opened one eye to get a look at his face. Sure enough, he was smiling that crooked smile of his, dimple cranked up to eleven.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, put that thing away already, would you? It’s ridiculous."
"And where would you suggest I put it, lass?"
She mimicked him in her best Irish accent, "‘And where would you suggest I put it.’ Like, I must be a total anomaly. I bet usually when you bust out the accent and the dimple at the same time, women's vaginas just explode like cherry bombs on the Fourth of July, don't they?"
He barked out a full-on laugh and glanced at her. "I'm not even sure why I would want that to happen."
"You know what I mean. The ladies probably fall all over themselves to get a bit o’ the old Callahan Irish salami, am I right?"
He didn't deny it but she wasn't sure if that was because his shoulders were shaking with laughter or because she was right.
“There’s no such thing as Irish salami,” he said finally.
“Well that’s a damn shame, isn’t it?” She pressed her cheek against the cool leath
er again realizing the smell reminded her a little of Jake himself and she burrowed closer. “Do I have eggs?" she murmured, scrunching her face in hopes of jogging her memory.
"Eggs?” He shook his head slowly and shot her a puzzled glance. “Right now, you mean?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Who brings eggs to a bar? I mean, do I have eggs in my fridge.” She enunciated carefully since he was clearly not on the ball tonight. “At my apartment."
"I couldn't say," he responded, humor still lacing his tone.
"I bet I have eggs.” She realized belatedly that she'd said it in a stage whisper and had added a double wink in case he didn't catch her drift.
Was she seriously propositioning him? When was the last time she'd done something just for the sheer pleasure of it? Sure, she ate the occasional slice of low-fat cheesecake, or spent a lazy day window shopping of Fifth Avenue without buying, but really indulging? Doing something for the sheer pleasure of it, without an eye to the consequences? It had been a long time.
And something told her that Jake Callahan would be worth it.
She was already sure to regret the fifth --or was it sixth?-- Manhattan she’d drank, anyway. If she was doomed to a morning of regrets, why not add another to the list?
She sat up, and repeated her offer, being extra careful not to slur her words this time. “What do you say, Callahan? Want to come in for some,” she waggled her brows at him, “eggs?”
His strong hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as he made the turn onto her street. A silent few moments later, he pulled in front of her apartment building and popped the car in park.
Her heart pounded as he shifted in his seat to face her, his handsome face backlit by the full moon. "Countess, I would surely love some eggs. And believe me,” he took her chin in his hand urging her to meet his gaze and let out a pained laugh, “I'd love...whatever else it is that you’re offering, but I prefer my ladies coherent, and an hour ago, you didn’t even like me. If you wake up tomorrow and still want to make me eggs? You have my number. I can be here in twelve minutes or less. Guaranteed."
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