“He’s not kidding, and neither am I,” Natalie said coolly. She released her grip, tossing Asprey a few feet into the room. He sank gratefully to his knees, using his good hand to gently realign his arm in front of him. Stupid arm. Stupid Graff for dislocating it in the first place. Sure, they’d been seven and twelve at the time, and the rope swing they’d built over the bay had been a feat of epic proportions that made them famous among their peers even to this day. But still.
Poppy cocked the shotgun and pointed it at Asprey, ushering him back toward Tiffany and Graff.
“I’m going, I’m going,” he muttered. “But that shotgun isn’t loaded, so you’re wasting your time.”
“Goddammit!” Graff yelled. “Why would you say that? You just gave away the one advantage we had here.”
“How is this my fault?” Asprey yelled back. “I told you there was a breach in the perimeter, and all you did was sit there, making sweet love to Louis and forcing me to do all the work. As usual.”
Tiffany let out a giggle. “You are kind of obsessed with that chair.”
“What happened to the Texas Ranger?” Graff spat back, ignoring their sister. “I thought you had a plan.”
“I did have a plan. But plans sometimes go wrong—no one knows that better than you.”
“Oh, sure,” Graff muttered. “Bring that up again. Like I’m the one who—”
“Uh, guys?” They both turned to find Natalie watching them, her arms crossed over her chest. She’d given up the shotgun, but that didn’t make Asprey feel any better. If anything, it made him more nervous. She probably had machine guns for nipples or something freaky like that. “Are you two almost done?”
“You want the necklace, don’t you?” Asprey asked. “She’s the woman from the Kennick job, Graff. She changed her hair.”
Graff balled his hands into fists. “I cannot believe you just used my name. You are officially the worst criminal on the face of the planet.”
“Actually, I might agree there.” Natalie reached into her jean shorts. Asprey had just enough time to maneuver himself in front of Tiffany before her hand re-emerged…holding a brown leather wallet. A very nice brown leather wallet, worn to the kind of supple softness it took years to perfect. His good hand immediately went to his back pocket.
It was empty.
“Is this the residence of Asprey Manchester Charles, six feet tall, one hundred and eighty pounds?” she asked. “Isn’t that cute…you’re wearing the same too-tight vest in your picture. Do you always dress like you’ve just been kicked out of a wedding?”
Well, shit. “How did you get that?”
She smirked, her lips pulling at one side and looking far too appealing than seemed fair. “I picked your pocket the other night—right before you hit the ground. You really should check the organ donor box on your ID, you know.” She shook her head and tossed the wallet on the ground before kicking it toward him. “It can be really hard for a family to make that kind of decision on their own.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you, Asprey,” Graff growled. “You listed our secret hideaway as the place of residence on your driver’s license?”
“It’s outside city limits,” Asprey explained. “The licensing process for the bike is easier out here.”
Natalie laughed. It was strange—when she made a sound like that, all throaty and warm, it was hard to imagine her taking a blade to their throats or stealing all their worldly possessions.
But he didn’t put it past her.
“So what do you want?” Graff asked, his hands still up. “The necklace? Money?”
“Both of those sound great,” she said. “But first, I think we should all sit down and have a little chat.”
“I wouldn’t tell you anything even if you ripped off both of my brother’s—” Graff began.
“Done,” Asprey intervened. He turned to Graff. “What? It’s easy for you to play fast and loose with my body parts. You’re not the one in desperate need of painkillers right now.”
Natalie looked back and forth between the two of them, a bemused expression on her face. “You guys are for real. This isn’t some crazy joke. You’re this bad at it.”
“You have no idea,” Tiffany muttered. She pulled the headphones up over her ears and turned to the computer. In any other hostage-like situation, this would have been a perfect opportunity to alert the authorities via email or send out a plea for help in Morse code or something. Not Tiffany. She was probably uploading viruses into the FBI website or, as she called it, a regular Tuesday afternoon.
“Did you still want that tea?” Asprey asked, standing and brushing dust from his clothes. Like it or not, they were in this now.
And he liked it. God help him, he liked her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun.
“You don’t have anything stronger?”
Asprey laughed. They could probably all use a drink right about now. “How do you feel about scotch?” He motioned at one of their tables of loot. “I’ve got a sixty-four-year-old Maccallan over there that recently sold at auction for about thirty grand.”
Natalie’s jaw fell open. “That you stole?”
Graff’s voice rumbled, but Asprey ignored him, striding over to the table of goods and grabbing the bottle with a flourish. “It’s single barrel.”
“I was wrong,” she said, her face breaking out in a grin. There she was again, unassuming and almost benign. She grabbed the bottle and inspected it, taking off the top and giving it a tentative sniff. “I guess maybe you guys aren’t as bad at this as I thought.”
Chapter Three
“This tastes like regular scotch.” Poppy frowned into her glass, swirling the amber liquid. “It should be illegal—the way those high-end companies try to pass this stuff off as something it’s not.”
Asprey coughed heavily, not stopping until the youngish-looking woman, Tiffany, poured him some more of the alcohol. They’d pulled a few folding chairs and one hugely ornate yellow throne into a circle in the middle of the airport hangar, making it feel cavernous and informal at the same time. It was like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, except instead of drinking coffee and divulging life stories, they were swilling scotch that cost more than a kidney and sharing a mutual distrust that had her adrenaline pump set on high.
It felt good. There were guns and stolen goods and one palpably angry man, and all Poppy could think was how happy she felt to be a part of it all.
“Look—I’d love to sit here and chitchat all day,” the brother, Graff, drawled, looking full of neither love nor chitchat. “But can we get on with this?”
It was clear they were all siblings, now that she could see them in the full light of day and no one hid behind a face mask. Graff was obviously the oldest and meanest of the bunch, but both men had the same dark hair, defined facial features and signature dimple right in the middle of their chins—those dimples that always looked incredible on a man and made women look like John Travolta in drag. Tiffany had been spared the chin, but her long hair was a similar dark hue and she had the same bright, intelligent blue eyes that never seemed to stop dancing.
Graff’s hair was shorn and brusque, his movements much the same way. Asprey, on the other hand, with his long, lean torso and well-tailored clothes, could only be described as languid—of movement, of meaning, of purpose. Except when he smiled, which he did often, revealing deep laugh lines.
She straightened. Smiles were not her objective here.
This was about the job—not the strange way Asprey made it seem as though life were one big joke and she was seconds away from hearing the punch line. Good-looking men who laughed in the face of pain weren’t a good sign.
Her ability to inflict pain was one of the only advantages she had in this world. She wasn’t about to give it up that easily.
“I want you to tell me about Todd,” she said, directing her attention to Asprey. Based on her reception so far, he seemed the most likely to tell her what she wanted to know.
“More specifically, why were you after the necklace?”
The brothers shared a glance that spoke volumes and in a language she understood well. Don’t tell the common folk any more than you have to. It was something she’d heard far too often in her twenty-five years of existence.
“I’m not stupid,” she pointed out, frowning at her glass, now half empty. She should probably lay off the liquor if she intended to get out of this with the information she needed. Setting the glass on the concrete floor, she added, “That job was planned down to the last detail. You knew we were headed out to Le Petit ne for dinner and that I’d be wearing the necklace. You had our arrival timed to the minute and knew how many of us would be in the car. You also planned to hold us up miles from help, which gave you plenty of time to get away.”
“Well, we are thieves,” Asprey said. “I’ve heard that getting caught tends to result in unpleasant consequences.”
You have no idea. With his fancy shoes and polished speech, Asprey was the last man on earth who knew what it was like to live in the same room as your toilet. She ignored him and went for the one thing that bothered her more than anything else. “More importantly, even though you took the necklace, you didn’t even glance at Todd’s diamond tie pin.”
“Fake,” Asprey said confidently. Graff growled low in his throat. “What? The tie pin was a fake, Graff. I could tell from where my face was planted in the ground.”
“Sorry about that,” Poppy said, not meaning a word.
Asprey obviously knew it. He inclined his head a little and grinned, giving her a glimpse of the raw scrapes just underneath his stubble. It was sexy stubble, all dark and masculine and the right texture that would graze against her skin but not scratch it.
She forced herself to focus about a foot above his head. She did not get involved in the middle of a con—no matter how cute the other players were. That was the first rule.
She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, happy to note that Asprey’s eyes followed. He obviously didn’t play by the same rules, and that was fine. The control in this situation was all hers. “So you’re not just crappy thieves. You’re crappy thieves with a clear target and the ability to appraise jewelry. What gives?”
“We’re not telling you anything,” Graff bit off. The man had a serious chip on his shoulder. “You’re lucky we don’t load that shotgun and blow your pretty little head off.”
“And you’re lucky I haven’t turned you over to the police,” she returned. “This isn’t my first time invading enemy territory. I left this address and a written statement about the theft with my friend. She won’t hesitate to turn them over if I miss our pedicure this afternoon.”
It wasn’t true, of course. Bea would be devastated if she had any idea what kind of situation Poppy was placing herself in right now.
“Oh, I like this woman,” Tiffany murmured.
“This can’t be happening,” Graff grumbled. A look of defeat crossed his brow. It was irritated and ominous and filled Poppy with a sense of pure elation.
“What exactly is your problem?” she persisted. “If you ask me, I’ve been nothing but nice to you. I gave you the necklace when it was clear I could have walked away with both it and your brother’s head under my arm.”
“Hey now!” Asprey called, though it was said with a good-natured undertone. Was the man never ruffled? “I was being a gentleman. I let you win.”
Poppy ignored him and held up her fingers, ticking off the rest. “I told the police some stupid story about being scared and not remembering anything about the robbery when I could have just as easily turned you over. I came all this way—on foot—to return the wallet. And instead of blasting this place open and stealing everything you have on clear display, which, by the way, is a really stupid place to keep it, I’m sitting here, willing to negotiate. This old chair is really uncomfortable. Did you steal it too?”
Graff’s eyes brightened dangerously, and he pressed his hands on either leg as though preventing himself from strangling her right then and there. Poppy made note and moved closer to the edge of the chair. She might have the situation well in hand right now, but there was no telling how quickly things could change.
Never let your guard down. That was rule number two.
“Don’t mind Graff,” Asprey said, laughing. “He hates everyone. Especially women who are smarter and stronger than he is.”
Poppy arched a brow. “Flattery?”
“Truth,” he said firmly. “Now. Since you, as you so delicately put it, have been the soul of conciliation, what can we do for you?”
“Why Todd?”
Asprey opened his mouth, but Graff interrupted. “He’s rich.”
“So?” Poppy shifted so she faced the other brother. Now that Asprey had pointed out his brother’s hatred of women, she could see it. It was in the predatory way he moved, the way his smile twisted off at one end as if it were almost painful. A man with that kind of look was dangerous.
It wasn’t very feminist of her, but Poppy would be the first to admit that a large portion of her success in any con situation was thanks to the innate reserve most men carried against harming a woman. It was a reserve composed of equal parts deference and disbelief. Deference to her vagina; disbelief that said vagina was anything but a handicap in life.
If Graff saw her as a real threat, that definitely changed the balance of things.
Poppy sat up a little straighter. “There are lots of rich men in Seattle. Many of them richer than him. Why Todd?”
“He’s rich and he wastes his money on low-class pieces of ass like you. That good enough?”
“Graff,” Asprey warned.
“Oh, he can be a dick all he wants,” Poppy offered. She stared at Graff, her whole body tense. “As long as he gives me back that necklace. It was a gift, and I’m feeling very sentimental about it. You know how women can get over gifts, all emotional and unstable.”
“I won’t do it.”
She rose to her feet, careful to make slow movements across the cracked cement floor, both threatening and nonthreatening as the heels of her favorite boots made echoing clicks. “Oh, I think you will. Look—I respect the gig you’ve got going here. You obviously put a lot of time into your fledgling criminal career, and I’m all for reaping the rewards of the work you do. I’m no narc, and I promise not to ask any questions about this giant pile of stolen goods—provided you comply. I’ve put more legwork into Todd Kennick than you have, and I want that necklace back.”
Graff snorted. “Legwork? Is that what you call it?”
“Jesus, Graff.” Tiffany shook her head, an apology in each movement. “At least she’s being polite about it.”
“Thank you,” Poppy said, though his words didn’t rattle her. Poppy had long subscribed to the sticks-and-stones motto. Words couldn’t hurt her…but Todd had. “I need that necklace. All I want is a single string of pearls, and I’m out of your life forever. It’s that simple.”
The three siblings shared a look then, and it was the first time Poppy felt that maybe she was out of her element coming here like this. There was no malice in their look—no antagonism or furtive moves toward the artillery near the door. It was almost regret, like the situation was out of their hands and luck was out of hers.
“What?” She looked back and forth between them. “What are you not telling me?”
Asprey winced. “The thing is…”
Even Graff softened a little, if that term could be applied to a creature made of stone. “We could give it to you, but it’s not going to do you any good.”
“What do you mean?” Even though she couldn’t fence it for full value, her ex could get her at least ten thousand. She’d probably even be able to sell the diamonds and pearls piece by piece, if it came to that. “I’m discreet. I have contacts. It’s not like I’m going to saunter into the nearest pawn shop and see what I can get for it.”
Asprey stood and moved to the nearest table, plucking the necklace from an
ivory jewelry box that looked worth a fortune by itself. “I wasn’t lying when I said I can appraise jewelry. This necklace? It’s a fake. Unless the grand plan is to wear it to a costume party, you’re headed for disappointment.”
She took the proffered item, her fingertips just grazing Asprey’s. The contact made him flinch—and it made her shiver.
Stop it. This was neither the time nor the place to start losing her head.
“How do I know you’re not lying?” she asked, looking closely at the pearls. “You could be trying to trick me.”
And they’d have good success—she had no idea what to look for. She could pass most forgeries off in a con, pull in a few thousand dollars and leave her mark with a bad case of buyer beware, but appraisals and evaluations had never been her area of expertise.
“It’s not a trick,” Asprey said. He handed her an eyepiece, one of those owlish-looking things jewelers always stuck in their eyes.
She hesitated before taking it. If she directed her attention to the necklace, she’d be letting her guard down in a clear violation of rule number two, something she never did unless absolutely necessary. “Stand on the other side of the table first,” she commanded, angling herself behind it.
Asprey placed his hand over his heart. “You wound me. I thought we were becoming friends.”
“I’ll tell you what. We can be friends when I’m safe at home with twenty thousand dollars in my purse. I’ll even make you cookies. How’s that sound?”
He winked. “Consider it a date.”
Winking? Honest-to-goodness winking? Not even Todd tried something as hokey as that…and yet…Asprey actually looked charming while he did it. That had to be another trick—part of the whole, tight-pants-tighter-vest-rolled-up-shirtsleeves-hipster-hottie thing he had going on. Men weren’t normally that good-looking and perfectly put together as they lounged about empty airport hangars. It was unnerving.
She stared him down until he moved to the other side of the loot table. Graff arrayed himself by his brother’s side, arms crossed in full-on militant mode.
Confidence Tricks Page 3
