“If it helps, I can vouch for him,” Tiffany called. She hadn’t gotten up from her chair, opting instead to pull out some handheld device and scroll through the screen. She peeked up through the hair that had fallen in her face. “I’m really sorry if we took a necklace that was supposed to be yours. But if my brother says a piece of jewelry is a fake, it’s a fake.”
It was oddly sincere.
Asprey grinned sheepishly. “It’s kind of our thing, if you can’t tell from the names. You could say we were born to it.”
“The names?”
Tiffany laughed. “Maybe you can help us settle a bet. Asprey thinks he got the worst of the lot. I say no one should have to be saddled with a name like Tiffany.”
Poppy’s confusion must have shown on her face, because Asprey’s dancing eyes met hers. “Graff Diamonds. Asprey of London. Tiffany & Co.” He offered her a one-shouldered shrug. “We’re a Cartier short of pure, unadulterated pretention.”
“Those are your real names?” And she’d always thought being named after an opiate was bad.
Graff gave a slight bow. “Unless you need us to jot down our social security numbers next, can we please move on?”
It was enough for her. Poppy put the eyepiece to her eye and looked at the necklace. “Okay. What am I looking for?”
“The texture of the pearl—what do you see?”
She glanced up. Asprey had adopted a professorial tone, but instead of making him look more arrogant, as she’d expected, the aura of command suited him, made him more natural.
She focused on the necklace in her hands, unsure what she was supposed to say. “It’s white and swirly. Exactly like a pearl.”
“Look closer. What does the surface look like?”
She compressed her lips and tried again. “I don’t know—it almost looks grainy, maybe like a newspaper picture?”
“Exactly!” Asprey cried, obviously pleased. “What else? Do you see any imperfections?”
She looked closer. Honestly, she wasn’t qualified for this—and if his goal was to make her feel stupid, it was working. “Not really. It looks perfectly round.”
“That’s another big clue. Real pearls tend to have one or two flaws when under that kind of magnification. Even at that level of quality. Go ahead—run it over your teeth to feel how smooth it is. That one is clearly a fake.”
“Really? It’s that easy?”
Graff rolled his eyes. “Any more secrets you want to give away, Asprey? How about the combination to our safe?”
“You guys have a safe?” Poppy asked.
“It’s in the back—strictly for practice.” Asprey laughed. “So there you have it. Fake necklace. You still want it?”
Not really. Something about the way they looked so apologetic made her believe them. She’d known enough criminals in her lifetime to recognize real sincerity when she saw it—it came with pity that softened the hardest edges. It showcased regret and inefficacy wrapped up in one sad smile.
Funny that those were attributes she’d come to value in a person.
Poppy dropped the necklace to the table, taking in the rest of the contents with renewed interest. If the necklace Todd gave her was a fake, she’d need an alternate stream of income. There were some pretty impressive pieces over there.
She was about to pick up a silver cigarette case engraved all over with tiny horses when realization came at her from the side. “Wait just a fucking minute!”
Asprey dropped into a crouch. “What?”
Graff burst out laughing. “Always such courage, little brother. Way to impress the lady.”
She ignored them, her mind whirling around the one person for whom pity and regret were dirty words. “You know what this means, don’t you? Todd gave me a fake necklace as a gift.”
No freaking way. That man had enough money to buy his own island in the United Arab Emirates—threw hundred dollar bills around like they were crumpled receipts. For weeks now she’d been giving him the runaround, playing hot and cold, bold and shy. Her pinky finger practically sagged under the weight of him wrapped so firmly around it.
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t sacrifice a few thousand dollars to give me a real necklace.”
“Well, technically…” Asprey began, but Graff reached out and smacked him on the back of the head before he got very far.
She let them fight, though it was more of a brotherly tussle than anything else, Graff being extra careful not to jar Asprey’s shoulder as they circled and danced. Let them kill each other, for all she cared. She had problems of her own. Big ones. That necklace was her ticket, the down payment on the long con she’d been planning for months.
If she’d wanted to scam Todd before—and she had—the urge now magnified about a hundred times. Except she had to find the money somewhere else. She could try the angling-for-jewelry gambit again, but the asshole would probably just pull the same stunt with another fake.
What she needed was a guarantee.
She narrowed her eyes. What she needed was a partner. Or three.
“Are you guys almost done?” she asked, inserting a false note of irritation into her voice. “I’d love to sit here and watch you demolish one another, but since that worthless piece of crap necklace isn’t going to fill my empty wallet, I need to make alternate arrangements.”
“You never did tell us what you need the necklace for,” Asprey said, stopping the fight as suddenly as Graff had started it.
“What can I say?” she asked, showing her hands like an old-time shell man. “I’m a grubby gold digger.”
Asprey’s gaze flicked over her, and he shook his head. “Nope. I’m not buying it. I know lots of grubby gold diggers—and they don’t moonlight as killers for hire. The worst of their sins is lying about their age.”
She quirked a brow. “Exactly how many gold diggers do you know?”
Asprey rolled his eyes toward his brother. “I’m not sure. Graff—what would you say? Do you think the Nesbitt twins count?”
Poppy smothered a laugh as Graff let out another low growl of irritation. He obviously didn’t know when his brother was baiting him.
“Fine,” she said, capitulating. If she wanted their help, there would have to be at least a little transparency. “You caught me. I’m not a gold digger, and I’m not the least bit interested in the Nesbitt twins. But I am after Todd’s money.”
“Then I’m truly sorry we couldn’t be more help,” Asprey offered.
“Oh, but you can be,” she replied, squaring to face him. Pulling in partners she barely knew wasn’t the best idea of her life, but it wasn’t the worst either. Definitely not that. These guys had resources and no qualms about traversing the wrong side of the law. That was quite a few points in their favor right there. “I’d like to make a proposition.”
“Now you’ve skipped gold digger and gone straight for call girl.”
She laughed. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. But you’re obviously criminals of a sort, and ones who could use a little help. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Graff frowned. “Speak for yourself.”
“It just so happens that Todd has a slight gambling addiction that makes him ideally suited for my line of work,” she ventured. Might as well get it out there. “In exchange for your services setting up a slightly rigged poker game, I’d be happy to…whatever. Fight, lie, cheat, steal. I’m flexible.”
“No,” Graff said, at the same time Asprey licked his lips and offered, “We’re in.”
Tiffany looked up from her handheld device. “I guess that makes me the tiebreaker.”
Poppy had met a lot of strange criminals in her line of work, but this family had to be the oddest. It almost felt like she’d wandered onto the set of a movie, and they were all here to play a part before going home to normal, crime-free lives.
Except for, you know, the table of ill-begotten goods.
“I’ll tell you what,” she offered, playing her hand conservatively.
“You take some time to think about it, discuss the idea amongst yourselves. I can give you a few days, but I need an answer soon.”
“And how will we find you?” Asprey asked. “Do you answer to a bat signal?”
She laughed. This guy was cute. “I’ll be in touch.”
With that, she turned on her heel, exposing her back to them as she raised a hand in farewell. It was a gesture of goodwill, letting them watch her go. Not many people got that privilege.
And she was so pleased when they didn’t try to stop her that it wasn’t until she’d hiked the two miles back to her car that she realized she never asked why, if Todd’s necklace was so clearly a fake, they’d bothered stealing it at all.
Chapter Four
“Great class,” Poppy said warmly as she handed out towels and bottles of water to her students. They looked like they needed it. Most of the first-timers in her self-defense aerobics class had taken her before for yoga, and they expected the same kind of experience—languid stretches, abdominal tightening holds, the typical om-nom-namaste stuff that bespoke green tea and holistic dentistry.
What they got today was something a little bit closer to Poppy’s preferred type of activity. Hand-to-hand combat. Elbow torques and roundhouses and scissor kicks. Real exercise.
“I’m not going to be able to walk for a week,” one woman complained, though she had a sweaty, post-workout sense of satisfaction going on. She took one of the waters gratefully. “That was really intense.”
“It’s a nice way to work out your aggression,” Poppy agreed.
Unfortunately for Poppy, a similar sweaty, post-workout sense of satisfaction wasn’t hers to enjoy. Her employment at In the Buff, a twenty-four-hour gym that catered to a suburban crowd, was grueling at best. She still had to make overpriced protein smoothies at the juice bar, looking perky and rested in a pink sports bra and her blonde wig, for another six-hour shift.
Poppy Donovan was an ex-con legally required to disclose her criminal record and file her place of employment with her parole officer…which was why In the Buff had hired Natalie Hall, whose falsified paperwork made her hesitant to demand better hours. As long as they didn’t ask any questions, neither would she.
“Aren’t you looking gorgeous today?” a smooth male voice called, pulling Poppy’s attention toward the front desk. She forced herself to smile as she bounced over to greet Todd, clad in gym pants and a tank top as he prepared to sweat buckets on one of the treadmills.
“Hey, doll,” she cooed, leaning in for a quick peck. “Make sure you stop by after your workout for a shot of wheatgrass, ’kay?” She liked to make him a special cocktail laced with chasteberry. The herbal supplement had been used to subdue the sex drives of monks for centuries—which made it ideally suited for her purposes. She liked keeping Todd interested, but not too interested. The last thing she needed was to drop-kick her cover because he couldn’t keep it in his pants.
He nodded and puffed up, clearly loving the attention, as she knew he would. She’d gotten the job here solely as a means of tracking him. It didn’t take any master training in Confidence Tricks 101 to know that the best way to gain a man’s interest was to be a yoga instructor at the gym where he exercised. It had taken all of two hours to get him to ask her out on a date.
Because Todd worked out, his body was fairly trim, if built a little like a pit bull, and there was a firmness to his jaw that denoted power. Other than a slightly bulbous nose signifying his excesses, he wasn’t half bad.
In another lifetime, she might have called him handsome.
In another lifetime, however, she would have kept him far away from her grandmother and none of this would be necessary. No lying to Bea. No master criminal plans. Just her and a respectable life, all laid out like a flat plain, each step plotted and planned and perfectly safe.
She fought a shudder—not because Todd leaned in for another kiss, but because the only thing that scared her more than facing another two years in jail was a lifetime of respectability. It might be a different type of imprisonment, but the bars were there all the same.
“I’ve been missing you something fierce since that awful robbery the other night, you know. I was beginning to feel afraid you didn’t want me anymore.” She stuck her lip out in a pout and ran a finger along the side of his face, grazing her fake nail—a Natalie staple—against his jaw. “You aren’t going to cancel our date for next week, are you? We’re still on for lunch?”
His eyelids slipped down, supposedly sultry, mostly so he could concentrate on her cleavage. “Of course we are. Unless you want to come over tonight, that is. There’s a fight on cable—I’ve got quite a bit riding on Cracker Black Jack, and didn’t you say you put a little down on the match? We could watch it together, order in, maybe fool around a little…”
Her fake smile widened until it felt like her exterior was going to splinter. An evening eating greasy Chinese and betting on a pair of middleweights as they bashed each other’s faces in was something she would normally love.
As long as it was with any other man on the planet.
“That sounds wonderful, but I have this thing at my parent’s house,” she said. “I know I’ve mentioned them before. Maybe you could come and meet my family?”
Todd mumbled something about giving her a call the next day and practically ran in the direction of the elliptical machines. She watched him go, laughing at how easily he was manipulated. Men. Criminals or scam artists or respectable doctors—they all fled at the mention of home.
By chance, she glanced over a few minutes later, catching a glimpse of Todd as he stood outside the pool area, chatting up an elderly woman who came into water aerobics three times a week by order of her physical therapist to recuperate from the second of two grueling hip replacements.
It took all Poppy had not to vault over the desk and deliver a roundhouse kick to Todd’s face as he slipped the woman a business card, full of smiles and lies. She could practically hear him giving the pitch, promises of investments and payouts and retirement funds that couldn’t go wrong. The kind of promises a woman in her condition needed to hear.
Another day, another victim.
Too bad Poppy refused to acknowledge that word. If there was one thing this life had taught her, it was that avoiding victimhood had nothing to do with steering clear of risks or ceasing to live. In fact, it had a lot to do with the opposite.
So this was her, taking risks. This was her, living.
This was her, getting back the eighty thousand dollars Todd Kennick stole from Grandma Jean just months before she died.
Asprey toyed with the stem of his glass, enjoying the play of light in his ’84 Chateauneuf du Pape. It wasn’t exactly the vintage he’d have chosen to set off the notes of a take-out hamburger and fries, but they were on a budget.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Graff fell into the chair across from him and grabbed the bottle. He took one look at the label and smacked it back on the table. “Please tell me this is one of your empties filled with grape juice.”
Asprey purposefully held the glass to his nose, inhaling deeply and swirling the rich red liquid. “The rustic chestnut notes really bounce off the playful cherry in this, don’t you think?”
“We’re supposed to be cutting back, Asprey. We sat down with Tiffany and agreed—no expenses unless they’re necessary for the job. It’s not right to rely on family money now that we know where it’s coming from.”
Asprey took a deep drink before giving up. Three sommelier classes and it still all tasted the same to him. “Relax. I swiped it from the cellar at Winston’s house. Took a whole case, actually. He loves this stuff.”
“Oh.” Graff sat up a little straighter. “In that case, pass the bottle, will you?”
Asprey grinned. He could probably pass off a theft of the Mona Lisa as long as he said he took it from their older brother, Winston. So far, they’d furnished almost their entire living space above the hangar with odds and ends they’d taken f
rom him. Said furnishings didn’t amount to much, but since they’d all felt it was better for Tiffany to stay at her apartment to keep up a cheerful front and to stay safe, he and Graff could pretend it was a debauched bachelor pad, minus any of the good types of debauchery.
They currently sat around the massage table from Winston’s office, which functioned quite nicely as their dining room table. Other effects included a polar bearskin rug and five versions of the exact same espresso machine, which, no matter how many times Asprey stole it, Winston replaced. His favorite, though, was the bright Kandinsky painting they used to cover up the moldy patch in the wall—he’d had his eye on it for years, and the bright blocks of red and blue could always be counted on to lift his mood.
Asprey liked to think their home was a work in progress. Graff liked to think it was one step closer to vindication.
In a way, they were both right.
If Graff were any other human being, the food and wine would have mellowed him out a little, made him less likely to throw one of the espresso machines into the wall. But Graff was far from ordinary, and feeding him was like giving fuel to a chainsaw-massacre enthusiast. He grumbled the entire meal, his topics ranging from Natalie the Pickpocket to the teenage punk who’d flipped him off on the road that afternoon.
“By the way,” he growled. “I’ve got a few new locations we can look at tomorrow.”
“New locations for what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. That charming-idiot routine might work on everyone else, but you and I both know it’s an act. We can’t stay here in the hangar anymore. Not after you fucked it all up—”
Asprey listened to the rest of Graff’s monologue with a negligent ear. Once upon a time, Graff had been a lawyer—one of those overblown ones who was almost all for show. His brother could talk for hours, driven only by the sound of his own voice and the accumulation of spittle at the corners of his mouth.
Graff had always been the uptight one, the one most likely to erupt in anger over an overlooked detail or tiny hitch in their plans—and he had the blood pressure medication to prove it. Even as kids, his tendency toward irate anal-retentiveness had been evident. You didn’t touch his collection of Transformers, lined up in a perfect row on his desk. Asprey had done it once, and he still had the capped tooth to show for it.
Confidence Tricks Page 4
