Contrary to his expectations, she didn’t smile. With a predatory step forward, she jabbed a finger his direction, and her normally large, expressive eyes narrowed. “Let’s get one thing straight if we’re going to work together. I don’t care if you can make yourself invisible or spy like you once belonged to the CIA. You don’t come here. Ever.”
Now that was interesting. “You came to my home.”
“It’s not negotiable, Asprey.”
He studied her carefully. It was hard to imagine how someone almost a foot shorter than him, wearing leopard-print shorts and the same teal cowboy boots from before, could have such powers of intimidation. But the powers were there, and so was she. He stuck out a hand. “Fair enough. But in return, can we at least go somewhere to talk? There have been…developments regarding your proposition.”
“Graff would rather eat the feathers in my hair than help, wouldn’t he?”
Asprey snorted. “He has a few concerns.”
Poppy rattled off an address down by the waterfront and asked him to meet her there in thirty minutes. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed his sleeve before making her way back across the street. “Have you really been following me that long?”
As in, had he watched as she paid a visit to a parole office downtown this morning? Or been there when she tossed on a wig and spent six hours as Natalie Hall at a gym he knew firsthand was patronized by Todd Kennick?
“Nah,” he lied. Better to ease into that sort of thing. “Besides—even if I had, I can promise you that your secrets are safe with me.”
She let go and shook her head. “That shows what you know. My secrets aren’t safe with anyone.”
They met at a place called Dinghies and Donuts. Asprey took one look at the faded, wood-paneled interior and the waitress with nicotine stains on her fingers and almost fell into a swoon.
“This place is perfect.” He held up two fingers when the waitress cast a wary and tattooed eyebrow straight up to her hairline. “Your corner booth, please. My colleague and I require privacy.”
“Real subtle,” Poppy muttered. She nudged him out of the way and followed the waitress toward a semi-private booth farthest from the door. “You might as well wear a sign around your neck that says Aspiring Criminal Overlord.”
“You picked it. I would have been just as happy at Denny’s.”
They slid into the seats as the waitress overturned two brown ceramic cups. “You kids want coffee?”
Poppy widened her eyes and gave a warning shake of her head.
“You might as well bring the whole carafe,” Asprey said warmly, rubbing his hands together. “We’re going to be here awhile.”
“You gonna eat?”
This time, Poppy kicked him under the table. Point taken. How bad could the food possibly be?
“We’ll let you know,” he said.
“If I’d have known you were going to act like a kid at his first coed party, I would have suggested somewhere else,” Poppy said. “This place is good because almost no one comes in. Ever.”
“Plan a lot of crimes here?”
“You could say that.” Poppy watched him for a moment before settling into the cracked maroon vinyl. “But believe me when I say there’s a reason this place is usually empty. If you order eggs, expect to be sick for at least three days.”
Before he could respond, the waitress came by and unceremoniously dumped a carafe of coffee on the table. Asprey thanked her and poured himself a cup, but Poppy put her hand firmly over the top of hers. “I’ll resort to the creamers if I get thirsty.”
Considering the way the coffee appeared to have lumps as it moved through the spout, Poppy seemed to have a point.
“My brother used to buy this brand of creamers by the crate,” Asprey said, rolling one of the little tubs between his fingers. He could also do a pretty mean coin-roll knuckle, but he drew the line at impressing women with sleight-of-hand tricks. Everyone had standards. “He said they made the best White Russians.”
“I have a hard time imagining Graff clinking a glass of vodka with the girls. He strikes me more as a swilled-straight-from-the-bottle type.”
“Not Graff—Winston.”
“Winston? As in Harry Winston Jewelers?” Poppy grabbed the creamer from his hand and held it aloft. “There’s another one of you?”
Crap. Discretion had never been Asprey’s strong suit. He covered his slipup by taking a generous gulp of coffee, which burned the inside of his mouth and all down his throat—but not because of the temperature. His eyes watered. “What is this stuff made out of? Napalm?”
“I think they wash out the pot with bleach after each use.”
He coughed heavily, taking the creamer she offered in one hand and biting the bottom so he could suck it down, shotgun-style. By the time his eyes had cleared enough that there was only one of her laughing at him from across the table, she seemed content to let the subject of Winston drop.
“So what is the deal with Graff?” she asked, resting her head on both hands, elbows propped on the table. When she did that, she looked young—her actual age, which he’d been surprised to find was only twenty-five. If half of the facts they’d compiled about her were true, there had been a hell of a lot of life shoved into those twenty-five years. “Are you guys in or out?”
“We’re hovering somewhere in the middle.”
She frowned. “You’re either in or out. Don’t waste my time.”
That seemed a fair response, given what he knew about this woman. But as it was his first foray into attempting to buy a person’s silence, he preferred to step lightly. Everything came with a learning curve. “What if I were to make this easy on you?”
She didn’t budge.
Fine. They’d do it the obvious way. “We can pay you for the necklace,” he finally said. “No questions asked, no trade of services required. All we want is a promise that you won’t go to the police.”
“You want me to keep my mouth shut? That’s what this is about?” She didn’t sound happy, and a deep furrow in the middle of her forehead seemed like a sign of impending doom, like a tornado siren or the four horsemen galloping by. This was the last time he was letting Graff talk him into anything.
“Yes?” he tried. “Like the real gentleman we are?”
She hesitated. “How much?”
He tried not to let his disappointment show. Yes, Poppy Donovan-slash-Natalie Hall was a criminal. And yes, she could probably kick his ass with both hands tied behind her back. But there was more to her story—and he wished he could have a little more time to hear it.
“Full market value. Twenty grand.”
“You have that kind of money here? Now?” She cast a furtive look around.
“Well, not on me,” Asprey said with a laugh. “Not even this trench coat is big enough to hide those kinds of rolls. But we are sorry about getting in the way of your—relationship, shall we call it?—with Todd Kennick. This is our way of making amends. Let us do this for you.”
She got to her feet so quickly he was sure he must have missed something. With what could only be described as a disgusted look, she dropped a few dollars onto the table and headed for the door.
“Wait!” Asprey jogged to catch up. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, her whole body whirling and coming to stop against his, like they were dancing and about to do a dip. If he’d have planned better, he’d have done just that, taking advantage of her proximity to prove that loving was just as effective as fighting.
As it was, he’d have to be content that he still had all the connective tissues in his joints. “You didn’t give me a chance to explain.”
She didn’t pull away, just tilted her head up so her gaze—sharp and to the point—met his. “Explain what? Excuse me if I don’t jump at the chance to be bought by a group of inept thieves. If you didn’t want to work with me, you could have just said so.”
Nothing about this woman made any sense. According to the arrest records they’d creatively acce
ssed via one of Tiffany’s backdoor programs, she’d turned herself in to the police about two and a half years ago, walked right into the police station as though she hadn’t a care in the world. There was no resistance, no attempt to delay the proceedings. She’d provided a written confession of her guilt in exchange for a sentence of two years.
Took the easy way out.
So why was she refusing the easy way now?
The waitress made an irritated noise and pushed her way between them, breaking the hold.
“So, what? You’re just going to walk away?” Asprey asked.
“Yes.” But she didn’t. Instead, she softened a little, her shoulders coming down about an inch. “I don’t want your money, Asprey. I mean—I do, obviously, since I asked you guys for help. I can’t set Todd up without a cash infusion, and I’ve invested too much time in him to give up. Since you guys are already, ah, comfortable with bending the law a little, having you on the job would make a big difference.”
Asprey was not immune to such flattery. “I am rather handy in a pinch.”
The look she gave him voiced an entire stadium full of doubts. “But I’m not going to turn you guys in—if you don’t want to help, there’s no need to buy me off. I might be a con woman, but I’m not a bad person.”
“I never said you were.”
“You implied it, and where I come from, that’s ten times worse.”
“Let me imply this,” he said, knowing as they came out that the words didn’t make any sense. He didn’t care. It suddenly seemed important that he make this call. They needed a partner, and so did Poppy. All the rest of it—the pesky details of her criminal record, Graff’s objections—weren’t nearly as important as making her part of their team. “Graff doesn’t trust you, but he barely trusts me, and I’ve known him for twenty-eight years. And Tiffany doesn’t care one way or the other.”
“And you? What do you think?”
He stuck his hand out and waited for her to shake it. “I think I’d like nothing more than to see what we can do for each other, you and me. We’ve got ourselves a deal, Poppy. Welcome to the Charles family.”
Poppy.
He didn’t realize he’d used her real name until she left—and by then, it was too late to recognize that the glittering look in her eyes hadn’t been the natural feminine appreciation he’d been going for.
In fact, he’d have said it was a declaration of something much more dangerous.
And Lord help him, but he couldn’t help but feel that was better.
Chapter Seven
“Hey, that guy’s cute.” Bea peered over Poppy’s shoulder at the computer screen. “Is he some kind of movie star or something?”
Poppy closed the laptop and faked a smile. More lies. “Yeah. He’s in that new romantic comedy. We should go see it one of these weekends.”
Given the hectic whirlwind of their respective schedules, Bea at work slinging coffee to the masses, Poppy falling further into the rabbit hole of her own folly, movies were far from a realistic option for the two of them. That was good. It meant Bea would never get a chance to notice that Asprey Charles very clearly wasn’t playing opposite Katherine Heigl in yet another cheesy chick flick. No—he was far too busy slipping past her careful cover, getting under her skin until she felt so hot and itchy not even a cold shower could completely get him out of her system.
A smarter woman would use this opportunity to retreat. Forget the necklace. Forget the partnership. Running the opposite direction was her best option if she wanted to come through this unscathed.
Too bad Poppy had never been known for her common sense. The Charles family—rich, illustrious and all over the Internet—was hiding something. And she wanted to know what.
“I’d like for us to go to a movie,” Bea said. “Or you could whisk me away to a bar where I can pretend, for just one night, that I’m not responsible for the life of another human being. It’d be fun. We could talk.”
The fake smile stretched wider. Poppy would rather watch a Katherine Heigl movie. “Sure thing, Bea. Soon.”
“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” Bea stepped back to allow Poppy enough room to get up and slip her feet into a pair of perilously high heels.
“Oh, you know,” Poppy said lamely, trying to ignore the undeniable mixture of grief and accusation in Bea’s voice. “I’ve got to go see Nancy down at the prison-away-from-prison.”
“Didn’t you see her yesterday? And why would you dress up to visit your parole officer?”
Poppy shrugged, as though she didn’t care that she was responsible for the heavy sadness that weighed on Bea’s once strong shoulders. She didn’t want to sit and rehash the past, and she wasn’t about to admit that she was elbows-deep in research for a con. It would break her friend if she knew Poppy had gone back on her word.
“I thought a nice pencil skirt might blow the old ball-and-chain away for a change. She thinks I might be sending the wrong impression to potential employers when I wear jean shorts.”
“I thought you called her a battle-ax.”
“She’s that too.” Poppy laughed and squeezed Bea’s hand. “You need to stop worrying about me. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I’m fine.”
“A person doesn’t lose two years of her life and walk away unscathed. I don’t care how much you pretend otherwise. You can’t just bury yourself in”—she waved her hand—“whatever this is and pretend it’s all okay. I wish there was some way I could repay you.”
Enough.
Poppy didn’t bother with the fake smile that time. She was tired of thinking about jail, tired of talking about rebuilding her life. Action was so much more effective than sitting around and examining her feelings. That was why she’d learned to fight in the first place. Did a girl with no future and a single-wide trailer she shared with her grandmother cry into her prepackaged, Salisbury steak dinner, or did she go out and find a sparring partner to work out those emotions?
This girl chose the latter. She always would.
“I’ll be home late,” Poppy said. “Don’t wait up.”
Before she could think the better of it, or before guilt yanked her back inside their apartment, a colorful mess of baby blankets and too much furniture, she headed out the door.
Her destination, a downtown Seattle office building that rose an impressive fifty stories in height, overlooked City Hall. After finding a parking spot in a garage offering exorbitant daily rates, she twisted her hair into a quick bun. Some nonprescription glasses might have added a nice touch and helped her stay on the down low, but she’d already reconciled herself to the possibility of being recognized. She was here to gather information, sure, but she was also making a statement.
What that statement said had yet to be determined. But as she glanced at the building directory, which included a square plaque announcing Charles Appraisals and Insurance up on the thirty-third floor, she rather thought the statement might fall somewhere along the lines of lying rich boys better watch out. They knew where she lived, her real name and who knew what else about her. She was simply leveling the score.
Before Bea had interrupted her at the computer, she’d discovered a few fascinating tidbits about the Charles family—namely that they owned a jewelry-and-art insurance firm that had been in operation for more than a hundred years. Jewelry. Art. Money. Incredible good looks—that one hadn’t been hard to miss. More than a few newspaper clips had depicted one of the Charles men with his arm around a well-endowed woman.
It didn’t take a genius to realize that their family business and their thieving activities were somehow linked. The question was, how were they linked? And what did it have to do with the fake necklace they’d taken from Todd?
The elevator was out of the question for obvious, claustrophobic reasons, so Poppy was forced to take the stairs to their floor. Thirty flights in and she was about ready to chuck the shoes all the way down to the bottom of the stairwell. Yet another reason why rich people sucked—if they
hated small spaces, they’d pay a therapist to talk their problems away. Poppy’s people walked instead. At least the calf workout was nice.
She paused for a few seconds once she reached the correct door, straightening her skirt and underwear, which had both ridden to unfathomable heights during her ascent.
The floor she stepped out onto wasn’t in any way remarkable, at least not as far as upscale downtown Seattle business real estate went. It was all glass surfaces and sparkling stainless steel, which extended about a hundred feet in the distance, where rows of individual offices fit together like pieces of a Tetris game. Each individual office was walled in with glass, giving the place an eerily fish-tank-like atmosphere.
“Can I help you?” a cheerful woman chirped from behind the reception counter. She looked a bit like Poppy’s version of Natalie, except this woman’s hair was a more natural shade of blonde, and her well-tailored suit looked infinitely more comfortable than Natalie’s Spanx-lined monstrosities.
“I’m not sure,” Poppy said truthfully. “What can you tell me about this place?”
The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, but she was much too professional to toss Poppy out on her rear. “We-ell, I guess that depends on what you want to know. We’re an insurance firm dealing mostly in art and jewelry, with some high-end furniture and heirlooms passing through. We also do valuations and appraisals—usually for the items we insure, but also for private clients. Did you have something you wanted appraised?”
“You mean…like a really old, ugly yellow chair or something?”
The woman’s eyebrows flew that time, and she reached for her phone. “Do you have a really old, ugly yellow chair?”
Her hand stayed in place on the receiver as she waited for Poppy’s answer. Poppy was dying to know who she’d call—if maybe Graff was on site and required immediate notification of any and all hideous pieces of furniture for acquisition, or if it was some kind of code word that would get her into the elite back offices—but she wasn’t quite prepared to put that particular question to the test.
Confidence Tricks Page 6
