Confidence Tricks

by Tamara Morgan

  Rose stopped, and it was obvious she expected Poppy to say something, but the words were difficult to find. “They don’t do anything illegal, do they?” she asked. Clearly the family dynamics went beyond espresso-machine pranks, but she was having a hard time seeing where forgeries and robberies fit in.

  Rose laughed. “Not that I’m aware of, sweetie. But I will say this. Someone has it out for Winston these days. That espresso machine we’re drinking from? Every few weeks it disappears, and in its place there is always a black mask.”

  Poppy snuck a peek out the window. Asprey was still there, lounging like he hadn’t a care in the world. “A black mask?”

  “Winston treats it like a personal threat, but I’m pretty sure it’s one of his brothers playing a trick on him. You wouldn’t believe the pranks they used to pull on one another when they were kids.”

  Um, yes, actually. That was one thing she could readily believe.

  But all she said was, “Oh?” politely over the rim of her cup.

  “You name it, they did it. Buckets of water on top of doors, bicycles hidden on the roof, magic tricks.”

  “Magic tricks?”

  “Graff was always excellent at sleight of hand.”

  Good—that’s one thing I’m definitely counting on. “Sounds harmless enough,” Poppy offered. Remembering she was supposed to be playing a role, she added, “I’ve seen quite a bit of that myself. You know, being a nanny and all.”

  Rose nodded. “In my experience, bright children left unsupervised turn out one of two ways. They either get into a little harmless mischief, or they become criminals. I’m glad the kids chose the first path, though you’d think they’d have grown out of it by now.” She shook her head, more amused than regretful. “But boys will be boys.”

  Poppy almost shot espresso out her nose. Rose obviously didn’t know her beloved charges enough. Without saying a word, she grabbed Rose’s empty cup and began rinsing the dishes in the sink. She needed a second to process.

  For reasons she couldn’t even begin to understand—at least beyond his generally unappealing personality—Winston was yet another victim of the Graff-Asprey-Tiffany robbery scheme. But why? And what good did it do to take the same piece of equipment over and over again?

  “You don’t have to do that,” Rose protested, but she didn’t get up. The poor woman probably needed a break. Working for this family, even just a few days a week, had to be a strange and trying experience. Poppy had been around them all of two weeks and had never been so confused.

  All the more reason to get that espresso machine out the door and into my care.

  “You know, now that I think about it, there was a guy with a black mask in the neighborhood today. He parked over on the other side of the block and took about a ten-minute stroll. I thought he was one of those weird hipster types.” She placed the cups on the dish rack next to the sink.

  “You don’t say?” Rose didn’t seem surprised.

  “But I jotted down his license plate number just to be sure—safety is so important when you work with kids. I have the number in my purse, which I think I set down by the front door. Do you want me to grab it? Let me just finish these last few dishes and dry my hands…” She let the words trail off and tackled the sink with renewed interest.

  As expected, common courtesy won out, and Rose offered to grab the bag herself. It was the exact thing Poppy needed. Just a few seconds, nothing more. The moment Rose was out of sight down the hallway, she grabbed the machine and gave the cord a yank. It was heavier than it looked, and the residual heat from the nozzle burned sharp and painfully against her upper arm, but she lugged it out the door and tossed it over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. The crash of a hundred plastic and metal parts hitting the ground couldn’t be helped. For the rest of it, well… He didn’t say it has to be functional.

  Before she could be spotted, Poppy ran to the back fence and climbed the bottom foothold, peering over as if looking for someone in the alleyway.

  Rose emerged from the back door about thirty seconds later. “I couldn’t find your purse. What are you doing out here?”

  Poppy turned. “I heard something. It sounded like garbage cans crashing, but there’s no one here. Weird.”

  “Well, no worries. It was probably the Parson’s cat. What’s its name again?”

  Poppy pretended not to hear. She wasn’t about to give her cover up now over not knowing the name of a silly pet. She was too close. In fact, this was the part where an exit strategy made all the difference.

  “Now that I think about it, I might have left my purse next door. I should probably go.”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  Poppy hid a frown and followed Rose back into the house. She’d been hoping to escape through the yard, but there was a gentle firmness to the woman that brooked no argument. Hopefully, they could make it through the kitchen without taking stock of the inventory.

  Luck, however, was not on Poppy’s side. She shouldn’t have been surprised—luck had long since given up on her, just like the rest of the world. As they ambled through the kitchen, Rose happened to glance over to the countertop, where instead of the gaping hole left by the stolen espresso machine, there sat a simple black mask, velvety and banded, very much like the one Poppy had seen Asprey wear the night they met.

  Does he carry them around in his pants?

  “Oh dear,” Rose said and covered her mouth. Poppy felt a twinge of guilt until she saw that Rose wasn’t covering her horror—in fact, it looked very much like she was smiling. “I guess that was the sound you heard. It was a distraction to get you out of the kitchen.”

  “But how did he get in?” Poppy asked, whirling around the kitchen. It was all for show, of course. Asprey had left the window open on his way out. “Oh, Rose. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  Rose laughed and pulled the window frame down, careful to latch it. “Nothing you could have done, short of tying Asprey to a chair. You tell him I said hello, by the way, and that next time he can just knock on the door and I’ll give him the darn thing. I’m too old for these games.”

  “You knew?”

  “Sweetheart, the Parsons have had the same lovely British girl as their nanny for ten years. And their cat’s name is Reginald.”

  Poppy couldn’t help but laugh with the older woman. This had to be one of her least successful cons of all time. “I think it might break his heart if he knew you were on to him. What will you tell Winston?”

  “Nothing.” Rose led the way to the front door, opening it for Poppy. “I’m locking up and going home. They don’t pay me enough to deal with their sibling rivalry—and I’ve long since given up trying to figure them out. Winston can find the mask when he gets home. It was lovely to meet you, dear. I hope to see you again someday under less clandestine circumstances.”

  There was nothing else to say, so Poppy trotted down the stairs and made her way to the next-door neighbor’s yard, peering in the foliage for signs of the espresso machine. As she suspected, it had been cleared away, and except for a lingering steaming cup that rolled next to a rock, Asprey had made away with the bulk of the goods.

  Asprey was already at the martini bar, a dark stretch of a room done up in wine-red paint and neon lighting, when she arrived. He’d even had the audacity to bring the broken machine in with him, a pile of plastic and metal parts on display like they were wares for sale.

  “You’re lucky your brother didn’t come home while I was in there. He would have recognized me as Veronica Maxwell in a second.”

  “Hello to you too.” He got up and pulled out her chair, waiting until she seated herself before pushing it back in. Wooing her with manners—and succeeding at it. The jerk. “You forget that I’m protected by the powers of reconnaissance. If there’s one thing we can count on, it’s people doing exactly what they always do. And Winston never comes home before eight.”

  “People change. People get sick. Sometimes they want to get home early to
snuggle with a teddy bear and eat Thai takeout.”

  “You snuggle with a teddy bear?”

  “Hey—I have bad days just like everyone else,” she protested. “But we aren’t talking about me. I said people. If you let them, people can surprise you.”

  “You surprise me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to flatter me?”

  He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, seemingly impervious to the fact that they embraced just a few inches above a burning candle. “When will you learn? It’s not flattery if it’s the truth. What did you and Rose talk about ?”

  “The espresso machine,” she said truthfully. “And you.”

  “I bet it was all good things. Rose always loved me best.”

  “Is there anyone in the world who hasn’t fallen completely under your spell?”

  “Just you.” The grin that spread over Asprey’s face was irresistible and cheeky and so completely him Poppy couldn’t help but join in.

  “You didn’t win, by the way. I got the espresso machine out of the house. You just picked up the broken pieces and left a stupid mask behind. That makes me the winner.”

  “Technically, I’m the one who currently has the stolen goods. Isn’t possession nine-tenths of the law?”

  “I refuse to concede the win on those grounds.”

  “And I refuse to concede to your refusal to concede.”

  “What would you ask me?” Suddenly, that seemed more important than their ridiculous circular argument. “If—and we’re talking hypotheticals here—if I said you won, what would you ask?”

  He paused for a moment, considering her. When he looked at her like that, as though he could sit there for hours and never tire of it, she found it hard to sit still. It was the same squirming sensation she got whenever she felt trapped, as though the walls were closing in and she was swelling out, but without any of the fear. In fact, this was the opposite. She could fill the room, expanding into infinity, and still not be big enough to live up to whatever it was he saw in her.

  “That’s easy. I would have asked what I had to do to kiss you again.”

  She licked her lips slowly, watching as Asprey’s mesmerized gaze followed the path of her tongue. Nothing. It would take nothing.

  She knew it. Asprey knew it. Hell, the people the next table over probably had a pretty good clue.

  Which was why she leaned over the table and grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting the material and pulling him close. Over the top of the espresso machine, the candle and the mountains of lies that lay between them, she forced his lips to meet hers. And just like that, the details melted away. Who cared about life and responsibility when she could lose herself in a pair of lips as demanding and insistent as his? Who cared about anything compared to the scratchy surface of Asprey’s always-present stubble and the ferocity of his teeth as they pulled at her lower lip?

  She did. She cared.

  She pulled away and, as soon as her breath resumed a normal pattern, let loose a shaky laugh. “Now can we call it even?”

  “No way, Poppy.” Asprey fell heavily to his chair, his own breath coming short and fast. He recovered sooner than she did, though, eventually signaling for the waiter to bring them some menus. “Now’s when things are starting to get interesting.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Asprey sat, pretending to read a newspaper. A complex string of horse-racing odds covered the front and back of the pages, and he leaned casually in his chair, pretending to take a profound interest in a picture of a thoroughbred horse being brushed by his jockey. For good effect, he stroked his fake mustache a few times.

  A sharp stab in his shin made him drop both efforts.

  “Ouch!” he hissed, reaching down to rub his leg. Poppy had very pointy shoes on—they were probably going to leave a mark. “We had a deal about you warning me first. What was that for?”

  “Don’t overact. We’re supposed to be two people having an enjoyable afternoon at the racetrack—not some kind of cartoon villain and his sassy accomplice. You need to look natural.”

  “Says the woman in a Marilyn Monroe wig.”

  The platinum blonde hair was back on her head, matched by several tantalizing feet of red Lycra that seemed to exist solely to support a shelf of massive, overflowing breasts—ones he could have sworn weren’t there yesterday. The sight of them was almost enough to make Asprey feel sorry for Todd. There couldn’t be a man alive who was impervious to those—

  “Ahem.”

  Asprey glanced up, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry. It’s hard to look away. They’re right there. How do you get them up so high?”

  “Rubber inserts and duct tape,” she said, laughing when she saw his reaction. “And if you’re going to be my distant cousin, you’ll have to rein in the urge. We’re not that kind of family.”

  “I had a kissing cousin once,” Asprey said. “She could do the most amazing thing with her tongue.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “So is taping your boobs up so high you could probably motorboat them all by yourself.” He lifted a brow. “Could you?”

  She swatted at him playfully. “Just keep your attention where it needs to be, okay? We have one chance to make this work before it starts to look like we’re trying too hard.”

  “How did you find this guy, anyway?” Asprey asked. It was a question that had been lingering in the back of his mind for a while now. “Is there a database of Men Who Steal Things and Deserve to be Tricked somewhere that you have access to?”

  The playful laughter in her eyes closed off. He wished she wouldn’t do that. Her eyes—so large and expressive—were the best part of her. Followed immediately by her smile. He couldn’t forget the legs. And then…well. Taped up or not taped up, her breasts were rather tempting.

  “Well, why are you after that Polka painting or whatever it is? I’m sure you didn’t pick that at random, either.”

  “It’s Pollock,” he corrected her. “And no, it’s not a random heist. Is that your way of telling me you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Consider it my way of reminding you I’m not the only one with secrets here.”

  Asprey hated secrets. He always had. If people didn’t like what he had to say or how he lived his life—in the skies and on the prowl—that was their own fault. All these secrets he was entangled in now—they belonged to someone else. Winston. Graff. Now Poppy. It was difficult to know which way was up anymore.

  “How about this? We can extend our little espresso-machine game. I’ll give you one of my truths in exchange for one of yours.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And I can ask anything?”

  “Why not?” He leaned back and spread his arms. In keeping with the racetrack setting, he wore a black polo shirt open at the collar, several chains of gold hanging at his neck. Not normally his style, but he kind of liked the clink of all that jewelry. It was sparkly. “Any question you want.”

  She paused for a moment, her lips pursed as she considered his offer. “Okay. This has been bothering me since day one. Why did you steal the necklace from me and Todd if you already knew it was a fake?”

  Damn. That was a good question—and one that opened the door for a lot more. Graff had made him promise not to divulge more than was necessary, but even though Asprey might defer to his brother in matters related to theft, he was still capable of making decisions on his own. And this—trading truths—was something he wanted a lot more than a stupid oversized Pollock.

  “Because everything we steal is a forgery.”

  Her mouth parted, her lower lip falling in surprise. He had to restrain himself from reaching across the table and taking that mouth, forgeries and fake mustaches and kissing cousins aside.

  “All of it?” She shook off her initial surprise, the cascades of blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders. “The big table of loot? The painting you guys need help getting?”

  Asprey nodded and offered an apologetic grin. “Don’t l
et Graff know I told you. He’s likely to dislocate my other shoulder.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Actually, it does,” he countered, “but that would cost you another question. Now it’s my turn.”

  She scowled. “That seems like cheating. You didn’t explain your answer. You just gave me the bare-bones version.”

  “Haven’t you ever played twenty questions before? It’s called strategy.”

  “Fine,” she hedged. “What’s your question?”

  He gazed up at the sky, pretending to be pensive. There shone another rare patch of sunshine in the Pacific Northwest, making it a great day to be pretty much anywhere but a rickety iron table in the defunct bar of a horse-racing track that had long since seen its heyday. He brought his gaze down to land on Poppy’s half-scowling, half-laughing face. The company, at least, he could find no fault with.

  “Why are you always wearing those teal boots?” he finally asked.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Every time I see you—the real you, not some made-up persona—you have those cowboy boots on. They obviously mean something to you. What is it?”

  “I don’t understand.” Her forehead and nose crinkled. “You don’t want to ask me why I targeted Todd? Or something about life in jail? Or why I turned myself in?”

  Asprey shrugged. He did want to know all those things, but not nearly as much as he wanted to know her. “That’s work stuff. I’m not wasting any of my questions on work stuff.”

  She glanced down at her feet, as though she wasn’t wearing hooker heels in spangled silver, instead walking comfortably along in her favorite crazy footwear. “They were a gift.”

  “The boots?” he urged gently.

  When she looked up, her eyes were larger than usual, brimming with emotion. “Every Christmas for ten years I asked—begged—for a pair of boots just like them. And every Christmas I got a pair of sensible Keds from Kmart. I know my grandmother meant well, but I vowed that when I was grown up, I would never wear anything but those teal boots.”