Thick as Thieves

by Jillianne Hamilton

  Usually Dad is a bit of a sucker for his youngest daughter’s sweet, innocent smile. I was proud of him for sticking to his guns.

  Haylee looked like she might burst. She curled her fingers into tight fists at her side, and her eyes filled with fire.

  Metaphorically, obviously. Not actual fire, that would be super creepy.

  “Do you know what Molly does for a living, Dad?” she said, her eye twitching with spoiled brat fury. “She’s a fucking thief, just like you.”

  Dad didn’t flinch. The corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “And?”

  This was not the response Haylee was expecting.

  She blinked dumbly. “You already knew?”

  Hee hee hee. Suckaaaaaa. “Yeah. I’ve known for a long time. And we’re not talking about Molly right now. We’re talking about you.”

  “I bet Mom doesn’t know what Molly does. Maybe I’ll just tell her instead.” She grabbed her phone off the coffee table.

  Again, Dad stayed stoic. “If you breathe a word to your mother about what Molly does for a living, you won’t get any financial assistance from me again. Do you understand?”

  Haylee slowly put the phone back down, her eyes filling with tears.

  “If you go to rehab, go back to school and stay clean,” Dad said, “I’ll pay for your first apartment once you’re done school.”

  Haylee considered this offer. “I want a nice apartment,” she snapped.

  “Fine.”

  “Nicer than Molly’s.”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

  Haylee packed her things into her bag, and Dad called a cab for the two of them.

  “I wish you could stay longer,” I said as we stood on the front step.

  “It’s better that I don’t stay here too long. I’ve been craving Starbucks ever since I got here. I haven’t had coffee in over a year. I can’t just give in now.” He smiled. “Plus, there are a handful of people in New York who don’t care for me too much.”

  “Understood.”

  A few minutes later, the cab pulled up, and I hugged Dad goodbye. I tried to hug Haylee, but she just angled away from me and shot me a look before sliding into the taxi.

  “She won’t hate you forever,” Dad said. “She’s being forced to give up something that she feels she needs. Imagine if someone made you give up your drug of choice.”

  I shook my head. “What drug is that exactly?”

  “Adrenaline.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  To: bettybruce

  From: audreyfox

  Subject: New assignment

  Betty,

  I have a new assignment for you. Please be in London in two days’ time. We will discuss details further at my office.

  Audrey

  To: bettybruce

  From: audreyfox

  Subject: Re: New assignment

  Betty,

  Just making sure you received my last email. Please confirm.

  Audrey

  To: bettybruce

  From: audreyfox

  Subject: Re: New assignment

  I tried calling you several times. Did you change your number?

  To: bettybruce

  From: audreyfox

  Subject: Re: New assignment

  Fine. If you’re going to ignore my phone calls and emails, perhaps I won’t require your services from now on.

  Very mature, by the way. Just like your father.

  Haylee and Dad had only been gone from my apartment for a few hours when I made my way to the airport. I spent most of the journey back to Paris napping and drowsily watching a poorly edited in-flight action movie.

  “What the fudge are you lookin’ at?” Yes. I’m sure the bloodthirsty gangster just said “fudge.” Hilarious.

  My flight landed just before midnight. While waiting for my luggage, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.

  Rhys: Welcome back to Paris, mon cheri.

  I found Rhys at the airport, each of us dragging a small suitcase behind us. He smiled when he saw me.

  “My flight got in just before yours,” he said. “You look tired, kid.”

  I blinked up at him. “Gee, thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He rolled his eyes, and we headed for the car rental place.

  The traffic was light, since it was past midnight. Rhys and I were quiet, exhausted by jetlag. I must have fallen asleep in the car, my head resting against the window, because the trip back to Sophie’s gallery was very quick.

  A security guard opened the gate for us, and we parked in the garage behind the building.

  I was glad to have cover of darkness as we got our luggage out of the car. Well, as dark as you can get on a well-lit street in the middle of an enormous city. The neighbors were all likely asleep by then. As far as we knew, there was no footage of us entering the art gallery—but better safe than sorry.

  Sophie met us upstairs. Despite it being the middle of the night, she was effortlessly chic in a simple black dress, her brown curls in a messy bun. I was both fascinated and intimidated by her.

  “I am sorry, I only have the one guest room,” Sophie said. “If that is a problem, I can put one of you up at a nearby hotel for the night.”

  I dragged my suitcase into the guest room. A fabric canopy hung over a king-size bed. The walls were adorned with vintage, striped wallpaper in complementary colors, and two windows looked out to the brick wall of the building next door.

  Rhys glanced in. “This’ll do.”

  I swallowed, feeling butterflies in my stomach.

  “This is fine,” I said quietly.

  Calm down. You and Rhys have slept in the same room before. Remember when you stayed at that inn in Scotland? He slept on the couch and you slept in the loft upstairs. This is just like that. Except there is only one bed. No biggie. We’re all adults here.

  We followed Sophie back to the sitting room. She crossed her legs and folded her elegant hands on her knees.

  “First question,” she said. “Does Audrey know you knew the painting delivered to her was a forgery?”

  We both shook our heads.

  “Good. That’s good.” She thought for a moment. “Both of the forgeries are now with police. I don’t know who has the real painting, but we need to locate the original.”

  Rhys, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, raised an eyebrow. “And why are we trying to find the real painting?”

  A tiny smile crept onto Sophie’s lips. “I want it.”

  Rhys and I exchanged glances.

  “That’s going to be … difficult. Especially right now,” I said. “Everyone will be on the lookout for that painting. And stolen art is notoriously hard to find once it has been taken from a gallery.”

  “It could literally be anywhere,” Rhys added. “That painting … it’s too hot right now.”

  “That’s why we must act now. I believe it is still in France.” Sophie’s eyes lit up like I’d never seen before. She was usually so calm and demure. This painting wasn’t just another piece of artwork to her, but something that made the fire burn in her belly.

  “Why do you think it’s still in the country?” I said.

  “Everyone at airport security and customs will be on high alert, looking for that painting. None of my contacts in the art world have seen any trace of it, here and elsewhere in Europe.”

  “So,” Rhys said, “do we start by looking in the basement and attic in every house in the country?” He didn’t sound too sure about this new assignment.

  Sophie frowned. “I don’t know who has the painting. But I know who painted the other forgery. He should be able to point us in the right direction.”

  “And who is that?” I said.

  Her eyes returned to their usual calm state. “His name is André Robineau. He’s an artist who does forgeries. Excellent forgeries, actually. He is the only other forger in France who could have created a recreation as good as mine.”

  “An artist and
a forger,” I said. “Just like you.”

  “André and I … have a history. We were lovers many years ago,” she said. “It did not end well.”

  Awkwaaaaard.

  “Oh,” Rhys said quietly, looking uncomfortable.

  “Why would André give us the name of his client?” I said. “I’m really not comfortable with threatening anyone.”

  “He’s a reasonable man. For the right price, I’m sure he would give up a name.” Sophie tapped on her knee with perfectly manicured nails. “But I must not be connected to this arrangement in any way. You will not utter my name to anyone during this assignment. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Absolutely.” Rhys glanced at me again. “And how much are we getting paid for this little goose chase?”

  “Five hundred thousand euros each,” Sophie said. “Seven hundred thousand each when that painting is delivered to me.”

  I winced. “And what if we can’t find it?”

  She uncrossed her legs and stood up. “I have faith in you.” She looked from Rhys to me and then back again. “Do we have a deal?”

  Rhys stuck his hand out. “We have a deal.”

  I glared at him. “We’re not even going to discuss this first?”

  He shrugged. “Nah.” He shook Sophie’s hand. “This should be a piece of cake.”

  Technically, we could have walked out of there with five hundred thousand without a second of actual work. But that additional seven hundred thousand was too tempting to pass up.

  “Yeah. No sweat.” I shook Sophie’s hand.

  Sophie smiled. “Good. I’m glad we’re working together again.” She hesitated. “I can’t have you seen going to and from my gallery while you’re working, so after tonight you will stay at my friend’s apartment while you’re in Paris and hotels if you need to travel outside of the city. I hope you understand.”

  We both nodded, thanked her for her hospitality and retired to the guest room for the night. I fell onto the bed, face down, my whole body aching with sleepiness.

  Tiny raindrops clinked against the windows as Rhys unpacked his laptop.

  I looked at Rhys from the bed. “Did you get the Wi-Fi password?”

  “I got it.” His fingers flew over the keys. “It’s ‘Rembrandt.’”

  “Of course it is,” I mumbled into the comforter.

  I found my toothbrush, toothpaste and pajamas—SpongeBob SquarePants PJ bottoms and an oversized black t-shirt—in my suitcase, suddenly wishing I’d packed something a little more flattering.

  Stop it. Stop it right now.

  I looked over Rhys’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking on my transactions.” He continued to click and type, but nothing on the screen made sense to me; it was just a bunch of code and numbers.

  “Ohhh right,” I said. “Your side hustle. How’s that going?”

  Rhys grinned at me over his shoulder. “Just as planned.” He glanced at my PJ pants and chuckled.

  “Don’t judge. They’re comfy,” I said, going to the tiny bathroom next to our room.

  Once in the bathroom, I was faced with a serious dilemma.

  Bra on or off?

  Sleeping with a bra on overnight is hella uncomfortable, but sleeping in the same bed as Rhys without a bra would make me feel uncomfortable in a different way. Not that my boobs are big or anything, I just like to keep them in check. I eventually decided to keep my bra on, and then I could remove it once I was under the covers and the lights were off.

  When I went back into the guest room, Rhys had taken two of the pillows from one side of the bed and one blanket and was making a little bed on the floor next to the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable,” I lied. “I’m fine.”

  He scratched the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to make things weird.”

  “It’s a king-size bed,” I said. “There’ll be, like, three feet of bed between us.”

  Rhys nodded. “I sleep naked.”

  My eyes widened. “Uhhh—”

  “I’m joking.” He laughed, unbuttoning his shirt. “If you’re fine with it, then I’m fine with it.”

  I smiled at him. “I’m fine.”

  You’re not even going to bring up your girlfriend during our little game of chicken? What’s your deal?

  He folded his shirt back into his suitcase and pulled his undershirt over his head. I tried not to stare at the line of dark hair that led from his belly button, down beyond the top of his flannel pants.

  Ohmygod, he’s got a treasure trail.

  Rhys found a pair of blue plaid drawstring PJ pants and went to the bathroom to change and brush his teeth. I slid under the covers and tried to maneuver my bra off without taking off my nightshirt. Rhys came back in as I was pulling my bra out of the neck hole of my shirt. He raised an eyebrow as I tossed it on the floor and out of his line of sight. I pulled the blanket up to my chin, even though it was summer and very warm in our room.

  He put the blanket and pillows back on the bare side of the bed, shut off the light and slid under the sheet. We both lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling.

  “Do you honestly think we can do this?” I whispered into the darkness.

  “I can’t see why not,” Rhys said. “Like you said, this bed is really spacious. I mean, I snore occasionally—”

  “I meant this assignment.”

  “Oh. Right.” The tapping of raindrops on the windows quickened. “Yeah. It’s worth a shot. Could be fun.”

  “I guess. I’m just used to assignments where I’m told where to go and who to steal from and then that’s it.” I yawned. “Anyway. I’m beat. Goodnight, Rhys.”

  “Goodnight, Molly.”

  I don’t think either of us went to sleep right away. I kept thinking about this assignment, about my sister going to rehab and about how Rhys looked without a shirt.

  I eventually fell into a deep sleep. I don’t think I woke up once. When I did wake up, the rain had stopped, but drops of water still clung to the windows. It wasn’t yet sunrise. During the night, Rhys and I had both moved to the middle of the bed, and his arm was draped over the dip in the blankets where my waist was. His quiet breaths had evolved to whispery snores overnight, and I could feel his warm exhalations on the back of my neck.

  I could also feel his morning wood poking me in the butt.

  Awkwaaaaard.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was before 5:00 a.m. when Rhys and I packed up the car and relocated to the chic apartment Sophie had arranged for us. It was in a different part of Paris called Le Marais, bustling with shoppers and little vintage shops. The apartment, which was owned by an out-of-town friend of Sophie’s, was much more classic French than her house—white antique furniture, classic paintings on the walls and powder-blue accents. It looked a bit like an interior from the Palace of Versailles.

  Or pictures I’d seen of Versailles, anyway. I’d never actually had the opportunity to go see the place.

  The apartment, thankfully, came with two bedrooms. Rhys had a hard time making eye contact with me since realizing he’d been cuddled up against me with his, um, overnight tent poking me in the butt. He apologized about eight times and seemed genuinely mortified. The idea of Rhys being embarrassed about anything seemed so unnatural.

  After we got settled, we headed for Montmartre. The area, home of the famed Moulin Rouge, the Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur and a charming carousel, was flooded with tourists. The narrow streets were crowded with artists painting and little shop fronts.

  Rhys leaned into me, his hand landing on my hip. “Careful of pickpockets.”

  I gave him a look. “The thief gets thieved. The irony would be too much.”

  He shrugged and held up my wallet with a smile. I snatched it out of his hand, tossed it back into my purse and held my bag closer to me. “Showoff
.”

  He looked over my shoulder. “I think that’s the place.”

  The building looked a lot like most of the buildings in this area: old, with a white stone exterior and a light blue roof. It seamlessly fit into its aged surroundings. But it was the address Sophie had given us the night before.

  Rhys pretended to check his phone and blocked me from view while I quickly picked the lock and let us in. We ascended the creaky stairs to the flat on the second floor.

  I knocked on the door. No answer. I looked at Rhys. We both leaned closer to the door. It was quiet inside. I knocked again. Nothing.

  “Maybe he’s not home,” Rhys whispered.

  I knocked louder, practically banging my fist against the old wooden door. “Bonjour!”

  Once again, I took out my metal lock pick and went to work. I pushed open the door just as a middle-aged man in a bathrobe was leaving a room at the back of the tiny apartment, his short gray hair wet.

  He screamed. I screamed. He grabbed a wooden spoon off the kitchen counter, the closest thing to him, and held it up in front of himself like a knife. Rhys moved into the doorframe, blocking me from a full-frontal spoon attack.

  The man shouted at us in French and reached for his phone, but Rhys blocked his path.

  “Arrêt!” Rhys yelled, holding up both hands at the man. “Nous n’allons pas vous blesser! Parlez-vous anglais?”

  The man, frantic and confused, nodded hesitantly. “Oui. Er, yes,” he said in a thick French accent.

  Rhys nodded and tried to keep his tone calm. “Good. We are not here to rob you or hurt you. We are friends.”

  I poked my head out from behind Rhys and smiled weakly, feeling a little left out. “Sorry about the door.”

  The robed man held up his spoon again. “What do you want?”

  My eyes drifted around the small apartment. Thick cobwebs clung to the top corners of the room. He didn’t have any furniture except a narrow bed in the corner and a table, both covered in art supplies. An easel holding a half-finished masterpiece stood in the corner. Every available inch of wall space was covered by paintings and drawings. The paintings and drawings varied in style, and I couldn’t help but notice they appeared to have different signatures on them.