by J. D. Robb
"I'd like to hear it. Can I talk to him alone, Vince?"
"I wouldn't recommend it."
"I'm a licensed investigator. He knows it." Max jerked a thumb at Vince. "I have a case and a client, and I'm pursuing leads. I'm not free to say any more."
"Then you'd be wasting all our time," Vince pointed out.
"Ten minutes, Laine."
An investigator. A case. In the time it took her to absorb the blow, she'd added her father into the mix. Hurt, anger and resignation rolled through her in a messy trio, but none of it showed. "I'd appreciate the time, Vince. It's personal."
"Figured as much." Vince pushed to his feet. "As a favor to you, then. I'll be right outside the door. Watch yourself," he added to Max, "or you're going to have a few new bruises to go with the old ones."
Max waited until the door clicked shut. "You've got very protective friends."
"How much of the ten minutes do you want to waste on irrelevant observations?"
"Could you sit down?"
"I could, but I won't." She walked over to Vince's Mr. Coffee machine. She needed something to do with her hands before she surrendered to impulse and pounded them into Max's face. "What game are you running, Max?"
"I'm working for Reliance Insurance, and I'm skirting a line telling you that before I clear it with my client."
"Really? But breaking into my shop after spending several hours having sex with me isn't a line you're worried about, apparently."
"I didn't know. I didn't expect . . ." Fuck it, he thought. "I can apologize, but it wouldn't make any difference to you, and wouldn't excuse the way this happened."
"Well, there we are." She drank coffee, bitter and black. "We're on the same page on something, after all."
"You can be pissed off at me if you want—"
"Why, thanks. I believe I will."
"But you've got to get past it. Laine, you're in trouble."
She lifted her eyebrows, stared deliberately at the handcuffs. "I'm in trouble?"
"How many people know you're Elaine O'Hara?"
She didn't bat an eyelash. He hadn't expected her to be quite that good.
"You'd be one, apparently. I don't choose to use that name. I changed to my stepfather's name a long time ago. And I fail to see how this is any of your business." She sipped at the coffee. "Why don't we get back to the part where, about an hour after we were sliding around naked on each other, you were arrested for breaking into my place of business."
Guilt swept over his face but gave her little satisfaction. "One doesn't have anything to do with the other."
With a nod, she set the coffee down. "With answers like that we don't need our allotted ten minutes."
"William Young died outside your store," Max said as she took a step toward the door. "Died, according to witness reports, all but in your arms. You must've recognized him."
Her facade cracked minutely, and the grief eked through. Then she shored it up again. "This sounds more like an interrogation than an explanation. I'm not interested in answering the questions of a man who lied to me, who used me. So you can start telling me what you're doing here and what you want, or I'll bring Vince back in and we'll get started on pressing charges."
He took a moment. It was all he needed to confirm in his mind that she'd do exactly that. Shove him aside, lock the door, walk away. It was all he needed to understand—he'd toss the job aside before he'd let that happen.
"I broke into your shop tonight so I could clear you, so I could report to my client this morning that you weren't involved, and so I could tell you the truth."
"Involved in what? The truth about what?"
"Sit down for a damn minute. I'm tired of craning my neck."
She sat. "There. Comfy?"
"Six weeks ago, diamonds appraised at and insured by Reliance for twenty-eight point four million dollars were stolen from the offices of the International Jewelry Exchange in New York City. Two days later, the body of Jerome Myers, a gem merchant with offices in that location, was found in a New Jersey construction site. Through the investigation it's been determined this merchant was the inside man. It's also been determined he had a connection and an association with William Young and Jack O'Hara."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute. You're saying you believe my father was involved in a heist with a take of over twenty-eight million? Million? That he had something to do with a murder? The first is ridiculous, the second impossible. Jack O'Hara dreamed big, but he's small-time. And he never hurt anyone, not that way."
"Things change."
"Not that much."
"The cops don't have enough to charge Jack or Willy, though they'd sure like to talk to them. Since Willy's not going to be talking to anybody, that leaves Big Jack. Insurance companies get really irritated when they have to pay out big-ass claims."
"And that's where you come in."
"I've got more of a free hand than the cops. And a bigger expense account."
"And a bigger payoff," she added. "What's your take?"
"Five percent of the recovered amount."
"So in this case, you bring back the twenty-eight-plus, you tuck away . . ." Her eyes narrowed as she did the math. "A tidy one million, four hundred and twenty thousand in your piggy bank. Not bad."
"I earn it. I've put a lot of hours in on this. I know Jack and Willy were in it, just like I know there was a third party."
"Me?" She'd have laughed if she hadn't been so angry. "So I, what, broke out my black catsuit and watch cap, bopped up to New York, stole millions in jewels, cut out my share, then came home to feed my dog?"
"No. Not that you wouldn't look hot in a catsuit. Alex Crew. The name ring any bells?"
"No."
"Both the merchant and your father were seen with him prior to the heist. He's not small-time, though this would be his biggest effort. In the interest of time, let's just say he's not a nice guy, and if he's looking at you, you're in trouble."
"Why would he look at me?"
"Because you're Jack's daughter and Willy died minutes after talking to you. What did he tell you, Laine?"
"He didn't tell me anything. For God's sake, I was a kid the last time I saw him. I didn't recognize him until . . . I didn't know who he was when he came in. You're chasing the wrong tail, Max. Jack O'Hara wouldn't begin to know how to organize or execute a job like this—and if by some miracle he had a part in it, he'd be long gone with his share. That's more money than he'd know what to do with."
"Then why was Willy here? What spooked him? Why were your home and business broken into? Whoever got in your house was looking for something. They were probably doing the same, or about to, when I interrupted them in the shop. You're too smart not to follow the dots."
"If anyone's looking at me, it's probably because you led them here. I don't have anything. I haven't spoken to my father in over five years, and I haven't seen him in longer than that. I've made a nice life here, and I'm going to keep right on living it. I'm not going to let you, my father or some mythical third party screw that up."
She got to her feet. "I'll get you out of the cuffs, and out of this jam with Vince. In return you leave me the hell alone."
"Laine—"
"Just shut up." She rubbed a hand over her face, her first sign of fatigue. "I broke my own rule and followed impulse with you. Serves me right."
She went to the door, gave Vince a weary smile. "I'm sorry about all this trouble. I'd like you to let Max go."
"Because?"
"It's been a stupid misunderstanding, Vince, and largely my own fault. Max tried to convince me I needed a better security system at the store, and I argued that I didn't. We had a little tiff about it, and he broke in to prove me wrong."
"Honey." Vince lifted one of his big hands and patted her cheek. "That's just bullshit."
"I'd like you to write it up that way, if you have to write it up at all. And let him go. There's no point in charging him when he'll use his investigator's license, his rich cli
ent and their fancy lawyers to get it tossed anyway."
"I need to know what this is about, Laine."
"I know you do." The sturdy foundation of her new life shook a bit. "Give me a little time, will you, to sort it all through. I'm so damn tired right now, I can barely think straight."
"All right. Whatever it is, I'm on your side."
"I hope so."
She walked out without another look, without another word for Max.
***
She wasn't going to break. She'd worked too hard, she'd come too far to break over a good-looking man with a dreamy southern accent. A charmer, Laine thought as she paced around her house.
She knew better than to fall for a charmer. What was her father but a charming, smooth-talking cheat?
Typical, she thought in disgust. Typical, typical and so embarrassingly predictable for her to fall for the same type. Max Gannon might do his lying and cheating on the legal side, but it was still lying and cheating.
Now everything she'd worked for was at risk. If she didn't come clean with Vince, he'd never really trust her again. Once she came clean . . . how could he trust her again?
Screwed either way, she thought.
She could pack up, move on, start over. That's what Big Jack did when things got rough. So she was damned if she'd do the same. This was her home, her place, her life. She wouldn't give it up because some nosy PI from the big city tramped over it and left her smudged.
And heartbroken, she admitted. Under the anger and anxiety, her heart was broken. She'd let herself be herself with him. She'd taken the big risk, and trusted him with herself.
He'd let her down. The men who mattered most to her always did.
She flopped down on the couch, which caused Henry to bump his nose against her arm in hopes of a good petting.
"Not now, Henry. Not now."
Something in her tone had him whimpering in what sounded like sympathy before he turned a couple of circles and settled down on the floor beside her.
Lesson learned, she told herself. From now on the only man in her life was Henry. And it was time to close down the pity party and think.
She stared up at the ceiling.
Twenty-eight million in gems? Ridiculous, impossible, even laughable. Big, blustering Jack and sweet, harmless Willy pulling off the big score? Millions? And out of a New York landmark? No possible way. At least not if you went by history and skill and background.
But if you threw the believable out the window, you were left with the fantastic.
What if Max was right? What if the fantastic had happened, and he was right? Despite all the years between, she felt a quicksilver thrill at the possibility.
Diamonds. The sexiest of takes. Millions. The perfect number. It would have been the job of a lifetime. The mother of all jobs. If Jack had . . .
No, it still didn't play.
The affection inside her that wouldn't die for her father might let her fantasize that he'd finally, finally, hit it big. But nothing and no one would convince her Jack O'Hara had any part in a killing. A liar, a cheat, a thief with a very flexible conscience—okay, those attributes fit him like a glove. But to cause anyone physical harm? Not possible.
He'd never carried a weapon. The fact was, he was phobic about guns. She still remembered the story of how he'd done his first stretch, before she was born. He'd hit a cat while driving away from a B&E and not only stopped to check, but took the injured cat to a vet. The local cops spotted the car—stolen, of course—in the lot.
The cat recovered and lived a long, happy life. Big Jack did two to five.
No, he wouldn't have had any part in the murder of Jerome Myers.
But the con could be conned, couldn't he? Had he gotten roped into something that was bigger and badder than he'd believed? Had someone dangled a shiny carrot and had him hopping along after it?
That she could believe.
So he'd sent Willy to tell her something, or give her something, but he'd died before he could do either.
But he'd tried to warn her. He knows where you are now.
Had he meant Max? Had he seen Max and panicked, ran into the street?
Hide the pooch? What the hell had he meant? Could Willy have placed some kind of dog figurine in the store? Laine tried to visualize the store after Willy's visit. She had personally arranged all the displays, and she couldn't think of a single thing out of place. And neither Jenny nor Angie had mentioned any strange items.
Maybe he'd meant "pouch." Maybe she'd misunderstood. You could put gems in a pouch. But he hadn't given her a pouch, and if he'd had a bag of gems hidden on him, or in his things, the authorities would have found it.
And this was all just stupid conjecture, based on the word of a man who'd lied to her.
She let out a huge breath. How could she pretend to hold honesty in such pompous hands when she was living a lie herself?
She had to tell Vince and Jenny everything. She supposed it went against her early childhood training to volunteer information to a cop, but she could overcome it. All she had to do was figure out how to tell them.
"Let's take a walk, Henry."
The words acted like an incantation and popped the snoozing dog up as if his legs were springs. He bounced all the way to the front door. A walk would clear the cobwebs, she decided, give her time to sort out the best way to tell her friends.
She opened the front door so Henry could fly out like a cannonball. And saw Max's car parked at the end of her lane. He was behind the wheel, eyes shielded with dark glasses. But they must have been open and trained on the house, as he stepped out of the car even before she'd shut the front door.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"I said you're in trouble. Maybe I brought some of that trouble along with me, maybe it was already here. But either way, I'm keeping an eye on you, whether you like it or not."
"I learned how to take care of myself about the same time I learned how to run a three-card monte scam. So the only watchdog I need is Henry."
As Henry was currently trying to climb a tree in pursuit of a squirrel, Max merely gave the dog a baleful stare. "I'm sticking."
"If you think you're going to collect your five percent by staking out my house, you're going to be disappointed."
"I don't think you had anything to do with it. I did," he added when she sneered and turned away to walk. "When I first made you, I figured you had to have some piece of it. I did some checking on you, and things didn't add up right on either side, but I stopped looking at you for the job."
"Thanks so very much. If that's so, why were you breaking into my shop?"
"My client wants facts, not feelings, though they give me a nice retainer largely based on my instinct track record. I've been through your house with you," he said when her head turned sharply. "A woman's hiding any portion of damn near thirty million in diamonds on the premises, she doesn't let some guy help her sweep her floors and take out the trash. Next step was to take a look around the shop, verify there was nothing there that linked you."
"Missed a step, Max. I believe it has to do with a lot of naked bouncing on your hotel room bed."
"Okay, let's run this. You see a halo?" He pointed a finger at the top of his head.
She felt a little bubble that might have been humor in her throat and ruthlessly swallowed it. "No," she said after a narrow-eyed stare. "But wait . . . are those little horns?"
"Okay, give me a flat yes or no. A guy opens his hotel room door to an incredible-looking woman, a woman he's got all kinds of feelings for messing around in his head—and other parts of the body. The woman indicates—no, let's get it right—the woman states without qualification that she'd enjoy an evening of intimate physical contact. Does said guy close the door in her face?"
She stopped by a skinny stream running briskly from the spring rains. "No. Now you give me one. Does a woman, upon learning that the guy she had this intimate physical contact with set her up, and lied about his purpose and h
is interest, then have the right to kick his lying ass black and blue?"
"Yeah, she does." He took off the sunglasses, hooked one arm of them in the front pocket of his jeans. They both recognized the gesture for what it was.
Look at me. You have to see what I'm saying as much as hear it. Because it matters.
"She does, Laine, even when that interest twisted around, changed into something he'd never dealt with before and bit him on that ass. I think I fell in love with you last night."
"That's a hell of a thing to say to me."
"It's a hell of a thing to hear myself say to you. But I'm saying it. Actually, I think I tripped somewhere between hauling out your trash and vacuuming your sitting room, then I swung my arms around, working on my balance, and fell flat between rounds of intimate physical contact."
"And I should believe that because?"
"You shouldn't. You should kick my ass, dust your hands off and walk away. I'm hoping you won't."
"You've got a knack for saying the right thing at the right time. That's a damn handy skill—and suspect to me." She turned away a moment, rubbed her arms warm.
"When it comes to the job I'll say whatever I need to say to get it done. This isn't about the job. I hurt you, and I'm sorry, but that was the job. I don't see how I could've played it any different."
She let out a half laugh. "No, I don't suppose so."
"I'm in love with you. Hit me like a damn brick upside the head, and I still can't see straight. I don't know how I could've played that any different either, but it gives you all the cards, Laine. You can finish the hand, or toss it in and walk away."
Up to her, she thought. Isn't that what she wanted? To make her own choices, take her own chances. But what he hadn't said, and they were both smart enough to know it, was that holding all the cards didn't mean you wouldn't lose your shirt.
Tavish would cut her losses and fold. But O'Hara, she'd want the chance to scoop up that big, juicy pot.
"I spent the first part of my life adoring a man who couldn't spit out the truth if it was dancing the tango on his tongue. Jack O'Hara."
She blew out a breath. "He's just no damn good, but, Jesus, he makes you believe there's a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He makes you believe it because he believes it."
