She gasped. Griff’s keen gaze swiftly swung to hers and narrowed.
“You’ve heard of him, then?”
Still more than a little stunned, she nodded. “I have, actually. He was rumored to be responsible for taking the Star of Midnight.”
“Star of Midnight?”
“It’s one of the largest sapphires in the world—around four hundred carats, if memory serves—and supposedly belonged in the Romanov collection. It vanished off the neck of an oil baron’s wife at a party in Paris a couple years ago. One minute it was there, the next—” she snapped her fingers “—gone.”
“Gone? How could it have been gone? Wouldn’t that many carats have been heavy? Wouldn’t she have noticed?”
“That was what was so brilliant,” she said, turning more fully to face him. “He replaced it with a very well-done copy, one that was identical to the original in size and setting. Had he not attached a tiny owl feather at the clasp, it’s doubtful anyone would have noticed the difference. A colleague of mine inspected it and said it was a remarkable forgery.”
“So it wasn’t enough that he took it—he had to let the world know that he’d taken it.”
“That’s the trouble with being a genius,” she said, her shoulder lifting in a negligent shrug. “What good is it to be clever if no one knows you are?”
He shot her a speculative look, a hint of incredulity and disbelief rounding in his gaze. “You almost sound impressed.”
That’s because she was, reluctantly, at any rate. It was an odd sentiment to feel for a thief, she’d admit, but... “I admire the talent,” she said, and winced regretfully. “It’s a shame that he doesn’t put it to better use.”
He grunted, seemingly displeased, and looked away. “I wonder how much you’ll admire his talent if he manages to steal your father’s work.”
There was that, Jess thought. She smiled at him, anyway. “But he’s not going to, is he? Because you’re not going to let him.”
“Damn straight,” he said with a determined nod.
“See,” she said with a single, imperious nod. “Talent put to good use.”
He offered her another sideways glance that whipped her middle into froth. “I don’t want you to worry about this. I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m not worried,” she told him, her lips sliding into a grin. “If you can handle a bull, then an owl certainly shouldn’t be a problem.”
And honestly, if anyone could keep the thief from taking the bra, Jess knew that it was Griffin Wicklow.
* * *
MAKING A VALIANT but appallingly unsuccessful attempt to ignore the fact that Jessalyn Rossi was naked in the shower—naked being the key issue, of course—Griff sighed through gritted teeth and redoubled his efforts to concentrate on the file in front of him.
Naturally, when he’d adjusted the plan to include a shared room—after all, she was under his protection now as well—he’d anticipated a little discomfort. Considering that he’d been semi-hard for the better part of six hours, he’d obviously been delusional when he’d made his original assessment. Because right now, between the raging erection and the images of hot, naked, wet skin, water sluicing between full rosy-tipped breasts, sliding in soapy rivulets over her ripe, bare ass—he jerked hard, swore hotly—he was more than a little uncomfortable.
He was freaking miserable, in the Best Possible Way Ever.
And she was absolutely off-limits.
He smothered a bark of ironic laughter, looked heavenward and shook his head. Just par for the course on this assignment, though, right? It wasn’t bad enough that he’d been forced to travel with the single-most interesting and sinfully attractive woman he’d ever met—one who, impossibly, he wanted more than any other—fate had had to up the ante and give him a professional thief intent on stealing his cargo, as well.
And not just any thief either. A damn good one.
Though he’d initially scoffed at Jess’s admiration of the Owl’s talent, after reading the file and conducting his own search, Griff had to admit he was reluctantly impressed, as well.
If not in the act itself, then in the execution of it.
In addition to purportedly pulling off some of the most high-profile thefts, this Owl person was a master forger, as well. Monet, Renoir, Picasso. Not only did it take an obscene amount of skill to competently fake those artists—brushstrokes, lighting, scale—there was the scientific aspect to it, too. He had to perfectly match the pigments to the time the masterpieces were painted, appropriately aging the artwork so that it not only looked authentic, but carbon dated correctly, as well.
And then there were the heists themselves. Never carried out in secret—he almost always worked within a crowd—they had a flair of execution that boggled the mind, as though he was performing some sort of magic trick and had an audience to please. Griff’s lips twisted.
Oh, right. He did. The Hooters, just one of his many online fan clubs.
And it wasn’t as if he was some sort of Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. There was no rhyme or reason to his thefts, no theme. Though he’d stuck predominantly to Impressionist artworks early in his criminal career, he’d clearly branched out since then. Paintings, small statues, jewels, even a jade hairpin from the Ming dynasty. And now the Rossi bra. Nothing linked them and, in the absence of a clear connection, one could only assume that what ultimately tied them all together was the oldest, most basic motivator of all...
Money.
He was a freelancer. And if that was the case, then who had hired him to take the bra? And, more significantly, why in the hell would he return it? Did he plan to steal it for the payout, then take it back and return it out of some sense of loyalty to Payne? That didn’t make any sense. It could potentially ruin him, or at the very least cost him a few clients and affect his bottom line. Griff blew out a long breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose, heard the chirp of his cell phone, alerting him to another text.
Shit. Justin. He’d forgotten to call him.
Griff picked up the cell, fully anticipating another message from his half brother, but found one from his sister instead. Just checking on you. Don’t push too hard, okay?
It was easier to agree than to give her the I’m-fine argument, so that’s what he did. Then, confident that Jess was still in the shower and there wouldn’t be an ounce of hot water left for him, he steeled himself and reluctantly dialed Justin.
The boy picked up on the first ring. “Thanks for calling,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you’d have time now that you’ve started your new job.”
He expected so little, poor kid. “No worries,” Griff told him. “What’s up?”
Justin laughed nervously, then hesitated. “There’s this girl,” he said haltingly, practically blushing through the phone.
Griff chuckled. “There usually is,” he told him. “What about her?”
“She used to date one of my friends, but they’ve been broken up for six months. Is it poaching if I make a move?”
Hmm. “How close is the friend?”
“He’s a former teammate,” Justin told him. “Definitely not one of my regular crew, but I’ve spent a lot of time with him on and off the field. Not that I’ll be doing that anymore,” he said, his tone more rueful now than bitter.
An all-star pitcher, Justin had been playing baseball since he was old enough to join a league, but the freak virus that had attacked his kidneys midway through his junior year had permanently sidelined him. At least as far as his mother was concerned, anyway. It sucked, and Griff couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
“But you see my problem, right? Derrick isn’t a close friend, but ignoring him doesn’t seem right either.”
“Then don’t ignore him. Let him know that you’re going to ask her out, but don’t let his reaction keep you from doing it. Y
ou should give him the heads-up, but if he and this girl—”
“Heather,” he said.
“Right. If he and Heather have been over for six months, then in all probability, they’re finished.” A thought struck. “She’s digging you, right?”
“I think so,” he said, another nervous laugh echoing over the line. “She texts me a lot.”
“Anything else? Does she smile at you? Has she suddenly joined any clubs or groups that you belong to?”
“She joined the bass-fishing team,” he said. “Does that count?”
Griff laughed. “Bass-fishing team? I didn’t know you were on the bass-fishing team.” Hell, he didn’t know there was a bass-fishing team.
“It was that or the debate team, and I decided I’d rather be on a boat than pressing a buzzer.”
“Good call,” Griff told him, still smiling. “So she joined when you did, then?”
“She did. And she’s the only girl.”
Griff settled more firmly against the headboard, and tucked an arm up behind his head. “Are you baiting her hook?”
He snorted. “No. Heather doesn’t let anyone bait her hook.”
He nodded, impressed. “She sounds like a keeper. And if she’s followed you onto the bass-fishing team, then I’d say she’s definitely digging you.”
The bathroom door suddenly opened, a cloud of steam billowing out. A tangled mass of long, wet curls tumbling around her face, Jess emerged, makeup free and shiny-nosed, a look he found startlingly endearing. She’d donned the white hotel robe, which gaped open enough to reveal a bit of mouthwatering cleavage and accentuated her small waist.
She’d obviously caught the last bit of his conversation, because her ripe lips were curved into a slight smile and latent humor danced in her misty-gray gaze. She jerked a finger at her bag, indicating she’d forgotten some of her toiletries, then retrieved a wide-toothed comb and returned to the bathroom. She left the door open, presumably to let the room breathe, and he watched as she swung her hair over her shoulder and drew the comb down through the length. It shouldn’t have been the least bit erotic—she was merely detangling her hair—and yet the sight of her, of her long, slender hands performing such a mundane but strangely intimate act was somehow the most arousing thing he’d ever seen.
He hardened to the point of pain, felt his throat close up, need and something else—something much more alarming—roared through him.
“Griff? You still there?”
He blinked, startled, the phone forgotten at his ear. “Er, yes. Yes, I’m here.”
“So you definitely think I should ask her out?”
Jess pulled the comb through her hair again. “Yes, definitely.”
“But not until I’ve told Derrick that I’m going to?”
Geez, he knew she had a lot of hair, but how long did this take? Sweat beaded his upper lip. “That’s right. The bro code, remember?”
She shot him a look, mouthed “the bro code?” and arched a humorous brow.
“I remember.” He blew out a relieved breath. “Right. Thanks, Griff. I knew you’d know what to do. Dad is useless at this kind of thing.”
There was an undertone to his voice that Griff couldn’t quite place, but it sounded familiar. Like disappointment and resentment. But that didn’t make any sense—
“So where do you think I should take her? Should I do the classic dinner and a movie, or something else, something different?”
“Be different,” Griff advised him. “But don’t ask me how, because I don’t know. It just needs to be something that you’ve thought of, that you’ve planned. She’ll appreciate the sentiment.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Justin suddenly asked, startling him. “It’s just, you’ve never said.”
“Not at the moment, no,” he told him.
“A boyfriend then?” he queried, shocking Griff even further. “Because that’s cool,” he hastened to add. “Whatever makes you happy, bro—”
“No, not one of those either,” he said, choking on a laugh. Jesus, this kid...
“Right. Well, I’ll keep you posted on how things go with Heather. And if, you know, um...you ever need any advice, then I’m here for you.”
I’m here for you. Griff swallowed, touched. “Sure,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”
“Talk to you soon.”
Against his better judgment, more than likely, but yes, no doubt he would. He sighed, muttered a goodbye and disconnected. His gaze tangled with Jess’s, sucking the air from the room, and the phrase “from the frying pan into the fire” suddenly sprang to mind.
Either way, he suspected a burn was forthcoming.
6
“WHO WAS THAT on the phone?”
Justin started, his gaze swinging to the doorway where his mother stood. She’d lost more weight, he thought, noting the sharper cheekbones, the jeans hanging off her rail-thin frame. She always did this when his father left, lost her appetite, but it seemed worse this time. Like whatever food she did eat refused to stick to her bones.
He set the phone aside, leaned back onto his bed and picked up his remote control. “Not Dad,” he said, knowing that was really the question she’d wanted to ask. “It was Griff.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” she said, her eyes lighting with the first bit of pleasure he’d observed in a while. She tried to be happy, for his sake, he knew, but could recognize the difference between a real smile and one that was forced.
He hated his father for that, more than anything, for making her pretend that everything was fine when it wasn’t.
Selfish, cheating bastard.
Initially she’d lied about his absences, had credited his father’s long stretches away from home as part of his job, that traveling was necessary. It wasn’t until Justin was twelve that he’d learned the truth, and only then because he’d stumbled upon it. He’d joined a travel ball team at the end of his regular season, hoping to keep his father around longer because, regardless of “work,” he was never away during baseball season. In fact, his dad made every game, helped with practices, took him to the batting cages, the whole shebang. It was the only reason Justin had kept playing, really, to have his father home, his mother happy...to be a real family.
When his travel ball team had visited a park in a neighboring county, he’d spotted his father out with another woman at the restaurant where they’d stopped to eat after the game.
To his everlasting shame, everyone else had seen him, as well.
It had been mortifying.
He’d never forget the look on his father’s face when he’d approached his table, watched his amorous player’s smile capsize as recognition surfaced, then guiltily scramble away from the woman. She’d been young, with unnaturally red hair and a smear of marinara sauce on her chin.
“Working hard, huh, Dad?” he’d said, then simmering with rage and humiliation, he’d turned his back on him and rejoined his friends.
He’d never told his mother—he just couldn’t bring himself to do it—and neither he nor his father had ever mentioned the incident again. But not mentioning it didn’t lessen the knowing, and things had never been the same between them since. His father’s drinking had escalated and his time at home had grown even more infrequent. And now that he’d never play baseball again, Justin knew that seeing him regularly was unlikely.
His mother knew it, too, but wasn’t ready to accept it yet.
“How is Griff?” she asked. “Still doing well?”
“Yeah, I think so. He’s started a new job, so he doesn’t have a lot of time to talk.”
His mother took a seat on the edge of the bed, laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sure he has time to talk to you,” she said. “You’re family.”
“Not really,” he said, wishing the words didn�
��t hurt quite so much. “His mother is his family. Glory is his family.” His lips twisted. “I’m just some shared DNA whose existence wrecked his childhood and ruined his career.”
His mother inhaled sharply and squeezed his arm. “That’s not true,” she said, frowning fiercely. “Your father made the decision to leave Griff’s mother, to cut all contact. That’s not your fault. It’s his,” she insisted.
“He left Griff’s mother because you were pregnant with me.”
Had she forgotten that he knew the truth? That all of it—the whole horrible tale—had come out when his kidneys failed? When they’d had no other choice but to contact his half brother and sister to see if either one of them would be a match? Had he not gotten sick, he’d have never known about them, never even known they existed.
But they had known about him...and never made an effort to contact him. He swallowed, his throat tightening with disappointment.
“I didn’t know that he was married, Justin,” she said, sighing wearily. “And by the time I did, it was too late. I’ve explained this, as best I can already. I encouraged him to see Griff, to see Glory, to at the very least send some support to Anne-Marie.” She shook her head, her gaze turning inward. “But he wouldn’t do it. You know how your father is.”
Yes, he did. He was a shitty husband, and an even shittier father.
Maybe that’s why it was so important for him to get to know Griff, so that he could show his brother that he wasn’t like their father, that he’d been worth saving, that he’d been worthy of the sacrifice he’d made for him.
That it wasn’t his fault.
And as far as big brothers went, Griff was definitely the jackpot. He’d been an army ranger, for heaven’s sake. A straight-up badass. He was brilliant, tough and above all else, steady. If he said he would do something, then he did it and, after living with a man who broke promises faster than he made them for the better part of his life, Justin had to admit, he found that quality the most admirable of all.
Though Griff wasn’t on Facebook, Glory was, and Justin had pored over her page, looked at all the posts and pictures, several of which had included Griff. Glory often talked about him, about how wonderful he was, even called him her “rock.”
The Closer Page 6
