by Michele Hauf
“Maybe.” Dmitri spat onto the floor. “Brown hair? Sexy. And a cat?”
“Very good.” Xavier drew his gaze over the papers on the desk. Amongst the blood spatters, he didn’t see anything that could implicate the man in a crime. Not that he’d leave such information out for anyone to stumble upon. “Where is she?”
“Come on, I like that woman.”
“We do as well,” Xavier said calmly. “We're concerned for her safety, which is why we need to locate her.”
“Lies,” the Russian spat. Then he croaked as Jack's fist landed his throat. He gestured frantically as he swallowed to find his voice, and then said, “Berlin. That is all I know!”
“You know more than that,” Xavier said. “You found her a new place to live. You have the address.”
“No, I do not keep addresses. It is always a blind move.”
Jack pulled up the man’s head with a jerk of his man bun. “Explain.”
“I have a realtor contact who handles the details. Berlin is temporary, anyway. I don’t know the ultimate address!”
A temporary move? Smart. The misinformation would set skip tracers and other ugly sorts on her tail off the trail of breadcrumbs. If Berlin was a stopover before Josephine moved on to her final destination, they had to move fast.
Xavier hiked a thigh up onto the desk corner. “Give us the realtor’s name.”
“She is off the grid. I don’t have a name.”
“Then you have a contact number.”
The fence winced as Jack tightened his hold on his hair.
“Have at it, Jack.” Xavier stood and walked to the cage doorway. He never stuck around for the bloody work. He stepped down and strolled toward a lipstick-red BMW 5 Series, which was up on struts.
Behind him, a heartfelt apology preceded the crunch of bones. The sound made Xavier shiver. Of course the fence was trusted for the very reason he wouldn’t give up information on pain of death. But Gentleman Jack could prove very convincing. Xavier would give him another thirty seconds.
The bright yellow Jaguar next to the Bimmer had been gouged in along the back quarter panel by what looked like some kind of forklift. How to fix that? The man must be a genius. Too bad he wouldn’t be using his hands for weeks, possibly even months. Probably had employees to do the real front work here.
Silence suddenly sounded louder than the thud of Xavier’s heart. He checked his cell phone. It had taken forty-five seconds. So he didn’t know Jack as well as he thought.
The cage door clattered and Jack strolled out, tugging down his sleeve and adjusting his tie.
Xavier motioned to his cheek, and Jack swiped off a spot of blood. He tugged out a slip of torn paper from his pocket and handed it to Xavier. “It’s a burner,” he said of the phone number. “Better act fast with that one. You need me for anything else?”
“Can you come along to talk to the realtor?”
“Oi. You know I have a date in a couple hours.” Jack strolled alongside Xavier toward the dark hallway.
“We'll make it fast,” Xavier offered.
* * * *
An hour later, Gentleman Jack strolled away from Xavier without a look back. He hadn't even had to lift a fist to the realtor. She'd squealed, or rather, with surprising calmness, had written an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Xavier. She was out of the digital loop. No one would be able to trace her if they wanted to, so she had nothing to fear.
Standing curbside and watching Jack hail a cab, Xavier called Kierce and gave him the address.
“You heading to Berlin?” Kierce asked. “I can get you the red-eye, which leaves in an hour.”
“It’ll take me forty minutes to get to the airport.”
“Nope. I’ll send Wheels to pick you up. She's in the area.” The phone clicked off. Kierce could track down his location with the GPS in his skull so all Xavier had to do was stand around and wait.
“Wheels,” he muttered.
This was not going to be a pleasant ride.
Ten minutes later, a black Mustang with gray racing stripes on the hood pulled up to the curb with a screeching halt. Xavier opened the passenger door and slid inside. The car took off before he’d even closed the door.
“Good to see you too, Al,” he said to the gorgeous brunette behind the wheel.
If she didn’t have her hands on the wheel of a sports car, she'd be right at home modeling designer clothing on the runway. “Gorgeous” was putting her appearance mildly. Mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses hid her lush green eyes, but not her knowing smirk. “You want to make the airport in twenty minutes?” she asked.
That was about how much time he’d need if he wanted to make it to the gate without sprinting faster than Usain Bolt. “Yes.”
“Then buckle up, bitch.”
Chapter 16
The Mustang pulled up to the curb at Charles de Gaulle airport. Xavier had never gotten queasy during fast rides, turbulent flights, or even rappelling down the side of a fifty-story glass-walled building. But Alliance McKenzie had a manner of driving that lifted his stomach to his throat. It wasn't that she was unsafe. The woman was a marvel behind the wheel and had dodged and woven through traffic like a snake on crack.
“The boss said to give you this.” She tossed him a small black leather attaché that resembled a passport wallet.
Xavier tucked it in an inner pocket of his suit coat. “Merci.”
She smirked, and a curl of lush hair spilled over her t-shirt, calling attention to her hard nipples. “You're looking a little blue around the gills, thief. What's wrong? I thought you liked it fast and furious with me.”
Yes, but with her behind the wheel? That would take some getting used to.
“It was good to see you, Al,” he said, opening the door. “Stay fast.”
“I will!” she called as he got out. “You keep that tight little ass safe!”
He shut the door, then took a moment to steady himself from the lingering effects of the harrowing ride. Xavier then stepped into the receiving area of the airport and made a beeline for the private jets.
* * * *
Josephine leaped to avoid a puddle and landed in a smaller one that splashed up her bare ankle. Never should have worn sandals on a rainy day. It was taking some getting used to, this city dwelling. It wasn’t the lush and wide-open French countryside, that was for sure. Yet she'd grown up in a big city, Des Moines, and had thrived after moving to Paris with her mother when she was eight. Just proved that some old habits should be left in the past.
As for old skills? She was struggling with that decision.
Streetlights glistened in streaks across the wet sidewalk. She took some joy in the fact she was out shopping for groceries, just a few blocks away from her interim place. The neighborhood sat at the edge of a boisterous nightclub district. Ahead, down the block, neon bar signs beckoned.
She wasn’t much for drinking and partying. Wasn’t even sure how it worked. She’d led a disciplined life since being forced to adapt after her mother had dropped her at the foster home when she was fourteen. Yeah, that had been a crusher. No one adopts fourteen-year-olds. Especially American fourteen-year-olds in France. And what teenager wanted to be absorbed into a new family, even if her mother had been a drug addict who had given her up because her boyfriend had told her to?
Despite that blow, Josephine had never turned to drugs or alcohol. Who had the patience for the idiocy of drinking when there were so many better ways to spend one’s time? Such as cracking a lock or practicing scaling a concrete security wall. As for the dating scene, she had never been an expert on that, either. Tinder, Snapchat, and sexting? It was easier to hook up with the stranger in the produce section and walk away the next morning. No emotion involved.
Yet her personal truths screamed loudly from within. She wasn't as cold-hearted as she preferred her image of Josephine Devereaux to be. Or Leda Stone, her oft-used alias. Never like her cold-to-the-bone mother.
She wanted. She desired. She had needs that required fulfillment.
And right now she needed yogurt and nuts, and some cat food for Chloe. It did not take much to satisfy her basic needs for sustenance.
It was the need for connection that was really messing with her head, now that the solution to that need had taken on an actual persona.
“Don't think about him,” she muttered, and turned into the shop mart.
She blinked at the bright fluorescent lights. It was after ten in the evening, but she’d hoped the store would be quiet. Not so. It bustled with energy. A family of six argued over watermelon and peaches. Stock trolleys loaded with food clogged the aisles. Older women pushed carts laden with wine and broccoli.
Is that what she had to look forward to? Hunched shoulders and comfortable shoes made palatable with cheap supermarket wine and bland-yet-fibrous veggies?
Josephine sighed and aimed toward the organic aisle, thankful that such a section existed. Almond milk was necessary for the smoothies she enjoyed. She grabbed bags of pistachios and brazil nuts, wishing she’d picked up a basket at the front of the store. Turning, she slammed right into a tall man.
“Oh, sorry—what?”
Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Xavier Lambert stood before her, wearing a three-piece suit, hair slicked over his ears, and hazel eyes gleefully arrowed onto hers.
Josephine's heart dropped, while her anger rose.
“No. This is not happening.” She shoved around him, but he grabbed her by the upper arm. She almost dropped the almond milk. “Let go of me! How are you here? In some no-name little market in the big city of Berlin, and you just happen to run into me?”
“It’s a marvel, isn’t it?”
“You’ve been following me.”
“No.” He held up placating hands. “I just stopped in for something to microwave because I’m starving.”
“Is that so?” She slammed the bag of pistachios onto a shelf. “You’re not that impressive a liar.”
“I haven’t been following you. Tonight. I have tracked you because we need to talk.”
“You always want to talk! You got everything you needed from me in Paris. Diamonds. Action. Adventure. And too many kisses. We’re through.”
She grabbed the pistachios, and this time turned too fast for him to nab her. Marching to the registers, she realized she’d have to wait in line to pay. Bastard! She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of wandering up and watching her annoyance level explode. Leaving the food behind, Josephine scurried out of the store and swiftly marched down the sidewalk.
The rain had grown heavier. She looked around for a taxi, and cursed when there was none nearby. And…she was walking the wrong way. Her apartment was in the opposite direction. But she could hardly turn and go home. Xavier would follow her. She wasn’t going to look over a shoulder. He was behind her. A smart secret agent would be.
Was he a secret agent? He had to be. No one else would have the means and curiosity to follow her.
What the hell did he want her for now? They needed to talk? Oh, no, no, no. She was out. Totally. For good. And for as much as Lincoln and Xavier might try, they would not lure her back in.
Well, maybe not.
Clenching her fists, Josephine cursed her subconscious wavering. She was a big girl. She could live the life she chose. But she would not be forced to it by any man. The only way she'd turn back to thievery was on her own terms, thank you very much.
The screech of tires rounding a corner broke up the chatter from the crowd spilling out of the nightclub. Josephine twisted at the waist and glimpsed Xavier striding up behind her. She knew it! Picking up her pace, she splashed through a puddle painted blue by a neon club sign. And then she felt something burn the back of the neck. It pierced deeply and….
Had he— She slapped a palm over her shoulder, unable to reach... It stung. And it was not an insect. Instinctually, she knew she'd been hit by… something. Not…a bullet….
Xavier’s arm wrapped around her waist.
“Don’t stop,” he said. “You’ve got about five seconds before you lose the ability to move your legs.”
As he hurried her down the sidewalk, Josephine opened her mouth to protest. Then everything went black.
Chapter 17
Xavier walked with the slumping Josephine clutched at his side. He gripped her across the back and under her armpit, but what he’d suspected was a tranquilizer dart stuck at the back of her neck had taken action. He’d been watching the dark SUV since she had raced out of the supermarket. He’d thought to shout after her, but hadn’t wanted to draw attention.
He was thankful for the triple-wide line of people outside the nightclub. He insinuated himself into it, dragging Josephine. Perfume and marijuana smoke dizzied his senses. He heard a couple comments about his date “starting early.”
“She’s a lightweight,” he commented in French, knowing a few would understand.
Pausing, sure he was surrounded by people—the SUV had to have slowed upon seeing him grab their target—he quickly hefted Josephine over his shoulder, then ducked down the alley behind the nightclub. It was alive with people drinking, smoking weed, and dancing to the tunes that echoed out from an open backstage door.
He approached the door, but the bouncer crossed his arms.
“I need to set her down and let her catch her breath,” he said in German. “Bitte?” Now Josephine was completely out, and he made show of struggling to hold her upright.
The bouncer remained stoic.
Xavier pulled out a fifty-euro note from his pants pocket. The bouncer snatched the cash, then stepped aside, allowing Xavier access into the dayglow-lit hallway that pulsed with a techno beat so intense it throbbed in his veins. He didn’t want to go into the main club area, just hide out until he could be sure those who had tranqued her were gone. Finding a narrow, dark hallway, he stopped and set the unconscious woman on the floor.
Crouching over her, he pushed the hair from Josephine’s face. He found the dart still in her neck and carefully pulled it out. He didn’t touch the tip, but thought he should hold onto it for analysis, so he tugged out his handkerchief, wrapped it up and tucked it in a pocket, making sure the tip pointed downward.
“Kierce, find me a way out of here,” he said.
“Uh, what's up?”
He looked over Josephine's sprawled body. “Being tracked by a suspicious vehicle. A black SUV. License plate B KL three two eight five.”
“On it. And... I'll send a cab your way.”
“Merci.”
He sat against a wall that was plastered with tattered concert posters and pulled Josephine up to rest her head against his chest, placing a hand firmly below her breasts to keep her upright. He couldn’t know how long she would be out, but she needed protection from whomever had done this to her.
And who was that? For what reason? Was she involved in things he wasn’t aware of? Beyond the Maleaux necklace heist? Whomever had darted her certainly couldn't have been targeting him. The dart had landed her neck, exactly where it needed to go. Likely her attackers hadn't been aware of Xavier. Or maybe they had been. It was never wise to rule out any scenario. Could it have been the countess's bodyguard, who had followed them to Josephine's apartment? But he had been after Xavier.
Someone had put two and two together and now Josephine was on their list. A list Xavier was already on.
He never wanted it to go down this way. But she was involved in a hell of a lot more than he even dared confess to her. If she'd never kissed him that night at the ballroom and absconded with the necklace, would they even be here right now? Could she have been safe?
“Your life will never again be the same,” he muttered to the woman whose chest rose and fell slowly in a deep slumber.
Could she forgive him for that?
She’d answer all his questions soon enough.
Settling against the wall with the heavy warmth of her back and
head tucked against his shoulder and arm, Xavier tugged out his cell phone with his free hand. He scrolled to the information the Russian fence's realtor had given him.
The apartment building name had been more than enough info. Xavier entered the address into his phone’s GPS. The app showed it wasn’t far from here. It was in the opposite direction that Josephine had walked out of the grocery store. He must have rattled her. But the SUV might have followed her from her home. She could have been aware of the tail and attempting diversion.
To return to her place or not? And with an unconscious woman in his arms? That was no way to be stealthy.
“Six minutes,” Kierce reported. “I told the driver you would come out the alley door. I've a bead on the van. Sent in a driver to distract them.”
A driver, such as Al, but someone stationed here in Berlin. An agent of the ECU, someone who lived and breathed behind the wheel and who drove the vehicle both offensively and defensively.
Bowing his head to Josephine's, he inhaled all of her. Soft hair and salty skin. Rain tinted her with a fresh, ozone smell. No perfumes, not in her hair or on her skin. A wise thief never left a scent trail. Xavier never wore cologne, unless he thought it could aid in seducing an aging countess. But a wise thief always kept one eye over her shoulder, too. Had she really been living the hard life and Lincoln Blackwell had pulled her back in, rusty and lacking the finesse she'd once possessed?
Xavier had read Josephine's rap sheet in the dossier that Al had handed to him. It had been updated from the black file the boss had given him. There was only one heist for which Europol listed her as a possible suspect. In Phoenix four years ago, a fifty-carat ruby had been stolen from a traveling jewelry show. They'd never pursued her because they'd had bigger names ranked above hers. So basically the ECU had nothing on her. Why was she so important to them?
Yet, she'd alluded to following his career for years. And the one heist she'd confessed to him had not been small time. Had she emulated his style and walked away with millions in sparklers and colored stuff? Xavier's own rap sheet had only shown two possible connections to heists. He had been that good. Of course, getting caught with evidence in hand? Not his finest moment.
