by Kay Marie
Nate enviously eyed the sleek yacht bobbing in its slip as he wiped the sweat from his brow, the irony not lost on him. Criminals lived the high life—zipping around on private jets, in luxury cars, on glitzy yachts—while the upstanding citizens trying to bring them to justice were relegated to what by the end of the week would quite literally be a floating pile of shit if his partner didn’t start feeling better soon. The Lord only knew what amount of wealth was sequestered on Robert Carter’s private island, hidden behind those tinted windows and an impenetrable layer of security. But Nate was determined to find and seize every last bit of it, no matter what red-haired, green-eyed woman batted her eyes at him.
Leo disappeared below deck, but Nate remained in the fresh air, used to the salt and the sea, not at all bothered by the rocking motion. He reached for his binoculars again, ready to do one final check before he called it a night.
A flash of light caught his eye.
The door to a small balcony opened, bright for a beat, before the yellow ray disappeared. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he nearly choked.
Jolene Carter.
Bathed in soft moonlight.
Wearing nothing but a semisheer negligee and a grin.
Nate resisted the urge to chuck the binoculars across the boat, and instead gently placed them back on the table before collapsing against the makeshift bed he’d thrown together. Closing his eyes was no use—the image still burned.
Nate shook his head and focused on the stars instead, distracting himself by studying the tapestry painted across the clear sky. Just as it started to work, a whisper came through the parabolic mic aimed at the house.
“Good night, Agent Parker.”
A soft trill of satisfied laughter followed the words.
Nate squeezed the ridge of his nose as he groaned.
It was going to be a long couple of days.
Scratch that.
It was going to be a long operation.
- 7 -
Jo
There was no room on the entire island Jo hated more than the vault. Underground. No windows. Dark. And dank. Free from any form of technology aside from the stand-alone security system used to get in and out. Black walls. Black ceiling. Black floor. Spotlights shone on her father’s most prized possessions. A Monet. A van Gogh. A set of Warhol’s famous prints. A drawing attributed to Leonardo da Vinci. Along with a handful of other works Jo never bothered to memorize. And hidden at the end of a long narrow hall was his studio, full of stolen paints—some with the distinct signatures of a dozen different renowned artists, others specialized pigments stolen from historical archives to throw off any carbon-dating techniques—and a wall of brand-new tubes in every shade of color imaginable.
Thad considered it a sacred space.
Jo just found it uncomfortable.
Down here, there was no place to pretend. Her father’s profession, her profession, it was thrown in her face, a mirror reflecting all their illegal activities, unable to be ignored. The black walls and bright lights made her squirm.
But soon it would be over, and she could have her own sanctuary.
Her own bakery.
Her Just Desserts.
“Jolene.” Her father’s voice punctured her unease.
She looked up from the surface of the polished mahogany table edged in gold leaf—a relic from Versailles that had been taken during one of the French revolutions and eventually purchased by her father on the black market. A bit gaudy for her tastes, truth be told, and the chairs weren’t even comfortable. But it had been their meeting table ever since she started working in the family business. “Huh?”
“Did you hear me?”
No… Jo ran back through the past five minutes, trying to remember what they’d been talking about before she’d started drafting a recipe for an oatmeal raisin coopie and completely zoned out. “Oh, um, the alarm system. Right, right. I think I have it figured out, no worries.”
“No…worries?” her father repeated, frowning.
Jo rolled her eyes. “Have I ever done you wrong, Daddy? I’ve got it under control.”
He didn’t look overly confident.
Jo leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table as she ran through the plan quickly. The job was a relatively easy one. Simple insurance fraud. A rich guy with a penchant for shady business dealings realized he could get almost twice the payout for a stolen painting than he could by selling it to an auction house. The infamous Robert Carter got wind and offered to take the priceless work off his hands, through covert channels, of course. They’d never spoken. Never met. Had absolutely no visible connections. Her father got a priceless work of art, and the rich guy got his insurance claim. Mutually beneficial.
Like she said, easy.
“We’ve got the blueprints for the house,” Jo thought aloud with a shrug. “The blueprints for the security system, and the locations of all the sensors. With a few tricks, I should be able to plant a virus that will give us remote access. Thad and I will be in and out with”—she paused to smile—“no worries.”
Her father pressed his lips into a thin line but nodded regardless.
If there was one thing the two of them had in spades, it was trust. After her mother passed away, they’d only had each other to count on, to lean on, to believe in. The illness had come swift and quick, ruthless in its devastation. Within four months of discovering the cancer, her mother was gone. They’d both been in shock. In anguish. Grief wasn’t a strong enough word to fully encompass the sight of the empty chair at the kitchen table, the absence of her laughter, her smile, her touch. The void had been a thick, palpable thing. A constant lump in Jo’s throat that would have choked her if not for her dad. For his sturdy arms when she was crying. His warmth when she was cold. His silent steadfastness at a time when there simply were no words to say.
Robert Carter was an infamous art thief to the rest of the world.
But to Jo he was simply her rock.
He’d come clean that summer. Promised never to lie to her again. Told her all about his past and his present. Where the money had come from. What her mother had known and surmised. Everything he’d done and planned to keep doing.
She’d only been fourteen, but she’d known what a criminal was. She’d known legal from illegal, but more importantly, she’d known right from wrong. Right was sticking by her family no matter what. Wrong was losing both of her parents in one swift yank. So, they’d moved to the island with Thad and his father. She finished high school through an online course and began her education in other things. More nefarious things. Things she hoped she’d be free of soon.
“So, you leave for New York tonight. The plan is set. Everyone’s ready?”
Jo glanced up, meeting her father’s eyes. They were the color of money. The color of greed. The color of envy. But also of life, of regrowth, of renewal.
“Ready,” she confirmed, voice steady.
“Ready,” Thad agreed, tone deep and rich and thrumming with confidence.
The two of them were going to New York alone to finish the job. Her father’s role for these past few years had been mostly in the setup rather than the execution. Not that he was too old or anything, of course not—at least Jo would never suggest it to him. But it was safe to say that Robert Carter didn’t have quite the getaway skills he once did should the need for a quick exit arise. And he never liked to leave the island unattended, the perfect excuse for her and Thad to convince him to remain home.
Her father nodded once. “Don’t say another word until you get to New York and can establish a safe zone.”
Jo and Thad looked at each other, fighting the instinct to roll their eyes or shake their heads. He’d already told them that about five times in the past two days—they weren’t idiots. The first thing she’d done after walking back into the house was a sweep of the security system, the internet connection, the phone lines, anything and everything, but there were no bugs or viruses that she could find. A
nd if she couldn’t find them, they didn’t exist. Which meant Mr. Stiff and his partner were relying on more limited techniques.
Satellite feeds. Thermal imaging. Long-range mics… Jo paused at that last one, unable to stop the grin tugging at her lips. Toying with the Feds probably sounded like a bad idea to most people. But to Jo, it was too much fun to resist. What was the harm in prancing around in some sexy lingerie at night? Or lounging by her own damn pool in a teeny-tiny bikini? Or going for a run on the beach in nothing but a sports bra and spandex shorts? Or, her personal favorite, belting nineties ballads at the top of her tone-deaf lungs? They didn’t have to watch or listen if they didn’t want to.
Well, technically they probably do.
Jo closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to wipe the smile from her face as she imagined the way Agent Parker must have growled when she spent forty-five minutes in the kitchen yesterday, singing along to her favorite soundtrack, The Bodyguard.
Whitney Houston had the voice of an angel.
Jo had the voice of a dying parakeet. But it was all about confidence, which for some unknown reason, she seemed to have in abundance.
Thad tossed her a curious expression as they got up from the table and made their way back upstairs, leaving her father to who knew what in his studio.
“What’s that face?” he murmured.
Jo shrugged. “What face?”
“That self-satisfied, wicked little grin.”
She hip-checked him and pushed through the door first. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Thad sighed behind her. “No, I really wouldn’t.”
“Why?” Jo spun on her heels, stopping so short he almost banged into her. But Thad was nimble. In one move, he grabbed her hand, twirled her around, and laced their elbows together so they could walk arm-in-arm.
“Because, Jo Jo. I’ve seen that face. I know that face. And it means trouble.”
“Thaddy,” she cooed, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“Don’t Thaddy me,” he teased, nudging her off as he deposited her at the base of the stairs up to her room. He turned to look at her, expression more somber than she’d expected. “Go pack and do whatever you have to do to get focused. This, this—” He cut off and darted his gaze to the window, remembering the rules. “This is important. More important than you realize, okay?”
Jo opened her mouth but clamped it shut before any questions came tumbling out. Questions that could get them both in trouble. Instead, she flicked her gaze between his eyes, searching for the information he clearly wasn’t telling her. His irises were tumultuous storms, inscrutable and intense.
What aren’t you saying, Thad?
What else is going on?
She could have dragged him back down to the vault and demanded answers, but she didn’t. Because deep down, she wasn’t sure she wanted them.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Okay.”
He held her gaze a moment longer and then walked down the hall to his room. Jo watched him until he disappeared behind his door, questions churning. But the smack of slamming wood jolted her from the trance.
Jo raced to her room.
Thad was right. She needed to stay focused. To keep her eye on the prize. This was her last job, their last job, and there was no way she’d let herself be the reason any of them got caught so close to the end.
Still though, when she entered her room, her gaze went straight to the window and the boat still parked right beyond the breaking waves. Ever so slowly, her attention shifted to the CDs stacked in the corner of her room—her precious collection she’d never give up no matter how outdated it became. There was Britney, Christina, Beyoncé, NSYNC, the Backstreet Boys…all the classics, really. Then a few favorites she’d stolen from her father—Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, Kenny Rogers, and of course, Dolly Parton. “Jolene” had been her father’s favorite song long before it became Jo’s name, and it held a special place in their family lore. According to her mother, her father had first introduced himself by sauntering across a bar, smug and self-assured, saying, With hair like that, it’s a wonder you were born with brown eyes. Not the best pickup line, since her mom had taken it as a complete insult and promptly turned her back. But her father was nothing if not persistent, and he’d put on the roguish charm after that, sweet-talking her mother into a proper first date.
The story brought a smile to Jo’s lips. She blinked a few times, clearing her eyes, and refocused on the stack of CDs, landing on the perfect option.
The Spice Girls.
Jo’s eyes went so wide they felt as though they might burst, a quick shift in emotion. She clamped her hand over her mouth to catch the laugh spilling out as she realized her father wasn’t the only Carter known for having a stubborn side. Jo did share the same blood after all. So, not thinking twice, she raced across the room, carefully opened the case, and slid the disc into the player.
Agent Parker is going to love it.
- 8 -
Nate
Leo was humming.
Again.
Nate hadn’t noticed it at first. They were parked on the side of a busy New York City street, waiting for Jo to emerge from her hotel. A cacophony of car honks, curse words, blaring radios, and the intermittent rumble of a subway passing below filled the air. Without even realizing, Nate began to nod his head and bounce his leg to a beat. A few seconds later, high-pitched female voices with British accents started telling him what they wanted and zigging and ah-ing.
Nate snapped his face to the side. “You’ve got to stop it, man.”
Leo jerked upright, turning to Nate apologetically. “God, sorry. I swear I didn’t even realize it this time. That song is fucking catchy, Parker. I can’t shake it.”
Nate grumbled under his breath.
Two and a half hours.
Two and a half fucking hours.
Jo played the same Spice Girls album on repeat, singing at the top of her lungs, if her screeching could even qualify as such.
Mental torture.
The woman had a gift for mental torture.
Nate had thought maybe, just maybe, he’d be free of her once he got off the boat. But Leo kept humming that damn song. And after listening to the recordings on the mics and realizing Robert Carter was staying behind on the island, the boss decided that Nate had built some sort of rapport with the daughter, so he assigned them to be her tail for the rest of the operation. Ryder was off gallivanting around New York City, probably setting up meetings with his Russian contacts, and Nate was stuck here, waiting for the princess to emerge from her tower.
“Hey,” Leo murmured, sitting up and nudging him with his elbow. “I think that’s her.”
Nate narrowed his eyes and nodded.
He’d recognize that body anywhere. That walk. She had a way of straightening her spine and swaying her hips, something sultry yet elegant at the same time.
A saunter.
No, a strut.
“Wait until she gets to the end of the block before you start the car,” Nate said, tearing his gaze away before his mind wandered too far astray—wandered to long tan legs, skimpy nighties, and the memory of her fingers slowly tugging the knot on the back of her bikini free as her hair tumbled down her shoulders just before she’d disappeared through her bedroom door.
He shook his head and blinked.
Goddamn that woman.
Nate opened the folder on his lap and sorted through some papers. They had two separate teams working the operation—one focused on Ryder and one on Jo. They also had three possible heist locations: a premier auction house holding its yearly modern art sale, a museum launching a new special exhibit, and a private home hosting a fundraising gala. They’d found viable evidence for all three spots, and each one was dripping in fine goods ripe for the taking.
Leo flipped the ignition and eased from the curb, dropping his chin to speak into the mic clipped to his shirt collar. “This is Alvarez. Do you copy, sir?”
The boss came through
both their earpieces loud and clear. “Copy.”
“We have Jolene Carter in sight, and we’re following about a block behind. Can everybody hear us? Do you copy?”
“Copy,” a few scattered voices affirmed.
They had men on the ground nearby in case she dipped into the subway or they got stuck in traffic, all dressed in street clothes. Leo focused on the road, while Nate did something he’d become annoyingly good at these past few days—stared at Jo.
“Jolene Carter is wearing what appears to be a button-down top in light blue, maybe jean, and white shorts,” he spoke into the mic hidden by his wrist. “Her hair is pulled up into a knot. And large-rim sunglasses are covering her eyes. She’s also got a bag hanging from her shoulders, canvas or linen, something beige. Large enough for her computer and a small gun. Do you copy?”
“Copy,” the team chimed again.
Nate nodded, even though no one could see.
“Where do you think she’s headed?” Leo asked as he glanced over his shoulder to check for a car before switching into the next lane over, a little closer to Jo.
Nate met his eyes for a moment, brows scrunched. “I don’t know.”
All three of the possible locations were uptown from Jo’s hotel in Greenwich Village. But she was walking south on Seventh Avenue, in the opposite direction.
“Possible fourth location?” Nate wondered aloud.
Leo sighed. “Eh.”
“A gallery, maybe?” Nate mused. Greenwich Village was littered with them.
Leo shook his head. “Apartment? Meeting with someone?”
“It’s possible.” Nate shrugged, keeping his gaze sharply glued to the back of her head, not letting his focus wander any lower. “Are there any internet hotspots around here? Public? Something it’d be hard for us to trace if she established the right parameters?”
“I’ll ask the tech guys to run a search.”
Leo mumbled into his mic. Nate pursed his lips into a thin line as his jaw clenched.
