by Michele Hauf
Gulping in air, Jack then dropped under water and clutched his brother about the legs. With one forceful kick he pushed upward, propelling Jonny into the air. His chest hit the dock and just when he hoped he’d stay, Jonny slipped back onto Jack’s shoulder. Kicking furiously, he swallowed water and choked. Jack’s head went under. Bubbles burned in his nostrils.
He could close his eyes and the struggle would end…
Saskia. Where was she? He couldn’t let it end without giving her his all.
A wave of determination tightened in Jack’s gut. Another breath, and with a kick of his feet, another propulsion. As Jonny’s body rose out of the water he heard his brother yell. Jonny slapped his arms across the dock and hung there, his legs dangling in the water. The weathered dock cracked sharply. Jonny’s body shifted downward.
“Climb on!” Jack yelled. “Before you fall in again.”
“Jack?”
He pushed up his brother’s legs. They folded and Jonny was able to pull himself completely onto the dock. He rolled over, tucking up his legs until he curled into a helpless ball.
The cold water filled Jack’s throat and iced his lungs. Blinking, he went under and again the water shrouded him warmly, beckoning him to stop kicking. And he did.…
It could be love. I don’t really know what that is. No one has ever said it to me before.
Yeah, it probably was love. And he hadn’t said the like to her. So he wasn’t about to go out without making sure she heard it from him.
Kicking his legs, Jack aimed away from the dock and allowed the gentle current to whisk him along the shore. He kicked and swam. It had been ages since he’d swam in the Thames, purposely, and as a kid he’d always been the first to dive in and then come up to a float.
That’s what he had to do to stay alive. Turning onto his back, Jack floated and kicked and backstroked until he bumped up against something solid. Hair slipped over his face. He turned and the movement swept Saskia’s body under his. He wrapped an arm about her and kicked toward shore. It wasn’t far, and he could reach out for the stones and crawl up to push her body onto them.
Dragging himself out of the water, he struggled to stand half upright. His wet clothing weighed him down, but he shook so much it seemed to keep his adrenaline pumping. Tugging Saskia by the arms, he moved her toward a strip of soaked cardboard that might have once served as a homeless man’s bed and rolled her onto it.
A glance toward the dock spied Jonny lying there, motionless. And the swinging beams from two flashlights. The ECU had arrived.
Jack bowed his head over Saskia’s. He pressed his shaking fingers to her neck. Heartbeats pumped. Still alive. But for how long? He pressed her chest, not knowing how the CPR thing worked but thinking he needed her to choke up the water she might have swallowed. Turning her onto her side, she did suddenly choke and spit up water.
“Yes.” He clutched her head with both hands—his fingers were numb—and bowed his forehead to hers.
One of the bobbling flashlight beams approached them.
“I love you, Saskia. Don’t forget that.”
“Jack…”
“You’re my family now. I’ll never stop looking for you. Promise.”
“Jack, don’t leave me. I…your brother…”
“He’s good. Safe. Alive. Thanks to you.”
“Jack Angelo,” the voice behind the flashlight beam said. “Stand and put up your hands.”
And with a quick kiss to Saskia’s brow, he pushed up from the ground and turned to face the light, lifting his sodden arms and splaying his hands.
Chapter 25
Clive Hendrix was not one to endure intense torture. He gave up the bratva after forty-five minutes. He didn’t have a hit list, but would receive calls when another dignitary was targeted to have poison left in his safe deposit box.
It had been a clever scheme. One that Clive had carried out three times before the ECU had caught on and had insinuated Saskia into his crew. Four innocents were dead. The fifth had been saved because Clive had not left anything in his box after testing the poison and learning it was not what Saskia had said it was. He’d had hopes to go under, disappear from the bratva’s radar.
And he’d been successful. The ECU turned Clive over to Interpol. As far as the bratva was concerned, and what steps Interpol would take—if any—were classified.
That was the information Lucinda Marks gave Saskia as she lay on a London hospital bed. An IV pumped clear liquid into her left arm, and the machine it was attached to beeped every twenty minutes, curtailing her from slipping into a deep and much-needed restful sleep.
But when the blond commander had walked in and touched Saskia’s cheek, she’d grown alert and cautious.
“Where’s Jack?” Saskia couldn’t stop herself from asking.
Lucinda tilted her head. Her eyes were blue. Too pretty, Saskia thought. Because beneath the benevolence and beauty she suspected a diamond-hard bitch reigned.
“He’s been dealt with,” Lucinda offered in a much-too-pleasant voice. “He betrayed us.”
“He was only doing what he had to do,” Saskia said. Her throat hurt and she was fighting exhaustion. She couldn’t raise her voice. “He saved me from Clive. The man would have shot me in the head.”
“I had no idea Angelo was such a marksman.”
“Doesn’t he get some credit for that? He was only helping family. His brother—”
“We know about Jonny Angelo. We’ve known since before Jack took off for Helsinki. How do you think we knew to put him on the mission and assign you to watch him?”
“But… Are you involved in what happened to Jonny? What did happen to his brother?”
Lucinda shook her head. “That Angelo brother liked to skim off his client’s take from smuggled guns. The ECU was not involved in his kidnap and the ransom request made to Jack. What the Angelo family manages to get themselves involved in is entirely of their own doing. But we keep tabs on them. It’s necessary for the safety of our assets.”
Saskia closed her eyes. Her brain wanted to sort through it all, to deduce and understand, but she wasn’t able. It felt good to keep her eyelids shut. She needed to rest.
Jack had told her she was family as she lay there on the edge of the river, feeling as though an angel had pulled her up from hell. Had he said he loved her? Or had her iced brain wanted to hear that? Maybe. But she was certain he’d said he’d never stop looking for her.
Could a dead man find her?
“Just tell me he’s alive,” she whispered.
“That’s need to know, Petrovik.”
If she’d the strength, she’d grab the commander by her throat and pop her fingernails through her skin. The act of imagining it gave Saskia a smile. Bitch.
She turned away from Lucinda and her gaze fixed on the daylight framed by the partially-opened curtains. “What’s to become of me?”
“While your actions went against some ECU policies, we have never been a by-the-book unit. You did what you had to.”
As had Jack!
“Your alliances are still in question, though.”
“Doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Jack’s gone.”
When Lucinda took her hand and held it gently, Saskia wanted to pull away but—her warmth felt welcome. “The two of you worked well together. I won’t overlook that.”
What did that mean?
“You rest. I’ve requisitioned a four-day vacation for you. Sounds like you’ll be free to check out this evening. And I’ve suggested your next assignment be someplace warmer. How does that sound?”
Saskia could but tighten her shoulders and curl in deeper on herself.
“Thank you for your work, Petrovik. It will not go unrewarded. But tell me one thing.”
She waited for the question.
“At any moment did you consider g
oing off the grid with Jack Angelo?”
She had. Well, she’d considered it. But had she considered it seriously? It was hard to know. But she knew what the Commander wanted to hear. And she wasn’t willing to give her that lie.
“Yes,” she said resolutely.
Lucinda’s exhale said so much. The woman’s heels clicked as she exited the room, leaving Saskia to wonder if they would ever tell her where to find Jack’s tombstone.
* * * *
A week later…
Lucinda Marks had kept her word.
The hot Australian sun burned over Saskia’s shoulders and arms but she could handle it. Slipping on a pair of Ray Bans, and flip-flopping her way down the gangplank toward the waiting yacht, she tucked a hand at her hip, above the string bikini bottom. It wasn’t the best costume for hiding weapons, so she hadn’t. But the scarf she wore wrapped about her upper thigh, to hide the healing knife wound, did have a thin leaf blade in it. Just in case.
The boat was taking dozens of millionaires on a cruise around the Whitsunday Islands. It also featured a private auction of stolen artwork taken during an embassy raid in the Middle East. Millions of dollars’ worth of Egyptian pottery and even some emeralds and jewel-encrusted porcelain bowls were going on the block. And all the buyers knew the booty was hot.
Saskia’s objective was to insinuate herself into the target’s confidence. From there she would learn his connections and draw out a chart of all the places he received from and eventually the ECU would track the kingpin behind the operation.
She estimated a few weeks undercover as a spoiled rich girl sent on vacation by her daddy. She was meeting her “brother” on board, another ECU asset whom she’d only been informed about half an hour earlier as she’d dressed for this excursion.
“What’s his name?” she’d asked Chester Clarke.
“He’s under a cover name of Finnister Wright. Billionaire owner of an auto-tech research lab. Makes race cars as a hobby. He’ll be your brother.”
She hadn’t gotten an asset name, but it was just as well. Saskia would know him when he came up to give her a brotherly hug.
A purser and female attendant with perfect blue cat’s eyeshadow greeted her as she boarded. Champagne was immediately offered, and she was told to join the party on the upper deck. The yacht would be leaving in five minutes.
Snatching a flute of champagne, Saskia thanked them and wandered into the party, which looked populated by men in yuppie gear. More than a few yachting captain hats. The requisite sun-tanned skin. (She did not miss Helsinki at all.) And cigar smoke everywhere. She was thankful for the open air. And for the fact at least three other women were on board.
One of the women walked up to her and touched her lightly on the arm. “I love your ensemble. Yves Saint Laurent?”
Yeah, so she’d invested for this costume. It had seemed the best bet.
Saskia fingered the gold clasp at the front and center of her bikini top. “Got it on the first guess. So where’s the snort?”
The woman gestured over a shoulder. “Back near the bar. There’s ecstasy too. Are you here alone?”
“No, I’m meeting my brother. We’re shopping for daddy’s birthday today.”
“Sweet.” The woman tilted her glass toward the crowd of laughing men. “Which one is your brother? And is he single? I’m here doing some shopping of my own. But not for art, if you get what I mean.”
Saskia got it. And the slender looker with artificially-plumped lips and breasts, could probably lay claim to any man she chose today. It would be a feeding frenzy, for sure.
“I don’t see him yet.” Saskia made show of looking about for a man of whom she had no idea how he might look. “But he’s not single,” she added, because she didn’t want to hamper her partner with this winner. Unless of course, he chose that impediment. “But he’s handsome.” She nodded toward a blond man who was so sun-browned he looked baked. “Nice eyes.”
“That’s Evert Flynn. CEO of MasterWear. Worth billions,” the woman cooed eagerly. “I think I’m going to claim him. Hands off, okay?”
Saskia tilted her champagne glass to the woman as she sashayed off toward the billionaire. And when she turned, an arm suddenly slipped across her back, a hand falling to rest casually at her hip.
“Hey, sis.”
Saskia’s heartbeats thundered. She didn’t even have to look at him. His voice. The feel of him standing so close to her. He…
…wasn’t dead.
“Jack,” she whispered.
“Finnister Wright,” he said under his breath. Then in a normal tone he asked, “How’s my sister doing? You’re looking ready for some fun in the sun.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Told ya you were family, eh?”
Fighting back relieved tears, Saskia could only nod and allow the man to hug her. She wanted to melt against him, to kiss him, to grab him by the face and stare into his blue-gray eyes. To know it was him. Alive. And standing beside her. But she couldn’t. Not without breaking cover.
As he pulled away from the too-brief hug, Jack winked at her. He wore a captain’s hat and a white short-sleeved shirt with casual linen slacks and sandals.
“I was worth keeping around,” he said quietly. “Or so the commander said. Got another chip too. Now that Jonny is safe I’m in for the long haul this time.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“Finnister.”
“Right. Finn.”
“And you are Lisa, my sister. I’ll be keeping you close today. Protective older brother thing, and all.”
“Please do.”
“We’ll have a moment when we dock later. And then?”
“Then?” Hope lifted her chin.
“Then we get to know one another again. All night long.”
The End
The Thief
Find out where it all began!
The Elite Crimes Unit series by Michele Hauf
The Elite Crimes Unit works behind the scenes of Interpol—and employs some of the world’s most talented criminal minds. Because as everyone knows, it takes a thief to catch a thief—or to seduce one . . .
The old farmhouse in the French countryside is a refuge for former jewel thief Josephine Deveraux. Admittedly, there aren’t many men in the vicinity, but she has her cat to cuddle up with. It’s a far cry from her former life, constantly running from the law, and she’s enjoying her peace . . . until the intruder in the three-piece suit tackles her. He wants her back in the game, helping with a heist—and he’s not above making threats to get his way.
Little does Josephine know that notorious—and notoriously charming—thief, Xavier Lambert, is after the very same 180-carat prize she’s being blackmailed to steal. To his chagrin, he’s doing it not as a free agent, but as a member of the Elite Crimes Unit—the team he was forced to join when his brilliant career came to a sudden end. And little does Xavier know that his comeback is about to include a stranger’s kiss, a stinging slap, and a hunt for missing treasure—along with the infuriatingly sexy woman who’s outfoxing him . . .
Chapter 1
Josephine Devereaux strode through the open front screen door into the kitchen. Creamy golden evening light spread quiet warmth across the aged hardwood floors. The old farmhouse had stood on this plot in the southern French countryside for centuries. She’d had the pleasure of owning it for two years.
Setting a clutch of fresh carrots pulled from the rain-damp garden into the sink, she spun at a tiny meow. Behind her, the two-and-a-half-year-old Devon Rex cat with soft, downy fur the color of faded charcoal batted at the hem of her long pink skirt.
“Do you want fish or chicken tonight, Chloe?”
She opened the refrigerator to find the only option was diced chicken, left over from last night’s supper. Her neighbor, Jean-Hugues, had butchered a rooster yesterday morning and brought her half.
>
The cat went at the feast she’d placed on a saucer with big elf ears wiggling appreciatively. Chloe had come with the farmhouse. The couple moving out hadn’t wanted to bring along a kitten on their overseas move to the United States. It had been love at first purr for Josephine.
She smiled at the quiet patter of rain. And then she frowned. “Mud,” she muttered. And she hated housecleaning. She had never developed a domestic bone in her body and didn’t expect to grow one.
She’d spend the evening inside, maybe finish up the thriller she’d found on Jean-Hugues’s bookshelf. He always encouraged her to take what she wanted—she was a voracious reader of all topics—and she gave him vegetables from her garden in return.
Not that she was a master gardener. Jean-Hugues tended the garden, along with the few rows of vines that produced enough grapes for one big barrel of wine. Jean-Hughes was sixty, but he flirted with her in a non-confrontational, just-for-fun manner, which she appreciated probably more than a twenty-six-year-old woman should.
Living so far from Paris made it difficult to find dateable men, let alone a hook-up for a night of just-give-it-to-me-now-and-leave-before-the-sun-rises sex. But that’s what grocery trips to the nearest village were for. If the mood struck, she’d leave in the evening for eggs, bread, and a booty call, and find her way out of bed and back home by morning.
Sighing, Josephine forgot about the dirty carrots in the sink and padded barefoot to the lumpy jacquard sofa that stretched before the massive paned window at the front of the cottage. The window overlooked a cobblestone patio, which stretched before the house and also served as a driveway, though no cars used it. She didn’t own a car. And she never had visitors, save Jean-Hugues, and on occasion the neighbors who lived on the other side of him. They were newlyweds, Jean-Louis and Hollie, and they spent most of their time by themselves. And that was exactly how Josephine preferred it.
