by Nora Roberts
Luke tilted a finger under Nate’s chin so that they grinned identical grins. “I’ll work on it. How about a hug?”
“Okay.” Nate squeezed his arms hard around Luke’s neck. His stomach still felt funny, and the sensation had spread to his chest. But he thought it was a good feeling after all. On a sigh, he settled his head on his father’s shoulder, and accepted.
32
“I’m trying to concentrate.” Roxanne waved a hand over her shoulder to brush Luke back. He was breathing down her neck.
“I’m trying to ask you out on a date.”
“You’re certainly hung up on dates these days.” She hunched forward, adjusting the light on her father’s desk. Spread before her were the blueprints for the art gallery. They had yet to agree on a point of entry. “From the top down, Callahan. It just makes sense. The exhibit’s on the third floor, why come in on ground level and climb up?”
“Because that way we can walk up stairs instead of dangling fifteen feet from a rope.”
She slanted a look over her shoulder. “You’re getting old.”
“I beg your pardon. It so happens I’m a parent now. I have to take certain precautions.”
“The roof, Daddy Warbucks.”
He knew it was the cleanest way, but enjoyed the debate. “We’d have to get Jake up there, too. He doesn’t like heights.”
“So, you’ll blindfold him.” She tapped a pencil against the drawing. “Here, east window, third floor. I’m already in, twiddling my thumbs in that storeroom until deadline. I go into the surveillance room at exactly eleven seventeen, which gives me one minute, thirty seconds, and one minute, thirty seconds only, to doctor camera six before the alarm kicks in.”
“I don’t like the idea of you handling the inside work.”
“Don’t be such a man, Luke. You know damn well I’m better with electronics. Then I switch the surveillance tapes.” Pulling her hair back in one hand, she grinned. “I wish I could see the guard’s face when he gets a look at Mouse’s video work.”
“Only amateurs think they have to be in on the punch line, babe.”
“Get bent, Callahan,” she said mildly. “To continue, as long as Jake and Mouse have taken care of business, I can deal with the window from inside. In you come, my hero.” She fluttered her lashes.
“And we have six and a half minutes to open the display, take the proper loot and replace it with our fakes.”
“Then, presto! We’re out, leaving not a trace.” She ran her tongue over her top lip. “You and I will go back to our hotel room, and fuck like minks.”
“God, I love it when you’re crude.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “We still need to refine the timing.”
“We have a few weeks.” She stretched her arms out, then up, to link them around his neck. “And just think of all those lovely, lovely glitters. All ours, Callahan.”
He winced, let a quiet breath out between his teeth and straightened. “That’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, Rox.” He couldn’t predict how she’d react, and took the coward’s way by stalling. “Want a brandy?”
“Sure.” She stretched again. It was nearly one in the morning. The house was quiet, the hall beyond the office dark with shadows. She thought briefly about seducing Luke on the cushy leather couch, and smiled slowly when he handed her a snifter.
“Sure you want to talk?”
He knew that look, that tone, and nearly escaped into it to avoid the issue. “No, but I think we have to. About the take from the auction.”
“Mmmm.”
“We’re not going to keep it.”
She choked on the brandy. Luke thumped her on the back and hoped for the best. “Christ, don’t make bad jokes while I’m drinking.”
“It’s not a joke, Rox. We’re not going to keep it.”
She, too, knew that look, that tone. It meant Luke had made up his mind about something and was ready to battle. “What the hell are you talking about? What’s the point in taking it if we’re not going to keep it?”
“I explained that the heist was a diversion for the Wyatt job.”
“Of course, and a very profitable one, despite an outrageous overhead.”
“Yes, but not monetarily. Not for us.”
She drank more brandy, but it did little to relieve the sudden chill in her midsection. “Just what are we going to do with over two million in jewels, Callahan, jewels that are costing us approximately eighty thousand to heist?”
“We’re going to plant them. They’re very important props for a sting I’ve been dreaming about for nearly a year.”
“A sting.” Roxanne rose so that she could walk off her agitation and think. “Sam. You’re going to plant them on Sam. This is your justice, isn’t it?” Her eyes were hot when she turned back to him. “This is what you’d planned all along.”
“I’ve worked on every angle of this for months. Every piece hinges on the whole of it.”
“You’ve worked on?” A flood of betrayal threatened to swamp her. She fought it back, unsure if she could survive that kind of loss again. “That’s why you came back. To hit on Sam.”
“You’re why I came back.” He didn’t like the chill in her voice, or the vulnerability he sensed beneath it. And he hated, really hated, explaining himself again. “I told you why I left, Rox, and I can’t take those years back. But I’m not losing you again, and I’m not taking any chances with my family.” He hesitated. She was likely to slice him into thin, jagged ribbons, but he had to tell her everything. “That’s why I went to see Wyatt before I came to New Orleans.”
“You’ve seen him?” Baffled, she dragged a hand through her hair. “You went to see him, and you don’t consider that taking chances?”
“I made a deal with him. I’d figured on bribing him with money. A million dollars for a few months’ time.”
“A million—”
“But he didn’t go for it,” Luke interrupted. “Or he didn’t go for that alone. So we made a deal.” Picking up his snifter, he swirled brandy, sniffed, sipped. He enjoyed this part, the way a man enjoyed contemplating a long, stimulating evening with a beautiful woman. “He agreed to give me time, until right before the election, if I came up with compromising photographs of Curtis Gunner. They’d have to be faked, of course, seeing as Gunner’s straight as an arrow. Wyatt wants papers, too, implicating Gunner in unethical business deals, and illicit relationships. All I have to do is create them, and plant them right before the voters head off to pull the lever of their choice.”
Letting out a long breath, Roxanne lowered to the arm of the sofa. She needed the brandy now, she realized, and tilted back the snifter for a long sip. “That’s what it cost you to come back?”
“If I didn’t agree, I can’t be sure what he might do to you, to Max, Lily, everyone I care about.” Luke’s eyes locked on hers. “And now there’s Nathaniel. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep him safe. Nothing.”
Icy fear rippled down her spine. “He wouldn’t hurt Nate. He . . . Of course he would.” Roxanne pressed her fingers to her eyes, struggling to justify her conscience with necessity. “I know we have to do whatever needs to be done, but we’ve never hurt innocent people before. I can’t rationalize starting now. We’ll find another way.” She dropped her hands into her lap. His face was composed again, and cold. “I know we can find another way.”
Luke was certain he’d never loved her more than he did at this moment. She was a woman who would protect what was hers, always, and never would she compromise her own code of ethics.
“Jake’s already forging documents that I’ll plant, along with the take, in Wyatt’s safe. They won’t be quite what he’s expecting,” he added before she could protest. “The initial photos Jake’s come up with are pretty good, just need a little refining. But all in all, Wyatt looks great. There’s one in particular of him in this black leather G-string and boots that I’m real fond of.”
“Sam? You’re doing the photographs using Sam?” Her
lips started to curve, but she stopped the smile, stemmed the admiration. Damn Luke, she thought, she wasn’t through yet. “You’re double-crossing him, using his own plot to ruin him politically.”
“Hey, I’ve got nothing against Gunner, and plenty against Wyatt. It seemed like solid gold justice to me. In addition to the photos and the documents—some of which will implicate Wyatt in a number of robberies you’ll be very familiar with—I’ve been filtering money into two accounts in Switzerland. Accounts in his name.”
“Very clever,” she murmured. “You worked it all out. But you didn’t bother to fill me in.”
“No, I didn’t. I wanted to make sure you were in for the long run, Roxanne. I figured the initial plan would challenge you, intrigue you. And I’d hoped by the time I told you all of it, you’d trust me. You want to be pissed because I held back on you, you’re entitled. Just as long as you’re in for that long haul.”
She considered and realized that first hot spurt of anger had eased. Good God, she thought, she hoped she wasn’t mellowing. The problem was, she could see it from Luke’s side as well as from her own. Not only could she see it, but the simple beauty of the sting enchanted her. She couldn’t have planned it better herself.
“From tonight, Callahan, we’re in this fifty-fifty, or there’s no deal.”
“Aren’t you going to swear at me, call me at least one name?”
“I’m saving it.” She lifted her glass in toast. “To Nouvelle and Callahan.”
He tapped his glass to hers and their eyes remained on each other’s as they sipped. “Weren’t you about to seduce me before I interrupted it?”
“As a matter of fact . . .” She set her brandy aside. “I was.”
Luke stood beside Max’s chair, looking out of the French doors, wondering what the man saw through the glass. Was it the buildings of the Quarter, the flower-strewn balcony across Chartres, the pieces of gray sky that promised rain? Or was it something else, some long-ago memory of place and time?
Since his relapse, Max’s mind had sunk deeper into whatever world it inhabited. He rarely spoke at all now, though he sometimes wept silently. His body was sinking as well, fading away pound by precious pound.
The doctors spoke of plaques and tangles, those primary structural changes found in the brains of Alzheimer patients. Abnormal forms of proteins—tau proteins, B-amy-loid, substance P. They meant nothing to Luke, and he’d thought plaques and tangles had sounded like some sort of complex magic trick.
He knew Roxanne had been in to say good-bye and was now down the hall with Nate, overseeing his packing for their week in D.C. Now that he had this moment alone with Max, he didn’t know what to do with it.
“I wish you were coming with us.” Luke continued to look out the glass. It was so difficult to look at Max, at that blank expression, at the clawed fingers that worked and worked and worked as if manipulating coins. “I’d feel a lot better if I could have gone over the whole plan with you. I think you’d like the act. Drama, emotion, flair. It has it all. I’ve gone over every detail.” Hearing the echo of his mentor’s voice in his head, Luke allowed himself a smile. “I know, I know, calculate the odds, then prepare for surprises. I’m going to pay that bastard back for the five years he took from me, Max, from all of us. And I’m going to get you the stone. I’m going to put it right into your hands. If there’s any magic in it, you’ll find it.”
Luke didn’t expect a response, but made himself crouch down. Made himself look into the eyes that had once commanded him to come inside a sideshow tent, demanded he take a chance, take a risk. They were as dark as ever, but the power in them was gone.
“I want you to know I’m going to take care of Roxanne and Nate. And Lily and Mouse and LeClerc. Rox would get her back up if she heard me say that; she’s been doing a good job of taking care of everything. But she’s not going to have to do it alone anymore. Nate calls me Dad. I didn’t know that could mean so much.” Gently, he covered the gnarled, restless hands with his own. “Dad. I never called you that. But you’re my father.” Luke leaned forward and kissed the papery cheek. “I love you, Dad.”
There was no response. Luke rose and walked out to find his own son.
Max continued to stare through the glass, to stare and stare, even when a tear slipped out of his eye and ran slowly down the cheek that Luke had kissed.
Jake tapped another sequence into his portable computer and let out a crow of delight. “What’d I tell you? What’d I tell you, Mouse? There’s always a back door.”
“You’re in? You’re really in?” Filled with admiration, Mouse leaned over Jake’s stooped shoulder. “Holy cow.”
“The Bank of fucking England.” He sniggered, linking his fingers and stretching his hands out to crack his knuckles. “Betcha Charles and Di have an account. Man, oh man, all those pretty pounds sterling.”
“Wow.” Mouse read the celebrity magazines faithfully, and the Princess of Wales was a favorite. “Can you see how much they have, Jake? You oughta transfer some from his into hers. I don’t think he’s nice enough to her.”
“Sure. Why not?” Jake’s fingers poised over the keys, stopping when Alice gently cleared her throat.
“I thought you promised Luke you wouldn’t use the computers to poke into anyone’s business.” She didn’t look up, only continued to knit serenely on the sofa at the other end of the suite.
“Well, yeah.” Jake’s fingers itched. “I’m just practicing is all.” He rolled his eyes at Mouse. “Ah, showing Mouse some of the tricks this baby can do since we adjusted her.”
“That’s very nice. Mouse, I don’t think Diana would appreciate your invading her privacy this way.”
“You don’t?” He glanced over at his wife, who only lifted her head and smiled. “No, I guess not.” Defeated, he let out a windy sigh. “We’re supposed to be checking the Swiss account,” he reminded Jake.
“All right, all right.” The keyboard clattered, the modum hummed. “But it just makes me sick, I gotta say. My stomach, I tell you, it feels like I ate some bad whitefish. He wants ten thousand more transferred into that creep’s account. I tried to tell him, didn’t I try to tell him that I could sneak the money out of some crooked CEO’s account instead of bleeding his? But no, oh no. Luke wants to pay for the whole sting. That man is stubborn. Stub-born.”
“It’s a matter of pride,” Alice murmured.
“It’s a matter of ten fucking thousand.” Jake winced and sent her a quick glance. “Excuse my French. It’s just that we’re not making a dime on this. Not a dime! Don’t you think we ought to clear something—cover our overhead, realize a reasonable profit?”
“We’re getting satisfaction,” Mouse stated and made his wife’s heart swell with pride. “That’s better than money.”
“Satisfaction won’t buy you any Italian shoes,” Jake grumbled, but accepted that he was outnumbered. Besides, he could always access another account later.
Alice gathered her knitting and rose. It was barely ten, but she was outrageously tired. “I think I’ll leave you two to your toys and go on to bed.”
Mouse bent to kiss her, stroking a hand down her pale hair. It never failed to amaze him that someone so tiny, so pretty could belong to him. “You want me to order up some tea, or anything?”
“No.” What a sweet man he was, she mused. And how thickheaded. She’d all but dangled her knitting under his nose. Deciding it was worth one more shot, she took the bootie she’d completed out of her basket. “I think I’ll try to finish the other one of these tonight. It’s a nice color, don’t you think? Such a pale, pretty green.”
“It’s real nice.” He smiled and ducked his head to kiss her again. “Nate sure likes finger puppets.”
“It’s not a puppet.” As angry as she had ever been with him, Alice set her teeth. “It’s a bootie, damn it.” With that she swept into the adjoining bedroom and shut the door.
“Alice never swears,” Mouse said half to himself. “Never. Maybe I shou
ld go see . . .” The revelation hit like a bare-knuckled punch to the jaw. “A bootie.”
“A bootie?” Jake’s face cracked with a grin. “Well, ain’t that some shit? Congratulations, Mouse old man.” He jumped up to thump his friend on the back. “Looks like there’s a bun in the oven.”
Mouse went pale, turned a color similar to the famous bootie, then paled again. “Oh boy.” It was the best he could manage as he staggered toward the bedroom. By the time he got the door open and closed again, his palms were dripping sweat.
Alice stood with her back to him, calmly belting her robe. “So, the light dawns,” she muttered and walked to the dresser, began to brush her hair.
“Alice.” Mouse swallowed so hard his throat clicked. “Are you . . . are we . . .”
It wasn’t in her nature to stay angry for long. She loved him too much to try. Her lips curved as she met his eyes in the mirror. “Yes.”
“For sure?”
“For absolutely sure. Two home pregnancy tests and an obstetrician don’t lie. We’re expecting, Mouse.” Her voice broke as she dropped her gaze to her hands. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”
He couldn’t answer. His throat was too full of his heart. Instead he crossed to her in three jerky steps. Gently, very gently he wrapped his arms around her, spreading his big hand over her still flat belly.
It was much better than words.
Across the district line in the lush suburbs of Maryland, Sam Wyatt sat at his antique rosewood desk with a snifter of Napoleon brandy. His wife was upstairs in their big Chippendale bed, nursing one of her infamous migraines.
Justine hardly needed the excuse of a headache, he thought as he swirled and sipped the dark amber liquor. He’d long ago lost interest in making love to an icy stick who disguised herself as a woman in designer clothes.
There were other ways to find sexual release, if one was cautious, and paid enough. He didn’t keep a mistress. Mistresses had a habit of growing disenchanted and greedy. Sam had no intention of living with the backlash of a tell-all book after he was in the White House.
