Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  We stare at each other for a beat as I process what he’s told me. After a few seconds, it clicks. I feel like the biggest idiot on the planet.

  “Aw, shit. What’d she take?”

  From outside on the balcony, the head officer answers. “A Burmese pigeon’s blood ruby necklace once owned by Queen Ingrid of Denmark. It’s worth fifteen million dollars.”

  I look over at him. He’s craning his neck to peer at something on the side of the building that’s fluttering in the gentle morning breeze. He looks at me and points in the direction of the flutter. “You want to explain this?”

  Connor and I join him outside. Hanging down from the railing of the balcony above mine is a makeshift rope composed of white bedsheets. We lean over and discover three more tied to the first, dangling down the side of the building, all the way to the ground.

  My brain switches into Special Ops mode. “Four king-size sheets tied together with square knots. Readily available, easy to work with, anonymous…”

  Connor and I glance at each other. He says, “And excellent weight support. Especially at a high thread count like these.”

  I look down again, assessing the distance to the lawn below. “Building stories are about ten feet tall. Each king-size sheet would provide about twelve feet of length.”

  Connor says, “And we’re probably what, fifty feet up?”

  Exactly what I’d calculated. I remind myself to unclench my jaw. “I gotta admit it. That’s pretty smart.” I look at the officer. “They’re from Khalid’s room. She wouldn’t have burdened herself with the climb up from here to there carrying a stack of sheets.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “How do you know she climbed up?”

  I smack myself on the forehead. “You’re right. She took the invisible jet.”

  Connor warns, “Ryan.”

  Ignoring him, I cross my arms over my chest and level the officer with a hard stare. “Okay. Here’s every fuckin’ thing you need to know in a nutshell. I met the woman who calls herself Angeline Lemaire yesterday at the pool bar at approximately fifteen hundred hours. No, I didn’t know her before that. No, I’m not an accomplice. No, I didn’t know anything about her plans. We went to dinner with my friends, including this big ape here, and then came back to my room.

  “What happened after that is none of your damn business, except that she doped me with something she put in a bottle of orange juice.” I jerk my head toward the bed. “The empty’s on the nightstand. You can test for residue. My guess is Rohypnol, modified with somethin’ to make it work faster. Took me down in thirty seconds. When I woke up, you were outside my door.”

  Though it hurts my ego something fierce to admit it, I add, “She obviously targeted me because I was stayin’ in this particular room. If it were next week, you’d be talkin’ to some other dude. End of story.”

  The officer is busy trying to think of something to say next when one of his compadres lifts a high-heeled red shoe from the floor. The platform sole is broken off. Examining it, he asks, “You two have a fight?”

  Connor speaks before I can. “He doesn’t fight with broads, only the husbands he didn’t know they had. But that’s a nice little hidey-hole carved in there. Perfect size for some cash.”

  “Or a flash drive,” I say, grudgingly impressed. “Or a compass, an ID—”

  “A map,” he finishes, looking at me. His sharp gaze flicks to the bedsheets, then to the view of the verdant hills. To the head cop, he says, “Lemme guess. She didn’t check out of the hotel. She hasn’t been seen since she left dinner with Ryan. You don’t have any video feed of her leaving the property.”

  The cop looks uncomfortable. “Correct. The hotel doesn’t have security cameras pointing up at the outside of the building—”

  “Hotels never do,” I interrupt. “Security cameras are always trained down, toward doors and hallways. Any thief worth his salt would know that.” Though I’m still mad as fuck, I can’t help but smile. “Her salt.”

  I can tell by the cop’s expression that he’d really like to throw my ass in jail, but he must’ve already decided I’m just some dumb lackey Angeline used to make her play.

  A lightbulb goes on over my head. “Wait. You know who she is, don’t you?”

  He takes off his cap and scratches his head. Sounding weary, he says, “I can’t comment on that.”

  Connor scoffs, “Oh come on! You wouldn’t have even let me in this room if this was a real interrogation.”

  He scowls. “No one ever said anything about an interrogation!”

  An odd combination of elation and anger electrifies my skin. “She’s hit this hotel before?”

  He looks back and forth between Connor and me, then obviously decides he might as well tell us, because he sighs heavily and starts spilling his guts.

  “No. But I’ve got a friend in Interpol. Called him as soon as I was notified by Prince Khalid that his safe had been broken into while he was asleep. I knew it had to be a pro if he—she—could get past the armed security personnel posted outside the door and the biometric thumbprint scanner on the safe, and also be quiet enough not to awaken the prince or his bride for however long it took to finish the job.”

  He makes a face. “Though admittedly the prince is known to imbibe more than what could be considered a reasonable amount, and his wife said she fell asleep to a white noise app because of all his snoring.” He turns to Connor. “Have you heard of Brain.fm? The princess claims it’s very relaxing—”

  I shout, “Cut to the fuckin’ chase, man!”

  He stares at me for a moment. “Let’s just say this woman is on pretty much everyone’s most wanted list.”

  I demand, “What’s her name?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Who knows? She’s got fifteen known aliases, probably plenty more that aren’t known. Been doing big jobs for a long time. Jewels, mainly. The occasional piece of art. Never been caught.”

  I scoff, “How could a thief who looks like a supermodel never be caught? She stands out like a fuckin’ neon sign!”

  “If you saw the Interpol file, you might think differently.”

  “Disguises?” Connor sounds doubtful.

  “Up the wazoo. Eyewitnesses describe her as anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. Five foot four to five foot ten. Blonde, redhead, short black hair, dreadlocks. Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes. Walks with a limp. Walks with no limp. Has a lisp. Has an Irish accent. French. Italian. Spanish. You name it. She’s no one. She’s everyone. She’s impossible to pin down. Apparently she’s known in criminal circles as The Golden Hand. But my Interpol friend says law enforcement calls her the Dragonfly.”

  Thinking of her gorgeous naked body trembling under my touch, I murmur, “Because of the tattoo.”

  The officer looks at me sharply. “Tattoo?”

  “The dragonfly on her left hip.”

  His brows slowly rise.

  I realize too late that this is new information to him. In spite of my gaffe, a flush of something like pride heats my neck.

  If law enforcement doesn’t know she has a tattoo, that means none of her marks have ever reported it. And if none of her marks have ever reported it, that means none of them ever saw her naked.

  Goddamn. She was telling the truth about never having one-night stands!

  I instantly forgive her for everything.

  “No,” says the officer. “It’s because she leaves a drawing of a dragonfly somewhere at every job she pulls off. It’s her calling card. The one in Prince Khalid’s suite was scrawled on the bathroom mirror with his wife’s lipstick.”

  “She wants everyone to know it was her,” I say.

  Connor adds ominously, “Or someone.”

  We lock eyes. I know him well, and right now I know he’s thinking Angeline’s calling card isn’t meant as a taunt to the police. It’s not an ego thing. It’s a message.

  But for who? And why?

  Watching my face, the police officer chuckles. “Don’t take it person
ally, Mr. McLean. She’s duped some of the most sophisticated security personnel on the planet. She’s a professional thief. The best in the business, by all accounts.”

  Connor claps his hand on my shoulder. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. “Besides, I’m sure she thought you were real cute.”

  “Fuck off,” I say cheerfully, because I wasn’t a one-night stand.

  The officer who was holding Angeline’s shoe is now holding her red dress, retrieved from the floor. He’s fingering it with his brows pulled together. “Got something here, chief.”

  “What is it?”

  The officer removes a Swiss knife from his black utility belt, snaps open the blade with his thumb, and works it against a seam in the waist of the dress. The fabric gives way easily. He removes a small metal object, winking in the light. Looking surprised, he holds it up.

  Connor and I say in unison, “Handcuff key.”

  The chief looks at me as if for confirmation. “She sewed a handcuff key into her dress?”

  “In case she was apprehended and had to escape from cuffs.” I shake my head, more impressed by the second. “It’s fuckin’ brilliant.”

  Another officer standing next to the television console opens the small beaded handbag Angeline left behind and dumps its contents onto the wood surface. Sifting through it with the tip of a pen, he catalogues his findings out loud.

  “One rake pick. One tension wrench. One torch lighter. One folding tactical knife. One metal shim. Four plastic zip ties. One unmarked hotel keycard, possibly a master. And one lipstick.”

  He picks up the gold tube of lipstick and looks at the label on the bottom. “It’s called Lady Danger.”

  A grin spreads over Connor’s face. “I like this girl.”

  In spite of how completely fucked up this entire situation is, I grin back. “Me too, brother. Me too!”

  The chief rolls his eyes. “You guys are idiots.”

  10

  Mariana

  Specializing in buying and selling rare coins, gold, jewels, diamonds, and valuables since 1979, Mallory & Sons Heritage Auctions has retail boutiques in most of the largest cities in the world. But the London boutique is the one I always visit upon completion of an assignment.

  And not because it’s company headquarters.

  Ignoring the cold and the gray drizzle, I stand across the street for a few minutes before going in and just look.

  The shop is charming glimpsed through its beveled-glass windows. It’s brightly lit, stuffed with antiques, the walls crowded with original oils by artists of all levels of fame and importance, as well as the occasional exquisite forgery to be sold to a nouveaux riche collector more concerned with impressing his friends than demanding certified provenance.

  Inside the shop, a man stands behind a massive oak counter carved with a relief from Beowulf of warriors on horseback battling a dragon. The man is examining a ring. He holds a jeweler’s loupe to one eye, holds the ring up to the light. He’s of average height and average weight with no distinctive features except an aquiline nose and an air of elegance.

  His hair is more salt than pepper. His skin is lined around his eyes. His navy-blue suit is well tailored, but not couture. Judging strictly by appearance, he could be fifty…or seventy. Italian or Spanish. Scottish or Portuguese. Or pretty much anything else. He has no tattoos or scars, wears no jewelry or cologne, is perfectly forgettable.

  He goes by Reynard, a name borrowed from the trickster fox from medieval fables.

  He taught me everything I know.

  That I love him is irrelevant to our business arrangement. If I said it aloud, he’d admonish me for it, so I keep it to myself.

  I step off the curb, avoiding a muddy puddle, and hurry across the street. My heels click against wet cobblestone. The bell over the door jangles cheerfully when I come in. I’m hit with warmth and the sweet, smoky scent of the incense burning next to a votive candle in a cubby on the wall. Amy Winehouse plays softly in the background, crooning you know that I’m no good.

  Reynard looks up. Catching sight of me, he smiles. “‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’”

  I say drily, “It’s good to see you too, Reynard.”

  He abandons the jeweler’s loupe and ring to the counter and holds out his arms. “My darling.”

  I don’t bother removing my rain-slicked overcoat. I simply go to him and let him enfold me in his arms.

  “She’s wet,” he muses to himself, stroking my hair. “Silly child.”

  I pull back, grinning because I’m so happy to see him. “People don’t catch cold from being wet.”

  “I wasn’t talking about catching cold, my darling, I was talking about your hair.” He smooths his hand over my head, clucking in disapproval. “It looks dreadful. Why aren’t you wearing a hat? Or carrying an umbrella? One doesn’t go about with no head covering in the rain when one has a tendency to frizz—”

  “Be quiet, old man.”

  He blinks at me, insulted. “Old? Oh dear. You haven’t eaten. You’re light-headed. Shall I make us a cup of tea?”

  “That sounds wonderful, thank you.”

  I kiss his cheek, smooth as a baby’s behind. Then I have to suppress a rogue memory of the American’s rough cheeks and how delicious they felt grazing the inside of my thighs.

  That’s what I’ve started calling him, my first and only lovely one-night stand. The American. It’s more impersonal, therefore less painful. I’m hoping in time the dull ache will wear off his memory and I’ll be able to sigh wistfully when I think of him, but for now it’s like a jagged pill I’ve swallowed that’s stuck just beneath my breastbone, slicing tiny cuts into my insides with every breath.

  My body is sore in so many places from our lovemaking. My thighs. My lower back. My behind, faintly bruised by his hand.

  My heart, bruised more than faintly.

  Reynard intently studies my face. “Something’s happened. Tell me.”

  This time, I have to force a grin. “I’m fine. Just tired from the flight. And the trek through the jungle to get to where I hid my bug-out bag. That resort was in the middle of nowhere! I was barefoot, if you can believe it. You should see the sorry state of my feet.”

  A faint smile lifts Reynard’s lips. “Hmm. What’s his name?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t. What’s that expression your face is attempting? It looks rather comical.”

  I must be losing my edge. “Stop harassing me about my face, or I won’t give you what I came here for.”

  “You’re in a delightful mood this evening, my darling. Let me go turn the sign.”

  Moving with panther-like noiseless grace, he walks to the front of the shop, locks the door, and flips over the small white sign in the window. Then he leads me through the shop to a large bookcase under a staircase at the back.

  Neither of us mention that I don’t have a choice about giving him what I came here to give him, but we act as if I do.

  “Ladies first,” drawls Reynard, with a flourish of his hand.

  From the bookcase, I remove a slender volume bound in dark-green leather, its title stitched in gold along the spine. Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. The story of an orphan who escapes the workhouse to join a den of thieves. Our little inside joke.

  The bookcase swings slowly open to reveal a stone corridor. I replace the book, and we walk inside as the case swings closed behind us.

  The tunnel is damp, smells of mold and mice droppings, and is badly in need of repair. After two turns, it opens into a large anteroom which is bare of decoration except for a trio of beeswax candles burning in a tall iron candelabra beside an arched oak door so thick it could probably survive a direct hit from a cannon.

  “Any trouble with your mercenary?” Reynard inquires, removing an old-fashioned skeleton key from his breast pocket.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  He flicks me an i
nscrutable look over his shoulder. Then he inserts the key into the lock. The door opens with a groan of rusted metal hinges to reveal a warehouse of staggering opulence.

  There are so many priceless antiques, statuaries, paintings, sculptures, and artifacts from around the world stuffed into the space, it could make the Vatican turn green with envy. The first time I saw it, at ten years old, I stood gaping for a full five minutes, staring goggle-eyed like the rube I was.

  Part of the complex of hidden tunnels beneath London used during air raids in the Second World War, the vast, brick-walled space has been repurposed as a drop for purloined goods in transit. A quarter mile of heavy-duty steel shelving is stacked in tall, numbered rows down the center. Wood crates and boxes of all sizes overflow with booty, glinting under the lights. The larger items are kept along the walls—or on the walls, in the case of some of the oversized paintings and tapestries.

  Regardless of their size, all items are barcoded and entered into an inventory software system Reynard developed himself. Some pieces come to cool for only a few weeks before being shipped out to their new owners. Some, like the 1727 Stradivarius violin stolen from the Manhattan penthouse of a famous conductor and still too hot to sell, have been here for decades.

  As with everything seen through the lens of familiarity, however, I barely notice the glittering bounty now. As Reynard once famously said, “If you’ve seen one gold-plated toilet, you’ve seen them all.”

  I shrug out of my wet coat, shake the raindrops off, and drape it over the back of a velvet divan. Reynard turns on an electric kettle. The front part of the warehouse is set up as Reynard’s office. Heavy brocade drapes in bloodred cover the walls. French crystal lamps spill light in fractured prisms onto a Louis XVI desk inlaid with gold. The bare stone floor is covered by a thick Turkish rug.

  It has the air of an upscale French bordello.

  Reynard turns to look at me. “You’re not carrying anything.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  His gaze sweeps me up and down, gets snagged on my throat. He gasps. “Naughty!”

  This time, my grin is sincere. “I couldn’t resist. Took it out of Khalid’s suite the same way.” From around my neck, I slowly unwind the heavy cashmere scarf I’m using to hide the ruby necklace.