She’d chosen Jane because so many women named Jane had been married to kings. To her, names like Jane and Mary and Anne sounded aristocratic. The surname Campbell had been a no-brainer. She’d once read it had been the last name of a famous Scottish war-leader named Mac Cathmhaoil, and over time it had changed. She was a fighter, so she’d decided she was a Campbell.
Having lived in foster care her entire life, she knew how to survive by her wits. Knowing her new keepers would be alert during the night, she’d taken what she’d needed the following day. She had learned that most people kept their cash in one of three places: stuffed into a shoe, in a cardboard carton in the freezer, or in a tin inside a kitchen cupboard. She had sat quietly at the breakfast table, stood demurely waiting for the bus that would take her to school, but jumped out at the first stop, running down alleyways to return to the house.
While the woman in charge was busy keeping her eye on the horde of playful young children in the backyard, Jane had snuck inside. She’d started her search on the top shelf of the main cupboard next to the refrigerator, and had immediately struck gold. An old tea caddy had stuck out like Rudolph’s red nose. Prying open the lid, she’d found a major stash and pulled out only half, hoping the woman would assume there was less there than she’d thought. Jane had also rubbed the container to wipe away her prints, and the front of the cabinet where she’d opened it. Television had been an excellent first teacher.
Hurrying up the stairs, she’d stuffed her small bag with her few belongings, then risked moving into the woman’s bedroom to grab some essentials. A warm jacket and cardigan, a thick wool scarf and some socks, and at the last minute she had stuffed her ragtag bag into a much nicer, solid, small suitcase on wheels. It had enabled her to add a blanket, an unopened bar of soap, a large tube of toothpaste, a bottle of shampoo, a towel, and a thick woolen jumper. As she’d started to leave she’d felt a wave of fear, but pushing it aside, she’d crept carefully down to the front door, then headed off to the upmarket suburb in which she longed to live, Chelsea. Her new life had begun.
She already knew that people were gullible. Most of the time they believed what they were told, and she discovered that if she looked the part—even more important, if she sounded the part—she could talk her way in and out of just about anything. Makeup specialists at Harrods and other stores were happy to offer Lady Jane Campbell free samples of everything, and were thrilled if she asked them for a special makeover because she had a charity event to attend.
Dressed appropriately in designer clothes she’d either picked up cheaply from thrift shops or stolen from specialty secondhand stores, she would walk into a fine restaurant carrying shopping bags filled with boxes from upmarket retailers. They were empty of course, but the image spoke of money and a leisurely lifestyle. She’d eat half the meal, then complain loudly about the food tasting tainted. Not only would the restaurant accept no payment, but she would often be invited to return for a complimentary dinner at a later date. Obtaining a false ID was as easy as picking up a magazine from a newsstand, and at night she’d frequent bars. Men would buy her drinks and nibbles, then she’d deliberately start an argument and storm off, but she thought her greatest accomplishment was how she always managed to put a roof over her head, and usually a very nice roof at that.
She’d discovered, quite by accident, that many homeowners would disappear for days, sometimes weeks. She was amazed at how easily she could slip into a house during the bustle of the family’s departure. She’d find a place to hide, then wait for them to leave. In the early days she’d had some panic-filled moments, but she was educating herself, and was an excellent pupil. She never made the same mistake twice.
Neighbors, though, could be nosy.
She’d learned how to deal with them when she’d moved into a home and discovered a calendar clearly outlining the dates and places to which the family were traveling. They’d been gone for over a month. She’d decided to face the neighbor problem head-on, and summoning up her courage, she’d knocked on the door of the house next door. It was opened by a grey-haired matronly woman who had initially eyed her with suspicion, then Jane had seen the woman take in the expensive cream silk blouse and dark green gabardine trousers she was wearing. The woman’s worried frown became neutral curiosity.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I promised Doris to introduce myself so you wouldn’t be worried when you saw the lights on,” Jane had said, her voice filled with warm sincerity.
“How thoughtful,” the woman replied, “but then, Doris always is a very considerate person. I’m surprised she didn’t mention you’d be there.”
“It was last minute. She and Harry decided they didn’t want to leave the house empty after all. They literally called me on the way to the airport. I just happened to be available.”
“How fortunate,” the woman said. “Won’t you come in for some tea?”
Jane graciously accepted. People’s stupidity never failed to amaze her.
She’d been on her own for almost a year when she’d met Bernie.
It was a day like any other. She was seeking out a new place to stay. Knowing she might be stuck in a hotel for a while, she’d wanted some extra cash and had stopped into a busy coffee shop to execute a well-practiced routine. She’d given the harried cashier a fifty-pound note, asking her to break it into smaller bills. After several confusing, swift exchanges, Jane had walked away with double her money. Moving briskly down the street, she had disappeared into an office building where she’d stepped into an elevator. Even if the cashier in the coffee shop figured out what had happened, by the time she ran out to look for her, Jane would have disappeared. Exiting the lift on the fourth floor, she’d planned to take the stairs down to the garage parking area, but she hadn’t paid any attention to the man who had entered the elevator with her. When she stepped out, he followed her, and as she walked toward the stairwell, he spoke, and his words sent a chill down her spine.
“You did that well, but you should always buy something.”
Spinning around, Jane had found herself staring at an impeccably dressed, very attractive, dark-haired, middle-aged man. He was smiling broadly, and mischief was shining from his twinkling blue eyes.
“Bernard Taylor-Jones,” he’d said with a broad smile, his accent upper-class. “Delighted to make your acquaintance. You’re very talented, and don’t look so worried. We’re on the same side, and I think you’ve been alone in the world long enough, don’t you?”
“How do you know I’m alone in the world?” she’d asked defensively, immediately wary of the supposedly kind stranger.
“The same way you know the things you do. You watch someone, you instantly know things about them, you talk to them for a minute, you know more. As I said, we’re on the same side. Come with me and I’ll show you a smarter way to pull the money exchange.”
She had hesitated, but when he’d turned and started back to the elevator, she’d found herself walking behind him. She spent the following week meeting for meals and having long conversations, and when her accommodation came to an end, she’d moved into his cottage in Hampstead, supposedly for just a few days.
In the years that followed, Bernie and Jane became like father and daughter. He taught her all he knew, but not just about long and short cons. For the first time in her life, she came to understand what it meant to trust someone, to lean on them, and to belong, but whenever she’d ask Bernie why he’d unofficially adopted her, he’d respond with something vague. A little over five years after they’d met, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Jane felt as if her world had come to an end, and late one night, sitting in front of the fire in the living room, he finally answered the question.
“Somewhere in this world I have a daughter,” he’d said gravely, “and I have no idea where she is, or if she’s safe and happy. Taking care of you, it’s helped me, Jane. I’ve been able to believe that someone’s taking care of her too.”
“Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m
her,” she’d said earnestly. “Let’s get our DNA tested.”
“I have a better idea,” he’d replied. “Let’s just believe it.”
So they had, and though Bernie had lived his life outside the law, he’d made sure everything was copacetic when it came to leaving his home and belongings to Jane. When he’d passed away she inherited not just his house, but all the extraordinary treasures on display within its walls, and a safe deposit box, in which was a tidy sum of cash and some stunning jewelry. He’d told her not to sell any of the precious gems for at least ten years, but it didn’t matter. Jane was set for life. She didn’t have to steal, or con, or do anything illegal ever again, but she continued, though she did so carefully and methodically, picking her marks and taking her time as she worked the scam. She loved the thrill of it, the adrenalin rush was indescribable, and she liked being smarter than everyone else. Especially those like Amanda Duncan, Susan Braithwaite, and Sylvia Parker, young women who had everything and took it all for granted. Lifting Henry’s wallet had been something she’d done partly for fun, and partly because she needed to keep her skills sharp. He had shocked her. It was the first time she’d ever been caught, and she still couldn’t believe it. Even more bothersome, Henry was haunting her. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, and he remained in her head as she entered the cemetery and walked across to Bernie’s grave.
Unfolding out the rug she would always bring with her, she sat down, removed the dead flowers, putting them in a plastic bag to carry away, and laid the fresh ones in their place. It had been almost two years since his death, and she still found it hard not to cry. Running her hand over the smooth glossy granite, she turned around, leaned back against it, and closed her eyes. It was a ritual, and it was how she talked to him.
“Hi, Bernie. I’m close to the payoff day, but that horrible Sylvia Parker was determined to go to Candles last night, and my radar said I shouldn’t argue, so I didn’t, but that guy, the one I told you about, Henry Gibson, he was there. I knew he would be. The funny thing is, I kind of like him. Do you think I like him because he’s clever? You always said that one day I’d meet a man who was just as clever as me, and I think maybe I have. Anyway, he blackmailed me into having dinner with him tomorrow night. I don’t mind. He’s always alone and I kind of feel sorry for him. Wait, no, I don’t feel sorry for him. It’s something else, I’m just not sure what that something else is. I don’t know why I agreed to meet him. I don’t have to show up. He has no way of finding me, but I will, I know I will. This is all very strange. Tell me what’s going on, Bernie. I need to know.”
Talking to Bernie soothed her soul and cleared her head. She never missed a Saturday morning, even in the foulest of weather, and she was convinced he could hear her. Sometimes, leaning against the headstone, she’d even find herself drifting into a doze. She’d see him in her mind’s eye telling her one of his many stories, how he thrown the police a curve ball that totally thwarted an investigation, or saved a long con from turning pear-shaped at the last minute, and though he didn’t need to, he’d remind her to pass along what he’d done for her.
She let herself melt against the gravestone, willing him to appear, and as his image formed, she felt the familiar comfort of his presence. He was smiling his fatherly smile, the one he wore when he was about to offer his worldly-wise advice. They were back in the house, it was raining, the fire was burning, they were drinking hot chocolate, and she sighed heavily as she sank into the vision
“I know trust is hard for you,” he said solemnly, “but you’re going to meet a special man one day, and that’s what you’ll have to do. Trust him. It will be scary, and you won’t be able to control what happens the way you control a mark. You’ll have to take a leap of faith. You’ll have to jump in.”
His face seemed to ripple away, and Henry appeared.
Her eyes shot open, and she felt her cheeks wet from tears.
“What the hell,” she mumbled, “what was that?”
Chapter Four
It was early Sunday evening, and as Henry finished dressing to meet Jane, thoughts that had plagued him over the weekend continued to stir. Why had he coerced her into having dinner with him? She was certainly attractive, and over the weeks since he’d spanked her, whenever he recalled the salacious incident he’d felt a delicious stirring in his loins, but those things alone would not normally be enough to motivate him to take the time and trouble to pursue a date, let alone blackmail his way into one.
Henry was perfectly happy spending time in his own company. He was a voracious reader, there was always some new theorem to devour or a brain-tingling puzzle to solve, and his library was continually expanding, so his actions could not be explained by a bout of boredom. Nor could they have come from loneliness. Henry never felt lonely. When his craving to dominate a woman became overwhelming, he’d tell his associates he needed to take a break, pack his suitcase, and head off to a luxury BDSM retreat in the south of France that claimed to offer the finest dungeons in Europe. Though Henry had visited only a few others, he believed the assertion. The chateau was stunning, and as he pulled on his olive green herringbone jacket, the unexpected thought of having Jane in one of its fully equipped and dimly lit rooms sent a rush of energy to his cock.
“Heavens, man, what’s wrong with you?” he muttered as he sharply jerked the cuffs of his jacket to straighten out the sleeves. “This isn’t like you, it’s not like you at all.”
It was true he was attracted to women with superior grey cells, but they were usually wearing white lab coats, not torn designer jeans, or were making serious money doing serious research, not scamming the unsuspecting public. Jane? She was not his type, so why was he doing this?
He stood for a moment thinking about it, and finding no answer he sighed heavily, picked up his wallet, double-checked the contents, then slipped it into his inside breast pocket and headed out. He’d chosen Sunday night, not because he’d had plans on Saturday, but because logic suggested she would, and when she’d agreed so readily he’d assumed his reasoning had been correct. Feeling a bit odd, but certainly titillated by the turn of events, he left his house and strode off down the block to the nearby taxi stand. As he climbed inside and gave the driver the address, he attempted to determine the odds of her actually showing up. Though he pondered the question for the entire ride, when the taxi pulled up outside Candles, he had no answer, but he was intrigued. Would she show, and if she did, how would the evening turn out?
* * *
Sitting at a table waiting for him, Jane was sipping a glass of very expensive cabernet. She was determined to make him pay through the nose for pushing her into the date. She’d arrived early so she could have a drink and relax before he arrived, though she was still wondering why she was there.
“This is just bizarre,” she mumbled. “I’m actually meeting a guy who embarrassed me more than anyone ever has in my life!”
Shifting in her chair, trying to decide what to do, she studied the people around her, and found herself playing her favorite game, or rather, her and Bernie’s favorite game. They called it Make the Mark. They would take turns at selecting a couple, then write down answers to a list of premade questions such as, for how long had the couple been dating, did they have a hot sex life, which of them ruled the relationship? The time allotted was two minutes, then they’d compare notes. It was surprising how often their conclusions matched, but regardless, they would always end up laughing hysterically. Jane sighed. Playing the game by herself was entertaining, but it wasn’t the same without him.
“I miss you every single day,” she mumbled, fighting the heat in her throat. “I wish you were here right now. I wish you could tell me what to do about this Henry person. What do you think he wants? What possessed me to show up? I know what you’d say, let it play out, but it’s strange. I mean, I tried to steal his wallet, and he wants to have dinner?”
Moments later she saw him walk in. He looked almost handsome in his dark green jacket, grey shir
t, and charcoal grey trousers, and he was wearing a trendy scarf. It surprised her. He hadn’t struck her as a trendy scarf sort of chap. As he approached the table he smiled, glanced at the wine, and then nodded approvingly.
“Good idea,” he remarked. “You were able to relax a bit before I got here, and I’m betting that’s an expensive cab.”
“Yes,” she said raising her eyebrows and looking at him purposefully, “it is, and as you can see I ordered a glass for you as well. If you don’t like it, I’ll be happy to make it my second. I know you usually drink martinis.”
“I’m a wine person too,” he replied, “and I only drink those that are very good, so what you have done meets with my approval.”
“I wasn’t doing it for your approval,” she quipped.
“I’m sure you weren’t, but let’s not get off on a defensive note,” he said, smiling at her as he sat down. “I’m glad you joined me. Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
“I said I would be, and I’m a woman of my word.”
“You are? Sorry, but there’s something a bit odd about that statement. A hustler who keeps her word?”
“Outside of work I’m a very honest person,” she declared.
“Then answer me this,” he said softly, leaning across the table. “Do you want to be here? I mean, do you really want to be here?”
He was looking at her intently, and she shifted in her seat, wondering why she found him so unnerving.
“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”
“But you just told me you keep your word, and that’s why you showed up. I know I twisted your arm to have dinner, but I don’t want you to stay unless you truly want to. That won’t be fun for either of us.”
His eyes were twinkling at her, and he was reminding of Bernie, and how his eyes had twinkled at her when she’d first met him. Henry was putting her on the spot, just as Bernie had done all those years before.
Reforming Jane Page 3