King of Thieves

by Shea Godfrey

  “Blues.” Casey smiled as she finished Finn’s sentence. “And if I were to tell you that I’m waiting for my husband?”

  Finn reflected on the question. “I’d say…”

  Casey waited patiently and enjoyed the careful expression on Finn’s face. “Yes?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. You’re wonderfully gay. I could feel it from across the room.”

  “And you’re never wrong?”

  Finn smiled. “Frequently, I’m sorry to say, but not about this.”

  Casey sipped her wine and was distracted by its taste yet again. She glanced at the bottle but the label was turned away from her. The glass was old, and it sent part of her brain down a different path in search of a vintage.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  Finn heard the waiter well enough, but she did not look away from Casey. “We’ll start with the Trumpet Mushrooms, and then we’ll pick from the Spice Route menu, please.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Both Finn and Casey smiled, and Casey looked down to keep from laughing. It fit, actually, but from the startled amusement in Finn’s eyes, it had been unexpected.

  “Perhaps I should venture a guess?”

  “Perhaps you should.” Casey’s gaze came back up, rebellious.

  “I’d say Veronica, but that would be too obvious.”

  “Perhaps for some, but not as many as you might think.”

  “And it looks so beautiful.” Finn’s eyes were bright. “I mean, the way you have it.”

  Casey was surprised by the subtle change in Finn’s tone. Her confidence had slipped thoughtfully into something else entirely, and it was delightful.

  “And besides”—Finn took a breath, and Casey could see her shift gears again—“hers was a sad fate that I don’t see in your future.”

  “Perhaps you should just give me a name.”

  “Rachel?”

  Casey frowned.

  “You’re right. I knew a Rachel once. It was unpleasant.”

  “First girlfriend?”

  “No, that was Paula,” Finn corrected her.

  “What happened to Paula?”

  “Too much of a top for my tastes.”

  “Ah, yes, the old conflict-of-interest conundrum.”

  “I like what I like, and besides, it all worked out in the end.”

  “Really?” Casey asked. “Don’t keep me in suspense, please. What happened to Paula?”

  Finn said nothing, but her eyes were alive with enjoyment.

  “Top secret?”

  “Highly classified. However, I can tell you it involved balls flying at her face.”

  Casey stuttered in the midst of taking another drink, swallowing awkwardly as she choked back a surprised laugh.

  “Sorry…she worked the pro tennis circuit.”

  Casey cleared her throat and took up her napkin. “Of course.”

  “Football was always more my sport.”

  “American?”

  Finn’s eyes flashed happily. “Yes.”

  “What position?”

  “Tight end.”

  Casey resisted the urge to lean forward, the unexpected desire to be closer welling up and sending a pleasant wave of heat through her chest.

  “Tailback?” Finn offered instead.

  “No, I’d say tight end is more than fitting.”

  “Juliette.”

  “Juliette?”

  “Your name,” Finn said through her grin. “Tell me your name.”

  “Is that what you want, Daddy?”

  Finn let out a faint sound and reached for her glass.

  Casey chuckled and watched her take a drink, enjoying the telltale blush of color along her neck. She knew somehow Finn was aware of the blush, and she disliked the reality of what it revealed so quickly. Casey leaned forward and reached for the bottle, in search of its label.

  Finn caught her by the wrist before she could get there, gentle for the most part, but firm enough to establish control. Their eyes met and Finn changed her grip, letting the tips of her fingers find the underside of Casey’s wrist. Casey could feel her pulse beat hard beneath the touch.

  “Don’t be naughty.”

  Casey pulled her hand away slowly, her fingers sliding along Finn’s until they parted.

  “It’s not such a high price to pay,” Finn challenged her.

  “It might be dangerous for you.”

  “Your name?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I was thinking the other might be more dangerous.” Finn’s tone was playful.

  “The other?”

  “What if you do have a husband? Here I am making my play, and the next thing I know, someone is punching me in the throat.”

  Casey laughed. “That doesn’t seem like such a high price to pay.”

  Finn sat back again and graced her with a highly critical look. “Have you ever been punched in the throat?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “It hurts.”

  “Well, you know what they say, the trick is not minding that it does.”

  “So you’re saying that you’re worth it?”

  “Am I?”

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t think so.”

  “You look as if you can take care of yourself.”

  “It’s the boots, right? Too butch?”

  “Butch, yes, but they work.”

  Finn leaned to the left a bit and considered her feet. “I just polished them, actually. When I was finished, it felt like a betrayal.” She glanced across the table. “All those years to break them in properly and cultivate some character, and then I go and ruin it.”

  Finn, Casey thought, and a start of recognition followed upon the heels of the name. Finn Starkweather. “Who punched you in the throat?”

  “Rachel’s husband.”

  Casey felt a pleasing ache within her cheeks, uncertain of the last time she had smiled so much. “Was he big?”

  Finn’s brow went up. “How big do you have to be?”

  “A big, bad daddy such as yourself? I’d say pretty big.”

  Finn said nothing, but neither did she look away. The sounds of the restaurant filled the atmosphere around them, though it did very little to invade upon their quiet connection. Several conversations could be heard—one that concerned local politics, and the other…Casey wasn’t quite certain, though someone was sure to be out of a job the next morning. The music was Mahler, playing low, but it was still loud enough to be heard should anyone care to listen.

  “He wasn’t that big,” Finn responded at last. “But he caught me by surprise.”

  “Didn’t know, or didn’t expect him?” Casey asked gently, and she thought that perhaps Finn told the truth. Her eyes were too open and she had no reason to lie, even if they were playing.

  “I didn’t know, actually.” Finn’s expression held regret, with a touch of embarrassment. “I was stepping out of the shower at the time.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Not one of my better moments,” Finn agreed.

  “Then my name won’t be Rachel,” Casey acquiesced.

  Finn’s eyes acknowledged the tenderness beneath her words. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Finn.”

  “Tell me your name,” Finn demanded with quiet authority.

  Casey was about to say it, the letters tumbling and sliding together upon her tongue and pressing eagerly toward her lips. Casey, she thought, willing them into life after sleeping for so very long. My name is Casey. She was about to speak, but another name intruded before she had the chance. Finnegan.

  “What?” Finn asked. “What is it?”

  “Finn…is that your full name?”

  “It’s short for Finnegan, actually.”

  Casey considered the name in silence, never looking away as the fingers of her right hand caressed the stem of her wineglass. Finnegan, bloody hell. You’re Finnegan Starkweather. Holy shit, I thought yo
u were a man.

  “I didn’t pick it.”

  “Don’t worry, I like it.”

  “I wish I could return the favor.”

  “Is this your usual scene, Finn?” she asked softly. “Because if it is, it’s very good. And you’re very good at the game.”

  Finn seemed to seriously consider the question and before she looked down, Casey was absolutely certain that she saw a rush of vulnerability move through her expression. Finn sat very still, and then the index finger of her right hand pushed at a small knot in the weave of the tablecloth. Casey’s heart beat faster as the energy Finn gave off began to change. Everything about her unexpected companion seemed to slow and take on a new weight, and it was as charming as it was surprising.

  When Finn lifted her face, Casey caught her breath as smoothly as she could at the intensity which greeted her. Whatever she was going to say, Casey was fairly certain it would be the truth. Or perhaps you’re just hoping for that much.

  “I was wondering what your perfume would smell like.” Finn’s voice was quiet and filled with an unexpected intimacy. “Would it be subtle and simple, something with a touch of musk? Or perhaps it would smell like the frangipani flower, full and too heavy with its own importance.” Finn’s smile was barely there, but it reached her eyes well enough. “And how different would it be, against the skin of your neck, when compared to the bottle?”

  Casey sat as still as she ever had, her fingers quiet upon her glass.

  “I thought about these things before I came over here…but now I’m here, and I can just barely smell your perfume, and it’s unlike any perfume I can recall. It’s moved things about in my head, and my curiosity has changed completely.”

  Casey watched as a slight blush colored the skin of Finn’s neck near the banded collar of her shirt. She could feel the heat within her own cheeks, and she couldn’t stop it.

  “I’m wondering other things instead.” Finn took a breath, and for just an instant, Casey thought she would explain further. “And so everything has to be fair if it can be.”

  Casey considered the statement and then asked for clarification in a soft, careful voice. “What does that mean?”

  “It means there’s no scene, there’s just you.”

  Finn’s face was guileless and her eyes showered Casey with a sincerity so natural it affected her entire body. Casey’s pulse thickened even further and moved south with surprising ease, the vibrant and unexpected emotion from across the table both mysterious and delicious as it wrapped around her. It was the truth, and she could see it, though it made no sense whatsoever.

  Finnegan Starkweather was former Interpol and a private investigator who had given up the game about five years ago, as far as Casey knew, at least. It was always a good idea to keep an eye on the other team, and though they had never actually crossed paths, in the end they were hunter and prey. She’d been a bounty hunter for a few years, Casey remembered that much, but she had dropped off the grid and Casey had stopped paying attention. Though I see I was remiss in that.

  Showing her hand like this and stepping into the open—it was completely illogical. And though her guard was now firmly in place and the game would change by morning, Casey could not deny that she wanted more. More of what exactly, she wasn’t sure, but more was definitely on the menu. More of you, Finn Starkweather.

  “And you’re wrong. I’m not very good at this at all.” Finn pulled the wine from its resting place within a tumble of ice and set it on the table between them.

  “I beg to differ,” Casey said, feeling an odd twinge of panic. Finn was throwing in her hand, and Casey had never been so disappointed or curious in all her life. Finally, a woman worthy of the game, she acknowledged. Don’t give in so easily, Finnegan.

  “I don’t lie very well.” Finn reached into her suit and pulled out a business card. She placed it beside the bottle, a simple white card with nothing but a phone number printed in dark blue ink. “Not about this.”

  “This?”

  “You.”

  Casey blinked in surprise at her answer, though she pushed it aside as quickly as she could. “You’re not staying for dinner?”

  Finn smiled. “No.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because what I really want isn’t on the menu,” Finn answered smoothly. “And the wine was for you, Cassandra Marinos.”

  Casey buried the shock of her real name being spoken aloud, and then she was torn between relief and protest as Finn stood and walked away. It took her a moment to recover her focus, but once she did, Casey reached out and turned the wine bottle.

  Her eyes went wide and her gaze shot up, landing hard on Finn’s back as she disappeared beneath the arch which led to the bar. Casey didn’t know whether to be more impressed by the vintage, a rare ’47 Cheval Blanc, or by the fact that Finn knew her real name.

  Casey stared at the wine label once more and tried to decide just how much danger she was actually in, and how much dancing might be required in order to get away clean with what she’d come for.

  * * *

  Casey rolled her eyes in exasperation as she walked to the table and pulled out the chair with her free hand. She was in her bare feet, and she had exchanged her dress for baggy, faded Levi’s and a soft white T-shirt. “Colin.”

  The voice on the other end became just a bit louder as the words came faster.

  “Colin?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone as Casey sat down and studied the screen of her laptop. “Just send me what you have, okay? I don’t need a Ken Burns documentary—I just need some facts.” The lock on the hotel door clicked and Casey leaned forward. The light had turned green and the handle turned downward. “I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Blackjack Vermillion pushed the door open with his hip and turned into the room, carrying a grocery bag in his left arm and a very large coffee in his right hand.

  Casey smiled as she set her phone down. “Did you bring treats?”

  “That would depend on your definition of the word treats.”

  “Did you bring information?”

  Blackjack walked into the hotel suite as the door closed behind him. He was dressed in his usual black jeans and button-down shirt, with his worn black leather jacket. His hair was long and combed back, resting against his shoulders. Over the past ten years it had begun to turn gray, and it was now a salt-and-pepper mixture that was just about picture perfect. His face was weathered and tan and he sported a scar on his chin that stood out as old and deep. He was a good-looking man, and Casey had been witness to his charm over the years. So had four different wives.

  “Probably nothing you don’t already know.”

  Casey reached out and he handed her the coffee.

  “It’s from the street cart.”

  Casey groaned. “For the love of God, Jack…you’re killing me.”

  “The love of God had nothing to do with brewing that baby up, I assure you,” Jack said with a smile. Casey took a tentative sip as he set the bag down and pulled out a six-pack and several sandwiches wrapped in paper. “She has a loft here in the city.”

  Casey was surprised. “Really?”

  “Yeah, and you’ve got more than one tail.”

  Casey sat back slowly.

  “And no, I didn’t get made.” Jack sat down and pulled a beer free. “I’ll pick him up again in the morning. It looks like he’s settled in for the evening. I gave Caleb a call, and he’ll pick up Starkweather in—”

  “No,” Casey said quickly, and she knew her tone was too forceful. She made a face. “No, Jack, I’ll take care of her.”

  Jack smiled as he twisted the top off his bottle and grabbed a sandwich. “She’s a tall drink of water.”

  Casey’s eyes narrowed just a tad.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Just…saying.”

  “You don’t think I can handle her?”

  Jack chuckled happily. “
I’m just curious as to how much actual handling you’d end up doing, that’s all. She looks like a bit of a badass, and I think she is.”

  “Really?” Casey knew that Finn looked the part, if only by the masculine energy she gave off, a distinction that often led to more than a few misperceptions. Jack knew his business, though, and he knew people even better.

  Jack stopped what he was doing and met her eyes across the table. “Now’s not really the time to be messing around, is it? I mean, the fact that she’s here, and she knows who you are, those things right there…I don’t know, it makes me think we should just quietly slip out of town and wait until next time. Let’s find out who the hell she really is.”

  “No. No, Jack. I want this over with. And I know who she is.”

  They stared at each other for several more seconds, and then Jack unwrapped his sandwich, unconvinced.

  “Her record is out there, at least most of it.” Casey defended her decision, even though she knew it had been a strange and foolish thing to say. She didn’t know Finnegan Starkweather at all. She wanted to, though, and she couldn’t deny it. She could still feel the heat of Finn’s grip against her wrist, and it felt good. The whole thing had felt good, and in that brief moment of contact, Casey had known she was in trouble. And that had felt good, as well. “She’s an independent player now.”

  “Sure, but who’s paying her at the moment?”

  “I don’t think she’s working for anyone, actually.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” He took a bite of his sandwich.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  Casey took a drink of her awful coffee and let it heat up her insides as she contemplated his statement. “I know.”

  “Let Caleb take care of her.”

  “No.” Casey denied him yet again. “I’d like to know what she wants.”

  Jack took another bite of sandwich, and then reached for his beer. “Why?”

  “Because she bought me that bottle of wine.”

  Jack followed her gaze. “And why the hell not?” He turned back to her. “Seems like standard operating procedure to me.”

  “It’s a ’47 Cheval Blanc, one of the rarest bottles of wine there is. It had to have cost her, I don’t know, fifteen grand, maybe twenty, depending on who she might know.”