Sam rubbed at her chest under the quilt, her heart aching. She wondered if it hurt so bad because she was holding onto the past with a vengeance, and if Wes was right—she couldn’t move forward without unveiling the secrets hidden behind the truth.
Was she angry with him for leaving her then, or because he’d been right to do so?
In her heart of hearts, Sam knew what he had said seared right through her because there was a truth to it. She’d gotten over Wes by believing that he’d been in the wrong, when the sobering reality was they probably wouldn’t have made it. And because she loved him and didn’t want to let him go, she would have drawn their relationship out to its most painful conclusion, trying to make a future where there was none. Their destinations were mapped before her family’s funeral, and she and Wes weren’t even remotely on the same trajectory. Maybe they never were, but she’d been naïve enough and too full of hope to see it.
Sam thought about Alejandro’s confession, his admission that he’d been spying on her for Jack. God, it was just like him to do such a thing, relentless, infuriating man that he was. But for the first time since they’d split up once and for all, Sam allowed herself to think about him—really consider the man who’d taken up residence in her heart in such a startlingly short period of time. A man who’d fought for her in his own way. A man who continued to try to protect her, despite being so out of his element when faced with her world.
Sam could rattle off the dozen things Jack had done to piss her off since walking into her life, but the truth she allowed herself to admit in the calm quiet of the night was that she missed him. She missed the way his eyes lit up when he looked at her, the possessive way he touched her, the ferocity with which he loved her. Sam hadn’t permitted herself the luxury of thinking about him since she’d walked out on him in Chicago.
Because you never thought he’d stand beside you, so you cut him loose, her mind whispered… and he’s proven you wrong.
For all of Jack’s flaws, for all his mistakes—he’d consistently surprised her. She’d expected him to run screaming in the opposite direction, and instead he held on, consoling himself with meager updates from Alejandro, even as he dismantled Lightner’s lifework and offered a bounty on his head that had turned even the underworld against him. Sam also recognized she needed Jack’s help if she was going to get anywhere with finding out the truth about her father. If her dad had been working with the CIA, Sandro would be the quickest and easiest way to get to the heart of the matter, and Sandro would only help her if it was on Jack’s behalf.
Sam pressed her fingers to her forehead, closing her eyes. She and Jack had so much unfinished business, it was breathtaking. The confrontation was inevitable, brewing on the horizon like a thunderstorm. Seeing him again would be overwhelming. There were so many feelings she had to sort through when it came to him—she almost didn’t know where to begin.
The porch door swung open, and Sam turned to see her Aunt Hannah shuffle out into the early dawn light in her house coat and slippers. She carried two steaming mugs in her hands.
“You look like you’ve been chewed up, spit out, and stepped on, missy,” Hannah told her as she handed her a coffee.
“And I did it to myself too,” Sam admitted, chagrined. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“Thought you might need it.” Her aunt looked at her knowingly. “You been out here all night worryin’, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” Sam admitted, as Hannah sat down beside her.
“I used to find your daddy out here, just like this, except he had an empty bottle of whisky in his hand.”
Sam slanted her a look. “I’m not my father.”
“No, you aren’t,” Hannah agreed. “But you’re so trapped in the past, you can’t see the present standing right in front of you.”
“What are you saying?” Sam asked, frowning.
“Honey, you’ve been stewing in your own juices since you got back,” Hannah told her bluntly, though she softened the statement by squeezing Sam’s hand, her blue eyes gentle. “Now you were hurt and you deserved a little time to lick your wounds in peace, but sitting up all night, fretting and overthinking ain’t gonna do you a bit of good. It’s time to take the bull by the horns, Sammy girl. Whatever’s bothering you—you need to deal with it head on.”
Sam frowned at her. “I’m too angry. I need to calm down first.”
“Bullshit,” her aunt replied succinctly.
“Aunt Hannah!” Sam exclaimed. “I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve ever heard you cuss!”
“Well, this is one of the times that warrants it,” Hannah replied tartly. “You’re always looking for those perfect moments, Sammy, getting all your pieces in a row to take on the board, trying to control all the outcomes—but you’re wasting valuable time stuck inside your head when you could be doing instead of thinking.”
An excuse came up but never left her mouth. Her aunt was right. Sam could stay inside her head, strategizing, or she could act, and put to rest once and for all the questions she had.
“Can I at least finish my coffee first?” Sam finally answered.
Hannah smiled. “ ’Course you can; just don’t dawdle about it.” Her aunt leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I love you, Sammy girl,” she said, patting her cheek.
Sam caught her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “I love you too, Aunt Hannah.”
Her aunt caressed her cheek before standing. “I’ve got a hundred cowboys to feed. I better hop to it.”
When her aunt disappeared into the house, Sam pulled out her phone. She dialed before she could second guess herself, heedless of the early hour.
*
April—Early Morning
Chicago, Illinois
J A C K
Jack watched the sun rise over Lake Michigan, the dark, turbulent waters stretching out as far as the eye could see. He jogged along the water’s edge, breathing in the crisp spring air like a balm before he picked up the pace, sprinting fast toward Navy Pier, the still and silent Ferris wheel a shining white beacon in the distance. Jack was so focused on his goal, he nearly missed the vibration of the mobile phone in his shorts’ pocket. Getting a phone call at dawn was rarely a good thing, so he slowed to a halt.
His heart stopped, then jolted to a frenzied beat when he saw Samantha’s face on his phone’s screen.
“Tesoro—is everything okay?” he asked immediately, getting straight down to brass tacks.
“I just discovered you’ve been spying on me for months, Jack. So define what you mean by ‘okay,’” Samantha responded, her whisky-singed rasp raising the goosebumps on his arms.
“Tesoro,” Jack closed his eyes, relieved to hear her voice after so many months. “Before you tear my head off, understand that I only wanted to know that you were okay. I didn’t want to pressure you into speaking to me until you were ready—”
“Oh, I’m ready to speak alright,” she replied. “I have about ten different names I want to call you first—”
“Call me those names in person,” he suggested, gripping the phone like she might slip away any second.
“I intend to.”
“Are you here? Can I see you?” Jack asked, swinging around to look at The Whitney’s beaux-arts architecture in the distance, their penthouse visible over the trees of Grant Park.
“I’m not there, Jack.”
“Are you in Texas? I’ll fly down,” Jack offered, his heart beating hard and fast at the prospect of seeing her again.
“You haven’t exactly been invited, Jack.”
“So invite me, tesoro. Senza di te la vita è un inferno.”21
She sighed. “I’m too tired to even begin to translate that.”
“Let me see you and you won’t have to.”
“How long did you have that file on me, Jack?” Samantha asked instead, her voice tinged with a hurt she tried and failed to hide. “How long were you holding it over my head?”
He closed
his eyes, pushing a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t holding it over your head, tesoro.”
“Weren’t you?” She waited a beat. “How many things have you been lying to me about, Jack?” This was it. The moment he’d been waiting to confess.
“My father gave me the file over Thanksgiving, but I didn’t read it until Jaime was shot in Rio.”
“So when we were together, you didn’t trust me, but when we were finished, you decided to come clean?”
Jack sighed. “I didn’t want anything else between us. I know I made a mistake. I should never have accepted the file from my father—much less read it.”
She said nothing.
“Samantha—” I miss you. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
Silence stretched between them like miles.
“Don’t hang up,” he murmured. “I fucked up. I lied; I know that—I just want to make it right, tesoro. Tell me how to make it right.”
“You asked me if I’m okay,” she said after a moment.
“Are you?”
Jack heard a little hitch in her breath, like she was deciding whether to answer or not.
“Not even a little,” Samantha admitted quietly. “But I’m hoping you can help me with that.”
Jack’s heart expanded around the constriction of his own misgivings. Samantha so rarely discussed her feelings, much less her vulnerabilities. “Anything, tesoro. Anything I can do—just ask me and I’ll do it.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” She paused. “Can you come to Texas?”
“Of course,” he answered, his heart feeling like it would burst with relief and happiness at the prospect of seeing her again. “Got any plans for lunch?”
Sam laughed in spite of herself. “You’re awfully eager to see a woman who fully intends to chew you out, Jack.”
“You can tear strips off my hide for all I care,” he replied. “Just do it while I’m holding you.”
Chapter 13
April—Evening
Israel Museum, Givat Ram, Jerusalem
R O X A N N E
Nestled under a beautifully-lit dome reflecting like the moon over the pool of water surrounding it, the Israel Museum was a spectacular backdrop for the evening’s soiree honoring the recent restoration of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Rox moved smoothly through a cadre of Israeli politicians, military leaders, businessmen, private collectors, and international power brokers. She recognized many for their nefarious dealings in the underworld. Like a who’s who of well-dressed criminals and movers and shakers, circulating and drinking vintage dry champagne as they chatted and milled amongst ancient religious artifacts that glowed eerily under the spotlights.
The event was being held in a building appropriately named the Shrine of the Book, a striking juxtaposition of architectural styles—a pristine white dome that looked as if it was floating over jet black basalt walls, structured in precise and opposing geometrical shapes. White-coated valets served hors d’oeuvres on sterling silver platters as live orchestral music filled the air like a subtle perfume.
Rox cut a swath through the glittering crowd, drawing eyes and murmurs of admiration and curiosity. She wore a striking organza top with long layers separated to reveal black, silk cigarette pants and Christian Louboutin heels that could have easily doubled as weapons. She had painstakingly darkened her skin tone to pass for someone more Mediterranean this evening, donning a straight raven wig that Cleopatra herself would have envied, her dark eyes shaded mysteriously with kohl, her lips nude. It was a clever trick of the eye and manipulation of perception that she preferred over trying to blend in. Standing out in a striking outfit with incredible hair and a darker skin tone created an overall effect that distracted away from her actual features. If pressed, no one would be able to recall details accurately. They’d just recall the way she seemed to float past, the cool, desultory way she’d held herself.
Tonight, she was on one mission: to find out whether Lucien Lightner was on the market for weapons, and if he was—who might be foolish enough to sell them to him. Avi was certain the culprit was a man named Uzi Dichter, a political mover and shaker who was also a high-ranking member of Taas, Israel’s premier manufacturer of high-tech weapons, from advanced guided missiles to heavy tank and artillery weapons. Basically, one of the elite lords of modern-day warfare. Rox did a pass-through of the party, careful not to let her eyes linger on any one person too long as she sipped the crisp champagne, pretending to admire the scrolls she was truly too distracted from to really consider.
“How’s the hobnobbing with the Jewish elite, neshama?” Avi asked through the earpiece she had hidden under her hair.
“Ironic,” she murmured, hiding her words with a sip from her glass.
“How is that?”
“There are more heavy-arms manufacturers, drug traffickers, and money launderers hanging out here than at a whorehouse,” she remarked sotto voce. “Do they think being seen supporting the restoration of biblical manuscripts will improve their chances to get into heaven or what?”
“Spoken like a true gentile,” Avi replied with a laugh. “Israel is a holy land full of contradictions.”
“I know I shot my chances to get into God’s good graces a long time ago,” Rox answered, spotting the urbane Uzi Dichter leaning against the bar as he ordered a drink and chatted with a man a good foot shorter than he. “I see our mark now,” she told Avi in a low voice.
“I almost feel sorry for that stupid bastard.”
“Do you really?” she asked, finishing her champagne before she set the glass down.
“The way you look tonight? Almost, neshama—almost,” Avi purred into her ear.
Rox circled past her mark like a whisper, as languorous and ungraspable as a plume of smoke, leaving the alluring scent of Lily of the Valley in her wake. She watched Uzi Dichter in the reflection of the glass case, holding one of the priceless papyrus scrolls as he turned to look at her, his gaze curious at first, then predatory. He excused himself from the man to whom he was speaking, approaching her from behind. She smiled indolently, pleased that he’d fallen so easily for the bait. She’d read Dichter’s file carefully, seen images of his first wife, who was lost to a tragic illness—a woman he’d clearly adored. Rox made sure to resemble her tonight. That was the thing about pulling off a con; so many incorrectly assumed that it was about having confidence during improvisation. In truth, if a con artist was good—really good—they rarely left much to chance. The first rule of a good con was to target a weakness or a desire, preferably both. And what was more seductive than resonating with a memory of great intensity, a redux version of a paradise unrealized?
As Roxanne watched Dichter, she pretended to study the scroll. Second rule of the game: Always make the mark come to you. Gathering valuable information required getting under someone’s skin, but to do that effectively, that person had to be willing to be charmed and seduced in the first place.
“It is said that the Dead Sea Scrolls contain an ancient treasure map of gold and silver caches hidden throughout Israel,” Uzi Dichter said from behind her, his voice deep and lilting.
“Have the treasures been found?” she asked, glancing up at him, pretending to be caught unawares by his approach.
“Spirited away or lost to the annals of time, I’m afraid,” he murmured, his eyes moving over her appreciatively.
“What a pity,” Rox replied, her eyes sparkling with interest and excitement. “I do so love a good mystery with a happy ending.”
“So you’re an optimist,” Dichter replied, grasping a champagne glass from a passing waiter and offering it to her.
“More of an opportunist.” Rox accepted the glass with a smile. “Are you a collector?”
“More an admirer of beautiful things.”
She took a small sip of the bubbly. “Come teach me, then,” she said, slipping her arm through the crook of his elbow. “About beautiful things.”
Dichter took the bait, winding her around
the room past exhibit after exhibit, his knowledge of the pieces expansive, his descriptions of the artifacts noise intelligently delivered. Rox made the appropriate utterances, her touches frequent and deliberate, her gaze direct and meaningful. She monopolized his time with focused and individualized attention, making him feel that he was fascinating to her, his confidence rising the more she charmed him. Eventually, Rox lured him outside near the gardens as the museum’s curator called for everyone’s attention, getting ready to deliver the evening’s address.
“I’m afraid we’re venturing outside my area of expertise,” Dichter told her teasingly as they stood in the sultry breeze just inside the building’s courtyard overlooking the gardens. “I can’t entertain you with stories about the landscape, my dear.”
“Good thing I’m not interested in that,” Rox said with a small smile. She slid her hands up his arms slowly, her movements fluid and unhurried.
“I don’t even know your name,” Dichter told her, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and beguiled.
She pressed her body closer, brushing her thighs against his as she drew in the spicy richness of his cologne. It was a shame she’d have to hurt him. He was attractive in a way, with warm eyes and an indolent smile, though his true nature lay unexpressed just beneath his skin.
“Does it matter?” she whispered, breath silky against his ear. “I’m bad for you either way, aren’t I?”
His hands moved around her waist and locked her closer, making her feel the hardness of his body. “I can tell the exact determination of how bad you are but how good you feel,” he responded, and Rox looped her arms around his neck, checking the time on her slim diamond wristwatch over his shoulder so she could see the time.
Bingo. Ten o’clock on the dot.
Dichter’s phone vibrated in his pocket, distracting him.
“You’d better answer that,” she suggested languidly, moving away so he could reach into his pocket.
“It’s nothing—” he paused, noting the number coming from his home. A brief look of concern crossed his features before he turned away.
Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 21