Confidence Tricks

by Tamara Morgan

  “Just yes?”

  “Just yes.”

  “Okay, Poppy.” He got up and wrapped his arms around her, dropping a soft kiss on her hairline. It was undemanding and sweet and the move of someone who was also growing dangerously attached. “Are we done playing for now?”

  She nodded. We’re done playing for good.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Poppy took a step back, her hands up. “Why would I want to take her home with me? I can barely keep plants alive.”

  “This is your new best friend,” Asprey offered. He unclipped the leash and set the wriggling animal on the ground. “But it’s not a her. His name is Gunner.”

  The scrawny, tufted dog skittered across the cement floor of the hangar, its nails making a louder clacking than Tiffany’s endless work at her computer. It was some sort of hairy, ferocious Chihuahua mix, the only dog at the pound small enough to work for their purposes. One look at the tiny thing in its cage, teeth bared and leg poised to launch a urine attack on the first person who dared try to get in, and Asprey had known he was the right dog for Poppy.

  “I thought you said you were going to borrow one, not buy one.” Poppy tilted her chin up at him and scowled. “I’m not really a long-term commitment sort of a girl. People or pets.”

  “We can always take him back to the pound when we’re done.”Real subtle, Poppy. That woman had serious intimacy issues—and Asprey would know. It was an accusation leveled at his head more times than he cared to admit.

  Poppy’s mouth fell open, her lower lip a testament to her indignation. “You will not. You can’t let him out of puppy jail just to shove him back in when he’s done his job. That’s mean—we aren’t running a chain gang here.”

  As if to punctuate her statement, Poppy squatted to the dog’s level and extended a hand in greeting. Asprey couldn’t help but smile. After her reaction to the opossum, he’d been half hopeful that the sight of another undersized creature would send her catapulting into his arms. Only half hopeful, though. Those brief minutes when she’d wrapped herself around him, begging him to save her, were probably something of an anomaly.

  Still, it had been a nice change, being the kind of guy a woman could count on, to have someone believe him dependable and capable and all those other adjectives that had eluded him for years. Not to mention finding out firsthand that there was something in this world that broke down Poppy’s ninja façade and allowed a glimpse of her soft, mushy insides. Asprey had a feeling that experience didn’t happen very often.

  Though he was going to do his damnedest to get a repeat performance.

  “I hate dogs,” Graff muttered, interrupting the moment with a heavy tread and huge sneeze. He handed Poppy a paper bag of supplies with one hand, holding a tissue to his nose with the other. “Food, water bowl, leash and a ridiculously small toothbrush the lady at the store says is important for oral hygiene. You don’t have any cats, do you?”

  “No, why?” Poppy looked up from her spot on the floor, where Gunner made wary circles around her. “Are you allergic to those too?”

  “Yes, he is,” Asprey said. “But he doesn’t like to talk about it. He thinks the sniffles are beneath him.”

  “Apparently, that thing”—Graff let out another sneeze, loud and rumbling—“will attack anything of the feline nature.”

  “Got it. No cats for my new partner in crime.” Poppy got as far as getting her hand under the dog’s nose before giving up and getting to her feet. She took the garment bag Asprey held out. “What’s this?”

  “Your clothes. No offense, but you need to be an uptown professional woman. This should do the trick a whole lot better than…” He paused. How did one glibly describe a bright red halter sundress with yellow polka dots, once again paired with the cowboy boots that wouldn’t die? Charming? Strangely irresistible? Hot as all hell? “That.”

  Poppy ignored him as she peeked in the bag and appraised its contents with cool efficiency. “I’m going to need nylons and pearls too. Also a shoulder bag—big, leather, no knockoffs, please. And sunglasses. Preferably Gucci.”

  “What are we, a fucking department store? Make it work with what you have.” Graff blew his nose into the tissue and stormed off, casting one last, contemptible look at the dog before he went.

  “What crawled up his nasal cavity and died?” Poppy asked.

  “Graff hates anything warm and fuzzy. It’s in his nature. Also—between us? He’s nervous.” That was a huge understatement, but it was as close as Asprey was going to get to an explanation. Graff didn’t like giving up power over anything—especially things as big as the VanHuett job—and he had trust issues growing over the top of it like mold. “Graff likes to share his emotions by making other people feel small. It’s his way of showing he cares.”

  “How noble of him.” Poppy rolled her eyes. “But you can tell Graff to relax. I’ve got skills he’s never even heard of.”

  Asprey knew she was talking about the con, but still, his body reacted. She might be willing to pretend the other night in Aberdeen was a one-time lapse of judgment, and Asprey was willing to play along for now, but that didn’t mean the rest of him forgot. His dick had a long memory like that.

  “Now, me?” he added. “I show I care by placing complete confidence in my criminal partners.” He squatted and put a hand out, intending to give Gunner a pat. The dog bared two vampire-sized fangs and lunged. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear this dog graduated from the Poppy School of Social Interaction.”

  “Very funny.” Poppy leaned down and scratched behind the dog’s ear. Finally sensing her kindred spirit, Gunner promptly fell to the ground, legs up, his tongue slavishly lolling up at her. “Maybe he can smell your ego and takes it personally.”

  “Egos have a smell?”

  “Yep. Smells like Ed Hardy cologne most of the time. Yours has more of a Calvin Klein feel to it.”

  He laughed, happy to be falling into playful banter. Familiar, neutral territory was better than retreat. “I’d offer to keep Gunner myself, but our personalities are too similar. He thinks I’m the competition.”

  “Similar how?” She quirked a brow and watched as the dog began to circle the leg of a carved medieval chest—fake, of course—looking for a place to mark. “You both destroy fine art?”

  Asprey looked up, his gaze running the length of her leg. And while he appreciated the view, he didn’t stop until he reached her smile, which began to falter with the sudden shift in intimacy. “I’d say I’m more of a preservationist at heart. But we do both like you.”

  She busied herself with pulling the respectable baby blue tweed skirt set from the garment bag. It was upscale and untouchable and not at all what Asprey was coming to associate with Poppy.

  “I’m happy to keep the dog,” she said. “He might not be very big or very menacing, but he is pretty to look at.”

  Asprey couldn’t resist. “And he can probably save you from opossum attacks.”

  Her laugh escaped in a tumbled breath as she moved toward a screen in the corner of the hangar. It was a silk Chinese affair hand painted with giant red cranes—one of their first jobs, an easy one since it literally fell off a truck when a roadway obstruction they’d set up stopped it en route to the owner’s house.

  He could see flashes of Poppy’s skin as she stripped and did something quick and twisty with her hair. There was enough to whet the appetite as she wriggled and squirmed far more than seemed necessary, the shadowy outline of her ass as she bent almost enough to make him go crashing through the screen to feel it in his hands once more.

  “Your new mommy is a tease,” he mumbled to the dog.

  When she reappeared, Asprey almost started clapping. Gone was Natalie’s suggestive swagger; nowhere to be found was Poppy’s decisive, athletic step. Lucy Higgenbottom—Tiffany picked the name—with her vintage suit and sleek French twist, adopted the tight, mincing gait of a woman who would rather kiss her dog than a hot-blooded ma
n.

  “How do you do that?” he asked wonderingly. “How do you change so easily from one person to another?”

  “What?” she asked, looking at her suit as if seeing it for the first time. “They’re just clothes—nice ones, I’ll admit—but they’re only trappings. I feel like the First Lady.”

  “It’s more than that,” he said. “The second you change your outfit, it’s like you actually become the person inside them. You’re not just wearing that suit—you’re part of it. No one would mistake you for Natalie right now, even if you added a blonde wig to the mix.”

  “That’s because Natalie relies heavily on manufactured looks. She’s a sucker for supportive undergarments—you have no idea how much a good pair of Spanx transforms a woman.”

  “And Poppy? What makes her the way she is?”

  “You’ve been to the Pit, seen her police record,” Poppy said quietly. “You tell me.”

  Caution warned Asprey against his natural instinct, which was to swoop Poppy into his arms, refusing to let go until she realized that a person was so much more than the sum parts of his or her upbringing. But he had the feeling such obvious tactics would cause immediate—and potentially permanent—damages. “You’ve been to the house I grew up in, seen me at the offices of Charles Appraisals and Insurance,” he finally responded. “Is that all I am?”

  She stepped back and took him in, from the top of his head—yes, he was willing to admit, with a little product in his hair—to his feet, which boasted a pair of gray suede dress shoes. His brothers had always called his careful grooming shallow and self-serving, and maybe it was. But if Poppy could be more than teal cowboy boots dreamt of since girlhood, then so could he.

  “I guess not.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, although he wasn’t exactly sure what he was thanking her for. For agreeing, maybe. For being the first person who didn’t laugh him out of the room when he admitted he wanted to be seen as more than a nice pair of shoes. “Now—are we ready to go lure Cindy VanHuett into our trap?”

  “I’m ready if you are.” Poppy straightened and buttoned up the suit jacket, falling once again into her Lucy Higgenbottom role. She scooped up the dog, not the least bit ruffled when he let out a low growl. “I’m going to use my natural charm and this lovely little guy to earn her trust.”

  “Yes.”

  “So we can find a way into her apartment to steal a painting that isn’t actually worth anything because it’s a forgery.”

  “Yes.”

  “That your company will then pay out a huge lump sum to cover, because you are responsible for insuring it.”

  “Until the end of this month, yes.” He nodded firmly. “And just because you aren’t phrasing these as questions doesn’t mean they don’t count.”

  She ignored him, but he was keeping track. Oh yes—he was keeping track. “Didn’t Graff say that painting is worth like ten million dollars or something?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “I’m no business expert, but won’t that kind of damage ruin your company? I know you guys are rich and all, but when thrown on top of all the rest of the thefts, that’s an awful lot of money. Wouldn’t it make more sense to steal the painting after you don’t insure it anymore?”

  “Yes, it would,” he agreed. He was absurdly pleased at how close she was to figuring him out. All the secrets were beginning to chafe. “Yet here we are, getting ready to launch the final stage of our plans.”

  He could see the last of the pieces clicking into place, her large, expressive eyes growing even larger, her smile crooked and charming even in the Lucy Higgenbottom disguise. “You guys are ruining your own company on purpose.”

  He gave a slight bow. “And that, Ms. Higgenbottom, is all you’re getting out of me today.”

  Poppy held both dogs by the scruffs of their necks, her arms flung wide. For such tiny animals, the dogs packed a powerful punch as they wriggled and strained to attack, Gunner’s teeth bared as he fought to defend his new mistress against a larger foe.

  The dog was scrappy. Poppy was already well on her way to liking the little guy, but now? Love. Gunner had her back.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” the woman, Cindy VanHuett, cried. She clipped forward at the pace perfected by women in tight skirts and high heels, her arms outstretched. “I don’t know what got into Jasmine. She’s normally so sweet.”

  Poppy surveyed the yappy puff of fur, which wriggled in its attempt to continue devouring Gunner’s flesh, and forced herself to smile. “I’m sure it’s just her natural instinct. Say what they will about pit bulls and Rottweilers, there is no dog more loyal to her owner than a Bichon.”

  Poppy had no idea if that was true or not, but Cindy beamed as if she’d given birth to the creature herself. She gathered up her dog with a coo, soothing it as only a mother could.

  Poppy thought about offering the same maternal comforts to Gunner, but his enormous eyes warned her against that kind of emotion. He was full of opinions, that dog. She’d tried putting him in a cute miniature bomber jacket earlier, but he would have none of it. No sooner had she gotten one leg in the tiny, stitched jacket hole than the other three popped out and he let out an almost maniacal bark, daring her to try again.

  “It’s okay, little man.” She set him near a rock instead, which he took a profound interest in circling and smelling. “We’ll do it your way.”

  “I’m Lucy,” she said, addressing Cindy and sticking out her hand. “And that down there is Gunner.”

  “Cindy,” the other woman said. She was younger looking than Poppy had expected. According to the eerily detailed dossier Asprey had given her, she was thirty-eight, but in the clear light of day, she had the flawless skin of a much younger woman. It probably had something to do with all the tension holding her together, like her limbs were attached to a demanding puppeteer who kept her in a constant state of readiness. “And my precious is called Jasmine.”

  “Hello, Jasmine,” Poppy said brightly, giving the dog her hand to sniff. It wasn’t impressed, watery eyes examining her for flaws and finding plenty.

  Knowing that winning over the dog was secondary to winning over the woman, she backed away and offered Cindy an apologetic shrug. “Maybe she doesn’t like my scent.” She could see Asprey off in the distance, doing a fairly convincing job at watching a pair of blue jays flirting in the trees, and added, “I use a strawberry shampoo I’ve been told is rather overpowering.”

  “That’s…nice,” Cindy said unconvincingly.

  Poppy was beginning to see why they brought her on for this job. Cindy VanHuett was a tough nut to crack, and they were looking at a pretty short timeline to build her trust and find a way inside her private residence. If this was her mark, she’d have started having these chance meetings weeks ago, made it less obvious that she wanted inside and near that painting, more like a normal relationship between two women with a shared love of tiny canines.

  But Cindy wasn’t her mark. She was just a pawn in an attempt to bring a century-old, multimillion dollar company to its knees.

  What the hell had she gotten herself into?

  For the first time, her attraction to Asprey wasn’t the biggest problem here. This whole thing screamed of run-away-and-don’t-ever-look-back, made her feel like the heroine in a horror movie everyone knows at the outset is going to get killed by the end of the first act.

  And if it wasn’t for being so close to finishing Todd, she might just do that—run away, offer up a bloodcurdling scream and make her grand exit.

  No you wouldn’t. You love this.

  Cindy frowned as Poppy continued warring with her conscience, so she jumped back into action, peering close to the dog’s face and asking, “Oh dear. Is Jasmine supposed to be eating that?”

  “What? What is it?” Distracted, Cindy turned the dog to face her, whisking a finger inside the animal’s mouth like one of those saving-a-baby-from-choking videos. “Did she swallow it?”

  “Here. Let me.” Poppy
stabilized herself with a hand on Cindy’s arm and pretended to examine between the Bichon’s teeth, which looked to be in much better repair than most human’s.

  “Oh, good. It’s just a twig.” She pretended to flick something to the ground.

  The deception worked. Cindy hugged the dog closer and flashed Poppy a grateful smile. The woman wasn’t exactly thawing to her, exactly, but at least her face wasn’t pulled in that unhealthy-looking pinch anymore.

  “I’m sure I seem really silly…” Cindy began.

  Poppy waved her hand. “Not at all. Gunner once had a gum infection and I had to chew up all his food for him. It’s what we parents do.”

  Too much? Cindy didn’t seem to have a reply to that admittedly bizarre statement, and she checked her watch nervously.

  “I’m so sorry,” Poppy said quickly. She’d done all she could for the time being, and it was better not to overplay her hand at the start. “I’m probably keeping you. Gunner and I just moved in to an apartment across the way, so I foresee quite a bit of this park in our future. Maybe we’ll see you around.”

  “I’d like that,” Cindy said slowly. “Have a good day, um, Lucy, right?”

  “That’s me!” Poppy called brightly. She waved her fingers in a gesture of farewell. “Toodles.”

  She watched the woman rush away, her head bent over the dog and a hesitant hitch in her step. That woman had enough money to hang a ten-million-dollar painting—albeit one that happened to be a fake—in her apartment, yet she looked a lot less happy in her own skin than anyone Poppy knew.

  “Well, Gunner, that wasn’t so bad.” Poppy let the dog finish investigating his rock before tugging his leash in the opposite direction. “But that woman is going to be harder to soften than Asprey thinks.”

  She felt for her pocket and smiled. Good thing she always had a back-up plan.

  “What was that all about?” Asprey asked later, meeting her at their rendezvous spot. Instead of a sock-puppet vendor, they’d opted for a hot-dog stand on a rotating schedule this time. It was the kind of place no one ever knew how to find in advance, but all it took was a few questions and you could make your way there. The hot dogs were supposedly that good.