by Rebecca Main
I quell the urge to shudder at his all-knowing smile. Of course, he’s had me followed. It would hardly serve his purpose for me to turn tail and run off with his fancy rock.
“Something like that,” I chime sweetly. He inclines his head then departs. Prada bag firmly in his grasp. I sit with a sigh, pick up my glass, and down its contents. “Damn.”
Popping a petit four into my mouth, I lean back and let my shoulders sag. I peruse the crowd once again, collecting my calm in bits and pieces. Another job was done. Another cool mill’ in the bank. A few more jobs like this and I could retire before the end of next year. Vanish to some island and live out my days on some sandy beach sipping Mai Tais all day and night. Just me, myself, and I. And maybe a cabana boy or two to keep me company.
Something catches my eye. A familiar gleam of deep, cherry red hair. Elegantly curled and precisely draped. It’s M. My mentor of sorts. Though she would loathe for me to call her so. Anything but M is simply unacceptable and yet I can’t evade the word when she comes to mind. After all, M is the one who taught me the art of the con. How to seduce, how to steal, how to...everything. When I first started out selling forgeries, I was with some sleazebag who took advantage of my talents—among other things. It wasn’t until M came along and convinced me of my worth and potential that I came fully under her tutelage.
She’s on the arm of some older gentlemen dressed head to toe in Armani as they make their way out of the Tea Room. The maître d' passes them their umbrellas and raincoats. As if sensing my gaze, her own seeks mine. Our eyes meet, but no tell of recognition crosses her features. Then, after a long second passes by, I am gifted with a slight inclination of her head before she departs.
My phone is in my hand before I can help myself. Fingers flying over the keyboard to send a message to the redhead a second later. I receive her reply just as I’m finishing off my last tea sandwich and let a real smile come to fruition. A drink to catch up with a colleague was just what I needed to distract from the looming ache in my chest.
+++
“You look as if you’re doing well, Q.” A silky voice greets from behind. I’m only halfway out of my chair at La Menagerie before she presses two quick kisses to the sides of my face and sits opposite me.
“Same to you, M,” I respond sincerely. M is somewhere in her early forties. A complete and total fox. Dark red hair, deep brown eyes, and curves that demand you listen. I was lucky that our first encounter had gone the way it did. Instead of pressing charges against me once she realized the lesser known Pissarro I had sold her wasn’t one at all, she informed me I was wasting my talents. If I could learn to use my womanly wiles, I’d see my payout double. Triple even. The rest, as they say, is history. Five years later and I was swimming in work.
“What trouble have you been getting into?” She asks, her tone hinting at a secret. I cock my head.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I reply. Her eyes narrow on me as a glass of Pinot Grigio is poured for each of us. She refrains from speaking until our waiter is gone, our order in hand.
“Then why have I heard mention of your name through certain…channels?”
I give her a cheeky grin. “Hmm, perhaps they’re just admirers of my work?” I suggest coyly, though inside her words strike a cord. “What were they asking for exactly?”
“Your name,” she tells me after taking a deliberate sip of her wine. “Among other things.”
My smile fades. “What ‘other things’?” I ask tightly.
M smirks. “You’re not going to make it very far in this business if you don’t reign in that wild side of yours. I heard what happened in Montenegro.”
“That was a complete misunderstanding,” I assure her, smothering a smile as I recall the unplanned ménage à trois. “Which ended rather well, I might add. Everything went according to plan.”
Her disapproval scolds me through her eyes. “You’re too reckless, Q. Have you remembered anything I’ve taught you? You need to do your homework before accepting a job. Let alone jumping into a game on the side. You’ll end up behind bars or six feet under if you don’t start playing smarter.” A plaintive sigh bursts past my lips, earning a rather feral glare from M. “I’m well aware of the excitement of it all. The rush of adrenaline while on the run. The surge of fear when rolling the dice. You can have that for as long as you want—”
“—As long as I play it smart,” I finish.
“Let others lose themselves in you. Not the other way around.”
I straighten in my seat. “I wasn’t about to fall for the duke or his wife,” I assure M.
She snorts, the action startling me. I had never heard her snort. Laugh. Giggle. Simper. Yes to all three. But never a snort. “As I said, you’re too reckless. One of these times you're going to dive too deep. Hell, you’ll probably even lose your heart to—”
“I wouldn’t,” I tell her sharply, feeling a frown starlight across my brow. I’d let my heart get trashed enough in the past by both family and friends. I had no desire to let the action happen again. So I had built a wall around my heart to put a stop to the endless stream of disappointments that passed through my life. I might be willing to risk life and limb, but no longer was my heart up for grabs. I was planning on keeping it to myself. Indefinitely.
Yet as the stubborn reassurance scores through my mind, flashes of dark hair and blue eyes stir from my memory. The taste of Kyle—the blistering heat of his hands and lips—assaults my senses like a phantom. A weak tremor falls from my nape to the end of my spine. A pang of longing not far behind.
M clears her throat and passes me a speculative look. “Good. And have you been covering your trail as I taught you to?” I flush and mentally tick off all the things I know I’ve yet to do.
“Yes—”
“—The one meant to keep you out of jail?” she asks calmly, her wine glass held lightly between her fingertips.
I give pause. Damn her. “I’ll do better,” I lament. The waiter returns with our order of ahi tuna tartare before M can rip me a new one.
“No new clients are going to take you if you’re so easily found, Q. Anonymity is important in this business of ours. For both you and the client.”
I duck my head. “I understand, okay? I’ll do better. This is all I have, and I don’t particularly feel like screwing it up.” She shrugs her shoulders and lets the subject drop, her admonishment over. I know she does it because somewhere in that deep dark heart she cares about me, but it’s no less annoying to be treated like I’m still some novice. M homes in on the tartare. Taking a large helping of the tuna on one of the wonton chips. She lets out a hearty moan.
The sound, so similar to the one I’d made only a few days ago, submerges me in memories once more. Of Kyle’s hungered kiss and how it felt to be devoured and savored all at once. The overwhelming sensation of a fire blazing through my veins as he held me prisoner. I squirm in my seat and reach for the tuna, shoving a loaded wonton into my mouth. M’s barely disguised disgust brings my head back up from deep waters.
“So, who was the man you were with earlier?” I ask.
“Another long con job,” she replies. “I saw that you were with Mr. Vrana. I’ve worked with him on a job or two before.”
“He’s intense. Don’t you think?”
“To say the very least,” she confirms, an uneasy look filtering across her face. “Be careful with him, Q. He’s not a man to be trifled with.”
“Nobody we work with is meant to be trifled with.”
Her sharp glare freezes me mid-reach. “I mean it, Q.”
“He likes my work, and he pays well. Really well, M. I’m not about to mess that up.”
“Just be smart. Especially with him. Are you staying in Denver much longer? Or are you working another job for him?”
I mull over the question as I chew on another hearty bite of the tartare. A dozen different coastal towns and beaches flitter across my mind’s eyes. It had been a while since I’d indulged in a vacation of sorts where I
could let loose and enjoy myself. Nevertheless, I still needed to stockpile my savings. Especially after my most recent shopping spree. I take a sip of my wine, eyeing M over the rim of the glass casually. She might be my mentor, but it wouldn’t be the first time she learned of a job I was up for and swiped it from me.
“Just one more I think. I haven’t received any of the recon for it yet.”
“Well, I think you should get out of town.” I arch a brow in response.
“I was just out of town,” I remind her.
“Ah yes, traipsing around in paradise. How taxing.”
I smirk, “It was an easy enough job.” And easy enough to remember. In vivid detail. There was no denying it. I couldn’t seem to keep my head out of the clouds. Every wandering thought led to blue eyes and charming grins that had felt so right when dealt my way. “A classic set up,” I continue, forcefully nonchalant.
“Men are so predictable,” she says with a languid sigh, not noticing my melancholy. “Isn’t that nice? It always makes the job a little bit smoother. Was the target anyone of consequence?”
“Maybe,” I reply, collecting myself. Finally. “I was given a time and place. A description of the object, and a photograph of the target. Nothing more.”
M takes the last bite of the tartare and wipes away any lingering crumbs from her fingertips with the black napkin on her lap.
“A clean cut job then?”
“Very much so,” I confirm. Except for the fact that I couldn’t get Kyle out of my head. M shoots me a coy look over the rim of her wine glass.
“I have a little present for you.”
“Is it Gucci?” She laughs and slips me a manila envelope from her purse. “Definitely, not Gucci,” I gripe playfully.
“It’s an opportunity,” M informs me. She tinkers through her purse and pulls out a mirror and lip gloss.
“Who’s paying?”
“No one,” my eyes shoot to hers. “Like I said, it’s an opportunity. A little birdie told me a Degas was making its way to some town called Branson Falls, up in Montana.”
“You’re joking.”
I hold my breath as she gives me a candid smile. The one that softens her features and brings a real light of joy to her eyes. “Really. Go ahead and look.” She busies herself with retouching her makeup as I open the job.
“How is this…I can’t believe this is happening. How did I not hear about this?” I mutter under my breath as I finger through the files: purchase order, authentication papers, shipping details, schematics of the house. “Who the hell is your little birdie friend, and can I be friends with them too?” I give her my best puppy dog eyes.
She laughs once more. “We all have our sources, dear. Even you. Consider this an early birthday gift.”
“You don’t know when my birthday is,” I remind her, tucking the manila envelope into my purse. “I don’t even know when my birthday is.”
“That’s more useful than you realize, darling,” she purrs, finishing the reapplication of her lip gloss with a flourish. A far away ache gives a knock to my heart. Images of my mother, too doped up to care about her only daughter’s birthday year after year filtering across my memory. I push the ache and memories away back into the recesses of my heart.
“I’ll be sure to take full advantage of it in a few years.”
She hums her agreement and begins to stand, laying two crisp twenty-dollar bills on the table. “Take advantage of this opportunity, Q. It’s right up your alley.”
I blow her a kiss goodbye and watch as she fades effortlessly out of view. Then I take out the manila envelope once more and run through each document another time, my heart racing all the while. This was the perfect birthday gift. The perfect project to keep my mind occupied.
I’d have to send a thank you card to this Mr. Adolphus once his Degas was safely in my possession.
Happy birthday to me.
Chapter 3
Ryatt
She arrived on Tuesday to scope out the town, choosing to shack up in the Cremosi’s Bed and Breakfast. A quaint Colonial-style home with only one other occupant: Keenan. I had tasked him with trailing her whereabouts due to his military background, while I lurked from other, darker corners to mollify the soulmark. It had been a long four days. Having no contact, physical or otherwise, had left me in quite the state. My usual delightful personality and perfectly timed quips had been replaced quickly with a surly scowl and sarcastic remarks. Thankfully, both smile and scowl looked equally handsome on my face (to no one's surprise).
She had scouted our property for some time the following day, obviously readying herself for the delivery scheduled for Thursday. Watching her covert vigil from so near brought me nearly to madness. Her scent rode on the ends of each passing breeze, taunting me from my place in the shadows. The soulmark and beast inside howled at me to take her. To mark and bind her to me before she had another chance to leave me. Lucky for her, my patience and foresight held. Even through my darkest of cravings.
Now all there was to do was wait just a bit longer.
The digital clock read 1:52 a.m. in blaring red. It was exceptionally annoying, but the clock was strategically placed. Just like every other object in the room. I had made sure every piece and player had adhered to my plan this afternoon and evening. The delivery arrived on time, with Xander handling the reception and having the piece brought up to the west wing. It was placed in a room undergoing renovations, or so it would seem to anyone looking in from afar. Old canvas blankets, dirtied with dust and paint, were laid across the room’s furniture. Plastic lining was draped carefully along each wall, and buckets of paint were left surreptitiously about the room. The Degas was placed carefully atop one of the side tables, left uncovered and leaning lightly against the wall near the insufferable clock. Both were placed directly across from a window left slightly ajar. As if to suggest the room needed airing.
What better temptation could I provide?
I sit amid the array, just out of sight and hidden among the larger furniture to wait out my little thief. My hands do not shake as they press the crystal full of Woodford Reserve to my lips. I inhale purposefully, filling my nose with the aroma of leather and honey. Trace notes of butterscotch and toasted oak. It does not burn as it slips past my tongue and down my throat. It engulfs my senses. Provides the distraction I need.
The clock lets out an inaudible click as the number two changes to three. I smile and sink lower into my seat. Soon.
+++
Quinn
Everything was going well. Really well. I arrived on Tuesday late in the afternoon after grabbing some supplies from a buddy of mine. The town was…cute. Quaint, even. Totally not to my tastes, but, whatever. It had a certain je ne sais quoi about it that somehow eased the ache in my heart. Or maybe it was just the thrill of doing a heist for myself that lifted my spirits.
At least the town had some taste. Boutiques with stylish clothes dotted the downtown area with price tags that would give a fair few pause. Bistros and cafés were filled with people. Their clever little chalkboard signs drawing in crowds.
“Rise and Grind,” outside of Luna Café.
“Mojitos in Training,” a staked sign within a small planter of mint near the entryway of Coco’s.
“We love our coffee like Kanye loves Kanye,” at some hole-in-the-wall barista joint.
I survey the neighborhood and house I’ll be pilfering. The subdivision screams money with its sprawling yards that bump up against the forest preserve just beyond its white picket fences. The house I study is perhaps the biggest of them all. It looks like some old French estate set up against a backdrop of lush green trees and hills. I adore it. I’m sure inside there is a treasure trove of lavish trinkets and antiques. Ones that would fetch a tidy sum, but it’s not what I came for. This afternoon the Degas was delivered. Mr. Adolphus collected the painting and ushered the delivery men inside, and to my delight, into the most easily accessible room. Despite it being on the second floor, the
room offered two windows, one of which framed the Degas perfectly, even from afar.