“Wait, why would you be in his hotel room?”
“Well, it is a date—”
“Okay, so this character you’re playing—she’s that type of woman? She just goes home with randoms?” He stared ahead as he drove.
“I’m not going home with anyone. I’m trying to find out if he’s got the real Picasso in his room.” I pulled my wig off and ran my fingers through my hair, fluffing it up a bit. “Why do you care?”
Rhys’s jaw clenched. “Alistair Delacroix is an entitled, spoiled brat piece of shit.”
“And?” I snapped.
“And I think you’re attracted to him.”
“So what if I am? You researched him online and found out he was a philanthropist. Yeah, he sounds awful—”
“I also learned he has screwed half the women in Western Europe—”
My eyes narrowed. “Sounds like another guy I know.”
“I just think you can do better.”
“Well, that’s really none of your concern.”
His nostrils flared as a tense silence filled the car.
“I was just looking out for my friend.” Rhys shook his head. “Forgive me. I’ll make sure to never do it again.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rhys spent the next two days in his bedroom, pounding away at his keyboard, much louder than usual. Our conversation had been limited to things like “Do you want to order some dinner?” and “Should I go grab us some lunch?”
I spent a few hours getting ready for the charity ball on Saturday evening. Margot, makeup and costume specialist extraordinaire, was even around to help me. Makeup? Nice! Eyelashes? Miles long. Wig? Red and ravishing. Gown? Backless, black lace, very sexy but still elegant. Boobs? Kept in place by tape and a prayer.
I’m not kidding. Margot uttered some words in … whatever language she speaks … to my breasts. Maybe it was a spell? Like a booby spell? I think Margot may be a tit witch.
I stood up from my chair in the sitting room so she could have one last look at me before I left for the evening. Rhys leaned against the doorframe of his bedroom, beer in hand, a tiny, subtle smile playing on his lips.
I twirled. “How do I look?”
“You look really nice.” He slid one hand into the pocket of his jeans and gave a small shrug. “But I prefer the real Molly.”
What am I supposed to say to that?
“Don’t do anything reckless, alright?” He sipped his beer.
I raised my hand to my forehead, saluted him, grabbed my clutch from the table, gave Magical Margot an uncomfortable hug and made my way downstairs to the awaiting limo.
We’d been here for a week now, and the lights of Paris at night still made the pit of my stomach tingle. The Eiffel Tower twinkled and the Seine reflected every particle of light, making the smooth surface of the river glow like millions of dancing fireflies.
I know it’s cliché. I don’t care. I love Paris. This city is magic.
A jolt of panic went down my spine when I saw the huddle of photographers hanging out by the entrance to the gala. Being photographed, even in my identity-masking makeup, was dangerous.
Surely they wouldn’t bother taking my picture. But what if they did?
The limo driver offered me his hand, and I still managed to almost flash my crotch to him and everyone around as I got out of the back seat. I took my phone out of my purse and pretended to be enraptured by it so that my hair would fall down on either side of my face. I headed for the marble stairs of the hotel entrance ahead.
One overly ambitious photographer shouted something at me in French.
“Je ne sais pas parler français,” I said from behind my curtain of hair. “Excusez-moi.”
“Stop for photograph?”
Damn.
I shook my head, quickly pointed behind me and yelled, “Look! Brad and Angelina!” I grabbed a fistful of my gown and made a run for the entrance before the crazy mob of frantic photographers realized I was avoiding them.
I gripped my clutch tighter as my hands began shaking. I’d never taken on this kind of undercover work without Rhys before.
What if I mess up and get both of us in too deep? What if I ruin everything?
The guy at the entrance found my name on a list—my fake name was now officially on paper as ‘Alistair Delacroix’s +1’—and I slowly entered the grand ballroom, which was filled with round tables. Ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The tables were almost completely empty at this point, as most people were just milling around and mingling with their fellow yuppies.
I spotted Delacroix chatting up a pretty young thing off to the side. She had to be about nineteen. The voice of a nature documentary narrator sounded off in my head.
A young redhead has wandered onto the plain. The male quickly tires of his previous mate and is hungry to couple with as many females as possible.
I couldn’t help but grin watching this sad display.
The male sulks in shame, tail between his legs, as the young female’s mate, an alpha male, returns to his mate’s side.
Looking dejected, Delacroix strolled in my direction, caught sight of me and a huge smile spread across his face.
Ugh. What an ass.
He kissed me on the cheek, letting his lips stay on my face for just a moment too long.
“I’m glad you made it. I can’t wait to show you off.”
Before he could introduce me to more than a few people, we were ushered to our tables. On the way there, I spotted both Audrey and Sophie sitting at a table together with their dates. Audrey’s date looked alarmingly like my dad, except European. Weird.
The speeches about supporting local art almost put me to sleep. One specific line did catch my attention, though.
“Half the proceeds from this dinner will go towards the effort in getting the stolen Picasso back to the gallery where it belongs.”
Without moving my head, my eyes darted to Delacroix’s to see his reaction. He didn’t seem phased by this comment. He just reached for his whiskey and drank half in a single gulp.
“As many of you know, a newly discovered Picasso was on display at a Paris gallery,” the speaker continued. “On the second night it was on display, a thief broke into the gallery and stole the painting, replacing it with a forgery.”
Wrong. The original Picasso was stolen on the first night. On the second night, two thieves were there. Get your facts straight, old man.
“This painting is one of the most important artistic discoveries made in half a century,” he said. “We must get it back so everyone can enjoy such a creative accomplishment by one of the world’s most unique talents.”
It’s not that great.
Delacroix put his hand on my knee under the table.
If he puts his hand any higher on my leg, I’m going to rip his arm off, I swear.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to. The speech ended and the meal was served. It involved several courses, cloth napkins and lots of silverware. Delacroix prattled away in French to the other couple at our table, but I was glad to just eat in silence.
This whole scene was far too bourgeois for me.
After the dessert plates were cleared, Delacroix draped his arm over the back of my chair and leaned close to me.
“How are you, darling?” His breath smelled like whiskey, and his face was redder than usual. “Are you having a nice time?”
“Yes, dinner was lovely.”
He leaned even closer to me, resting his forehead against my temple. “I hope you’re up for a nice time later on this evening. I’m staying at this very hotel.”
I smiled weakly. “We’ll see.”
Not in a million years.
While Delacroix stumbled off to the bar, I texted Rhys.
Molly: I might get out of here. AD is drunk, and I don’t want to deal with that.
Rhys: But I thought you could handle this on your own, remember?
Molly: Don’t be a dick.
“Are you texting another bloke whil
e we’re on a date?” Delacroix said, plunking another glass of wine down in front of me, some of it splashing out of the side. “That’s not very nice.”
“I was just texting John.” I slid my phone back into my clutch. “You remember John from the other day.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “The poof.”
Am I allowed to just stab this guy?
Before I had the chance to cause Delacroix serious injury, he slid his chair back, and it screeched hard against the floor, almost tipping from the force, and stood. “Let’s go downstairs to the lounge. I’m supposed to meet someone there.” He slid my chair out from the table and put his hand on my lower back, guiding me away from the table. “Wouldn’t want you going home with someone else tonight.”
I fought the urge to kick him between the legs and faked a sweet smile instead.
“Who are you meeting?” I grabbed my clutch off the table and left with him, descending a spiral staircase to the bar underneath the ballroom.
“An associate,” he said, his eyes lingering on my chest.
He’s not even hiding his sketchy business dealings from me. Does he think I’m so dumb I won’t take notice?
The bar was dimly lit but very chic. Martini glasses lined the shelf behind a regal, dark wood counter. The clientele, sitting on leather sofas and on stools at the bar, appeared to be younger than the art enthusiasts upstairs but still upper-class and wealthy. A table of people was hidden behind a dark curtain in a private room at the back.
Delacroix leaned against the bar and ordered yet another whiskey for himself and a cocktail for me.
My phone rang in my purse. I fumbled for it as nearby bar patrons glared at me.
“J’aime excuse,” I said before answering the phone.
“Hello?”
“I’ve been texting you for five minutes,” Rhys snapped, sounding a tad panicked. “Do you need me?”
Delacroix raised an eyebrow at me as he handed the bartender some cash for our drinks.
“No, thank you,” I said firmly. “I am quite happy with my cell phone plan.” I hung up and rolled my eyes. “Telemarketers, right?”
There was laughter from the private room, and Delacroix looked in that direction, his eyes changing from drunken sleepiness to nervousness.
“Friends of yours, Mr. Delacroix?” I batted my long, fake lashes at him.
He put his hand on my cheek. “Nothing you need to worry about, beautiful.”
One of the guys in the private room got up, pushing the curtain to the side, and headed for the nearby exit, a lighter in his hand. Someone from the table yelled out to him.
“Hey, Stan.” He was American, almost certainly from New York. “You wan’ another martini?”
Stan, a tall, middle-aged man with broad shoulders, caught me watching him as he looked over his shoulder to answer his companion. His mop of messy black hair was streaked with silver highlights, and his dark eyes were almost hidden under thick eyebrows.
“No,” he yelled back to his table. He was American too but didn’t have the Brooklyn accent like his friend. “I’ll be right back.” He slipped down the hall, the back door clunking as he went outside.
Delacroix downed his drink, and his hand was shaking, his fingers sliding on the wet glass.
“Are you alright?” I nodded to the exit. “Is that the guy you’re supposed to be meeting?”
He nodded. “I don’t know much about him, but he’s a pretty impressive guy in California.” One of his eyelids was looking droopy again from the whiskey.
Stan from California? It couldn’t be the same guy Dad has had business dealings with. No. It couldn’t be…
“You stay here and order a coffee, will you? I’m going to grab a smoke.”
Before Delacroix could interject, I was already on my way to the exit.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Stan didn’t say anything as I let myself out into the alley behind the hotel. He just looked at me in my cleavage-baring dress and ridiculous heels.
“Hi,” I said. “Mind sharing a smoke with a fellow American?”
He opened his silver cigarette holder, and I took one. I put it in my mouth, and he lit the end for me. I inhaled just enough to be able to blow smoke out the corner of my mouth. I’d gone through a brief smoking stint in college, so I could still fake my way through it.
I inhaled again and blew the smoke out slowly, letting the breeze carry it away. “Thanks.”
Stan kept looking at me sideways. He wasn’t the talkative type. He was the watching type.
“What brings you to Paris?” I smiled at him.
“My daughter is in art school here, so I’m visiting her.” He blew smoke out of his nose. “Plus I gave some money to that thing upstairs.”
I nodded. “Shame about that stolen Picasso. What a loss.”
He didn’t respond or show any sign of interest in discussing the Picasso. We were both silent for a moment, so I took out my phone.
He glanced down at my phone. “My daughter lives on her phone. I don’t get it.”
“It’s the perfect communication device. You only have to talk to people you want to, and you have time to say the right thing.”
“Are you texting your real boyfriend?” Stan smirked. “Because I know that guy in there isn’t your cup of tea.”
I let out a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
He nodded while taking a drag. “You know he’s broke, right?”
“I didn’t know that.” My eyes widened. “Thanks for the heads-up. What else can you tell me about him?”
“Alistair Delacroix is currently selling his dead father’s collection of paintings, some worth more than others, and he’s going to try to sell some to me once I go back in there.”
My jaw dropped a bit. He was so casual and confident that I knew he had to be right.
“Why is he broke?”
“Gambling debts and poor money management.” Stan shrugged and glanced back at me. “I hope you’re not looking to get some diamonds out of him, because he ain’t got the cash for that.”
“I can buy my own diamonds, sir.”
“I know you can. I’ve heard all about you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re Dean Miranda’s kid, right?”
What?!
Just then, the door swung open and Delacroix’s head popped out.
“I just bought a bottle of wine for Stan’s table, and they invited us to join them.” He still had a whiskey glass in his hand. He’d obviously been over-served. He stuck out his hand at Stan. “Nice to meet you finally.”
Stan winced and nodded, shaking the drunk man’s hand. “Yeah.”
Delacroix ducked back into the door. Stan dropped his cigarette and stamped it out with his expensive-looking shoe.
“Stop looking at me like I have two heads,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
He left me alone in the alley to finish my cigarette. As soon as the door closed, I dropped it and coughed loudly into the silent alleyway.
I texted my dad.
Molly: Don’t ask me why I’m asking, just answer the question. How much does Stan know about me?
Dad: Uhhhhhhhhhhhh
Molly: Dad!
Dad: A bit. He’s a trusted friend! Friends brag to their friends when they are proud of their kid’s accomplishments!
I was genuinely touched. Dad was proud of me.
Molly: And you trust him with that information?
Dad: Absolutely. Call me tomorrow?
Molly: Sure.
I joined the big table of guys in the private room. Stan sat beside me and had one of his guys sit on the other side, forcing Delacroix to sit a few chairs down.
“Care for a glass?” Stan said, holding the wine bottle.
I didn’t feel afraid of him or his guys. Knowing he was friends with my dad put me at ease.
I smiled. “Yes, please.”
Delacroix spoke up. “I’d love
a glass too.”
Stan didn’t even make eye contact with him, and it amused me. Delacroix must have wondered what made me so special. That amused me too.
After about ten minutes, I picked up on the dynamic of the guys at the table. Stan was obviously the alpha male, quiet, reserved, but intimidating as hell. He mostly watched the rest of us talk, smiling or frowning occasionally.
His second-in-command, Carl, was a shorter, stocky bald man who wore a velvet jacket and a gold ring on every finger. He was the one with the Brooklyn accent I’d heard earlier.
The third guy was, I assumed, The Muscle. Kind of dopey but very sweet to me. He was enormous—I’m talking, like, two Vin Diesels. He made his chair and the table look like miniatures from a dollhouse.
We’d been debating our favorite action heroes—Carl and I were on Team Jason Statham, while Stan expressed his devotion to Team Schwarzenegger—when there was a loud thump. Delacroix lay on the floor beside his chair.
“Did he pass out? I didn’t think he was that drunk,” I said.
The Muscle picked him up and threw him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. He looked back at Stan.
“Take him back to his room,” Stan said. “The hotel key is probably in his wallet.”
The Muscle nodded and went on his way. Carl looked at me and burst out laughing.
“You should see the look on your face!”
Stan picked up his glass. “We may have added something to his drink. He’ll sleep it off.” He gave his left shoulder a subtle, careless shrug.
I bit my lip, forcing myself not to laugh. “But what about his paintings?”
“My daughter thinks she’s the next Rembrandt. I have more paintings than I know what to do with.” Stan rolled his eyes. “Besides, I want to talk to you, and I couldn’t do that with him here.” He looked at Carl. “Recognize that face?”
Carl sipped his drink. “Should I?”
Thick as Thieves Page 12