by Dani Collins
“What do you, say, Jake? Are you up for a tour?”
Jacob cocked his head at Con. “I’m still trying to figure out if you said fiancé or financier?”
Renny, aware of the listening doorman and Mr. Laramie and the collection of tourists, just wanted this over with.
“Financier,” Con said. “You’re the investment specialist, aren’t you? And we’re talking about a lot of money here. Gran’s money.” Con tapped his nose, tilted his head an infinitesimal bit toward Mr. Laramie.
Jacob’s gaze drifted to Mr. Laramie’s aim-to-please smile, then came back to Con’s, befuddled. Which was good because Renny knew Con was trying to plant the idea in Jacob that Laramie was the fraud artist. That was all they needed: a defamation suit. “Don’t listen to him, Jacob. Mr. Laramie, we don’t need a tour. Just the suite, if you don’t mind.”
“Cookie, you can’t buy just a suite. You have to buy the whole building. So what do you say, Jake? Can you take a reading for us?”
“Whatever you need, Con.” Jacob said, as though performing his patriotic duty.
“Jacob, wait. Come with me to that bench over—”
“You can’t take just a bench, either! C’mon, cookie. Mr. Laramie has a hotel to run. Don’t keep him waiting. You two go on. We’ll catch up for a meeting in a bit.”
“Very good, Mr. Burke.” Mr. Laramie twitched his brows in her direction, as though he wondered just how blond her roots were under the current dark coat, and invited Jacob with a wave toward the hotel’s bank of elevators. “Are you familiar with the hospitality industry, Mr. . . . ?”
“Knuuse,” Jacob supplied, as they walked away.
“Oh, you’re evil,” Renny muttered to Con as she yanked him the opposite direction.
“Noose? Is that what Jake just said his last name is?”
“The K is silent. How could you, Con? How am I going to explain all this to Jacob?” She was devolving into a person she had sworn never to be again and it felt horrible.
“So you’re going to be Renny Noose? As in, ‘Can I get you a tissue for that Renny Noose?’”
“Not at the rate I’m going!”
“You can thank me later.”
“I’ll kill you later. Right now, I just want to get Felix out of the way so I can come back here and sort out this mess of yours.”
“Me? You started it. I want sparklies,” he mocked.
Don’t remind me, she thought, starting down the cobbled sidewalk, walking fast, trying to outrun her conscience. A sense of doom trailed her, a feeling that she was in danger of repeating history. Because she was letting control of the caper get away from her. Because she had started this and hadn’t stopped it when she’d had the chance. She’d been afraid of being embarrassed in front of the doormen and some tourists, but she knew from experience there were worse things than public embarrassment.
“I just don’t get what you see in him.” Con tucked his hand beneath her hair, holding the back of her neck.
His caress felt familiar. When they’d been together, he had always been reaching out to her physically: stroking her hair if he passed by her, scooping her up for an impulsive kiss, touching some part of her while they sat on the sofa or walked together. She had always liked the contact, the feel of his breath tickling her ear, the closeness in their low conversations and casual affection. It still felt good. Comforting when she needed it because she was beating herself up.
And it was wrong.
“Con.” She sidestepped but he matched her, easily maintaining his light grip on her neck.
He probably wasn’t even aware of it. It was a habit with him, but his touch caused a tingle to spread through her shoulders and down the front of her chest. It settled low in her belly. She wasn’t supposed to feel this kind of thing anymore.
“I really want to know what the attraction is. I mean, are you thinking beyond getting that ring on your finger? Because, after the wedding, you’re going to have to live with the man.”
“You’re right, I am.” She stopped and removed his hand. “I’m going to live with him and walk with him and sleep with him. So you’re going to have to stop acting like I’m still doing those things with you.” She was going to have to stop acting that way, too.
Con let his arm drop to his side. “He doesn’t even make you laugh. I haven’t seen you laugh once around him.”
Renny tried to remember something Jacob had done or said that had really made her laugh. Something that would shut Con up. Nothing came to mind.
She looked away, forcing herself to scan for Felix between the hanging baskets dangling from wrought-iron posts along both sides of the street.
Deception was a pretty town. Perfectly hewn mountains, accented with glacial snow, rose behind the low buildings. Music drifted from street entertainers and appetizing scents drifted from patio restaurants. A stroll through town was a pleasantly surreal experience.
She wanted to enjoy it the way she had a week ago, when she had been here with Mona. They had been traveling with Jacob for a couple of months by then and they had become a cohesive group. Jacob had been as solicitous to Mona as Renny was and he had been a pleasant companion for both of them. If Renny hadn’t gone off shopping with Jacob, Mona wouldn’t have been alone and susceptible to Felix’s slick patter. Guilt wrung her conscience again.
“You don’t know anything about Jacob. He’s not boring. He’s well traveled and very well read.”
“Let’s hope he got to ‘K’ for Kama Sutra, then, because I’m betting he’s never tried anything but missionary.”
“I’ll let you know.”
No comeback.
She ought to have been mentally chalking a point for herself, but it felt too much like she had hit below the belt. “You had plenty of time to tell me what you thought of my marrying someone else. You didn’t have to wait until the day before my wedding.”
“I thought you were bluffing.”
“And now you know I’m not, so what?” She started walking again, ducking past a man watering the baskets with a green hose.
“Cookie, you crave excitement as much as I do. I don’t want to see you chain yourself to an anchor.”
“Just because you fear being trapped—”
“We’re talking about you. Now tell me why you’re deliberately going against your personality?”
“I’m not! You know, Con, everyone loses a few inhibitions around you. Look at Spencer. He’s pathologically shy, but around you he cracks jokes and lets you shave a lightning bolt into the back of his hair. I behave out of character around you, too, but I’m a traditionalist at heart.”
“Bull. I contend that I bring out your true nature. You’re spontaneous.”
“And I contend—
They stepped onto the street to let a group of Japanese tourists pass. When they stepped back onto the curb, Renny had to duck beneath a dripping hanging basket. It would be more temptation than Con could resist. She scooted up the curb and heard the stream of water Con tried to tip onto her hit the sidewalk.
“I contend that I like predictability,” she finished.
“I don’t know if you’re kidding me or yourself. You’re a thrill-seeker.”
“No, I’m not.” She started to turn but caught a glimpse of a blond head. She had instinctively gravitated toward the restaurant where Felix had first approached Mona. He wasn’t there, but he was on the patio of the next one.
“That’s him,” she said, startled at how easy it had been.
“Where?” Con followed her gaze to the next block.
“Sitting at that outdoor café, where it says, ‘Green Tea.’ Blond with a goatee, mid-forties, argyle sweater.”
“Who’s he with? New victims?” Con asked.
“That’d be my guess.” The couple were a pair of moderately well to do seniors.
“He’s better looking than I expected.”
Renny had to agree. Felix had surprisingly few wrinkles and an even, white smile. He kept his body trim a
nd his hair neat.
“Looks like he’s trying to close a deal.”
Felix handed the couple some documents. They both reached for reading glasses before drawing the papers close.
“Watch him while I phone the police,” Renny said.
“Wait. I want you to talk to him.”
“No, I want—”
“What the hell is she doing here?” Con looked past Renny’s shoulder across the street.
“What? Who?” Renny turned to see Laila Washington.
Con didn’t talk much about the Prince of Play story, but Mona had told Renny about it. As a result, one glimpse of the reporter and Renny prickled with hostility.
“Are you going to talk to her?” she asked.
Con didn’t answer. He was gone.
She stamped her foot. It wasn’t like him to run away and now she couldn’t leave to call the police without losing sight of Felix.
It looked like Felix was putting his marks on the send. They would retrieve their cash—he had insisted on cash with Gran and probably did with everyone—and he would leave with another wallet full of stolen money. Those people didn’t look nearly as well off as Gran. She couldn’t let it happen.
Renny clenched her fist and started forward.
11:40 a.m.
Felix Newman ate another smoked salmon pinwheel sandwich while he waited for Fred and Ethel to read through the document he had prepared.
He didn’t particularly like these fussy little sandwiches, but he loved the fact that he could eat them when he wanted to. A long time ago, he had served beautiful sandwiches to beautiful people in glossy digs like this and had never earned more than a dismissing glance. Poor and ugly made a man forgettable. But since his first cosmetic surgery a few years ago, he had been taking what he had missed the first half of his life and had become one of the elite. He was entitled to something besides cold spaghetti from a can and Deception Springs was giving it to him.
Fred and Ethel asked a question, completely hooked by the contract on the table. Felix felt a swell of pride. The papers looked as good as he did and, like his surgery, had been worth the time and cost.
“Declare the existing condition,” he answered. “It brings the premium up, but in the long run, you save.” His retainer made him slur. The braces had come off a month ago and his orthodontist had assured him he would be talking fine in a few weeks, but he still wasn’t used to the hard plastic on the roof of his mouth. “I’ll look it up.”
He hadn’t planned on getting his teeth fixed, but the money had fallen into his lap shortly after he’d had his nose straightened and his acne scars sand-blasted off. When the success of his first con after rhinoplasty topped out over fifty grand, he had decided it was worth the investment to have his jaw broken to adjust his bite. It had meant months of looking like the grille of a Mack truck, but now . . . now he was genuinely handsome. After a lifetime of feeling lonely and depressed, he garnered respect with a smile.
And trust.
He’d only begun generating income again in the last couple of months, but the better looking he got, the faster he hauled in the cash. Financially, he was back to where he’d started, when he had walked out the back door of Tyrone Verona’s chop shop with fifty thousand dollars and a promise to call. Felix liked knowing he had enough to pay back Ty if he had to. Ty knew people who would break a nose and jaw with a lot less finesse than the surgeons had employed, but Felix didn’t expect Ty to catch up to him. Deception Springs was more than a gold mine. It was the perfect place to hide.
Removing a table of figures from his folder, Felix scanned it. The fifty was a comfortable buffer, but now, with this deal, he could start thinking about getting a nicer place and a decent car. And a chin implant.
“Are there any other health problems that could affect the validity of this policy?” Felix asked with concern.
Their real names were Paul and Caroline Grant. They were approaching seventy. Paul confessed to a prostate problem and Caroline admitted she had lost a tit to cancer.
Pointing to a box, Felix showed them the amount.
Paul frowned and Caroline recoiled.
“Ten thousand dollars,” she said in a hushed voice.
Felix set his teeth into their perfected bite and smiled. Perhaps he’d been too aggressive. He wasn’t going to pull back, though. He needed the money, because he wanted the confidence and admiration he would get with a stronger jawline.
“You’re not just paying for healthcare,” he reminded them. “You’re paying for peace of mind.”
They exchanged a look of uncertainty.
Damn, he was losing them.
Straightening in his chair, he started to give them his best pitch. A brunette down the street caught his eye. She was striking, but it wasn’t her looks that drew his attention. It was her determined stride and the intent way she stared at him as she approached.
Like she knew him.
She stopped as he made eye contact, watching as if waiting to see what he would do.
Where the hell did he know her from? Felix was damn good with faces and even better with faces connected to money. She wore several grand in jewelry, if it was real, but her clothes, though trendy and good quality, were off the rack. And sexier than the last time he’d seen her. In his mind, he saw her wearing something more wholesome, a conservative denim dress with her hair in a braid. Red hair, not brunette.
She’d been here a few days ago, maybe a week ago, with an old lady. He’d relieved the old gal of an easy five grand and had been mad at himself for hours because he could have talked her into giving him more.
“We’re going to have to think about this,” Paul said.
Felix felt his neck knot up. He wanted to keep pushing them, but the brunette was walking toward him again. His blood started pulsing in his ears, making the scrape of Paul and Caroline’s chairs grate in his brain. It killed him to let them go, but the brunette looked like she wanted a confrontation. She must have figured out he’d made a patsy of the old woman. Just what he needed.
Grabbing his things from the table, he didn’t look at his marks, just brushed by them and left.
As Renny saw Felix prepare to leave, she started to follow, but halted when Laila Washington stepped in front of her.
Laila was smaller than she appeared on television. She wore no make-up and paired a plain white T-shirt with beige cargo pants.
“Did I just see you with Conroy Burke?” Laila asked.
Ignore her, Renny thought, but she felt her fur lift and couldn’t help the snarl in her voice when she said, “What’s it to you?”
“’Scuse me? Where am I? Hallway, third period? It was just a question.”
Renny gave her a deadly glare before dismissing her and turning to go after Felix.
Where was he?
Damn. He was gone.
Pushing past Laila, she entered the restaurant.
* * *
Laila ran back to where she’d left the van and jumped into it like a bunny shooting into its burrow.
“What’s up?” Murphy asked.
She squeaked out a near scream. “I thought you were still out looking for our con artist,” she muttered.
She took a deep breath, trying to force her heart rate to a resting pulse. A sweet-skunky smell invaded her nostrils. Experimentally, she inhaled again. “Why does it smell like pot in here?”
“I met some musicians.”
“We’re parked in front of a hotel on Main Street!”
He rolled his shoulder. “You talk to Ike?”
“Yes.” But that wasn’t what was fueling her vibrating nerves. Thoughts were exploding in her brain like mini lightning strikes and her sinuses burned—and not from the lingering scent of marijuana, either.
“What did he say?” Murphy slithered to the floor, pushing clothing and equipment out of the way, propping himself on an elbow while he dug through his backpack.
“He read me the riot act about gonzo journalism and threatened to
report the van stolen. I don’t get why he’s so uptight. The challenge here isn’t finding a story, it’s picking one.”
“Yeah,” Murphy agreed. “Doesn’t matter if they’re calling it faith healing or a wheatgrass juicer, it’s bullshit in bulk. Jelly Belly?” He sat up to offer a bag of them.
She shook her head, using the movement to shake some sense into her racing thoughts.
Murphy leaned forward. “Your pupils are almost gone. Did you take something?”
“No!” She wasn’t into drugs, but she knew what it felt like to have too much caffeine and sugar in her system. This was similar, but more intense. “I think I’m having an anxiety attack.”
“Why?”
“Ike,” she said. He had a bug up his ass and she always worried that if he cut her loose, she’d have nothing. “And that email I got.”
“The one that says get your ass to Salt Lake if you want to meet the producer for Open Letter?”
“That one, too. No, I’m still wondering why Blackwing changed his mind.” He had warned her not to come. It was creepy and a factor in her jumpy nerves, but still not the ultimate cause. No, she knew what the real problem was. “I saw Conroy Burke a few minutes ago.”
Murphy took a handful of jellybeans and picked them over, discarding green and black ones, eating the white and pink ones. He lifted his gaze expectantly.
“I know you’ve heard the story. Don’t play dumb,” she said.
“I’ve heard a few versions. What’s yours?” His eyelids drooped, but his gaze was steady.
Most of the time she rolled her bitterness over the Prince of Play into her drive to succeed, but seeing Conroy Burke had brought out the base animosity she felt toward him. “Burke set me up like a frigging row of dominoes.”
“How?”
“Right after Alicia Mills contacted me and said she was pregnant, I called him for an interview. He refused. I think he knew she wasn’t pregnant. He could have shared that little bit of info before I made a fool of myself.”
“Or you could have made her piss in a cup.”
It was a hard truth, one she had beaten herself with since the story had tanked. “I believed her, okay? She said a rich guy had knocked her up and wasn’t owning up to his responsibilities. I looked into Burke’s background and found a man who did some goofy stuff, so I ran with it.”