Against the Dark

by Carolyn Crane

  Her heart slammed against her chest. Keep going.

  “I touched you, invaded you, owned you with just the roughness you enjoy. You know what I’m saying, baby. And then you broke apart. You screamed. You were so gone that I had to hold you up. And all those flower magnets there on the refrigerator door? They all fell off as I let you slide to the floor.”

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  “It was at that point,” he said, “that the fucking began.”

  She shook her head, coming to her senses. This guy was threatening her, blackmailing her! “That’s enough.”

  “You don’t want me to remind you how—”

  “Enough.”

  “But certainly you’d agree that qualifies as more than a peck on the cheek. That’s my point here.”

  She stared at him. It was like she could feel him on her, touching her. He licked the knife. Slowly.

  “Stop it.”

  “Stop licking the knife?”

  “You know what you’re doing.”

  He smiled lazily. A potent pause grew between them. “Got any raisins?”

  “And FYI, that would never happen.” She took out her box of raisins and slammed it down on the counter. Hard.

  He pulled the rubber band off the box, smiling. “Nevertheless.”

  “Darling Cole, you’re not remembering what a prude I am. That entire scenario would never happen. Don’t you recall my religious upbringing?”

  She watched his face, saw when he got the idea she was saving herself for marriage. Then he laughed. “You’re also a jewel thief. You take what you want.” He began to embed raisins into the peanut butter at precise intervals.

  “Borgola isn’t going to need that level of detail for dinner conversation, right?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never had dinner with him.”

  “Never?”

  He crunched into his rice cake. “Mmm,” he said. “This is delicious, honey.”

  She sipped her coffee, trying to come down after the things he’d said. Now they were supposed to have a normal conversation? It was like they just had sex for the first time. No—it was more intimate.

  “Raised Catholic,” he said. “You’re telling me you’re into it?”

  “Yup. My whole family is.”

  “I won’t ask you to define into it.”

  “Good.”

  “So why did you leave? What went wrong? Why did you run away?”

  She snapped the rubber band around the raisins. How did this guy know so much about her past? “None of your business.”

  “Come on. What broke things for you and your family?”

  “Forget it.”

  “They look like good people on paper, though I understand that can be deceiving.”

  She gave him a hard look—she didn’t appreciate the grilling, but there was something else. A dark, driven quality to his questioning. This guy had issues. Demons. “They were good people,” she said simply. That was the shame of it. They’d given her everything and it hadn’t been enough.

  “You didn’t want others to define you,” he said finally. “You wanted to define yourself.”

  “That’s what you think, huh?” Not exactly right, though not so crazy.

  “You were in juvie with those girls, but it started before that,” he tried. “It’s something with your friends.”

  The intensity of his attention was unsettling—she was usually the one in the shadows, unlocking safes, unlocking clients. “The boyfriend doesn’t get that part until the third date.”

  He came around the counter, seeming energized. “You go back with them, probably to grade school. Nobody else saw what you could be except those girls. You believed in each other. You made girlish vows to fight back. And all the people who read you wrong, all the people who underestimated you, they could fuck themselves.”

  What the hell was this guy? “I’m not playing this with you.”

  “You would show everybody. You vowed to make them pay.”

  Her pulse raced. “Not even close. It was never about showing anybody or making them pay,” she whispered. “Ever.”

  He caged her against the refrigerator with his arms, drew near her, all lips and peanut butter breath. She realized only then that she’d given him answers in the form of negatives. “What, then?”

  She felt flower magnets at her back. The idea of his hand between her legs blotted out every thought in her head.

  “Tell me what it was about, Angel.” His whisper was seductive. She felt the door between reality and his fantasy edge open, his fingers sliding along her sex. “Tell me why. Tell me the secret.”

  She pushed him away. “Fuck off. Don’t mess with my head—that’s not in the bargain. And we didn’t have sex the first night and that’s final.”

  “Okay.” He flicked his hair out of his eyes and grabbed another rice cake. “The second date, then. We saw a movie.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Since we’re dealing with people like you and Borgola, I guess it’s believable enough.”

  “Don’t put me in with Borgola,” he said. “I’m not like him.”

  “That’s not exactly talk that will impress the boss, right? Don’t you admire him? Aspire to be like him?”

  “Let’s just figure out what movie we saw.” They compared notes on what they’d seen and settled on a recent superhero flick.

  “Third date. I made you dinner here,” she said.

  “And you’ve been crazy about me ever since.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “What do I think you do?”

  “You know I’m a security guy. I used to be a private investigator in Michigan.”

  “I hate mushrooms,” she said.

  “I hate dill.”

  “That can be our bond,” she said. “I hate dill, too. That can be the centerpiece of our relationship. And some people cook with it exclusively. Have you noticed that?”

  “This can work.” A little smile appeared on his face. “Though that’s hardly the centerpiece in our relationship.”

  “I thought you wanted to leave out the part that you’re blackmailing me. Threatening my friends.” She said that as much for herself as for him. “And by the way, when does Aggie go free?”

  “It’s looking they’ll have her free tonight. Let me see what you packed. I want to make sure you’re bringing some hot dresses. Like you really want to impress.”

  “Hot dresses are not my safecracking outfit of choice.”

  “What is?”

  “Black one-piece and mask.”

  “A cat suit?”

  “With a tool belt and a holster.”

  He went still. Swallowed. “That’s kind of hot, honey.” From his expression she guessed he was imagining her in it.

  “It’s hotter in concept than reality, Cole.”

  “I doubt that, honey.”

  She smiled, enjoying his attention. Heaven help her, she liked him. In spite of everything, she liked him. So messed up.

  “However, it won’t do for a visit to casa Borgola,” he continued. “You need to bring a hot dress and a swimsuit, too.”

  “A swimsuit? No swimsuits,” she said. She’d seen the girls in the pool, jumping around for all to see. She hated cameras and being onstage in any way. And she would hate that.

  “That’s a deal breaker,” he said. “You gotta do the swimsuit. It’s part of the cover.”

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t see how this can work.”

  “Come on. Let’s see your closet. I’ll help you. We’ll be amazing together.”

  “Who’s saying that? My partner against Borgola or my fake boyfriend?”

  “Both,” he said. “Come on. I have a persona with him, and I want us to make sense.”

  She regarded him warily and then led him into the bedroom. Her suitcase was open on the bed.

  They chose a selection of two dresses. He threw out her cat suit. “I’m going to recommend casualwear for the safecracking.”

  �
��You know where the safe is yet? Did the tracking thing work?”

  “The trackers are operational but he hasn’t moved them out of his office.”

  “Could that be where the secret safe is?”

  “No way. The stones are in his desk, probably a locked drawer, but he’s got to transfer them soon.”

  “That’s a lot of money to be leaving lying around,” she said. “Easily fifteen mil. You don’t think he suspects?”

  “There’s always that chance.”

  “How big a chance?”

  “Big enough.”

  “Crap,” she said. “What’s so damn important in that safe?”

  “Information.”

  “And you have to get this stuff? It has to be this ASAP?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “It’ll be fine. This thing is going to turn out okay. It has to.”

  Ah, the desperation in his voice, the way it had to turn out okay, which in no way meant it would turn out okay. She knew it like an old familiar song—two notes come on and you could sing the whole thing, complete with gusty breaths and guitar solos. Her men were always on a self-destructive path, and it was always too late to save them. The familiarity would be perversely comforting if it didn’t involve running back into Borgola’s clutches.

  Her men.

  Had she really thought of him like that? Well, they had had sex, in a kind of alternate realm. She was still hot from it.

  “You got swimwear in there?” he asked, startling her.

  “Seriously?”

  “Tell me you have a bikini.”

  She did, but she also had fire-engine-red one-piece that looked great with her dark hair. She grabbed it out of her drawer.

  “Cole’s girlfriend wears heels to the pool,” he said.

  “I don’t know about this. I would never wear heels with a swimsuit. Borgola’s not an idiot. Darling.”

  “We’ll pull it off,” he said.

  “Yeah. We’ll see.”

  “No. Not we’ll see. We will.” He got this stormy, serious look suddenly, and he put out his hands. She regarded them warily. “Come on,” he said. She relented, resting her hands in his. He squeezed. “We’re going to be amazing and come though this like magic, okay?”

  It was here that she realized he was saying it for himself, too.

  What the hell. She’d always had been a sucker for a good fantasy. “I’ll bring my lucky lipstick,” she said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Angel couldn’t believe she was riding in through those gates again. She and Cole had grabbed a bite at a deli and discussed more of their story and how things would go. He warned her about the other security guys—not dangerous to her, but crude. Some other women would be there, and a lot of them were prostitutes. It was the culture of the place, he said.

  Great.

  They cleared the gates and headed up the driveway toward the five-story white stucco mansion with its bright red tile roof and trim and grand wings and balconies. Built in the 1920s, she guessed, probably for somebody in the film industry. And far too beautiful to be in the hands of a monster like Borgola.

  He pulled around back, past grand red tile stairs that led down to an emerald-green lawn and over to the very side, the entrance to a far wing.

  “You sure he won’t recognize me from the party?” she asked.

  “Without those boobs and all that makeup?” He snorted, like the very idea was ridiculous. Cole had firm opinions on things like that. He seemed perfectly at home in the enemy camp, too. He still hadn’t gotten the location of the safe, though. That worried her. She suspected it worried him, too.

  “Like I said, I’m going to be a little different in there,” he said. “More possessive.”

  “Do you open doors for me?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “A little bit caveman.”

  “And do you have an unnaturally high opinion of your sexual prowess?”

  “Be serious, Angel. You need to get into this part. An actor doesn’t just walk on camera in character. He works up to it.”

  “I don’t need lessons from you on how to pull this off.”

  “Humor me. I’m a kiss-up security guard and wanna-be tough guy Cole. You’re my fawning new girlfriend. We need to be seamless with it. There are eyes and ears in the hallways and a lot of other spaces, so stay in character.”

  “I know where there’re cameras,” she said. “We ripped this place off under your nose, remember?”

  He didn’t reply, just turned off the truck and opened his door. She opened her door. “Close it,” he snapped.

  “What?”

  “Close the damn door. You’re already out of character.”

  She closed it.

  He walked around and opened her door, took her hand, helped her down.

  “Sheesh,” she said.

  “I’m serious. What do you do now?”

  She smiled, looking around. “This place is amazing, honey. I think I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

  “Better. People could be watching us out here, you know.” He shut the door and took her suitcase out of the back. Then he hooked his arm around her neck, Neanderthal-style, and they headed down the walk and in through the side door. The barracks wing, it was called. There was a note of sarcasm in his voice when he told her that. She wasn’t the only one not perfectly in character.

  The hallway smelled like meat and smoke and something minty. Though even in these back areas designed for staff, the proportions were stately and the decorative molding was intact. It really was a gem of a home. Did Cole think his boss would be taking it over when he got whatever he was going for?

  Cole grunted hellos to a couple of scary-looking guys heading the other way.

  “Home sweet home,” Cole said, unlocking a door with the number 23 painted on it.

  Apparently Borgola’s security guys didn’t get much in the way of accommodations. His room was simple, nothing more than a giant bedroom with a kitchenette nook at one end. A chair and table stood by the window. She was glad to see he had his own bathroom. The place was like a homier-than-normal hotel room. Angel eyed the small couch. One of them would damn well be sleeping there tonight.

  He set her suitcase on the bed and grabbed a white card off the floor near the door, scowled at it. “Boss expects us at the pool at three for cocktail hour.”

  “Cocktails at three? I can’t be drunk, Cole.”

  He turned to her. “Surely you can manage that without insulting our host, can’t you honey?”

  She could. She’d often had to pretend to drink in the jewel thief life.

  “I want you to make a good impression on the boss,” he said. “I just know he’ll be as crazy about you as I am.”

  “That’s convincing,” she said.

  Cole sat at his desk by the window, fired up his tablet, and pulled out his phone.

  “Anything?”

  “Still nothing,” he said.

  “I have a contractor meeting in two days,” she said. “And I’m supposed to go out and meet with a seamstress about a client’s curtains.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see?”

  “Yeah.” He typed away, fingers flying.

  “What? Just like that? Like I’m your pet?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  Heat invaded her face. “I really do need to meet that seamstress tomorrow.”

  “You prefer door number one? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  He didn’t even bother to look up, to hear her answer. She walked around, feeling like she was in a cage. Well, she was in a cage, like a songbird, plucked out of its life in the trees. She picked up a martial arts magazine. “Is this all your stuff?”

  “Whose else would it be? The mailman’s?” He stood and pulled off his shirt.

  Her breath caught as she took in his broad, muscular shoulders. She looked away, back at the magazine, but the image was there now, damn him.

  He wasn’t ripped like a bodybuil
der, he was just big and strong, the kind of strength that came more from working or fighting. His skin was golden, with a smattering of hair across his chest, but she couldn’t get her mind off that arrow of hair pointing down toward the snaps…that he was now unsnapping—she saw it out the corner of her eye.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she said.

  “Dressing for dinner. We can’t be late. Put on your bathing suit.”

  He unsnapped another snap, then smiled a wicked smile when she shot him another glance. “Do I need to do this in private to keep you from ravishing me?” Again he drew his hand over his belly. “I know how you feel about this, girl.”

  Would that joke never get old? No. Not as long as he knew it affected her.

  He unsnapped another snap. She couldn’t look away.

  “And as you know from our dates, it only gets more impressive from here.”

  “You are such a freak.” She spun around and unzipped her suitcase. The suitcase was part of her rare, expensive Sunny Soto luggage set. After she’d given up diamonds she’d gone through a designer phase, splurging on the most beautiful, well-made things she could find, needing to surround herself with beauty. It didn’t work any better than the diamonds.

  Just get through this, she told herself, pulling out her red suit and heels and toiletries. With her eyes perfectly straight ahead, she marched into the bathroom and shut the door. She stripped off her clothes, folded them nicely, and set them on the toilet seat. Then she put on her bathing suit. The suit was a strapless one-piece with a gold metal circle between the breasts. The red heels were madly perfect with it. She fixed up her hair and put on lipstick. Not her lucky lipstick. The lucky lipstick was for the job only.

  Then she realized her cover-up was back in her suitcase.

  She cursed herself for being so eager to get away from the hotness of a disrobing Cole that she’d forgotten it. She didn’t want to parade out there in her suit like a Miss America contestant, there to be viewed and judged. She’d never liked it when she and her posse used to dress up in slutty outfits for a job, but at least then the sluttiness was a kind of fuck you. This was somehow worse, because she wanted him to approve.

  Ugh!

  Just another job, she told herself. She took a breath and strolled out like it was nothing.