Thief for Hire

by Jillianne Hamilton

  We both rolled onto our backs and stared at the ceiling.

  “Well then. That was fun.” Nate struggled to catch his breath. “Really, really good.”

  I nodded. “Uh-huh.” My bare stomach was moist with perspiration. Ew. I pulled a sheet over my torso, suddenly feeling exposed. Too exposed.

  Neither of us said anything for a while. What was there to say?

  Shit.

  * * *

  I hid in my room until he left for work that afternoon. I don’t think my room has ever been so tidy. I even exercised in there. Anything to avoid directly thinking about what I had just done and all the ways it could ruin a perfectly good roommate relationship.

  You are a very stupid woman.

  I know.

  For serious. What were you thinking?

  I wasn’t thinking.

  Maybe you should get a female roommate next time around. Or maybe you’d end up fucking her, too.

  I could keep living with Nate and keep things professional.

  Sure you can.

  Oh, shut up.

  If I continue living with him and things progress, I’m going to have to tell him I’m a burglar for bounty. But perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. It was just sex. He probably thinks of me as a good friend … whom he can have slightly uncomfortable sex with sometimes.

  Oh, gross. What is happening to me?

  * * *

  Later that evening, I slid into a bubble bath. The water was just the perfect temperature and Norah Jones sang to me from my iPod. It’s funny how comforting a bubble bath can be. All can feel right with the world, even just for a short time.

  That is, until your employer calls.

  I dried off my hands and fumbled with the phone, trying not to drop it into the bath with me.

  “Good lord, Betty. Do you do anything else but sleep?”

  “I wasn’t sleeping.” My jaw clenched. “And I’m fine. How are you?”

  “The job in Scotland has been bumped up. The client will be in London for a few days for a conference. Your partner wants to do some prep before that. There’s a flight from JKF leaving in three hours. Can you—”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Anything to get out of New York for a few days.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I left a note on the kitchen table for Nate:

  Aunt Grace is having emergency gall bladder surgery. Going to Vermont for a few days. Not sure when I’ll be back. -M

  I don’t even have an Aunt Grace, but I figured that was probably better than Avoiding you by going back to the UK for the second time in a week, this time to steal a painting or two. Ya know, the usual.

  I was lucky enough to sleep for nearly the entire flight to London, my first of two flights that day. I felt like a zombie when I got there. I needed coffee so very, very badly.

  Heathrow Airport is like a city within a city. Tourists, business travelers and everyone in between all rushing to catch transit and connecting flights. I like it because it’s easy to go unnoticed.

  I went through customs, finally found a little coffee shop and joined the queue. I was so out of it. I opened my little travel clutch and checked my tickets and passport for the tenth time. I stared off into space.

  What the hell am I gonna do about Nate? Was it a one-time thing? Are we going to try to be in a relationship? I can’t do relationships. My life is way too complicated for that. This situation is just so totally fu—

  I was poked in the back. Hard.

  “Jeez, ow!” I whipped my head around.

  The man behind me put the tip of his umbrella back down on the floor. He was tall, maybe in his late twenties. He wore a tailored wool suit, obviously expensive—not a speck of dandruff or lint on it. His wavy golden brown hair rested on his shoulders. His goatee was neatly groomed, and one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows arched while he smiled at me.

  “Did you just poke me with your umbrella?”

  “I did.” He grinned.

  “Could you maybe, I dunno, not do that?” My eyes narrowed. “It’s pretty friggin’ rude.”

  “Could you perhaps move ahead in line and order your double espresso mocha latte cappuccino?” he said in an Italian accent. “Or whatever the hell it is you Americans drink.”

  “Of course,” I snapped. “Like Europe doesn’t have Starbucks now.” I moved ahead in line.

  He snickered and threw money on the counter. “Get the lady whatever she likes.” He smiled at me. “Take it easy, Molly.” And then he disappeared into the crowd.

  My heart lurched in my chest. My face felt warm.

  The barista stared at me. I gripped the handle of my suitcase to try to stop my hand from trembling.

  “Oh, um, I’ll have … uh … coffee? Black coffee,” I blurted.

  Nobody on this side of the Atlantic is supposed to know my name is Molly. Over here I’m Betty Bruce, not Molly. I try to make a point of not introducing myself to people here—not as Betty and especially not as Molly. Who the hell is that guy? How does he know who I am? Where did he go?

  Not good.

  He saw the real me. No wig and no big dark sunglasses to hide behind. Now I couldn’t put on my wig until after the flight, in case I ran into him again. Had I maybe met him before? Did I know him from New York somehow and just wasn’t recognizing him?

  I checked my watch. I only had twenty minutes before my connecting flight to Aberdeen.

  I sat at a table near the café and tapped my foot as I sipped my coffee. This had never happened to me before. I didn’t know if I should abandon the mission or call Audrey. I grabbed my phone and called her, just in case. No answer.

  Word to the wise: don’t glance around frantically and look like a nervous wreck in a big airport. It causes security to keep an eye on you.

  I got my sunglasses out of my suitcase and put them on. It made me feel a tiny bit more secure. Also a bit like a celebrity hiding from paparazzi.

  I slurped my coffee and checked a nearby clock every thirty seconds. I tried calling Audrey again but there was still no answer. I’d have to go ahead with the assignment.

  Maybe I misheard him. Maybe he said “honey” and not “Molly.” It’s busy and loud in here. I might’ve just imagined it. In fact, he probably said “honey.” Or “Polly.” Or “Collie.” Yeah, that’s it. “Collie.” I bet “Collie” is just what Italians call strangers they meet at airports. It probably happens all the time!

  The gate for my flight opened. I tossed my coffee and rolled my suitcase down a hall, up an escalator, down an escalator and down another hall. Heathrow is big. Have I mentioned that? I waited to board the next flight with a few other passengers. Thankfully, this flight was fairly quick—about an hour and a half. That was peanuts after flying over the Atlantic twice in three days.

  I followed the other passengers on and took my seat. I’d been wise this time and booked a comfortable seat in business class for the trip over to London but hadn’t bothered for this one.

  We were minutes from takeoff when the empty seat next to me was suddenly filled by none other than the rude Italian in the expensive suit.

  I avoided eye contact but could see his Cheshire Cat grin, even from the corner of my eye. He kept smiling directly at me until I gave up and looked back at him.

  “Oh,” I said, “you again.” I wanted to say a lot more than that but was trying to stay calm and not make a scene.

  “I bought you coffee. The least you can do is thank me,” he said.

  “You also poked me with an umbrella.”

  He lowered his voice. “Now, don’t be like that, Molly.” This time I knew for sure he said my name. “I meant no harm.”

  “My name is not Molly,” I snapped.

  “Of course it isn’t.” He winked at me, his blue eyes sparkling.

  I turned back towards the window.

  “We haven’t even taken off. There’s really not much to see out there yet.”

  I threw him a glare and grabbed the in-flight magaz
ine. I flipped to an article titled “Ten Can’t-Miss Restaurants in Wales” and pretended to be immersed in it. It didn’t work.

  “My name is Rhys, by the way.”

  I nodded, still staring at the magazine. “That’s nice.”

  He took out his phone, typed something and handed it to me. I rolled my eyes, tucked the magazine between my thighs and looked at the message.

  You should probably know my name if we’re going to be working together for a few days.

  I looked up at him to see his expression. He smiled and lifted his hand to playfully wave.

  No way. This has got to be a fucking joke.

  That didn’t clear up how he knew my name, what I looked like or why he was being an irritating jackass. Audrey knows me as Betty, and Paul knew me as Betty before that.

  I handed his phone back. “Wonderful. Perhaps we can talk about this a little more when we get to Aberdeen.”

  Rhys shrugged. “Of course.”

  He spent most of the flight playing Angry Birds on his phone and flirting with flight attendants. He even got a free drink out of it. He was certainly handsome and charming in a James Bond sort of way, but his cocky arrogance was unbearable.

  So. This was to be my partner in crime for the biggest burglary assignment I’d ever done. He wasn’t exactly trying to blend in. Like, at all.

  He leaned over and tapped the shoulder of the woman across the aisle. Her shiny, shoulder-length red hair framed a round face. The woman’s green eyes lit up when she realized Rhys was about to speak to her.

  “I didn’t know there was a fashion show happening in Scotland any time soon,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh,” he said, blinking dumbly. “I assume you’re a model.”

  The woman giggled and blushed. “No, just visiting some friends,” she said in a timid English accent.

  “What do you do when you’re not visiting friends?”

  “I’m an office manager.”

  “You’re joking!” Rhys said. “I don’t believe it! You’re too beautiful for that!”

  The man next to her—obviously her husband or boyfriend—was glaring at him hard. I thought he might leap out of his seat and strangle Rhys right there.

  I sank further and further into my seat. I’ve always found comfort in being invisible. If you’re not seen, you can’t be identified. But sitting next to Casanova was putting me on edge since several sets of eyeballs were aimed in our direction.

  We are going to get noticed. Someone will be able to identify us and I’ll end up doing jail time because of his stupidity. What was Audrey thinking, pairing me up with this shithead?

  The best thing I could do was put on my headphones and pretend not to know him. Once we arrived in Aberdeen, I could easily lose him in a crowd.

  Call Audrey and get the location details from her. There is no way I’m going to jeopardize my future because of this guy. No way.

  We arrived at Aberdeen International Airport in the middle of the afternoon and I avoided Rhys as much as I could. I didn’t want to be associated with him and I definitely didn’t want people to think we were traveling together.

  He caught up to me. “You’re in a rush.”

  “I have to call Audrey.”

  “About what?”

  I stared at him and glanced at the crowd at the airport. “Something’s come up.”

  “You’ll have to call her later. Our car is waiting.” His accent switched from Italian to Scottish and the look in his eyes was suddenly serious. “Come with me.”

  “What the hell?” I whispered. “You’re not Italian?”

  Rhys smiled at me over his shoulder and winked. “I’m a man of many, many, many talents.”

  This guy was seriously ooky. I followed him out of the airport, dragging my suitcase behind me. “Wait, where’s your suitcase?” I said.

  “I don’t have one.” He shrugged and kept walking, quickly but not unusually so for a traveler in an airport.

  The change in his accent and mannerisms was unsettling. A knot formed in my stomach as we navigated through the airport and found the car rental place. Rhys was putting my suitcase into the trunk of a black BMW with tinted windows when I was struck by fear.

  What if this guy tries to murder me? The police report would say I got right in the car with no struggle so I must have known the suspect.

  Well, the report would say that about Betty Bruce, not me, since my work passport and ID cards were in my bag—nothing that would identify me as Molly Miranda.

  I still didn’t know how Rhys knew my name. I didn’t even know for sure if Audrey arranged this.

  I took a step back from the car. “I think I’d better call Audrey.”

  Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “What for?” He glanced around to see if anybody was noticing this little exchange. Suddenly he was concerned about appearances.

  “She asked me to check in when I got to Scotland.”

  Rhys rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. But hurry up, we’ve gotta go.”

  I ducked into a nearby ladies washroom and away from Rhys. After five rings, she picked up.

  “Audrey. It’s Betty. I’m at the airport in Aberdeen.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “Did Rhys meet you in London?”

  “Er, yes—”

  “Is there a problem?” She sounded annoyed.

  “This guy checks out with you? I’m not sure he’s trustworthy. He wasn’t exactly trying to blend in on the flight—”

  “He’s professional, he knows the area and he’s been doing this longer than you,” she snapped. “You could learn a thing or two from him. Now, go do your job.”

  And then she hung up on me. I really wished she’d stop doing that.

  Sometimes I wondered if putting my life in the hands of that woman was a good idea.

  I came out of the bathroom and walked towards the car. Rhys, already sitting in the driver’s seat, ready to go, raised an eyebrow at me.

  “So?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “If you turn out to be a serial killer and I get stabbed to death, I’m going to be so pissed.”

  We didn’t say much until we got out onto the highway.

  “So,” I said, “are you actually Scottish or is that just a fake accent too?”

  He smiled. “Yes, I’m actually Scottish. Do you know a lot of Italian men named Rhys? And don’t worry. I’m not a murdering psychopath either.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Some women try to avoid getting into vehicles with men they don’t know, especially when they are in a place they’ve never been.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. He frowned instead. “Good point. My apologies.” He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You’re a bit younger than I was expecting. How long have you been doing this sort of work?”

  “Long enough. Does it always rain here?”

  “Yup.”

  “Great.”

  I really need to get Audrey to book an assignment for me in, say, Morocco.

  We drove for about an hour, eventually turning off onto a stone driveway and pulling up to a manor that looked about a thousand years old.

  “What’s this?”

  Rhys raised an eyebrow. “It’s an inn. We’ll be staying here for a couple of days.” He glanced out the windows to check for witnesses then reached behind his neck, peeling off a wig. The short, dark hair underneath was slightly disheveled. He ran his hand through it and it fell back into place all by itself. It was kind of magical.

  He smiled at me, looking much more professional and less like a poor man’s Fabio. “Had you fooled, didn’t I?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Obviously not. Anyone for miles could tell that was a wig.”

  Totally didn’t realize that was a wig. I should’ve been able to tell.

  He reached across me and popped open the glove box. He tossed the wig inside and got out of the car.

  I followed him down a cobbled path and up a set of stone stairs. R
hys opened the heavy medieval-style door and we went inside. Rustic wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling in the lobby, and light fixtures that looked like candlesticks were mounted on the wood-paneled walls. Classical music played somewhere but was dulled by the rain pounding against the windows. Beautiful Persian rugs lined the floor. I felt bad stepping on them with my wet sneakers.

  As we got closer to the reception desk, Rhys grabbed my hand and pulled me tight to his side, shoving a ring into my palm.

  “We’re a couple,” he whispered. “Go along with it. Don’t say anything.”

  Inside, my blood boiled. His wife! Yeah, right. My knuckles hurt as I squeezed my fists, fighting the urge to shove him, grab the car key and make a run for it.

  I tried to slide the gold band, complete with one monster of a rock mounted on it, onto my ring finger but it was too small. I bit my lip and forced it over my knuckle, squeaking in pain as it pinched my finger.

  I’m going to have to cut off that finger.

  “Good day. How may I help you?” said an older woman with a gentle Scottish accent who was sitting at the front desk. She had her hands folded in her lap. When she looked up at us, her cheeks glowed pink. She looked like almost every cartoon character of “Grandma” ever drawn.

  “This is some place y’all got here,” Rhys said, slipping effortlessly into a Texas accent—a pretty good one, too. “How old is the building?”

  “Well, it’s been in my family for generations,” she gushed. “First built in the early 1600s. It’s been renovated quite a few times since then, though, I assure you.” She giggled.

  “Wonderful!” He looked around and nodded approvingly. “We’d like to book a room for two days.” He wrapped his arm tight around my shoulder, giving me a squeeze. “We’re on our honeymoon.” He kissed me hard on the cheek.

  I forced a weak smile and my nose twitched.

  I hope my eyes aren’t full of tears right now. They may have to cut off the entire finger. Or it’ll just fall off from lack of blood flow. Can a finger just fall off like that? Or would it just shrivel up, die and then just dangle there? Oh gross. Hang in there, finger. We’ll get through this.