by Kim Foster
He nodded. “We perfected the art of thievery, waiting for our chance. Over the years we expanded beyond that original goal, but we never fully lost sight of it. We’ve always had a team assigned to it.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, thinking. “So where’s that team now?”
The Chairman smiled. “Well, that’s why Wesley is here. Wesley Smith has been handling that side of things.”
“Our team, it seems, was one step behind you,” Wesley said. “We were duped, fed bad information, and led away to the other side of the city. Nicole Johnson’s handiwork, as a matter of fact. We didn’t know the true location was Westminster, until a core member of our team in Seattle figured it out and notified us right away, through Templeton. I believe you know him: Jack Barlow.”
My mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious.”
And suddenly, it all made sense. Jack, so secretive. At the masquerade ball. His warnings. And in the restaurant, he had known the Aurora Egg had been stolen. He’d wanted to know if I’d had anything to do with it.
“Are you telling me Jack has been working for AB&T all this time?” I asked. How could this be?
“No, not exactly,” Wesley said. “He’s more of a ... consultant. We’ve approached him many times to come and work for us, but he’s always refused. But his father was a part of the team seeking the Gifts. Jack Barlow always respected that. Otherwise, he’s been trying as hard as he can to stay clear of our way of life.”
“Goodness knows why,” Templeton quipped, grinning.
“So ...” I could hardly even ask. “Is Jack here?” My stomach was cartwheeling.
“No. He couldn’t make it in time.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t help feeling a pinch of disappointment.
“And what about Nicole?” I asked, trying to stay focused on the other issues at hand. “You mentioned her. Did she get away?”
Wesley’s face stiffened and his lip curled with distaste. “Unfortunately, she did get away. Nicole was Caliga, had been all along. She’d been under deep cover within the FBI for a few years. You can be sure the FBI will be hunting her down now, though.”
It wasn’t a lot of comfort. I didn’t like the idea of her out there, at large.
The dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral loomed, floodlit, beyond the bridge. The Chairman smiled at me. “The good news, here, Cat, is that we’re not going to be firing you. How could we fire the one person who helped us achieve our two-thousand-year-old goal?”
And here, I cringed. “But, I didn’t, actually.” With a wave of nausea I envisioned the Fabergé plummeting, disappearing into the fog. I could barely bring myself to tell them. “It’s gone. It’s destroyed.” I described how I let it fall from the height of Big Ben.
The three men exchanged a peculiar look. “In fact,” said Templeton, “it’s not quite so simple. Because nothing has yet been found. Despite having a team do an exhaustive search of the area.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
Brooke laughed. “What, it just disappeared into the mist?”
“Well,” Wesley said, “we’re not sure. But, it’s something like that. We’ll find it. Eventually. This has . . . happened before.”
This was too much to think about just now. They seemed fully prepared, however, to handle whatever came next. I was fully prepared to let them.
I turned and looked over the water, half listening as the others discussed an exit strategy and a plan to return home. At that moment a riverboat glided out from under the bridge, on the far side of the river. A figure in a hooded slicker stood on the back of the boat, gazing in our direction. I narrowed my eyes. There was something familiar about the man’s face....
Wait a second. Was that Professor Atworthy? My French lit professor at UW?
I squinted to get a better look in the gloomy darkness. Another boat passed by, obscuring my view for a moment. By the time I could see him again, the man had turned away and his hood was up. I couldn’t make out his face anymore. I frowned and shook my head—was I seeing things now? Why on earth would Atworthy be here? No. I must have been imagining it.
I glanced back at the group, wondering if anyone else had noticed the riverboat, when a big black London cab pulled up beside us. The passenger door opened and out stepped Jack Barlow.
The instant his foot touched the wet pavement his gaze went immediately to me, face full of concern. My heart gave a lurch of excitement. He’s come for me....
Which was ridiculous. Of course, he was just here to help AB&T. “You’re too late, Jack,” I said, all business. “Your team has already told me everything.”
My eyes slid to Ethan. He had stepped back and was watching Jack carefully. His jaw was clenched and his mouth was set in a grim line.
Jack nodded. “I know.” He walked directly to me, barely casting a glance at anyone else. His eyes raked me over, presumably looking for injuries. He looked relieved when he found none. “I came here because I needed to find someone.”
And then, as if it were on the the Cyclone at Coney Island, my heart surged again. Just briefly. But I quickly scolded myself. He’d come to London for Nicole, of course. Stupid, Cat. He must have been worried sick once he learned her life was in danger. Nicole, I now know, was only with Jack to monitor Caliga enemies. But Jack had no such calculating motives.
And just like that, my heart was breaking all over again. I wanted to scream. But what I said was: “I don’t know how to tell you this, Jack, but Nicole is not who you think she is—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “I didn’t come here for Nicole.” I stared at him, like an idiotic deer in headlights.
“Cat ... I’m here for you,” he said.
“You—you’re what?”
“It’s always been you, Cat.”
The bridge tilted. Jack didn’t appear to care that we had an audience. He cradled my face in his hands and pulled me into a deep kiss.
My heart burst like hot popcorn. I forgot about everything else that was happening.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t hesitate if I got this chance again,” he murmured. “I need you to know that I was wrong. So wrong ...”
I pulled away, gazing into his eyes. “Wrong about what?”
“That I could live without you. It was stupid. And I’m sorry. I just can’t stand being away from you. Maybe you’re toxic, but I can’t help myself.” He smiled a crooked smile. “I’m hoping I haven’t screwed things up too badly,” he said, looking down sheepishly. Suddenly he looked nervous. He shifted anxiously, like an awkward teenager asking a girl to dance.
My head was spinning. This was all happening so fast.
I remembered, then, everyone else standing with us on the bridge. My eyes swiveled involuntarily to Ethan. He had turned away; his hand scrubbed his face as he gazed over the shifting water. I frowned and felt a twist in my chest.
But I turned back to Jack. Here he was, laying his heart out at my feet, saying the exact words I’d fantasized about him saying.
“Jack, let’s just take it slow,” I said. “This is all so much to deal with....”
“You’re right,” he said, nodding and brushing a strand of hair from my face. “There’s no need to rush. How about this—let’s just start with dinner.” He smiled. And those familiar, melting-chocolate eyes gazing into my face made my knees wobble. “How does that sound?”
The night sky was just barely beginning to lighten, washed with the chalkiness that heralds sunrise. Morning civil twilight is a sacred time of day for thieves: many ancient laws specified that, with the first light before sunrise, the nighttime crime of burglary was less wicked. Daybreak offered a sliver of forgiveness for crooks.
I heard the swish of tires as glossy black cabs slid over the bridge; the city was just beginning to wake. In the distant sky a jet plane was climbing out of Heathrow.
And my heart aimed for the moon.
I took a full, deep breath. “Dinner sounds perfect.”
Look for the next A
B&T novel by Kim Foster,
coming in June 2014 from eKensington!
And visit Kim at www.kimfosterwrites.com
for more news about upcoming projects.
Acknowledgments
First, I would like to thank my agent, Sandy Lu, for playing the role of fairy godmother and plucking my manuscript out of her inbox. “I’m not scared of books that cross genres,” she said. “I like them, in fact.” Bless her brave soul.
I want to thank Peter Senftleben, my editor at Kensington, for championing Cat’s cause, criminal though it was. His ideas are fabulous, his humor is wicked, his editing eye is sharp. He has been the best Sherpa a debut novelist could ask for.
I owe a debt of gratitude to the following mentors, teachers, and early readers of Cat’s story: Don Maass, Cameron McClure, Elizabeth Lyon, Carolyn Rose, and Lisa Rector Maass. My education as a writer would have been sadly lacking without their guidance.
A big hug goes to Eileen Cook for all manner of writerly support, and for holding my hand as I jumped into the abyss.
Thank you, Starbucks, for letting me share office space with you. And providing fuel.
I happen to have the most amazing support network a mom-writer-blogger has ever had. To Erica Ehm and all the awesome bloggers at the Yummy Mummy Club, and to all my fellow writers and bloggers and social media goddesses (you know who you are): I raise a glass of wine (or two) to you all.
Cheers and hugs go to my sisters, Deb and Vivi, for being my best friends, my first readers, and my unconditional fan club.
I give kudos to my father for exercising extreme restraint when faced with a fully trained, licensed, and practicing physician-daughter unaccountably chasing a deep desire to actually be a writer instead.
I will forever thank my mother for sharing her love of words with me, and for teaching me that dangling participles are at least as dangerous as dangling from tall buildings.
My heart is full of gratitude for my husband Ken. I want to thank him for embracing his solitary side and entertaining himself while I spent countless hours writing. Even more so for entertaining the kids. But mostly, for taking on the laundry. Around the third draft of this manuscript, he had mastered the division of colors and whites. Around the twelfth draft, he had achieved fifth level fitted-sheet fold. Ken, you ground me, you make me laugh, you keep me sane.
Finally, I want to thank my boys. Quite simply, you are my jewels.
eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2013 by Kim Foster
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-1-6018-3064-7
First Electronic Edition: June 2013