Danger and Desire: Ten Full-Length Steamy Romantic Suspense Novels

by Pamela Clare

  Twenty minutes later, Angel and her friends were dropping into a pitch-black crawl space behind the master bedroom.

  Jenny flicked on a flashlight.

  Angel unwound her earbuds and put her attention on the wall that abutted the big man’s bedroom. It wouldn’t do to pop in if it was occupado.

  She breathed in deeply, enjoying the exhilaration of crossing forbidden lines, of seeing and hearing everything from inside the shadows, of defying danger with nothing but skill and smarts. It was delicious to be back.

  She put the drum of the stethoscope-like extension to the wall.

  Her girls watched and waited, two sets of eyes peering through facemask holes, as Angel twisted the tiny dial on the tool, blood racing. This device was not your grandmother’s sonar; it could sense movement as well as topography. Nobody was utterly still; your heart gave you away if nothing else.

  When she determined the bedroom stood empty she gave the thumbs up.

  Quietly, Macy removed an access panel behind the master bath.

  Just like that, they were in.

  Borgola’s bedroom was decorated much like the rest of the place, all velvet and gold. “Yo, Borgola,” Angel whispered. “Luxury is so 1998.”

  White Jenny snorted.

  Angel smiled. It felt good to be back with women who loved and accepted her. If only they’d opened an ice cream stand or something instead of a jewel thief ring.

  Macy headed toward a large oil painting, another erotic monster pin-up. The safe would be back there. Totally obvious. But merely lifting the thing off the wall could trigger the alarm. White Jenny crouched beside Macy and found the alarm lead. She went to work, adding a redundant long line in preparation for putting an interrupter on the original line. Angel exchanged glances with Macy, who smiled all sly and knowing there in the moonlight, like she knew Angel was enjoying herself.

  Angel tipped her head, playing it nonchalant, and gazed out the window at the ocean in the distance with its brightly spangled surface hiding deep, dark danger. Her thoughts went to the man downstairs. She could still feel him on her skin. She’d wanted so badly to plunge into him.

  “Psst.”

  Macy. They were ready for her. Angel set a chair in front of the painting. It could take ten or twenty minutes of precise work to crack a safe; the last thing you wanted were tired arms. Angel got up on the chair, lifted off the painting, and handed it to White Jenny. And there it was. A Fenton Furst Mini.

  Angel ran a finger over its stainless steel face, then she smelled the dial. It hadn’t been lubed lately.

  Good.

  She turned it to get a feel for the looseness. This model was small but chock-full of rabbit holes. Sonic interference. Magnets. Her old mentor, Fenton, had been one of the premier security men in the world, but he trained safecrackers on the side. Each and every one of them was bound by the promise never to crack one of his safes while he was living. This policy had done wonders for his brand—his safes were long considered impossible to breach, but he’d died last year. Fenton Furst safes were now fair game to the few Fenton Furst-trained crackers still alive and not in jail.

  Angel had been his only female apprentice, and a Latina at that—she and Fenton always joked he was filling two quotas for the price of one with her, but she was one of his best and he knew it.

  Angel hated the rush of pride she felt in her special talent. It was wrong—she’d left this behind! But you could love something like crazy and know it was wrong. Angel understood that better than most anyone.

  She pressed a sticker over the numbers on the dial for the tiny, ultra-precise increments she needed.

  Jenny handed her the magnetic magnifying glass, designed to stick onto the safe. Angel pressed its metal body to the housing and positioned it, then she performed a sonic sweep to help her construct a mental map of the fence depth, wheels, and contact points of the mechanism. Every Fenton Furst safe was different—most people didn’t know that. She closed her eyes, sinking into it, blending mechanics and intuition.

  And lost herself.

  As the minutes ticked by, the inner workings began to take shape in her mind. She listened to the pings, absorbing low points and high points, identifying false gates and electronic interference.

  A tap on her thigh. Macy heard somebody coming—Angel knew it by the way Macy’s eyes moved behind her dusty mask, a flick to the side, then to her. Do it now or we ditch it, that’s what Macy was saying. They didn’t need words to communicate that.

  Angel delved deeper, letting the oblivion of the job take her. She turned the spindle to the right, slow and steady, all the way around to the click.

  Angel held up a finger. “Sieben,” she whispered in the dark. English was her first language, but she spoke passable Spanish, and she cracked in bad German, the language of Fenton Furst.

  Macy pulled a gun from her utility belt.

  Angel turned the spindle again, slow and steady. You didn’t rush a safecrack. She breathed herself into the safe, as Fenton Furst had taught. Another drop. Viersehn.

  Macy locked the bedroom door and shoved a chair up against it, then eased open the window.

  Setting up the Plan B escape.

  Angel lined up the gates inside the lock, slow and steady. A few minutes later, the safe swung open.

  And the alarm blared.

  “Fuck me!” Angel grabbed five velvet bags and stuffed them into her fanny pack.

  White Jenny pulled a hammer from her holster and rushed to the window to pound in the anchor for the line they’d use to escape.

  Angel pulled on her repelling gloves and followed White Jenny and Macy out the window, wishing they’d worn bulletproof vests. Borgola’s men would shoot without a second thought, but not to kill. They’d shoot to wound, so they could fuck you while you died—White Jenny had heard that from a good source. Angel thought of the guard at the party. He hadn’t seemed the type to have cruelty in him, but guys came by cruelty in a lot of different ways.

  They repelled down the three stories to the lower roof of Borgola’s mansion.

  Macy led them scrambling across the tiles of the lower roof. She’d developed all three routes. Macy was strategy, the big picture-thinking general.

  Shouts below.

  The three of them crouched in a roof nook.

  “What now?” White Jenny asked.

  “Borgola rigs the safe. Unbelievable,” Angel grumbled. “To mess with a Fenton Furst.”

  Macy pulled out a cellphone and punched in a code. “Paranoid motherfucker. Don’t worry.” She pointed the phone out at the dark lawn, at a gazebo, which promptly exploded, lighting the night.

  “Híjole!” Angel whispered.

  White Jenny snickered. “Rhonda came up with that. She’s heavy into fireworks.”

  Her gang really had moved on. They each had a grenade on their utility belt—that was new, too. Another idea courtesy of Rhonda, Angel’s safecracking replacement. Angel didn’t know how to feel about Rhonda putting her stamp on the group.

  Macy dialed in another code, activating flashing lights and a siren out in the sea of parked cars.

  “Rhonda?” Angel said.

  “Yeah. Switching up the m.o., dontchaknow,” Macy said. “It’s a diversion for this.” She tossed something over the side of the roof. A pop. Smoke bomb. “Plan C.”

  Angel nodded. They were going back up.

  White Jenny lassoed a rope over one of the chimneys. The smoke from the smoke bomb would conceal their ascent from eyes on the ground.

  Macy shimmied up into white haze. Angel heard a smash over the din of sirens—that would be Macy’s boot on the fourth floor window. White Jenny went next. Angel followed her up to the third floor, but White Jenny had trouble with the last few feet up to the fourth floor window.

  “I’m sorry,” she huffed as Angel pushed on her ass to get her up there.

  “Go, go, go.” The smoke was clearing. The men out there would see them.

  Finally, Jenny heaved hersel
f in.

  Angel shimmied up, legs and arms pumping. She felt a sharp scrape as she hauled herself over the windowsill. Macy was already in the elevator; she had the panel open and was yanking out wires.

  White Jenny pulled a vase off its pedestal next to the elevator.

  “That looks like a Nicholas I,” Angel said. “Very precious.”

  “Good.” Jenny hurled it against the wall.

  Angel winced as the thing broke into hundreds of pieces. Jenny could get kind of destructive.

  “That’s for ebony morsel and chiquita taco, racist motherfucker.” Jenny turned back to Angel with a big smile that promptly turned to a frown. “Angel, you’re bleeding.”

  Angel followed Jenny’s gaze to a rip in the sleeve of her cat suit that exposed a long gash. Dots of blood shone like jewels against her skin. “Damn!”

  Jenny was on it. She pulled Angel’s sleeve closed tight and pinned it with a safety pin.

  Angel turned on her phone light and scanned the carpet for blood drips, kicking aside the ceramic and the glass from the window. Much to her horror, she found one. “Crap!” She pulled a knife out of her boot and cut out a circle of carpet.

  The elevator car jerked up a few feet and jammed. Macy jumped down. “Jenny. Go.”

  “DNA,” Angel said to Macy. “Help me look for more.”

  “Damn.” Macy helped Angel look.

  White Jenny unfurled her rope, brushed the carpet clear with her foot, and squeezed into the space underneath the elevator car. She was to tie it to the underside; they planned to use it to slide down the shaft, one of the only ways to access the basement. A minute later, she was gone.

  “I think you got it all,” Macy said. “And we have to go.” She crawled through the gap after Jenny. “Come on!” She grabbed the rope and disappeared.

  Frantically, Angel scanned for more blood. Nothing. She knew there could be a tiny spatter. But then, even if Borgola could find it, he’d have to crack her juvenile records to match her DNA.

  It wasn’t ideal, but time was up. It would have to do.

  She stuffed the cut carpet pieces into her fanny pack, put her gloves back on, and shimmied through the space under the elevator car. She gripped the rope with her hands and legs and slid into the belly of the elevator shaft. Macy stood at the very bottom, partly illuminated by her cellphone light. She waited, holding the door open. “After you, chiquita taco.”

  Angel popped through.

  “Did you get all the blood?” Jenny asked.

  “Pretty sure,” Angel said.

  “Who cares? They can’t tell dick from your blood,” Macy said. She flicked on a flashlight. “Damn.” They stood in an intersection of four tunnels.

  It was nothing like the model.

  If they went the wrong way, they’d be screwed.

  “Jocko dies,” Jenny said. “He made up this part of his map. Didn’t think we’d find out.”

  “These could all be dead ends for all we know,” Macy said.

  Voices sounded out from somewhere above them.

  Angel felt a pang of fear. Trapped. “No,” she breathed.

  “Bitches?” Macy put up her hands and slowly lowered them, as though she were closing something. Their old signal for calm, something she’d been doing since they were twelve. “Who gets the best of us?”

  “Nobody, bitches,” White Jenny said.

  Macy fixed on Angel fiercely.

  Angel frowned. “Nobody, bitches.” Their old mantra.

  “That’s right, girls.” Macy pulled out her tube of lucky lipstick, pink with silver flecks, and rolled it around her lips through the lip hole in her facemask.

  Angel and White Jenny got out their lucky lipsticks, too.

  Putting on lucky lipstick was a kind of group meditation, a signal to the world that they were in control no matter what it looked like. The careful application of lipstick in the face of the instinct to panic and run had always given their criminal minds the space in which to work.

  Macy snapped the lipstick top on and rubbed her lips together. “Four hallways,” she finally said, stating the obvious. She pointed. “Mini HVAC. That’s the way to the mechanical.”

  White Jenny pointed at another. “Wine cellar this way, probably with a delivery door in the middle of everything. One of these other two is likely designed for escape.”

  “Agreed.” Macy pulled out her cellphone and flipped on the flashlight function. They searched the floor with their lights.

  “Boot prints,” White Jenny whispered loudly.

  “Go, go, go,” Macy said.

  They ran down the tunnel, which stretched on and on, illuminated every few yards by a fluorescent bulb. This was good. The right choice.

  They came to a metal ladder in the wall.

  “Take it,” Jenny panted. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  Macy climbed up, pushing up a cover. Cool air gusted in. “Supply road,” she whispered down. “East edge of the grounds.” She pulled herself up and disappeared. Angel went next, climbing the ladder and pulling herself up into the cool darkness. They were on the far lawn. Flashlights played around the grounds in the distance, nearer to the mansion. On the other side was the wall that ran all around the property.

  Dogs barked.

  White Jenny heaved herself up and over, and Angel replaced the cover. The three of them got up and ran like hell for the wall. White Jenny already had her rope out. She lassoed one of the spikes. Lassoing was a skill Jenny had taught herself in juvie; it had seemed innocent enough to the counselors at the time.

  Macy went first and cut the barbed wire at the top. Angel and Jenny followed over and dropped. Soon they were sprinting through the darkness on the other side of the wall, past some other houses and through a service alley.

  They reached a street that seemed almost regular, except for it being in a gated community. They wouldn’t be truly okay until they were out. They cut through lawns and went low past bushes and finally reached the community gate, which was a lot easier to get over than Borgola’s.

  Finally they were out. They collapsed together behind some bushes in the dirt, and leaned against each other, panting.

  “What if I left my DNA?” Angel asked.

  “You’re so careful,” Jenny said. “No way did you.”

  “I’m out of practice,” Angel said.

  “You did great,” Macy said.

  “Even if…nobody’s cracking those juvie records,” Jenny said.

  “This is Walter Borgola,” Angel said. “He has resources.”

  “You know how hard it is to crack into juvenile records?” Jenny asked.

  Macy stood. “Come on.” They ran the few blocks to another side street. There, like a welcome friend, was the car they’d stashed.

  They piled in and quietly shut the doors, White Jenny in the driver’s seat. “Phew!” she said.

  “And now we head back in,” Macy said.

  Angel groaned from the back seat and pulled her shoes and dress out of her pack. She unbuckled her utility belt and fanny pack and started to change.

  “We should all change back,” Macy said. “They’ll be looking at cars by now. But first…” she reached over and grabbed Angel’s fanny pack, pulled one of the velvet bags out, and carefully tipped its contents into her palm, dragging it backwards to let the diamonds spill out. A dozen smaller stones and five very large ones glittered like stars on the smooth skin of her palm.

  Angel and White Jenny watched in silence.

  Macy moved her hand slightly, letting them catch the light. “I wanna eat you up,” she whispered.

  They were breathtaking. The color, the light, the shimmer. A few of the larger ones really were significant. So much ice. Macy pointed to the largest. “There are two others like this in there. Named ones. That’s what the Flesh Boys really wanted—the named rocks.”

  “Why can’t we keep the rest?” Jenny complained.

  “I know,” Macy said. “Don’t worry, they’ll so pay.”

  �
��My turn,” Jenny said.

  Macy tipped them into Jenny’s hand. Jenny swished them around with her fingertip, just as she always did. They all had different ways of enjoying the stones. When Angel used to hold the jewels, she’d lay her cheek on them to feel them from both sides. But the truth was, holding them never give her the charge she wanted. Jewels were so much better in concept. Still, she wanted to hold them badly, just to complete the ritual of the night.

  Macy caught Angel’s eyes.

  Angel shook her head. She shouldn’t. She’d done her duty. She was out of the life. She watched White Jenny swish them.

  White Jenny looked up. “You don’t want to hold them, Angel?”

  “I’m good,” Angel said.

  “For old time’s sake?”

  “I said I’m good.” Angel sat back in the darkness. “I wanna get my weapon and have this be over.”

  Not because she was having a bad time; because she was having a good time. Because she missed it.

  The rocks went back in the bag. Soon they were driving through the quiet community and winding their way back in through the gate and back to the party.

  Earlier that night, Macy had proposed that Angel should meet Rhonda, their new safecracker, for lunch. She had this idea that Angel would be interested to meet her, and she’d even punched Rhonda’s number into Angel’s phone.

  Angel didn’t want it in there. Meeting Rhonda would be painful.

  She couldn’t be around Macy and Jenny while they were leading that life, but the loss of their friendship clawed at her heart. Sometimes she felt so lonely.

  She just couldn’t hurt people anymore—that’s why she’d quit. The last straw some five years back had been seeing one of their robbery victims on the news, weeping about the heirloom sapphire set they’d taken and fenced. It had put a face on their victims, but in truth, Angel had felt guilty about what they did for a long time.

  Beauty is skin deep, but ugly cuts clear to the bone, her father used to say to her. He’d say it when the mean, pretty girls teased her about being fat—gorda. But when she shamed the family by drinking and thieving and getting locked up with Macy and White Jenny, she’d taken it inside her, like the ugly was all through her. Even her name felt like mockery.