Tell Me What You Need

by Susan Sheehey

  Going with the flow this time didn’t seem as satisfying, as it had been all the previous years.

  Vaughn swallowed back his words and took her hand.

  She tightened her grip around his, as he kissed her fingertips.

  He wouldn’t take this dream away from her. This was her whole life, something she was passionate over. More passionate than anyone he’d ever met.

  More than that, he couldn’t risk the rejection.

  “But I want to thank you,” she continued. “For agreeing to help me. I’m not sure I would’ve reached this point without it.”

  He smiled, and pressed her hand against his chest, over his heart. “I’m sure you would’ve. One way or another. I hope you get everything you’re looking for tonight.” With a touch of his forehead to hers, he closed his eyes. “Because you deserve it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Vaughn

  Vaughn clapped Riggs on the back when his friend showed up at the hotel bar, both of them in tuxes, wearing their signature black stone cufflinks. He handed him a black masquerade mask, ones Portia Conway left at the concierge; with instructions to wear the disguise the second they walked in the ballroom. He didn’t much care for the tiny sequins framing the outside of the mask, but hey…paid gig.

  Client always gets what they want.

  “You think this Conway woman would mind if I ripped these sparkly things off?” Riggs smirked.

  “I think they help distract people from your ugly mug a little more.”

  “If I keep drinking, then yours might end up looking better than mine.” He brushed his hair off his forehead.

  “You’re not paid to be an ass.”

  He motioned to the bartender for a shot of whiskey. “I’m not on duty until I walk into that room.”

  Vaughn asked for one as well. Just something to help loosen him up for a night of dancing with a bunch of wealthy elitists. Although, he preferred Latin dancing, tonight was probably going to be a bunch of foxtrotting, waltzing, and maybe the occasional swing. He could manage all of them. He anticipated a bunch of stiff backs, and straying hands.

  “Take it easy on those drinks, guys.” Dorian strolled up, hands in his pockets, looking dark and menacing with a five o’clock shadow nearly as dark as his black tux. “You’ll need your wits about you with this crowd.”

  Riggs laughed, and they bumped fists.

  Vaughn smiled. “Thought you said you were out?”

  His old buddy shook his hand. “I can’t say no to a friend who needs a wingman.”

  “Or two.” Riggs winked.

  “Besides…” D smirked and rested his elbow on the bar. “I figured you may need an alibi if someone accuses you of another theft.”

  Vaughn smirked back. “Dick.”

  “Jackass.”

  “You’ll need a mask.”

  Dorian pulled one from his pocket. “Picked it up at concierge.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “Don’t make it a thing. I’m mainly here for the money.” He slipped on his mask, and his brown eyes became darker behind the black facade.

  Riggs downed his shot, and cleared his throat. “We ready for this, ladies?”

  Cora

  She adjusted her sports bra, making sure everything was comfortable and secure. “We ready for this, ladies?” Tonight, she wore a black tank top, with a few hidden pockets she’d sewn in herself. Cora donned her trusty long-sleeve runner’s jacket made of waxed cotton, with several utility pockets carrying her essentials.

  Her tools were in place. Any bystanders would think she was out for a nightly run with her black cotton running pants and shoes. Everything was tight against her body so it wouldn’t catch on anything as she slipped in and out of tiny places.

  The earpiece crackled when she stuck it in her ear. “Comms check.”

  “Copy,” Tom answered. “Adjust your zipper cam. I can see up your nose.”

  She flipped down the slider. “Better?”

  “It smells like shit down here. I hate on-site jobs.”

  “Breathe through your mouth.”

  “Doesn’t help.”

  “Are you patched in yet?”

  “Yeah, yeah…hold your bra.”

  Cora climbed out of her car and locked it behind her.

  Portia Conway’s townhouse sat a block over, where Tom squatted in the electrical closet that housed the main connections for the six units in her complex. He’d snuck in thereabout twenty minutes earlier.

  The air had turned a bit muggy from yesterday’s brief rain, but at least it was fresh. Compared to the stagnant, putrid air her associate sat in.

  Any high-tech system was only as effective as the security around their electrical panels. Trace a system back far enough, and Tom could get in. Still far too exposed for his liking. His preference was from the comfort of his own ergonomic chair in his cocoon.

  “Patched in.” He sighed. “Dragon lady is on her way out, with her personal assistant and new chauffeur.”

  “Let me know when they clear the doorway.” She tightened her ponytail, and started walking the other direction. She’d circle back when Conway was out of sight.

  “She’s in a green dress, with a cleavage less-than-tasteful for her age. Green feathers coming out of her mask. If you miss her, you’re blind.”

  Cora quickened her steps into an easy jog, and turned a corner. Around the next block, she spotted the tell-tale green feathers sprouting from the woman’s mask. They dipped into a black car, and the red brake lights lit up the street. She ducked her head to keep her face hidden. The car drove off, and she kept jogging.

  After a full circle around the block, Tom’s voice chimed in. “I’ve got control over her alarm and cameras. Ready when you are.”

  A deep breath filtered into her lungs, and she focused on keeping her heart rhythm steady. Her cheeks felt warm, but her hands were steady when she pulled out her lock picking tool, and approached Conway’s back door. “Time to kick this woman where it really hurts,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Vaughn

  The darkened ballroom might as well have transported them back to eighteenth century Venice.

  Portia Conway’s charity had gone all out for the masquerade. From the long velvet curtains draped from the ceiling and around the room, ornate crystal chandeliers every thirty feet with boas woven throughout and backlit with purple filters, and cushioned alcoves along the sides, romantic escapade and escape clearly mastered.

  The dance floor took up the majority of the center floor, with both a five piece orchestra playing in the corner, and an additional DJ booth in the other. A decent-sized stage sat between with a glass podium and microphone.

  Twinkle lights and more purple fabric canopied a gigantic bar towards the entrance. Six bartenders served guests and waiters at the cocktail tables surrounding the dance floor.

  The only thing more ornate than the ten-foot-tall vases with fresh flowers between all the alcoves were the masks on the attendees.

  The simple sequins on Vaughn’s otherwise all black mask were paltry compared to the long feathers, dazzling gems and embellishments on the masks staring back at him.

  “You look like you’ve never seen a masquerade ball before.” A man strolled up to them, wearing a black tux and silver mask in the shape of a jaguar’s face that covered everything except his mouth and chin. The voice sounded just like…

  “Duane?”

  The mask smiled, and their boss, Duane Wilkes, removed the jaguar face.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Portia Conway invited me.”

  “When?”

  He shook hands with someone passing by, and waited to answer until the man was clear. “When she called to verify that you really were a Knight.”

  Vaughn blinked. He glanced at Dorian and Riggs, who both shrugged.

  “You expected her not to have the people she hires fully vetted? Especially not after that person had been suspected a
nd subsequently arrested for theft?”

  His heart sank.

  Busted.

  There was no point in defending himself at this point.

  “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out?”

  “I didn’t want to burden you with it. Since it was clearly a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding involving one of my Knights?” Duane stepped forward, turning sideways with a menacing stare. “And you didn’t think I’d want to know?”

  Vaughn sighed, but kept his chin up. This suddenly felt like an argument with his father, being disowned and kicked out for revealing the scumbag’s indiscretions against his wife. A bit harsh by his own standards, but then his dad had the temper of a nuclear bomb on a short fuse. Much like his attention span. Duane at least had his temper on a considerably longer fuse.

  “I handled it. Apologized to Ms. Conway, told her the truth, and she offered this gig tonight. The agency’s reputation is secure. With the potential for a lot more high-end clients tonight.”

  His voice lowered. “Anything that involves the reputation of one of my Knights, involves the reputation of my overall agency. That is absolutely my business.”

  “Understood.”

  The boss sighed and nodded to Riggs and D. “Go earn your keep. Pass out your agency cards when you can.”

  They nodded, and melded into the crowd seamlessly.

  Duane moved in closer, and murmured into Vaughn’s side. “I’m not one to turn down any repeat cliental, but your former date is blackballed. Have I made myself clear?”

  Vaughn swallowed, and kept his gaze on the crowd. “Yes.”

  “Good.” The man replaced the jaguar mask on his face, and clapped him on the back. “Now, go cut up that floor, Magic Mike.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cora

  The back door lock took less than a minute to crack, and thanks to Tom’s efforts, the alarm didn’t sound. Cora had free reign of Portia Conway’s townhouse.

  She found her way back to the office, and used her trusty tools to break in. The house was as silent as a mausoleum, the only sound the occasional keyboard clicking in her earpiece from her coworker.

  Their rule was radio silence unless there was a problem.

  The woman’s office smelled like fresh polish, her wooden furniture gleaming. The dark wood a stark contrast to the white curtains and cornflower chair cushions. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases were loaded with more figurines, photo frames, and crystal vases than books.

  The drawers on the desk were locked, but easily opened with her pick. She took the opportunity to return the woman’s safe deposit box key to the top drawer, as though it were never moved. Wiped clean of her fingerprints, of course.

  Nothing in the desk gave Cora the info she needed. The address to wherever Conway stored all those stolen Holocaust paintings, and Amber Room items. No vault or safe behind any of the wall paintings either.

  She checked all around the fireplace mantel for a hidden key, access panel, or something.

  Nothing.

  She never liked being in a room this long. The less amount of time available to be caught, the better. Even though the society lady was expected to be at her masquerade ball for several more hours, Cora still couldn’t shake the nerves from her stomach.

  What if Conway caught wind of what I wanted? What if she moved them already? What if she got rid of all the evidence by now?

  Questions swarmed her mind, and her breathing escalated.

  “Calm down.” Tom’s voice came through. Probably because he could hear her racing heartbeat through the microphone in her shirt.

  Breathe. Next step. Focus.

  Conway was a flashy woman, thriving on peacocking her wealth and stature. As black market as these items were, she’d still want to flaunt the artsy side.

  Her focus centered on the book-less bookcases.

  Cora checked all the joints, above and below all the shelving, under all the figures and crystal vases, careful to put them back in their original places. Nothing.

  “Does she have an upstairs office?” Tom asked. He could see her every move through the zipper cam. He was breaking the radio silence rule.

  “Hush,” she whispered.

  A few sirens sounded in the distance, and her heart rate tripled.

  “Not for you,” he answered. “Domestic disturbance a half mile over.”

  Thank God for Tom.

  Her gaze stopped on a figurine made to look like Gustav Klimt’s Portrait of Adele, complete with gold leaf mosaic.

  Cora tilted her head. The original Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer was one of the most famed stolen artwork by the Nazi’s.

  No way would Portia Conway be that callous.

  She lifted the statue, revealing a button underneath. A soft click sounded from behind the shelf. The whole unit swung toward her an inch.

  Bingo.

  She held her breath. And pulled on the frame.

  It swung open a few more feet, revealing a tall opening, with a massive vault behind it.

  “Bingo.” Tom laughed.

  It’d been a long time since she’d cracked a safe that big. However, it was one of the first tricks her father had taught her, after picking door locks, of course. She remembered a few of the manufacturer’s main try-out combinations, the industry standard often used among most of them, but a woman like Portia Conway probably had that number redone the second the vault was installed.

  Surely, she wouldn’t be dumb enough to use her birthdate.

  Which Cora knew by heart, from all the background research she’d done on her target before even moving to Texas.

  She turned the dial and entered the woman’s birth date. The door didn’t budge.

  Wait.

  “Does this vault have a camera?” she whispered.

  “Not that I can see,” Tom replied. “Why would she have a camera on a spot where she’s hidden info on stolen artwork?”

  Good point.

  She tried one of the manufacturer’s try-out combinations, nothing either.

  Cora would have to do this by touch. Which meant she’d be here a lot longer. Unzipping one of her pockets, she pulled out her mini stethoscope. Slowly, she turned the dial and counted the wheels on the mechanism itself, just by hearing the clicks. Sweat dripped down her back, and a slight crick pulled at her lower neck. Beneath her nitrile gloves, her palms grew warmer. Finally, the last number clicked, and the hinges clanked. She pulled open the door.

  The lights automatically turned on, and the fluorescent bulbs flickered to life.

  Her jaw dropped.

  A large room,contained Portia Conway’s personal showroom. Wall to wall full of the stolen artwork. Each piece was strategically placed and professionally lit, dozens of them, including many pieces from the lost Amber Room. A small Picasso, the Poppies and Roses painting by Degas, large gemstones, and more.

  Toward the back of the showroom, Cora’s heart dropped. Her Great-Uncle Admon’s oil painting of the stone bridge, Kromlau Brücke.

  Heat boiled in her stomach, and rose into her cheeks. Most of the items from the pictures in the safe deposit box stared back at her. Not miles away in a bunker, like she expected.

  “That’s a lot more than an address.” Tom’s voice cracked. “We have no way of moving these items out. Not without getting seen.”

  “Who hides this level of contraband in their house?”

  “Apparently the egotistical Conway.”

  “You’ve been recording this whole time, right?” Her soft voice echoed off the walls, like in a church.

  “Yep.”

  Cora let out a slow breath. They had proof these items were in Conway’s possession now. They had enough to convict her of that alone.

  Tom was right. There was no way to carry all of these out.

  She checked her watch.

  Unless…

  “I have an idea.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Vaughn

  Straying hands wa
s an understatement. Especially from Portia Conway, on her fifth glass of champagne.

  Thank goodness she was called to the stage to help start the bachelor auction.

  Vaughn had danced most of the night, hardly taking a break for water, let alone a breather, between all of the wealthy benefactors and society’s business emperors.

  From one waltz to another, his ass had been discreetly groped more than a lap dancer. He’d quickly spin the woman out to put some distance between them, using that as the excuse to move to another partner. All in the name of the job to keep the party going.

  Hopefully, the bids for the auction would be as lavish as Portia Conway’s gaudy feathered mask.

  Despite all of the songs and wandering hands, he couldn’t stop thinking of Cora. Wondering where she was. What she was doing.

  What kind of ruckus is she getting into?

  He kept glancing at his watch, and hoping for his phone to vibrate. Anything. Whatever she was doing, he hoped she achieved her goal. And wasn’t causing any trouble.

  The auctioneer sold off another business magnate with the sound of a heavy gong.

  The applause grew.

  Dorian made his way over to Vaughn, clearly winded. “My feet are killing me, and Lavender Lady over there spilled her wine all over my pants.”

  “At least you’re earning more than enough to cover the dry cleaning bill.”

  “Not worth it.” D wiped at his trousers.

  Vaughn’s stare stopped on Duane, sitting at the bar and schmoozing another potential client into using his Knights.

  He handed her his business card, pewter with white letters.

  Vaughn had the same cards, just their name and number, with the Knights of Texas logo on the back. Interestingly, he hadn’t given out his card all night. Actually, he hadn’t given out a single card since that night with Cora.