by Unknown
Fire trucks had already arrived, and the guards at the entry had failed to keep out both the firefighters and local police, who were already working to evacuate the building.
This would be a really good time for Ian to go in one direction and the HOS and his men to go in another.
But the HOS stayed on Ian’s heels as he went out into the warmth of the night.
So Ian slowed. “Which way?” he shouted to the HOS.
“Over here!” The man pointed around to the east side of the building, just as Ian expected him to—the sitting room had been in the northeast corner, the window that was the alleged burglars’ escape route faced east.
The two guards immediately took off in that direction.
“I’ll go ’round the other way,” Ian volunteered. “We’ll meet in the middle.”
He didn’t wait for permission; he just took off, heading for the west side of the building—where Francine was waiting behind the wheel of the limo they’d rented to drive Prince Stefan to the embassy.
Unfortunately, the HOS followed Ian.
The sidewalks in this part of town were cobblestone, and slippery as all hell. Ian used that as an excuse to shift onto the street as he turned the corner and … Yup, there was Francine, by the car.
She’d left it idling, in getaway mode, taillights lit, but she’d gotten out and was standing beside it—because theirs was not the only car waiting at the side of the road, and she wanted to make sure Ian saw her.
The narrow, normally lightly trafficked street wasn’t empty as he’d hoped.
The other guests for the embassy dinner, arriving in their limos and Rolls-Royces, had been pushed here, out of the way of the fire trucks and police vehicles. Some had gotten out of their rides and were cluttering up the sidewalks in their tuxes and sequined gowns—blocking access.
And okay. It was not what he’d been anticipating, but Ian could work with this.
The HOS, as expected, was not pleased. “Clear this area,” he shouted in a variety of languages.
“Maybe they can help us,” Ian suggested to the man, skidding to a stop beside Francine, to ask, “Excuse me, sir”—with a hat pulled down over her hair and face, she could’ve been a height-challenged young man—“have you seen two men, dressed all in black …?” He, too, repeated the question in German and his terrible French.
Francine shook her head as she climbed back in behind the wheel.
And this was where HOS should’ve continued swiftly down the line, asking the same question of the potential witnesses, before telling them, again, to clear the area.
But from the corner of his eye, Ian could see the HOS reaching into his jacket, where there was probably a handgun of some kind.
Apparently Ian’s communication skills had failed him.
So he gave the HOS the same message that he’d given Prince Steve back in the embassy. Boom. A knockout punch to the face.
The HOS went down and Ian relieved him of his weapon before jumping into the car.
“Go,” he said, but Francine was already on it, driving away.
She covered her headset mic to say, “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” Ian said. “Self-inflicted.” He saw out the back windshield that some of the tux-and-sequin-wearers had seen him throw that punch. Several rushed to the HOS’s side, shouting for the police—who couldn’t follow them, thanks to the snarl of limos and Lamborghinis.
Still, as Ian watched for pursuers, Francine drove like the pro that she was, moving them quickly into the labyrinth of streets, taking them far from the action at the embassy.
No one chased, no one followed, and Ian finally felt secure enough to focus on applying pressure to the cut at his hairline.
“We’re clear,” Francine announced over her headset. “Heading for the extraction point.”
They were leaving the country via private jet from a small airport outside of the city. The client had arranged the flight, which meant they’d board the plane without even so much as a conversation with customs, which was nice.
“Johnny, tell the pilot to be ready to go wheels up as soon as we arrive,” Ian ordered.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Francine covered her mic again and asked, “Did you do what I think you did?”
“Yup,” Ian said.
He pulled out the packet that he’d tucked into the left side of his shirt and opened it, wanting a closer look at one of the pieces—a silver locket.
Its delicate chain had become entangled with a diamond necklace and an emerald bracelet. He gently pulled it free.
The locket had caught his eye back at the embassy, in part because of its lovely simplicity, in part because he’d wondered if it opened and …
Yes. The inside held miniature photos—one on each side. On the left were a young man and woman on their wedding day, circa the late 1930s. On the right was a photo of a little girl, maybe four years old, with her mother’s sparkling dark eyes and joyful smile.
And Ian knew that he’d made the right choice.
Because maybe—just maybe—that girl had survived.
She’d be around eighty now. And for her, this locket would be priceless. As would every other piece that someone else’s mother or grandmother had worn against their skin.
Francine glanced at him as he wrapped it all back up. “Three mill’s a pretty good haul for one night’s work,” she commented as she pulled the limo onto the runway, not far from the waiting plane.
Ian tucked the packet back into his shirt. “Yeah.”
They got out of the car and were halfway up the stairs to the plane when Francine said, “So now you’re a jewel thief.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
Johnny was waiting for them in the cabin, and he handed Ian the flashdrive that held the contents of Prince Stefan’s computer, then helped the co-pilot secure the door.
Ian strapped himself in, his two teammates on either side of him—both already settling in for a trans-Atlantic nap—as the jet screamed down the runway and lifted them safely away and into the night.
Monday
Ian Dunn was not what she’d expected from reading his file.
Phoebe glanced at Martell Griffin, who was sitting beside her at the interview table. Even though he nodded very slightly to acknowledge her silent surprise, his eyes never left Ian and the guard who was escorting him into the little room. It was a reminder that this man—the prisoner—was dangerous.
On paper, Dunn had come across as the unscrupulous love child of Captain America and James Bond, capable of damn near anything. He was a former Navy SEAL turned international jewel thief—alleged international jewel thief, because he’d never been charged for that particular crime.
Still, after skimming the file that she’d been handed just this morning, Phoebe had imagined someone who looked more like Cary Grant. Someone slender and light on his feet. Someone capable of becoming invisible when wearing cat burglar black.
But this man in prison garb was built like a boxer. He was Mack truck huge. Piano mover massive.
His only hope at achieving invisibility would be if he tried disguising himself as a small planet or maybe a large moon. Provided it was a very dark night and everyone looking for him was drunk.
He was bigger than Martell, which was saying something, since the African American former-cop-turned-lawyer was tall enough to tower over Phoebe—remarkable since she’d been Amazonian herself since fifth grade.
But Ian Dunn made Martell look nearly undernourished, and Phoebe feel practically petite.
Along with being huge, Dunn was also sweaty. His prison-issue T-shirt was soaked around his collar, down his chest and beneath his arms, too, and it clung to his powerful upper body. The array of tattoos on his massive biceps gleamed as they stretched the edges of the fraying and faded orange sleeves.
His too-long dark brown hair was dripping onto his face, and as Phoebe watched he used the bottom hem of his shirt in an attempt to mop himself dry.
As he did so, he displayed an impressive, glistening set of hard-cut abs along with the waistband of a pair of dull orange athletic shorts that he wore dangerously, precariously low on his hips.
And great, he’d lowered his shirt to find her staring at his crotch—her gaze had inadvertently traveled south, following the arrowlike trail of dark hair that pointed the way down from his near-perfect belly button as if it were a flashing neon sign.
Phoebe pushed her glasses up her nose, aimed her eyes at his face, and forced what she hoped was a polite, professional smile, even as he grinned down at her. His blue eyes were twinkling in a face that was broad and cheerful and big-boned with a nose that was too large and a brow that should have been much too heavy for him to be called handsome.
Should have been, but wasn’t.
Still, despite the fact that his winsome smile had the power to make the hearts of half the population flutter, Ian Dunn looked more like a man who threw oxen at the local county fair.
More, that is, than the criminal mastermind he allegedly was.
Except that wasn’t just a mix of good humor and wry appreciation gleaming now in his eyes as he continued to aim his amusement at her. As he pulled out the chair and flopped down into it, his entire manner was easygoing and relaxed, as if they were meeting at the picnic area of the local softball field where he was taking a break from the game—instead of in an interview room in a Florida state prison where he was halfway through an eighteen-month sentence.
But there was sharp intelligence in Dunn’s eyes, too.
Phoebe watched while he turned and nodded reassuringly at the guard, whose movements were almost apologetic as he used a short plastic restraint to lock the band around Dunn’s left ankle to a metal anchor in the floor.
The prisoner’s hands were cuffed, too, Phoebe realized, but he rested them on the table as if he barely noticed or maybe just didn’t give a damn.
“Nice to meet you in person, finally,” Dunn said in an evenly modulated, accent-free voice. His words were odd, because neither Phoebe nor Martell had so much as sent him a letter, let alone spoken to him on the phone. There hadn’t been time. She herself hadn’t known she was coming here until a short, chaotic hour ago. “But you know, if you’d called ahead, I would’ve showered and dressed for the occasion.”
He smiled as he turned slightly to glance over his broad shoulder at the door that closed behind the guard with a solid-sounding thunk.
It was then that his face almost imperceptibly hardened as he looked from Martell to Phoebe and then back to Martell as if he’d used his criminal mastermind to detect that, yes, Martell was in charge of this little meeting. His smile was still securely in place, though, as he leaned in and lowered his voice and asked, “Are you a friend of Conrad’s?”
Phoebe glanced at Martell, who narrowed his dark brown eyes slightly at Dunn as he asked, “Who’s Conrad?”
The intensity—if that was, in fact, what it was, and not merely her overactive imagination—vanished from Dunn’s eyes and face as quickly as it had appeared.
“Apparently not,” he said with a shrug as he sat back in his chair. “No big, just an acquaintance I thought might be mutual.” He folded his hands across his stomach, his movement limited by those cuffs. “So. What are you here to sell me? Although it’s probably best if you start with your names, so I can stop thinking of you as Diverse Lawyer One and”—he looked at Phoebe with another of those sunny smiles—“Diverse Lawyer Two.”
“I’m Martell Griffin,” Martell said. “And yes, Ms. Kruger and I are lawyers, but only she is here as your lawyer. She works for Bryant, Hill, and Stoneham.”
“Whoa, wait, really?” Dunn laughed but then frowned slightly as he asked Phoebe, “Is that …? That’s not …” He stopped himself and started over. “Where’s Uncle Jerry?”
Uncle who …? The question was as cryptic as the one about Conrad. Phoebe quickly glanced at Martell, but he shook his head in a silent I don’t know.
“J. Quincy Bryant. The B in B, H, and S,” Dunn explained, even though her silence hadn’t dragged on for that long. As easygoing as he pretended to be, this was not a patient man. “The J is for Jerry, at least for those of us whose granddads knew him before he was a total soulless douchebag.” His warm smile softened the potential edge of his words.
In fact, this man could announce I’m here to rob your house, and if he accompanied his words with one of those smiles, most people’s first reaction would be Oh, how nice. Do come in.
Phoebe looked down at her file in dismay, wondering how she’d failed to make note of the fact that one of the senior partners was this man’s uncle, although that certainly explained the reason the elite firm represented him. She wished someone had told her that she was going to have to deliver some very bad news to a family member.
“He’s not a real uncle, we’re not actually blood relations.” Dunn saw her face and again was quick with the explanation. “Don’t worry, you didn’t miss it, it’s not in there.”
Okay, that was good, except now what was she supposed to tell him? Anything? Or nothing?
“The relationship was more of a my-grandfather-died-saving-his-life-in-Vietnam thing,” Dunn continued almost cheerfully. “Uncle Jerry felt indebted. Although it would’ve been nice if the support had been more proactive. Grocery deliveries and rent assistance while I was still a kid instead of criminal defense after I’d crossed the line, you know what I mean? But hey. Better late than never, right?”
Phoebe knew, from a brief family history, that Dunn’s grandfather, John, had been KIA in Vietnam when Ian’s father, George, was just a boy. George, who had died from hepatitis four years ago, had been a lifer in prison in Concord, Massachusetts, locked up for his part in a robbery in which a security guard had been killed, albeit accidentally. And although it had never been proven, it was believed that Ian had learned at least some of his mad breaking-and-entering and burglary skills at an early age, from Dunn Senior, who’d learned it in turn from an uncle. A real one. That info was in her file, along with a long list of other allegedlies. Some of them pretty impressively crazy.
But the present-and-living Dunn had asked her a question. Where’s Uncle Jerry? She cleared her throat and decided it was best to be vague. “Mr. Bryant is currently unavailable.”
“No offense,” Dunn said easily, “and I’m sure you’re equally douche-tastic as a lawyer—and I mean that in a good way. But whatever you’re here for, Ms. Kruger, I’d prefer to wait until Unca Jer gets back from his vaca. Or you can ask the firm to send over his son-in-law, Bob-the-incompetent—if it really can’t wait.”
And now they were both looking at her.
Martell Griffin, too, had been surprised when Phoebe had been waiting for him outside the prison’s gates this morning. He clearly hadn’t expected Dunn to have representation present at this meeting—or maybe his surprise was that she wasn’t Mr. Bryant or his son-in-law, Bob Middleworth. Especially considering the magnitude of his offer.
And so Phoebe changed her mind. Both men needed an explanation, and outside the prison walls, the news had probably gone public anyway. “Mr. Bryant and Mr. Middleworth were injured in a car accident last night, and I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but Maureen Middleworth—Mr. Bryant’s daughter—was killed in the crash.”
“Oh, shit,” Dunn said.
“The firm’s experiencing some chaos,” Phoebe continued. “As I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I’m sorry,” Dunn said, with regret in his eyes. “Poor Jerry. He must be devastated. Bobby, too.” He shook his head, took a deep breath, and blew it out. “Wow. I appreciate your stepping up and filling in, Ms. Kruger, but … I can certainly wait a few weeks—months even if it takes that long—for Jerry to get back.”
Martell spoke up. “I’m sorry, but this situation, however, can’t wait.”
“It’s gonna have to,” Dunn said as he turned his gaze to Martell. He obviously and visibly appraised the lawyer’s well-fitting suit, his crisp
white shirt, his brightly colored tie, as well as the hard planes and angles of a stern face that screamed serious business, accompanied by a gleaming and carefully shaved head. He appraised, but then immediately dismissed. Dunn’s body language was as clear as if he’d flicked away a used tissue. “Isn’t it.” He made his words a statement, not a question, and the testosterone levels in the room rose substantially as Martell bristled, appraising him back.
Lowlife, convict, prisoner scum was the silent message Martell sent in response to Dunn’s dismissal, but the prisoner’s response was only the smallest of mournful smiles. Which served to piss off the lawyer more thoroughly.
“Mr. Dunn, I realize this isn’t the best time, considering the circumstances, but aren’t you even the slightest bit curious?” Phoebe asked, because having the two men sit there in silence, staring each other down, wasn’t helping to move this meeting forward. And she had other things to do today.
Dunn again looked over at her, and she could practically see the wheels turning in his gigantic head as he tried to figure out the best way to push her buttons. And wasn’t that interesting? He really didn’t care why they were there. This meeting was little more than a game to him.
As Phoebe watched, he went for the obvious, with an insulting term of endearment. “Honey, I’m intensely curious—but only about things that really matter.” And yes, he put the cherry on top by proceeding to undress her with his eyes.
“I prefer to be called Ms. Kruger,” she corrected him, forcing herself to remain as expressionless as humanly possible. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from swallowing—damnit—because yikes, when he set his animal magnetism on kill like that, the man was a true force of nature.
And naturally, in turn, he made note of her almost microscopic gulp. His smile broadened.
Fine. Let him think he had the power to turn her knees into Jell-O. She, however, knew better.
“And this does matter,” she informed him crisply. “The reason Mr. Griffin requested this meeting—the reason your Uncle Jerry’s firm sent me here, with him, to talk to you. Matters. Immensely. Lives are at stake—starting but not ending with two innocent children.”