What the fuck happened?
When I lift my head, the room swims for a moment before settling. An unfamiliar bitter taste lingers on the back of my tongue. The faintest scent of pepper teases my nose before disappearing like a ghost.
Then I remember exactly what happened, and a searing bolt of anger jolts me to my feet. Heart hammering with adrenaline, I look wildly around.
It’s morning. The rain has stopped. Everything is still and quiet, including the dumbass roosters in the distant hills who can’t tell time.
I’m alone, but alive, which honestly is more than I counted on.
“Brother!” Connor roars. “I’m coming in!”
Before he can smash through the door—because he will, he’s dramatic like that, plus he loves to break shit—I shout, “I’m comin’, you damn ape. Pipe the fuck down!”
My voice is hoarse. Along with the headache and the small bit of vertigo which has now cleared, it’s the only aftereffect of whatever Angeline dosed me with.
Muttering, I stomp to the door and yank it open.
“What?” I holler.
Then I blink.
In the doorway stands Connor, bristling and veiny like Wolverine. Behind him, a small crowd has gathered, which includes Tabby, Darcy, Kai, Juanita—and Elvis, perched on her shoulder—several uniformed people who appear to be hotel staff, half a dozen police officers, and four burly Middle Eastern dudes wearing identical black three-piece suits and murderous expressions.
I peg them as security or bodyguards, judging by their size and general vibe of badassery.
Darcy looks down at my crotch. She snorts. “Well, hello there, big boy!”
This is when I realize I’m stark fucking naked.
“Juanita, cover your eyes!” I shout.
She rolls them instead. “Pfft. Why don’t you cover your junk, perv?”
“Zip it, short stuff,” Darcy bosses. “A man needs to air himself out every once in a while.”
Juanita says, “Gross!”, which startles Elvis, who sits up on his hind legs on her shoulder and starts sniffing the air for danger.
Exasperated, I clap my hands over my dick. “As you can see, I wasn’t expectin’ company. Anybody wanna share why you’re all standin’ in front of my door at the crack of dawn?”
A young black guy in a beige uniform peers around the bulk of Connor’s shoulder. He speaks with a distinct Caribbean accent. “Good morning, sir. I’m Camilo Bembe, the general manager of the hotel. Uh, we’re so sorry to disturb you…”
He clears his throat. He’s trying desperately to pretend I’m not standing there with my dick in my hands. “But there’s been an unfortunate incident. These officers need to ask you some ques—”
“WHERE’S THE GIRL?” booms one of the thugs.
The hotel manager jumps. Kai shrieks like a startled baby. Connor looks at the goon and growls low in the back of his throat.
“Oh, you’re lookin’ for her, too? Popular little thing, isn’t she? Can’t help ya, though, boys. Wonder Woman roofied me before takin’ off in her invisible jet, so I’ve got no fuckin’ clue where she is. Maybe you should check her room.”
Tabby coughs into her hand to stifle her laugh. The four thugs shift their weight from foot to foot. Connor looks at the ceiling and sighs.
“Get dressed, Mr. McLean. We need to ask you some questions.”
That comes from one of the police officers to Connor’s right. He’s tall, coal black, and slim as a sapling, with unusual eyes the color of grass. His hand rests casually on the butt of the sidearm strapped to his waist. His tone is impassive, but the subtext is clear. You’re in big trouble, son.
Yeah, well, wouldn’t be the first time. I smirk at him. “You betcha. Anything to assist an officer of the law.”
I turn and saunter toward the bathroom, leaving the door open and my bare ass on display.
Connor sighs again. Darcy says, “Lawd.” No one else makes a peep, except for one of the swarthy bodyguards, who mutters something in Arabic under his breath.
I don’t speak the language, but my life has been threatened enough times by dangerous men speaking foreign tongues that I get the gist.
But I don’t mind. The sooner I discover how Angeline is connected to these men, the sooner I can start working on a way to find her.
* * *
By the time I’m dressed and emerge from the bathroom, the police officers are busy sniffing around my room. They’ve dismissed the crowd with the exception of Connor, who stands to one side of the bed with his legs spread and his bulky arms crossed over his chest. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile.
“Okay, brother,” I snap. “Here’s the part where you tell me what you think is so damn funny!”
His dark eyes dance with laughter. “You sure can pick ’em, my friend. This is even better than the time you hooked up with that Mafia don’s wife.”
“She said she was divorced!”
“Nobody divorces the mob, dummy. Remind me, how many goombahs did he send to kick your ass?”
He’s having way too much fun with this. I make an impatient motion with my hand that basically translates to get to the fucking point.
“When you didn’t come down for breakfast, I figured you were still…occupied…with your new friend. But an hour later when you didn’t pick up your cell or the room phone, I knew something was wrong. The police were just about to have the hotel manager open your door when we got here.”
“And the suits who’d like to separate my head from my body? Who’re they?”
“Personal security for one Ahmed Akbar Khan Khalid,” Connor says drily.
“Saudi?”
“Yep. Super rich. Oil money, of course. And a bona fide prince, to boot.” He jerks his chin at the ceiling. “Honeymooning in the suite right above this very room.”
We stare at each other for a beat as I process what he’s told me. After a few seconds, it clicks. I feel like the biggest idiot on the planet.
“Aw, shit. What’d she take?”
From outside on the balcony, the head officer answers. “A Burmese pigeon’s blood ruby necklace once owned by Queen Ingrid of Denmark. It’s worth fifteen million dollars.”
I look over at him. He’s craning his neck to peer at something on the side of the building that’s fluttering in the gentle morning breeze. He looks at me and points in the direction of the flutter. “You want to explain this?”
Connor and I join him outside. Hanging down from the railing of the balcony above mine is a makeshift rope composed of white bedsheets. We lean over and discover three more tied to the first, dangling down the side of the building, all the way to the ground.
My brain switches into Special Ops mode. “Four king-size sheets tied together with square knots. Readily available, easy to work with, anonymous…”
Connor and I glance at each other. “And excellent weight support,” he says. “Especially at a high thread count like these.”
I look down again, assessing the distance to the lawn below. “Building stories are about ten feet tall. Each king-size sheet would provide about twelve feet of length.”
“And we’re probably what, fifty feet up?”
Exactly what I’d calculated. I remind myself to unclench my jaw. “I gotta admit it. That’s pretty smart.” I look at the officer. “They’re from Khalid’s room. She wouldn’t have burdened herself with the climb up from here to there carrying a stack of sheets.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “How do you know she climbed up?”
I smack myself on the forehead. “You’re right. She took the invisible jet.”
Connor warns, “Ryan.”
Ignoring him, I cross my arms over my chest and level the officer with a hard stare. “Okay. Here’s every fuckin’ thing you need to know in a nutshell. I met the woman who calls herself Angeline Lemaire yesterday at the pool bar at approximately fifteen hundred hours. No, I didn’t know her before that. No, I’m not an accomplice. No, I didn’t know anything
about her plans. We went to dinner with my friends, including this big ape here, and then came back to my room.
“What happened after that is none of your damn business, except that she doped me with something she put in a bottle of orange juice.” I jerk my head toward the bed. “The empty’s on the nightstand. You can test for residue. My guess is Rohypnol, modified with somethin’ to make it work faster. Took me down in thirty seconds. When I woke up, you were outside my door.”
Though it hurts my ego something fierce to admit it, I continue. “She obviously targeted me because I was stayin’ in this particular room. If it were next week, you’d be talkin’ to some other dude. End of story.”
The officer is busy trying to think of something to say next when one of his compadres lifts a high-heeled red shoe from the floor. The platform sole is broken off. Examining it, he turns to me. “You two have a fight?”
Connor speaks before I can. “He doesn’t fight with broads, only the husbands he didn’t know they had. But that’s a nice little hidey-hole carved in there. Perfect size for some cash.”
“Or a flash drive,” I say, grudgingly impressed. “Or a compass, an ID—”
“A map,” he finishes, looking at me. His sharp gaze flicks to the bedsheets, then to the view of the verdant hills. He turns to the head cop. “Lemme guess. She didn’t check out of the hotel. She hasn’t been seen since she left dinner with Ryan. You don’t have any video feed of her leaving the property.”
The cop looks uncomfortable. “Correct. The hotel doesn’t have security cameras pointing up at the outside of the building—”
“Hotels never do,” I interrupt. “Security cameras are always trained down, toward doors and hallways. Any thief worth his salt would know that.” Though I’m still mad as fuck, I can’t help but smile. “Her salt.”
I can tell by the cop’s expression that he’d really like to throw my ass in jail, but he must’ve already decided I’m just some dumb lackey Angeline used to make her play.
A lightbulb goes on over my head. “Wait. You know who she is, don’t you?”
He takes off his cap and scratches his head. “I can’t comment on that,” he says, sounding weary.
Connor scoffs. “Oh come on! You wouldn’t have even let me in this room if this was a real interrogation.”
He scowls. “No one ever said anything about an interrogation!”
An odd combination of elation and anger electrifies my skin. “She’s hit this hotel before?”
He looks back and forth between Connor and me, then obviously decides he might as well tell us, because he sighs heavily and starts spilling his guts.
“No. But I’ve got a friend in Interpol. Called him as soon as I was notified by Prince Khalid that his safe had been broken into while he was asleep. I knew it had to be a pro if he—she—could get past the armed security personnel posted outside the door and the biometric thumbprint scanner on the safe, and also be quiet enough not to awaken the prince or his bride for however long it took to finish the job.”
He makes a face. “Though admittedly the prince is known to imbibe more than what could be considered a reasonable amount, and his wife said she fell asleep to a white noise app because of all his snoring.” He turns to Connor. “Have you heard of Brain.fm? The princess claims it’s very relaxing—”
“Cut to the fuckin’ chase, man!” I shout.
He stares at me for a moment. “Let’s just say this woman is on pretty much everyone’s most wanted list.”
“What’s her name?” I demand.
He lifts a shoulder. “Who knows? She’s got fifteen known aliases, probably plenty more that aren’t known. Been doing big jobs for a long time. Jewels, mainly. The occasional piece of art. Never been caught.”
I scoff. “How could a thief who looks like a supermodel never be caught? She stands out like a fuckin’ neon sign!”
“If you saw the Interpol file, you might think differently.”
“Disguises?” Connor sounds doubtful.
“Up the wazoo. Eyewitnesses describe her as anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. Five foot four to five foot ten. Blonde, redhead, short black hair, dreadlocks. Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes. Walks with a limp. Walks with no limp. Has a lisp. Has an Irish accent. French. Italian. Spanish. You name it. She’s no one. She’s everyone. She’s impossible to pin down. Apparently she’s known in criminal circles as The Golden Hand. But my Interpol friend says law enforcement calls her the Dragonfly.”
Thinking of her gorgeous naked body trembling under my touch, I murmur, “Because of the tattoo.”
The officer looks at me sharply. “Tattoo?”
“The dragonfly on her left hip.”
His brows slowly rise.
I realize too late that this is new information to him. In spite of my gaffe, a flush of something like pride heats my neck.
If law enforcement doesn’t know she has a tattoo, that means none of her marks have ever reported it. And if none of her marks have ever reported it, that means none of them ever saw her naked.
Goddamn. She was telling the truth about never having one-night stands!
I instantly forgive her for everything.
“No,” says the officer. “It’s because she leaves a drawing of a dragonfly somewhere at every job she pulls off. It’s her calling card. The one in Prince Khalid’s suite was scrawled on the bathroom mirror with his wife’s lipstick.”
“She wants everyone to know it was her,” I say.
“Or someone,” Connor adds ominously.
We lock eyes. I know him well, and right now I know he’s thinking Angeline’s calling card isn’t meant as a taunt to the police. It’s not an ego thing. It’s a message.
But for who? And why?
Watching my face, the police officer chuckles. “Don’t take it personally, Mr. McLean. She’s duped some of the most sophisticated security personnel on the planet. She’s a professional thief. The best in the business, by all accounts.”
Connor claps his hand on my shoulder. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. “Besides, I’m sure she thought you were real cute.”
“Fuck off,” I say cheerfully, because I wasn’t a one-night stand.
The officer who was holding Angeline’s shoe is now holding her red dress, retrieved from the floor. He’s fingering it with his brows pulled together. “Got something here, chief.”
“What is it?”
The officer removes a Swiss knife from his black utility belt, snaps open the blade with his thumb, and works it against a seam in the waist of the dress. The fabric gives way easily. He removes a small metal object, winking in the light. Looking surprised, he holds it up.
Connor and I speak in unison. “Handcuff key.”
The chief looks at me as if for confirmation. “She sewed a handcuff key into her dress?”
“In case she was apprehended and had to escape from cuffs.” I shake my head, more impressed by the second. “It’s fuckin’ brilliant.”
Another officer standing next to the television console opens the small beaded handbag Angeline left behind and dumps its contents onto the wood surface. Sifting through it with the tip of a pen, he catalogues his findings out loud.
“One rake pick. One tension wrench. One torch lighter. One folding tactical knife. One metal shim. Four plastic zip ties. One unmarked hotel keycard, possibly a master. And one lipstick.”
He picks up the gold tube of lipstick and looks at the label on the bottom. “It’s called Lady Danger.”
A grin spreads over Connor’s face. “I like this girl.”
In spite of how completely fucked up this entire situation is, I grin back. “Me too, brother. Me too!”
The chief rolls his eyes. “You guys are idiots.”
Ten
Mariana
Specializing in buying and selling rare coins, gold, jewels, diamonds, and valuables since 1979, Mallory & Sons Heritage Auctions has retail boutiques in most of the largest cities in the world.
But the London boutique is the one I always visit upon completion of an assignment.
And not because it’s company headquarters.
Ignoring the cold and the gray drizzle, I stand across the street for a few minutes before going in and just look.
The shop is charming glimpsed through its beveled-glass windows. It’s brightly lit, stuffed with antiques, the walls crowded with original oils by artists of all levels of fame and importance, as well as the occasional exquisite forgery to be sold to a nouveaux riche collector more concerned with impressing his friends than demanding certified provenance.
Inside the shop, a man stands behind a massive oak counter carved with a relief from Beowulf of warriors on horseback battling a dragon. The man is examining a ring. He holds a jeweler’s loupe to one eye, holds the ring up to the light. He’s of average height and average weight with no distinctive features except an aquiline nose and an air of elegance.
His hair is more salt than pepper. His skin is lined around his eyes. His navy-blue suit is well tailored, but not couture. Judging strictly by appearance, he could be fifty…or seventy. Italian or Spanish. Scottish or Portuguese. Or pretty much anything else. He has no tattoos or scars, wears no jewelry or cologne, and is perfectly forgettable.
He goes by Reynard, a name borrowed from the trickster fox from medieval fables.
He taught me everything I know.
That I love him is irrelevant to our business arrangement. If I said it aloud, he’d admonish me for it, so I keep it to myself.
I step off the curb, avoiding a muddy puddle, and hurry across the street. My heels click against wet cobblestone. The bell over the door jangles cheerfully when I come in. I’m hit with warmth and the sweet, smoky scent of the incense burning next to a votive candle in a cubby on the wall. Amy Winehouse plays softly in the background, crooning you know that I’m no good.
Reynard looks up. Catching sight of me, he smiles. “‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’”
“It’s good to see you too, Reynard,” I say drily.
He abandons the jeweler’s loupe and ring to the counter and holds out his arms. “My darling.”
Wicked Intentions: The Wicked Games Series, Book 3 Page 8