Con Man: Complete Series Box Set: A Bad Boy Romance (5 page)

I
didn’t get
much sleep that night. Despite being surrounded by all the high-life luxuries that I usually enjoyed, I just couldn’t get comfortable or let my mind settle. And in the rare times where I did manage to drift off, I was plagued by dreams of the past. Some good, some bad, some real, some imagined, but all of Karis.

The time she and I had snuck out to catch fireflies even though it'd been well past midnight.

The senior prom we'd never gotten to go to together.

The way she'd held me the night my parents died.

The time that little English twat Renny McFadden had called me a wanker, and Karis had given him a bloody nose before I could even ask what the word meant.

A specially planned night where we'd make love for the first time.

The body I'd never gotten to know.

I woke up cranky, and I knew I had to get her out of my head. Hell, I didn’t know for certain that the FBI agent I'd seen was actually Karis, or even if she was, if she had any idea that I was in the city, let alone involved in the museum theft. Obsessing over something when I had so little in the way of facts was not only pointless, but it was clearly fucking with my head.

The only thing I could think of to fix it was to focus my attention on something else. So, I decided to start my next big play. It was a long con. One I'd been playing around with since I was close to tying things up with the museum job. That one had been for hire. This one would be for me.

There was a certain art collector who'd just relocated to the upper districts of the city, one Leticia Backman. She came from money,
old
money, and she wasn’t afraid of spending it. She was heavily involved in charities, and helping those who had less, so originally I'd avoided her. Call me cliché, but I had a bit of a Robin Hood streak even after all these years of the grifting game. I didn't like the idea of hurting innocents.

My parents had been innocent.

One of the ways I maintained that standard was to employ a hacker to do thorough background checks. He also kept an eye out for anyone who might pique my interest. That was how I found out that she always donated and volunteered just enough to mitigate any tax increases from what she'd paid out in the nineties, and never a penny or second more. And she always supported politicians who cut programs to the needy. Needless to say, she came off the do-not-pursue list pretty fast.

It wasn’t that I resented rich people. Every society had them. What I resented was the rich using those they considered under them for gain. It was one thing to sell a service, need, or invention and make millions. It was another to milk loopholes and dodge taxes so the rest of the country had to make up the difference. In fact, there were few things in the world that I hated more than those who hurt the innocent.

Pretty much just guns...and fad diet crazes.

Since this was going to be a long con, I'd done as much research as I could while I'd been cultivating my alias at the museum. I knew everything about Ms. Backman. Her birthday. Her dog’s birthday. When she'd received her last Botox injection.

I was nothing if not thorough.

But a woman of such refinement and wealth was used to people pursuing her for her money, anxious to be kept or ask for a hand out. And a woman in her early fifties had also lived through a time when she'd had to field off advances from men who'd thought they were better equipped to deal with finances than a female.

I had to do something new. Something unexpected, and I had an angle that she hopefully hadn’t encountered before.

First thing first, I chose my clothes carefully. Not too over the top, but a nicely fitted polo and designer slacks. Some grifters thought it was stupid to spend two hundred dollars on a pair of pants, but I always maintained that was because they’d never seen their own ass in two hundred dollar pants. Also, it was genuinely accepted that poorly dressed grifters didn't do well – unless it was part of the con itself.

Once I looked appropriately fashionable, I dialed up the man I always went to when I needed a grifter partner. He wasn't really a friend, but I trusted him as much as I could trust another con.

The phone rang twice before a groggy voice answered. “God, it’s ten a.m. What do you want?”

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy to hear from an old friend?” I shot back sarcastically, falling into the familiar dynamic we'd built up over the past few years.

“What do you want, Bron?”

Blake McDougall knew me as Bron Du Murier, so I supposed I trusted him a bit more than I realized.

“Got a long con, a big one, and I need you to play a part.”

“What’s in it for me?” He sounded more interested now, and more awake.

“Ten percent cut.”

“Fifteen.”

“Eleven.”

“I’m going to hang up.”

I rolled my eyes. I knew he wasn't, but this was how he played the game. Everything was a game. “Twelve, and I’ll give you Miranda’s number.”

“Deal.”

“Alright, get dressed in one of the outfits I bought for you, and meet me down the block from Myrella’s in an hour. We’re about to have a public breakup.”

He sighed. “I’m going to have to be an asshole again, aren’t I?”

“It just suits your look so well.” I chuckled.

“You’re lucky I really want in Miranda's pants.”

I rolled my eyes. There was no way in hell Miranda was going to sleep with Blake, and he knew that. “Uh-huh. Just make sure you look fresh, sweetheart.”

“I hate you.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

I ended the call in a much better mood than I'd woken up in. Conversations with Blake were always like that. I'd met him several years ago when I needed to hire some muscle to play the part of a wealthy foreigner who had rubbed the wrong people the wrong way. The grift had gone well, and Blake had actually saved me from a real bullet that definitely was
not
a part of the plan at the time. The next time we'd paired up, I'd saved his life, so we trusted each other about as well as anyone did. Plus, he was a genuinely likable guy.

I checked my reflection one more time before heading out the door. I'd been right about this being the perfect thing to get my focus off of Karis. Nothing like the rush of starting a con to get the blood pumping. There was nothing like that kind of adrenaline rush.

I took my time getting to the address I’d given him, a small restaurant that was about thirty dollars a plate at lunch. It was too low-key to be popular amongst the young elite, and I happened to know that Leticia loved to take visitors there, so I fully intended to see her with her Bavarian cousin who was just in for the weekend. It had taken a particularly large bribe to get that chunk of information, and I was not about to let it go to waste.

I sat on a bench, pretending to read a book as I angled myself so I could see everyone who entered or exited the spot. Sure enough, at about eleven forty-five, a well-dressed, stately woman with light brown hair in a professional up-do traipsed up to the door. A few streaks of silver made it clear that this was her natural color, and she would have it no other way. With teal eyes and a curvy, but not too soft body, Leticia Backman wasn't an unattractive woman for her age.

I waited about ten minutes and put down my book. It was time for Blake to show up. Luckily, he was relatively easy to spot from a distance. There weren’t a lot of people who had four inches on my own six feet six inches frame. Also, there was the fact that he was practically a solid wall of rippling muscle.

Heads always turned when he walked by. I never figured out how he managed to keep a low profile, but for as long as I'd known him, I'd never heard rumors about him being wanted for anything.

“You look good,” I said, gesturing to his cashmere sweater and casual jeans as I stood.

“You know you’re just complimenting yourself right now, right?” he grumbled.

Blake was good-looking, but he rarely dressed to take advantage of it. When I wanted him playing a certain kind of role, I bought him clothes for it. These were from our last grift together where he'd played a similar role.

“What can I say? I know how to make even you look good.”

“Your arrogance is going to kill you someday, you know.” Blake's voice came out in a growl, but I'd long since learned that it was just his way.

“Probably, but until then, you’re going to be my bully of a boyfriend. You ready?”

Rolling his eyes, the massive man offered his elbow, and we linked arms. To be honest, this was probably the fourth time we'd used the gay boyfriends ruse. So many men were obsessed with always appearing hyper masculine and straight that very few targets expected someone to pretend to be homosexual for gain. Especially a guy who looked like Blake. It was just one more aspect of life to choose from.

We strolled into the restaurant arm in arm. It was nice enough, but a little understated for my taste. If I was going to drop a couple hundred on a meal, I wanted the environment to reflect the opulent sort of lifestyle I was emulating. Maybe I was pretentious, but at least I was honest about it. It was one of the few things I actually was honest about.

The hostess didn’t even bat an eye at us, which I admired considering we both had at least a foot on her. Just a few minutes later, thanks to a nice-sized tip for a table of our choice, we were seated just a few spots over from Leticia, who was still alone. Apparently her cousin was still running on Bavarian time.

Perfect.

We ordered an appetizer and the appropriate midday drinks. For once, I actually let Blake enjoy the food for a couple minutes before I gave him the signal.

“Seriously?” he hissed, his mouth half full of the seafood quiche. I narrowed my eyes at him, and he sighed, putting his food down. “Bastard,” he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he raised his tone just enough to be slightly noticeable. “Honestly, babe, I don’t understand why you’re being so overly dramatic about it.”

“Overdramatic?” I shot back a hair louder. It was tricky to play the volume game. Escalate too soon, and people might catch that it was an act. Escalate too late, and our target wouldn’t be invested in the story.

And what did bored, rich women love more than a good drama? Especially a drama involving someone who wouldn't be trying to manipulate her romantically?

“It’s not fair that you can just dismiss all my feelings with a wave of your hand.”

“Then stop being so ridiculous. I can’t help how other people act at parties.”

“But you can help how
you
react!”

Now we were borderline shouting, and people’s heads were starting to turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Leticia had one perfectly maintained eyebrow raised in interest.

Perfect.

“Would it kill you to say, 'Hey, I’m taken?' Most people don’t even know we’re dating!”

“I’m not putting up with this.” Grabbing a few more quiche for good measure, Blake threw his napkin down and turned to storm out. I had to give props to him. He never did things halfway. “Get your paints and canvases out of my place. We’re done.”

Now, it was time for me to really sell it. I looked after him piteously, then sank my head into my hands. Here was where it really came down to chance. From what I could tell of my profile of the elite woman, she was relatively intelligent but prone to the sorts of flights of fancy that the rich often went on when they were bored. Hopefully, I had provided the perfect opportunity for her next distracting project.

“Are you alright, dear?”

Jackpot.

I looked up with tears in my eyes to see my mark standing beside my table, the perfect combination of concern and interest on her face. Of course, what Leticia didn’t know was that they were from vigorously rubbing my eyes while my head had been in my hands. Uaine taught me that particular trick when I hadn't been able to make myself cry on cue.

I'd flat-out refused to use my parents' deaths as a motivator.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. That was so tacky,” I blustered, wiping at my cheeks. “I’ll be fine.”

Without waiting for an invitation, she slid into the seat Blake had just abandoned. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but he certainly didn’t seem very concerned about your well-being. Did he kick you out? Do you have a place to stay?”

I composed myself slightly, but still kept that edge of dramatic sadness. “I have a room for rent in an apartment downtown, but there isn’t really a place I can put my canvas and easel to paint. I can’t afford a studio, so–” Dammit, I hadn’t come up with a name for my fake boyfriend. One of the first rules of grifting was to have a complete backstory entirely memorized. How had I made such a rookie mistake? “–Claude lets me use his spare bedroom. Well...used to let me.”

She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “That’s terrible. But you know what? I don’t believe in coincidence, I never have. I just so happen to have a spare studio open at my art instillation.”

Thanks to my hacker acquaintance, I'd been able to make sure it was no coincidence at all.

She fished around in her purse before producing a lilac-colored – and lilac-scented – card that she handed to me with a flourish.

“Come see me after the weekend. I’ll have someplace safe you can store your paintings, and work on new things whenever the muse strikes you.”

Gotcha.

For me, the opening hook was always the part I worried about. Once I did, I never lost them.

“Oh my god, really? But you don’t even know me!”

She shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. I just know that you’re an artist in need, and I’ve always been interested in art. Don’t think of it as charity, think of it as kismet.”

Or a tax write-off for donating a studio space to an underprivileged muse.

“Now, I assume your boyfriend...I mean, your ex had planned to pay for this?” She gestured to the table.

I nodded, forcing a blush to my cheeks. “Yes. This is so embarrassing. I can’t even afford the appetizer, let alone the drinks. Claude was the one with...” I looked away for a moment.

She waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it, dear. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, thank you so much!”