Steal My Heart (9 page)

Paige kept pace with Mark as they hustled out the door and down the street back to the parking garage. They returned to the Chrysler and retrieved his black duffel bag as well as the things from her afternoon shopping spree. Then it was back across the street to the Godiva Hotel where Mark checked them into a room on the twentieth floor—under the names Mr. and Mrs. Smith, much to her chagrin.

When she stepped into the plush room and set down her bags, she was stunned.

The space a complete suite with gold brocade sofa, matching chairs and curtains, a marble-top coffee table, and pastoral landscapes on every wall. She wondered if the FBI really had this type of accommodation in their budget, but she supposed it was the only one at the location they needed. She’d interviewed the well-to-do in high-end hotel rooms before, but for some reason this one, with its Windsor Castle feel, reminded her of the honeymoon suite Mark had taken her to in London.

No need to think of that now. Rubbing her arms, she crossed the soft carpet to the window and peered out at the neighboring building. She couldn’t even tell which floor was which. “Are you sure they’re over there? Right across from us?”

“Absolutely. So close the curtains and back away from the window.”

He had a point. They couldn’t risk being seen. She found the cord and pulled the thick brocade together. Then she sank into a chair and put her head in her hands, her hopes plummeting. “Am I ever going to see my little girl again?” She was so tired of this horrible game.

Mark dropped his duffel bag onto the credenza and moved to her. “You will if I have anything to say about it, Angel Eyes.” He brushed her hair from her forehead. Tenderly, he put his hand under her chin, turned her face toward him. “I know you must be exhausted. But hang in there. It won’t be much longer.” His deep blue eyes burned with sincerity.

She hoped he was right. “My nerves are frayed, Mark. I haven’t slept much in the past two days. I’m going on autopilot.”

He let her go and stepped toward the phone. “You need food. You haven’t eaten since that little piece of bagel this morning.”

She frowned. “How do you know I didn’t eat while I was shopping?”

The corner of his lip turned up. He shot her an I’ll-never-tell look as he picked up the room service menu to study it.

He’d followed her to the mall, hadn’t he? She should’ve guessed. She was too tired to argue about it. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need brain food.”

She forced a laugh. “I thought you were the one who was supposed to be witless.”

He grinned. “You did an Academy Award winning performance across the street with that clerk.”

She folded her hands in her lap, the emptiness digging into the pit of her stomach. “Desperation is the mother of invention.”

“Isn’t it though?” He picked up the phone and dialed room service.

Paige was touched that he remembered what she liked, ordering the salmon amandine with risotto and asparagus. And he would have the beef bourguignon, she thought as the words came out of his mouth. Just like on their honeymoon.

He hung up and turned to his bag. He took out something long and silvery, moved to the window where she had been a moment ago, and opened the mechanism into a tripod. Then he produced a shiny black cylinder, pulled it into an elongated shape and set it on the tripod. A telescope. Carefully he parted the curtains no more than a quarter inch and positioned the end of the scope in the gap.

Amazed, Paige stared at him. “Is that FBI equipment?”

He shook his head. “My own.”

The reality came over her like dark clouds settling into a harbor. “This is how you used to stake out a place before you robbed it.”

His wry grimace told her she’d hit a raw spot. “You always were direct.” He gestured at the device. “Now I use it only for good. Kind of like Robin Hood.”

She scowled at him. “Do you see anything?”

He squinted into the end of it. “Shadows.”

“Let me see.”

He stepped aside and allowed her to press an eye to the viewer.

It was still misting outside, but she could see dark figures pacing across the floor. She couldn’t make out details. She sucked in her breath. “Is Holly in there, Mark?”

“I’d bet a year’s pay on it. Though the Bureau’s pretty cheap with us ex-cons.”

She blinked at him, surprised by the term he used so lightly. She peered into the scope again. Suddenly a man came into view. Tall, thin, waving his hands, his mouth moving, his face animated. “I see another man. He looks angry.”

“Let me have a look.”

She did and watched his color drain while his face tensed. Mark knew this man as well as Joel Jimar. A cold sensation slid down her back.

“He’ll be pitching his fit for a while,” Mark grunted in a dark tone.

Once again she was overcome by the desire to burst into that room and demand her daughter from that criminal. But that could get both of them killed. She saw that now. There had to be a way to get Holly away from him and Jimar and they had to think of it. The FBI?

Mark took her in by the hand and pulled her away from the telescope.

“But—”

“He’s not going anywhere. He wants that necklace. He’ll call you sooner or later. After he rants for awhile because it wasn’t in the locker.”

“How do you know? Do you think he’s already—?” Dear, God. Holly could already be—gone. As the thought hit her, sudden tears began to stream down her face. She couldn’t stop them.

He took her in his arms, held her close. “No, I don’t, Paige. Holly’s alive. I feel it. I know this man.”

“
How
do you know him?” She gazed into his eyes, longing for answers.

She watched the troubled emotions ripple over his face. Ignoring them, or maybe to smother them, he pulled her close and bent his head. “Oh, my darling,” he murmured. His lips were nearly on hers when there was a knock at the door.

She jumped.

“Room service.”

Mark put a finger to his lips and gestured for her to stand in the alcove while he opened the door, one hand on his gun.

“Your order, sir?”

“Yes. Come in.”

The waiter pushed a cart inside and opened the lids waiting for approval and a tip.

Mark gave him both. “Excellent. My compliments to the chef.”

“But you haven’t tasted it yet.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

The man headed for the pair of straight back chairs against the wall to set up the cart.

Mark stopped him. “Never mind. I’ll do that.”

“Oh, but sir—”

“Indulge me.” He handed the man a twenty.

“Very well, sir.” Taking the bill with a frown of curiosity, the waiter bowed and left them alone.

Mark pulled the chairs up to the little table and held out one for Paige.

She grimaced. “I really don’t feel like it.”

“You’re going to eat. You need your strength.”

Because she knew how stubborn he could be, she moved toward the chair. Then she stopped and folded her arms. “I’ll eat if you tell me about this man name Jean-Claude Laroche.”

He narrowed an eye at her, frustrated by her stubbornness. “So you want an exclusive?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’ll keep your end of the bargain and eat?”

“Of course.” She gave him her best interview smile.

“Deal.”

That meant he was going to tell her anyway. She’d take the deal. She let him slide the chair under her and picked up her fork.

Mark sat down opposite her.

“Go ahead. Tell me.”

“You first.”

With a huff, she loosened a bite off the moist salmon swimming in a creamy white sauce and put it in her mouth. It was heavenly, despite the hard knot that felt like a rock in her stomach. Once more Mark was right. She did need sustenance.

Dutifully, she chewed and swallowed, as he poured wine into their glasses. She reached for hers and held it up to the light. “Are you going to keep your end of the bargain?”

With a look that said he didn’t appreciate her doubting his new-found integrity, he pointed at her plate. “A few more bites.”

She rolled her eyes, stuffed a few more delicious morsels into her cheeks and spread her hands.

His eyes twinkled. He was either pleased with her pluck or delighted he was winning this battle. He cut into his own dish and took a bite but the look of pleasure she was expecting didn’t appear.

“Not good?”

“It’s fine.”

She finished another bite then set her down fork. “No more until you tell me who Jean-Claude Laroche is?”

He held her gaze for a long while, then laughed a soft, sad laugh. “I used to call him my ‘Fagin.’”

At last he was opening up. “Like in
Oliver Twist
?”

He nodded, sat back and sipped his wine, his handsome face taking on a somber, faraway look. “I grew up in a tenement house around Ninety-Eighth
Street. My father left us when I was about ten. After that, it was just my mother, my younger brother and me. My mother drank too much, couldn’t hold a job.”

Paige’s chin dropped, that familiar sinking feeling creeping over her. The one she’d had four years ago when she found out Mark was in jail. She cleared her throat. “You told me your family was rich. You said your parents were dead and they left you a large inheritance.”

“My mother is dead. I assume my father is, too. And I was using the words
family
and
inheritance
loosely.”

So his “inheritance” had been what he’d stolen. She drew in a breath. “I don’t know what to say, Mark.”

He pointed at her plate again. “Eat.”

She had a feeling he was just getting started, so she shoved another bite in her mouth. “Go on,” she said after a sip of wine.

“Like I said, my mother was unemployable, so I tried to earn money. I had two paper routes for a while, but they hardly paid the rent. So one day I cut school and decided to walk down Park Avenue to the Upper East Side. I came to an area lined with fancy shops and businesses near Eighty-Fifth. Just a few blocks from here, in fact.” He pointed over his shoulder. “First time I’d seen it. I was fascinated. Lots of hustle and bustle, taxicabs and fancy cars on the street, well-dressed people coming and going in and out of doorways.”

“That is an interesting area.” She’d always been enchanted by the city herself.

“So I found a spot on the sidewalk, put my baseball cap down on the concrete, and started asking people for money as they passed by. After a while, I had more than I made it a week with my paper route. So I started to do it on a regular basis. I found some choice spots where the people were very generous. Then I started to hit Central Park. I told my mother the money was from my paper route tips, but she didn’t really care where it came from.”

Open-mouthed, Paige stared at him. The image of a poor little boy on the side of the road asking strangers for money broke her heart. “You begged?”

He picked at his food with his fork. “I didn’t think of it as begging. I felt I was asking for charitable donations.” But his face said the shame of it had never left him.

“Go on,” she said again. This time softly.

“One day in Central Park, a man happened along. He was tall and thin and well dressed. He had a long Roman nose and sharp, penetrating light blue eyes. I guess you could say he possessed a kind of aura. Rich, competent, sure of himself. Before he even spoke to me, I decided I wanted to be just like that man. He asked me what I was doing. I told him and he said he knew of a way I could make a lot more money than that.”

“That was Laroche?”

“Yes.” There was a tightness around Mark’s mouth as he spoke. “He taught me how to pick pockets. I didn’t like it at first. I told him it was stealing. But he said these people were well off and wouldn’t miss the money. He convinced me that if I’d had the opportunity to explain my circumstances to these people, they’d give me a hefty donation anyway, so why not give them a shortcut? I was saving all of us time. I bought it. I was gullible.”

“You were desperate.” She reached across the table for his hand. He took it, opened it gently and placed a kiss on her palm. The gesture went straight to her heart. “What then?”

“I went to work for Laroche. He taught me a lot and I learned fast. Then I started to pick up things on my own. I became very skilled. I made him a lot of money.”

“He took a cut.”

Mark nodded. “A big cut at first. He was my fence. I’d give him what I lifted, he’d break it up, sell it off, give me what he thought I’d earned. But it was more than I’d ever seen. After awhile, I made enough to pay for a house for my mother in Queens. Though that didn’t change her lifestyle. And I was able to help my brother through college.”

Paige blew out the breath she was holding. “I remember your brother. Ted’s is a lawyer, isn’t he?” He was at their wedding but Mark hadn’t seen him very often after that.