The Family Jewels (6 page)

She shimmied to the edge of the countertop and dropped lightly to her feet. Then, she pulled a large stone from her bag and laid it on the floor along with the circle of glass, which she crunched underfoot. She eyed her handiwork with a nod before turning back to the window. It was a quick matter of taking out a tiny soldering iron to fix the wiring at the window and then roughing up the edges of the glass in the pane to make it look like some vandals had just tossed a rock through it.

The longer it took for Hannigan to realize he was robbed, the better.

She packed her gear away and padded slowly from the kitchen into the foyer and eyed the wide staircase. The poker room was up and to the right, tucked in the corner of the west wing. Luckily, Alistair’s bedroom was down the opposite hallway. She slunk up the stairs and made the seemingly endless trek down the hallway, not daring to breathe until she was inside the dimly lit bedroom. Once there, she worked quickly and efficiently.

Just like she’d figured, Alistair was careless with his trinkets in the way only a person who thought they had an endless supply of them was. His walk-in closet had an entire shelf dedicated to watches and cufflinks. Rather than take them all, she selected the best of the Rolexes from the back row and then rearranged the rest to hide the space.

Next, she chose two pairs of diamond cufflinks from the dozen there, easily worth five grand apiece. She paused then, eyes lighting on a crooked painting on the back wall of the closet.

People were so predictable. She moved toward it with a sense of purpose, her hands trembling with a fresh rush of adrenaline. Could be anything in that safe, and she couldn’t wait to--

"Good evening, Countess."

The voice was so familiar, the accent so distinct, she didn’t need to turn to see who was behind her.

Fuck fuck fuck
.

She squeezed her eyes closed, heart slamming so hard, she wondered if it could take the abuse.

Christ, who was this guy, Nostradamus? Criss Angel? Beelzebub himself? How was it that he seemed to catch her over and over again? It couldn't simply be a case of right place, right time…

She wouldn’t let herself travel down that rabbit hole right now. What mattered now was talking her way out of this mess. A part of her wanted to just throw caution to the wind and tear ass out of the house to her car. Her instincts were telling her that he wouldn’t physically hurt her if she tried. He could’ve done that the last time he found her up to no good. If she could get past him, maybe...

But she couldn't afford to roll the dice on a maybe. Sure, could be that hitting a woman wouldn't sit well on his conscience, but that didn't mean he wouldn't do it. And even if he didn't want to hurt her, he definitely wanted something.

The question was, what?

Slowly, she shifted her now sweaty fist to the front of her uniform and slipped the cufflinks and the watch between the buttons of her housedress and into the waistband of her underwear.

She turned and stood stock-still. "Good evening, Mr. Callahan."

His gaze ran over her from head to toe, and she bit back the urge to ramble. To ask him a million questions or chatter to cut the tension. But anything she said would add more ammo to the rapidly growing stockpile that could eventually land her in the clink, so she waited for him to ask the questions.

"Seems like we can't stay away from each other.” His voice was low, husky and totally in control. In fact, he didn’t seem surprised to see her in the least. “Why do you think that is, Countess?"

It was the same question she'd been asking herself, so she kept her lips zipped and shrugged.

He nodded slowly, and then crossed his arms over his broad chest, assessing her with his perceptive gaze. "I imagine you're on a pretty tight schedule, yeah?”

She chose to assume that it was a rhetorical question and opted not to answer that one either.

“Which puts us in a bit of a bind,” he continued, taking a step closer to her. “Because I’m afraid I can’t let you leave until you tell me what’s going on."

She shifted from foot to foot without looking directly at him, sure that her eyes would tell the tale. Her adrenaline was off the charts and her whole body was thrumming with the need to move.

Fight or flight, at your service.

He was right about one thing. Time was not on her side. She made a decision on the fly that she hoped she wouldn’t live to regret.

"Look,” she moistened her dry lips and squared her shoulders, “why don't we skip the nonsense and you tell me what you want? Clearly, you have an agenda of your own, or else you'd have contacted the authorities.
Both
times. So what's it going to take?"

That was as close as she wanted to get to offering him a bribe, because she still wasn't sure what his game was. Could he be a cop or some Interpol agent who was investigating Hannigan for illegal activity? Or was he just a bored, rich friend compelled by the mystery of the pretty little chameleon?

She froze as one other possibility teased at her mind...

And suddenly all the other options fell to the wayside as the truth became as clear as glass.

"He's your mark," she whispered incredulously.

Holy shitballs. It made perfect sense. Jake hadn’t called the cops on her because his own motives were just as dirty. He needed her out of the way because she was mucking up the works for him and his own con.

“Hannigan is your mark,” she repeated, not bothering to frame it as a question.

He offered her a clipped nod. "He is."

"And he's also mine."

Things had just gotten a whole lot more interesting. The shaking in her hands stopped and her brain buzzed with new possibilities. Could she entice him with a promise of the cut? Or get him to cut her in on whatever he was doing? This could be big. Huge, even.

“So what do you suggest we do now?” she asked softly.

“You’re not going to want to hear this but I’m going to need you to walk away and let this one go. I’ve got plans and you’re tromping all over them like a moose in a rose garden.”

He paused and took a step toward her and then another, closing the gap between them until only a few inches remained.

“And that’s not a suggestion, Countess.” His voice was low and silky, but there was no mistaking the edge there.

She swallowed hard and forced herself not to take a step back even as the scent of Irish Spring washed over her, doing terrible things to her insides.

"Maybe we could work together,” she managed. “Like partners.”

“I work alone.”

“But-”

He uncrossed his arms and held up a finger to silence her. “Let’s not forget, lass, I’m supposed to be here tonight. If I get caught, my presence here is easily explained. Yours, however…”

He didn’t have to remind her. She could almost hear the sands trickling through the hourglass. Time to cut her losses. He wasn’t calling the cops and she wasn’t going to jail, which was more than she had hoped for even two minutes before. And it wasn’t like she was leaving empty-handed.

“Fine. I’ll go.” She kept her tone as steady as she could. “If you just move to the side and let me pass-”

“I will. But I’m going to need whatever you took before you go,” he murmured softly, turning to block her body with his as she attempted to shimmy by him.

Shit.

“I totally would, but I didn’t get anything yet.” She shrugged and held up her empty hands with a rueful smile. “I was just going for the safe behind the painting when you came in." She made to move past him again, but he was like a wall of muscle, hard and immobile.

"I don’t have time for games right now, Sadie. Are you sure you don’t have anything?” His gaze hammered into hers and it took everything she had to hold it.

She swallowed hard as he glanced at her bag.

"I told you. I didn’t have a chance to hit the safe yet." She handed him the bag and he took it but didn’t bother to open it. The smile she'd noted on each occasion they'd met appeared again, but this time it took on a knowing quality she wasn’t fond of.

"So you're telling me you took nothing."

"Yes, that's what I'm telling you." She could feel a bead of sweat sliding down her back and hoped it wasn't dotting her upper lip too. Nothing looked guiltier than sweating literally in the face of an interrogation.

"So then it won't bother you if I pat you down?"

She drew back and gasped like he’d slapped her. "It certainly would." She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "I don't know if you just want to cop a cheap feel, or what your deal is, but surely you know there’s a code of honor among thieves and I wouldn’t lie about-"

She felt it the second before she heard it. The watch she had wedged in the side of her underwear slinking down her leg. She flexed, hitching her hip to the side in hopes of saving it, but a second later it fell to the marble floor with a
jangle
and a
ping
that echoed like a gunshot.

She stared at Jake and held her stance like it didn't even happen but her hands had gone icy cold, and her pulse was racing so fast she felt dizzy. What the fuck was she going to do now? And then her father’s gritty baritone rang in her head, like a voice from heaven.

When in doubt, girlie, kick 'em in the balls and run.

"I hope you know how sorry I am about this," she whispered. Then, she drew back and let her knee fly, nailing Jake square in the tackle. He grunted and doubled-over. And she?

Well, she scooped up the watch and ran like hell.

F
orty minutes later
, Sadie threw the door open to her tiny apartment and tossed her keys into the bowl on the kitchenette table. Then she collapsed onto a chair to take the first full breath she'd taken since she'd left Hannigan's estate.

That had been a close call.

No.

“Close call” didn't even come close to describing the near disaster of her night. Even as she’d flown down the stairs and out the front doors of the estate, she was sure Jake Callahan would be hot on her heels, loaded for bear. It was only after she’d gotten into her rental car and driven a full mile without him following her that she had any expectation of getting away.

God, what an idiot. She should've aborted this mission after the gala debacle. Rule number three of a good con? You catch a whiff of something fishy, then you move on to the next. There was a whole world
full
of assholes with money. No reason to get stuck on one particular asshole.

But she'd gotten sloppy. Personal issues had clouded her mind, and that had almost been her downfall. Still might, actually. Who knew if she was in the clear?

She'd have to quit Roberto’s. There was no question that Jake would go there at some point to try to find out where she lived. Maybe she should call tomorrow and warn Monica that a bill collector was on the hunt for her and ask her not to give him any information.

Not that they had much to give. She'd used a fake address and last name to land that job for exactly this reason. He'd be looking for a Sadie who lived in the twenty-mile radius of the bistro and that would be a pretty tall order with just a first name to work with. She’d just have to keep a low profile for a few months. Unfortunately, that was going to be much harder to do now that she’d only gotten twenty-grand worth of merch from Hannigan rather than the fifty-plus she’d been counting on. Definitely not enough to take care of Clarissa for the next year while she took some classes and tried to go legit.

She blinked back the hot tears of frustration that rushed to her eyes and shoved herself to her feet. Like most things in life, there was no use crying about it. Tears wouldn’t change a thing.

She dragged her ass to the bedroom to take a hot shower, wash the powder from her hair and change into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. When she finished, she headed straight for the couch as the last of the adrenaline drained from her blood leaving her physically exhausted and emotionally drained.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would have a long, hard think and figure out where to go from here. At least the jewelry she’d gotten would pay the rent and get Clarissa home. That was something.

She’d just gotten up to make herself a cup of tea when the cell phone she’d left charging before she’d gone out began to ring. Her heart ramped up again as she stared at it from across the room.

Midnight calls only happened for three reasons. Booty, death or trouble. She knew it wasn’t the first and prayed it wasn’t the middle as she crossed the room to scoop up her mobile. She didn’t recognize the number, and she blew out a relieved sigh. At least it wasn’t the hospital. Her thumb hesitated over the green button for a long moment before the phone went silent.

They’d hung up. Wrong number, maybe?

She stared at the phone like it was a nest full of vipers, waiting to strike, but it stayed quiet in her hand. Just as her heartbeat leveled off, it chimed in her hand and a text message scrolled across the screen.

Meet me at the restaurant. Thirty minutes, or I come to your apartment. Don’t fuck with me, Sadie Leighton. My patience is wearing thin.

Shit and double shit.

She glanced at her watch and leaned forward to lay her head against the wall with a groan. There was no way of knowing if he was bluffing about coming to her apartment or if he even had her address, but the fact that he knew her real last name and that he’d known she lived in an apartment at all wasn’t filling her with hope. The last thing she wanted was to deal with him right now. Her legs were still trembling from the near clusterfuck of the past two hours, but what choice did she have? Better to meet him in public and hope for the best than have him here.

She changed into a pair of jeans and a blouse and stuffed her hair into her waitress wig before calling a cab. If she needed to make a run for it, she was better off not being tied to a vehicle.

By the time she sat down at Roberto’s bar, she was prepared for the worst and mentally penning an apology to Clarissa for letting her down. Jake wasn’t even going to show. There were probably half a dozen uniformed officers surrounding the place. She’d just have to hope none of them had twitchy fingers.

"Hey there, can I buy you a drink?" A youngish blond guy sat in the stool next to her and offered her his hand. "The name is Dennis."

“Look, Dennis. I appreciate the offer but unfortunately, I-"

"Can't accept your drink," a familiar, silky brogue finished over her shoulder. "Because she's with me. Have a great night, Dennis."

She squeezed her eyes closed and dropped her chin to her chest, weak with relief. Okay, so no cops. Not yet, at least. She spun her leather stool around to face her nemesis.

"Are you going to have me arrested?" she asked, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. She'd spent a lifetime playing a tough guy game, and hadn't cracked yet, so she wasn't about to start now. It was only the thought of Clarissa alone at the hospital that made her start to shake again.

His hooded gaze was thoughtful, but surprisingly less angry than she'd expected, which wasn’t as comforting as it could have been. Maybe he was loony. Why else would he not be mad that a woman had kneed him right in the balls before running away like that? Prison was bad. Getting murdered by a psychopath was way worse.

She eyed the door, but he shook his head once.

"Don't even think about it." The warning in his voice had her sinking back into her seat with a sigh of resignation. It was the end of the road, and now all that remained was to find out her punishment.

"You want that drink, Countess? No reason we can't keep it civil."

She shrugged and when Petra, the bartender, came over, Sadie said a quick hello and ordered a Manhattan on the rocks. Jake held up two fingers, and Petra smiled before flitting off to make their drinks, but not before she turned, wide-eyed, and bit her knuckle in Sadie's direction.

If she only knew.

"Sadie Leighton, yeah? Is that the name you were born with?"

"It is," she said with a nod.

"I wish I could believe even that, but already we have a history together, don't we? I ask you questions and you tell me lies."

"Well, that's kinda your fault though, am I right?" She shrugged and picked up the cocktail Petra had set before her and drained it in one long gulp before swiping the back of her hand over her mouth. "If you minded your own beeswax instead of sticking your nose into my affairs, I wouldn't have had to lie to you." She let her gaze drift pointedly below his waist. "Or knee you in the junk.”

Maybe it was stupid, but there was no point in pulling punches now. Whatever was going to happen was already in motion. She was just along for the ride now.

She had to give him some credit, though, because even then, he didn't get mad. In fact, his lips quirked in a half-smile and he raised his glass in her direction before following her lead and swallowing it down. He set the glass back on the bar with a chink and motioned for Petra to give them a refill. Sadie considered refusing and then stopped herself. She was about to be on the receiving end of a prison sentence, blackmail, or an indecent proposal, and any of those scenarios would be easier to cope with if she was drunk.

“I believe you this time. Because that little pulse in your neck?” He leaned in and touched one fingertip to a spot on her throat. “It goes wild when you’re lying.”

She could feel it ramping up already beneath his fingers, but it had nothing to do with lies. Her breath caught and it was all she could do not to jerk away as his eyes went dark with something far more terrifying than anger.

He held her gaze for a long moment and then sat back and shrugged. "See? That’s helpful information, right? I’m willing to let bygones be bygones in order to achieve my goal and help you achieve yours. Our past interactions aren't really working for either one of us. Would you agree?"

She nodded and eyed him speculatively. She’d been grifting long enough to see an offer coming and she could hardly contain her curiosity.

"I would agree. So let's change the tide. What’s your game here, Mr. Callahan?"

His gaze traveled over her hair and her face, lingering on her lips, which had her fighting not to moisten them in response.

"Fine. I'll show you mine," he murmured, leaning in to finger a lock of hair that had fallen over her eye, and tucking it behind her ear. "But then, I want you to show me yours."

The innuendo wasn't lost on her and she was still trying to squash the vision of the two of them tangled in a set of satin sheets when her co-worker dropped off another round.

He held up his glass and clinked it to hers. "
Slainte
."

She mimicked his toast, and knocked it back.

“Quid pro quo.” He set his glass down, pinning her in place with his intense gaze. “I'm sure I don’t have to tell you that, if this game doesn't go the way I want it to this time, we're not going to be able to play together anymore and you're going to find yourself in the back of a black and white car, yeah?"

She nodded and pursed her lips. "Shoot."

"My name is Jake Callahan, but that wasn't always my name. I used to be called Jake Reilly. When my father died, I changed my name to match my mother's. Now you."

She snatched up the fresh cocktail that was just set in front of her, but this time took a slow sip, letting it roll around her tongue and slide down her throat in a warm rush.

Liquid courage, they said. She hoped “they” were right.

"My name is actually Sadie Leighton,” she murmured, keeping her voice low enough so as not to carry. “I'm not a Countess but I am a waitress…sometimes. And a damned good one, at that."

“All things I knew before or found out an hour ago with a simple call to a very good private investigator on my payroll.” He raised a brow and wiggled his fingers in a "keep going" motion.

"My parents are both dead."

"Mine too. May they rest in peace,” he murmured, and they drank together in tacit agreement before he eyed her again. "Who is Alistair Hannigan to you?”

She thought the question over and shook her head. There was no reason she could think of not to answer honestly. "He's no one. Just a random bad guy who does bad things. Not to mention, he's a shit tipper and an even shittier customer. He treats the staff like he owns them, and I don't like him.”

“So you wanted to steal from him?”

“I wanted to steal from someone
like
him.” She reached out to scoop up a handful of bar nuts. "He's what my father would call the cleanest of marks."

"Odd choice of words,” he said with a frown. “I'd hardly call that bastard clean."

She quirked a brow at him, taken aback by the barely contained hatred in his tone. Clearly, there was a history between the two men that went far deeper than just this con and she had to fight the need to ask him about it. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her as the game progressed. She wasn’t going to hold her breath, though.

"I agree,” she said with a nod. “He’s as dirty as they come, but I think my dad looked at it the other way. A clean mark doesn't leave a smudge on your soul, you know? Like, even after you hit ‘em, you can still sleep at night."

That felt too real…too honest, and the weight of his stare felt like a tangible thing. She looked away, taking a few seconds to shore up her defenses. She’d already said way more than she should have, and if she wanted to get out of this mess, she was probably going to have to continue down that treacherous path. The thought scared the shit out of her.

He’d already cost her thousands by cutting her little night trip short, and something deep down told her that, in the long run?

It was going to cost her far more than that.

* * *

J
ake let
her words play over in his mind for a while and took a sip from his glass.

He'd used a lot of people on the way to nailing Alistair Hannigan and all the people before him. Secretaries he’d had to lean on, hotel workers and cleaning people he’d bribed, bank officials and trash collectors he’d used.

And then there was Mike. His own brother, his flesh and blood, who he'd lied to countless times. Most of the people he'd dealt with were only out for themselves or a buck, but some of the things he'd done?

Had definitely left a smudge on his soul.

"By that definition, I'd have to agree. There is little that I could imagine doing to Alistair Hannigan that he wouldn't deserve and then some."

She shifted in her seat to face him, swallowing him whole with those dark eyes. "Exactly. It's not too often you can say that in this line of work,” she said. “Sometimes, you spend months gathering intel on a mark. You think they're perfect. Some slumlord who doesn't fix the heat in the wintertime who’s cheating on his wife, to boot. And then, you happen to be tailing him only to find out that his wife is cheating too. And they have a daughter who has spina bifida, and sure, he's a shit of a person, but when he leaves from visiting her, he lays his head on the steering wheel and bursts into tears."