Thief of Hearts (19 page)

“So, remind me again. Where exactly did Jamie get these clothes?” I asked Alfie as I studied myself in the mirror. I wore a tight black pencil skirt and a white blouse, courtesy of Jamie, oddly enough. I hadn’t found anything suitable in my wardrobe to wear to the meeting with Renfield.

“He dressed up as Dita Von Tease for Halloween last year,” Alfie explained, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“What?” I chuckled. “How did I not know about this?”

“You were visiting your parents.”

“And what about the wig? Doesn’t Dita Von Tease have black hair?”

“Oh yeah, the wig was from the year beforehand,” Alfie informed me casually. “Sandra Dee.”

I sputtered a laugh of disbelief. How had I not realised that Jamie was so fond of dressing up as a woman? And there was me thinking he was eccentric for wearing a three-piece suit on a regular basis. I straightened out the blonde wig, then went to collect the blue contact lenses I’d picked up from a nearby pharmacy yesterday. Pulling my eyelids back, I quickly popped them in, having taken lessons on how to do it from the girl at the pharmacy.
Can’t say I’d want to put contacts in every day.
Once finished, I studied myself in the mirror. My transformation was complete.

“You look weird,” said Alfie, taking in my altered appearance.

“Weird good or weird bad?” I asked, anxiety kicking in. Why had I volunteered to do this again? Right. Because I was an idiot.

“Weird good. The contacts and the wig look surprisingly natural, but I still think this is a terrible idea. If Renfield cottons on, then the entire plan goes out the window, and you can kiss goodbye to being debt free.”

I’d told Alfie a bit of a white lie. He thought Stu needed me with him to pose as his business partner. That I didn’t have another choice. My cousin was still entirely oblivious to my newly developed feelings for my student. It only added an extra layer of anxiety to my already frazzled nerves. He was going to blow a gasket when he eventually found out.

“What did you tell Jamie I needed the outfit for?” I asked, a little dismayed by the fact that everything fit me perfectly. Either I was big boned or Jamie had decidedly feminine measurements. I hoped for the latter.

“I said you’d been invited to a fancy dress party for a work colleague’s birthday and wanted to go as Blondie. Don’t worry, he doesn’t suspect anything untoward. No offence, but we don’t exactly come across as hardened criminals.”

Well, he was right there. I swiped on some red-tinted lip gloss just before there was a knock at the door. Sliding on my black heels, which I thankfully already owned and didn’t have to borrow from Jamie (a woman needs to keep some dignity), I went to answer the door. When I did my breath caught because Stu stood on the doorstep, looking like an Armani model. Just like me, he’d undergone a transformation in the hopes of not being recognised further down the line should the robbery go south.

Stu wore a fitted navy blue suit, white shirt, a slim black tie and horn-rimmed glasses.

Actually, I take back the Armani model comment. He looked like a spy from the fifties, a very, very sexy spy.

“Um,” I said, looking him over as I chewed on my lip, “come in.”

“Andrea?” Stu asked, taking in the wig and the contacts, and well, the entire outfit really. “You look . . . you don’t look like you.”

“That’s the intention.”

“Is it weird that I’m a little bit turned on?” His grin was wicked.

“Yes, very weird,” I said past a nervous chuckle as a flutter went through me.

“Well, I am. I didn’t expect your disguise to be so . . . believable.”

“Some of us decided to put more of an effort in than using the old Clark Kent trick,” I teased as he stepped inside the flat, his chest brushing mine in the narrow doorway. I glanced over his shoulder, surprised to see a silver BMW SUV parked outside.

“Is that yours?” I asked, gaping at the car.

“Nah, called in a favour from a friend. Need to return it by five. It’s just for appearance’s sake. Renfield will be expecting someone with money.”

“Oh.”

Stu smirked. “You like it?”

“Um, yeah.”

Now he winked. “If we have time later I’ll take you for a little spin.”

My cheeks heated at the insinuation as I led him into the living room where Alfie waited.

“Somebody scrubs up well,” he said, eyeing Stu, almost as surprised as I’d been. A brief thought struck me.
Did Alfie find Stu attractive?
I realised that even after all these years, I had no idea what his type was. Though in fairness, Stu Cross in a suit had to be everybody’s type.

Okay, so maybe I was a tad biased.

“Right so, let’s get this straight. You two get in and out quickly, no sticking around for a glass of five-hundred-pound Scotch after the meeting. In fact, don’t accept any alcohol whatsoever. I know how these types operate. They’ll be plying you with vodka, all the while there’s water in their glass, and you’re telling them all your secrets.”

“Don’t worry,” said Stu, glancing at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. “I’m not Freddy McGonagall. I know what I’m doing.”

“Freddy Mcwho?” asked Alfie, puzzled.

“Freddy McGonagall was my cellmate. Also Britain’s dumbest criminal, though in fairness, he was a junkie at the time, so you can’t really blame him for the dumb part.”

“What was his crime?” I asked, strangely curious.

Stu scratched at his stubble. “He used to take out low-end hits to pay for his drugs. Set out to do a job high as a kite, took a bloody taxi to the location, boasting to the driver all the way there that he was going to kill some well-known gunrunner. In the end they got him from fingerprints on the bullets. Silly prick loads up his revolver with his bare hands then slips on a pair of leather gloves afterwards, wouldn’t want to leave any evidence, after all.”

“Oh my God, that’s so tragic it’s almost funny,” said Alfie.

“World’s full of ’em.” Stu sighed.

“Yes well, we’d better get going,” I cut in, glancing at the clock.

I was antsy to get a move on, even if we ended up arriving early. Really, I just wanted to get the whole thing over and done with. Stu approached me, his gaze soft as he lifted his hand as though to cup my cheek and ease my anxiety. Instinctively I stepped away to avoid it, conscious that Alfie was still in the room. Stu frowned, a brief look of frustration marking his features.

“After you,” he said, voice tight as he gestured for me to lead the way. I grabbed my handbag and went outside, the cool air soothing my frazzled nerves.

“Sorry about that,” I apologised when he opened the passenger side door of the BMW for me. “Alfie doesn’t know about us yet, and I’m not ready to tell him.”

“No worries,” Stu replied stiffly.

My gut sank at the realisation that I’d hurt his feelings. He started driving and I just wanted to climb astride him and kiss him until he forgave me. A pity it’d ruin my makeup. I pulled open the overhead mirror to check my appearance, unable to remember the last time I’d worn so much foundation and eyeliner. It was good though. I looked like a completely different person, unrecognisable from my usual self.

“Stop fussing. You look perfect. Do you remember our story?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m the business manager, you’re the hands on the ground, as it were.”

“Exactly. Anyway, just let me do most of the talking. If we're lucky, Renfield will be too distracted by how tight your blouse is to realise the bullshit I’m peddling.” Now he shot me a smirk, and I was relieved he wasn’t still pissed at me. “Let’s just hope he prefers blondes.”

“Don’t all men?”

Stu shook his head, his expression heating. “Like brunettes myself, always have.”

I blushed and focused on the road ahead. When we arrived at Renfield’s my nerves really kicked in.
How was Stu so calm?
I found an unopened bottle of mineral water in the glove compartment and knocked back a long gulp. Stu squeezed my knee.

“You’re going to be fine,” he murmured, his deep voice reassuring me more than anything else could.

We exited the car and approached the house, where we had to be buzzed in. What I assumed was the modern-day version of a butler opened the door to us, wearing a dapper suit with a red tie.

“Mr Kennedy and Miss Jordan,” the butler greeted in an overly posh accent, using the fake names we’d given. “Mr Renfield has been expecting you.”

“How do,” said Stu, cheekily tipping his imaginary top hat to the guy. Was he seriously taking the piss right now? The butler just about managed to hide his displeasure. I shot Stu a wide glance but he only winked at me. Then I got it. This was exactly how he should be acting. After all, if we were making jokes then we couldn’t possibly be nervous, right? Couldn’t possibly have anything to hide.

We were led into a large study, the walls lined with bookshelves. Renfield stood from his chair and came to shake our hands. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but he looked very normal, like any ordinary fifty-something-year-old man on the street. Though his clothes were clearly expensive.

“Mr Kennedy,” he said, shaking with Stu. “And Miss Jordan, it really is a pleasure to meet you both.”

Stu and I spoke simultaneously.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

“Likewise.”

A moment of awkwardness ensued, Renfield glancing between us. I plastered on an expression as if to say,
happens all the time
, and our host quickly moved things along.

“Please, take a seat. Can I offer either of you a drink? A little tipple, maybe?”

I shared a quick look with Stu, both of us remembering Alfie’s warning.

“No, thank you,” I declined, plastering on a bland smile.

“Yeah, I’m good, too. But thanks,” said Stu.

“Well then, I suppose we should get down to business,” Renfield declared, clasping his hands together. “Miss Jordan, I believe you’ll be taking care of planning the transportation and route, while Mr Kennedy here will be doing the groundwork. Now, I have it on good authority that you’re both the best in the field, but can I please have full disclosure? Have there ever been any hiccups in the past? I only ask because the cargo I wish to have transported is very precious to me and I want to know of any possible issues in advance so we can plan to avoid them.”

“We’re generally fine leaving the port. It’s arriving at Port Klang and transferring onto the next ship where the trouble could come in. I’ve got men on both ships, and a friend at customs in Dubai who’ll grant me clearance,” said Stu.

“We’ve completed over fifty transfers to the United Arab Emirates in the past two years,” I felt compelled to add. “All of them without a hitch.”

Renfield’s attention came to me, his shrewd gaze taking me in, and I immediately regretted opening my mouth. “Forgive me, but you look vaguely familiar, Miss Jordan. Have we met before?”

I tensed, unsure where this was coming from. We definitely hadn’t met before. Either it was an interrogation technique or in my current guise I resembled someone he knew.

“I don’t believe so,” I answered.

“Are you quite sure? Your accent is from Surrey, correct? I have a lot of acquaintances in that area. Perhaps our paths have crossed at some soiree or other.”

I gave a soft laugh, though it was completely fake. “Perhaps.”

“Who’s to say when libations have been taken, am I right?” Renfield chuckled. I sort of wanted to laugh at his use of ‘libations’ in regular conversation. The only time I ever came across that word was when I was reading the classics.

“I can hardly remember my own name, never mind the folks I’ve met after one too many glasses of wine,” he went on, obviously finding himself completely hilarious. Stu’s eyebrow rose slightly.

“Oh, I’ve been there myself a time or two,” I said, humouring him.

Renfield smiled at me widely, his face taking on a look of interest that I didn’t immediately recognise. It was only when his eyes travelled along my breasts, lingering on my hips that I realised he was checking me out. Stu glanced between us, seemingly coming to the same conclusion. His posture stiffened.

Renfield leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, Miss Jordan, do you enjoy art?”

“Oh, very much so.”

“Do you have a favourite artist, or a favourite style, perhaps?”

“I’m quite fond of the impressionists, Cezanne in particular, though technically he was a post-impressionist,” I answered.

“Ah yes, when it comes to the impressionists I’m a purist, I’m afraid. It’s Monet all the way,” said Renfield, laughing boisterously. I chuckled and feigned amusement. Stu was staying strangely silent, and I could’ve been mistaken but I thought he was a little irritated at how Renfield was flirting with me.

“Are you a fan of cubism? I have a Picasso in my collection that I’d love to show you sometime.”

“Oh,” I said, pretending to be flattered, “that would be amazing.”

“Is that one of the pieces you want us to transport?” Stu asked, his voice holding a note of derision. I stiffened, hoping Renfield didn’t pick up on it.