“Yes,” she said quickly. “I’ve just been feeling off lately—not myself. Of course I’ll do it.”
He smiled and patted her hand. “That’s my girl.”
By then her window to seduce their mark had come and gone. That left breaking in. Eddie Cohen would be out of town for the night. One evening to execute the heist. They didn’t know on which of the three floors the Monet was hung, so she’d have to wing it.
Unease edged her movements as she dressed in her burgling uniform: black clothing that wouldn’t catch on anything, hair secured in a tight bun. Just another day at the office. Feeling skittish, she did some shadow boxing, but her punches lacked conviction and nerves continued buzzing through her. She wasn’t sure if her lingering ambivalence had sparked her anxiety, or maybe talk of Yevgen and his grizzly ways had infected her.
She waited a bit longer, hoping it would pass.
It didn’t.
Her head mostly in the game, she drove to the brownstone and checked for signs of life. Eddie Cohen’s car was gone. There wasn’t a flicker of movement in those pre-dawn hours. She picked his lock and slipped inside, tools ready to disengage his alarm, her tranquilizer secured on her hip for his dog. But the alarm didn’t sound. Something sharp and coppery stung her nostrils. She studied the room and slapped her hand over her mouth.
Eddie’s poodle was on the floor, bleeding all over the expensive oak.
Goddamn Yevgen.
The bastard had beaten her to the punch, sacrificing the dog just because. She would have used the tranquilizer if need be, quick, efficient, safe. But she’d delayed the entire plan and tonight’s work. Now there was a dead dog and the painting was likely gone.
Disgusted with herself and her failure, she turned to leave, but heard a scream.
The Monet’s owner?
Eddie Cohen was supposed to be out. She’d double checked his car was gone, hadn’t she? Yes. Fuck, yes. She was sure she had, but there was no mistaking that terrified cry. Before she thought better of it, she bolted up the stairs…to do what? Help the man she’d planned to rob? Fight off Yevgen, who was three times her size? Her heart thrashed as she ran.
Then she was falling.
Something had hit her head. Hard. Crunching. A blinding blow. The stairs skidded from under her, the world tipping upside down. Her ankle crunched. Her shoulder snapped from its socket. The landing knocked the wind out of her, a deafening smack on the hardwood floor. She couldn’t move. Spots flared in her vision.
“Stupid little girl.” The accented words sounded fuzzy.
She tried to breathe and clawed at her throat. Had something punctured her lung? Run, she mentally screamed. Run, run, run. She barely twitched, and pain sliced through her.
Yevgen lowered to her side, his foul breath hot on her cheek. She tried to relax and access her self-defense training. She imagined her hand striking out, her fingers gouging Yevgen’s eyes. All she managed was to clutch his shirt. She heard a rip, at least. Her nails bit into flesh.
He snarled. “Still so much fight, but not enough. This is what happens when you try to steal what’s mine.”
A sharp pain—new and deeper—tore across her abdomen, and a feral sound escaped her lips. Jesus Christ. The asshole had jammed a knife into her stomach, stabbed her without a thought, and she couldn’t catch her breath or fight back. Her saliva gurgled in her throat.
Yevgen leaned down real close. “Next time I’ll finish the job…and finish your handler. Lucien? Is that his name?” At her whimper, he grinned. “No one you love will ever be safe.”
She lost consciousness there, didn’t rouse until much later, in Lucien’s home, tended by his private doctor. “Don’t scare me like that, Grapefruit,” he said, his voice wobbly.
Lucien never wobbled. He was her rock.
“How?” she croaked, tears gathering in her eyes. Did you find me, she tried to finish but the pain stole her words.
He stroked her hair. “I followed you. You still seemed off and I was worried. With the Yevgen rumors and your state of mind, I needed to be cautious.”
She forced saliva down her throat. If felt like swallowing battery acid. “The man? Eddie?”
Lucien dropped his gaze. “Eddie Cohen is dead.”
Because of her. Because she’d gotten distracted and had delayed.
Bruised and battered and throbbing with pain, she closed her eyes and cried for a man she didn’t know. She cried for the girl who’d wanted to grow up and fix cars to impress her dad.
Clementine made a promise to herself that day never to let personal issues interfere with her work. She was a burglar. It was what she’d become. She did it safer than most and helped better the world with her earnings. A small piece of plaid was her token—Yevgen’s torn shirt dirtied with both their blood. A reminder to never again let Lucien down, or have another person’s blood on her hands.
Yet here she was, in Whichway, five years later, her personal life eclipsing her job.
After kissing Jack, she’d reverted to giggly teenager status. She’d stayed up half the night, alternating between touching her lips and smiling and cursing herself for being soft. She’d woken once, hot and sweaty, sure Jack’s hard body was on top of hers. She’d even fantasized about quitting her work and moving to Whichway to live with Jack and their reptiles. Clementine David did have a nice ring to it.
She watched the digital clock on her nightstand now, unsure how she’d last until she saw Jack again tomorrow morning, unable to curb the desire. Only thirty hours to go! Restless, she did sit-ups and push-ups and practiced yoga. She maybe did a Flashdance stationary run. She wrote her dad a pathetically gushy email, detailing Jack’s singing voice, his whispering voice, his shy voice, his teasing voice, his bold voice. Jack’s obvious affection for her.
She refolded all her clothing, spending extra time on the tank top she’d worn the night before. She stuck her face in it. Giggly teenager status. It smelled faintly of Jack, fresh yet woodsy from the wall he’d had her up against.
She needed to get a grip. He was her mark, not her teenage crush. She was well aware of consequences when distracted on a job. And she’d promised Lucien she’d call.
Unless she didn’t check in. Unless she walked away from it all.
If she told Lucien she wanted out, that she was done with their life of crime, he’d wish her well. He’d move on, as he’d promised he would five years ago. She was stronger now, but it would mean abandoning girls like Nisha, and the notion of quitting Lucien still pained her. Especially with so many uncertainties. If she pursued Jack and their fledgling feelings fizzled, or he realized she was more damaged than a salvage yard of crushed cars, or if he learned she’d been a criminal these past ten years, he’d probably run the other way or turn her in.
If their connection and attraction turned into love and he didn’t suspect anything about her past, could she, in good conscience, continue her lies? Never tell him what she was?
Her mind knotted tighter.
Until she untangled it all, she’d keep her options open. She’d tell Lucien about tomorrow’s running date and that the plan was moving ahead. She’d spend time with Jack and get to know him and maybe kiss his kissable lips. She’d find the elusive Van Gogh, just to be safe. Somehow, she’d figure out what to do.