His sister slumped and noisily flipped her fork.
“Leave them be, Chloe.” Sylvia’s no-nonsense tone suggested she was accustomed to laying down their family laws. “Your brother’s free time is valuable.” She turned to Jack. “Best if you make it an early night. We need you sharp for work. Your father needs that breakthrough.”
Tension edged Jack’s movements. “I’m aware.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come over last night.”
“Seriously? You think I should have told Chloe—” He cut his rant short.
Chloe paled. Sylvia pursed her lips.
“I have to check my phone,” Clementine said, breaking the tense silence. No need to partake in this family tête-à-tête.
“It was lovely to meet you,” Sylvia said. “Jack will be along shortly.”
He nodded. “I’ll meet you in the library.”
She left as their butler, Walter—who she’d learned cooked and cleaned and chauffeured the family around—floated in to clear the table. They really did have a manservant, and a maid, in a mansion that could go toe-to-toe with Wayne Manor. But she was no Rachel Dawes in this Bat World. She was Catwoman, and her Bruce Wayne had no clue to her secret identity.
She settled in the library, relieved to be away from job questions, and pulled out her phone. She hadn’t checked in since this morning, an eternity for her, but unplugging had been surprisingly exhilarating. She’d experienced real moments today, with real live people, instead of talking to her bearded dragon or texting Lucien.
On cue, a message from Lucien lit her screen. The first line sent her heart into her throat. By the time she’d finished reading, she’d almost bitten through her lip.
Lucien: We have a problem in Delhi. The orphanage contacted me. They’re being squeezed by some thugs. If we don’t send cash within the week, they’ll be shut down.
Clementine: Our last score. The diamond ring money? Is it gone?
Lucien: You asked me to spread as much around locally as I could. The rest went to the Cambodia project.
She had wanted to help out in New York, not just abroad, as much as possible without drawing attention. And the Cambodia project funded schools. All worthy causes. None of those facts dimmed her panic. If the Delhi orphanage was shut down, Nisha and the rest of the children there would have nowhere to go.
Lucien: You mentioned moving up the timeline. Get the job done and I’ll see if I can stall for a few days.
She looked across the foyer, in the direction of the dining room, where she’d had a lovely meal with a lovely family who trusted her. Could she really steal from them? Just the thought of it made her sick. She closed her eyes and pictured Nisha’s scarred arm as she’d snatched the persimmon from Clementine. There were no other jobs lined up. Clementine had no savings to pinch from. It was this or nothing.
Clementine: I’ll get it done.
She sent the reply, unsure how she’d pull this off, or if she could live with herself afterward.
“Everything okay?” Jack appeared, looking calmer than in the dining room.
That made one of them.
She stashed her phone in her purse. “Yeah. Fine. Thanks.”
“Shall we?” He turned toward the marble-floored foyer, expecting her to follow.
She could make an excuse about not feeling well, escape to plan her heist, but she didn’t know where the painting was, and she didn’t want to leave yet. If she went through with this, this could be the last time she ever saw Jack. A sharp pang twisted her gut.
He led her down the spiral staircase. She kept up while trying to compartmentalize her job from her life. She’d done this hundreds of times, but it felt like her first con. They passed a massive television and games area, complete with ping pong and pool tables. He remained quiet and didn’t glance at her, swinging his arms faster as he walked. His family discussion had obviously stressed him, but he seemed more agitated the farther they got from the main floor.
Could he sense her betrayal? Did her panic have a smell?
He kept moving across the large living area. “You’re not a music producer, are you?”
If she really were Catwoman, she’d use this moment to transform into costume and plaster herself to the ceiling. Did Catwoman actually have ceiling-walking powers? Could she walk up walls like Spider-Man? Clementine knew basic Batman details, thanks to Annie in her nice foster home, but she didn’t even know if Catwoman was a superhero or a villain, or why she was pondering ridiculous thoughts when her mark, who she was falling for—and would probably steal from—had busted her cover.
Jack’s stride didn’t slow.
She hurried to keep up. “It’s complicated,” she said. The vague answer was easier facing his back.
He stayed his course, still strutting ahead. “Were you honest earlier, when my mother asked how long you’d be in town?”
“Which part?”
“You said you’d stay in town at least until the festival’s over, which implies you might stay longer. Was that true?”
“It was.” Past tense. Unless she could figure out a way to have her cake and inhale it, too. God, she wanted to inhale Jack.
He turned down a long hall and paused by a doorway, then he faced her. “Why?”
He’d thankfully quit pursuing the job questions, but this topic shift was as daunting as splaying her heart on a chopping block. His face was impassive, unreadable. Evasion was an option, but he’d confided in her too much today to reciprocate with another lie.
“Because of you,” she whispered.
His stoic face relaxed. “Good.”
She wobbled, feeling breathless…and unhinged. Fantasizing about staying in Whichway was a stupid hypothetical game. It meant leaving Lucien and starting life from scratch. It meant abandoning Nisha to a beggar’s fate.
“Looks like I have some convincing to do.” Jack leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. He kissed her deeper until she moaned, then pulled away with a mischievous smirk. “Want to see my playroom?”
“Sure” was as witty a reply as she could muster. It was tough to focus when her future was barreling toward her at an alarming rate.
Jack took her hand and led her in.
She blinked at her surroundings. “It’s purple.” Like really purple. Purple carpet. Purple walls. Purple ceiling. A felt-like fabric covered the entire sound room.
“My granddad had my father build it. Bought a killer sound system, set up all the instruments on stage. He played in a band and would jam with the guys. I never picked up the whole instrument thing, but I’d come in here when I was upset or frustrated and blast music. Tune out the world.”
She eased her fingers from his grasp and stepped on stage. The ceiling was low, adding cocooned warmth to the funky room. She dragged her hand over the mic stand, the bass guitar’s strings, made a row of chimes trill with her index finger. Behind the drum kit, on the wall, hung a framed gold record. “Is that Elvis’s signature?”
Jack’s footsteps thumped quietly as he approached. He gripped her hips and pulled her back into his chest. “It was Granddad’s prized possession—Elvis’s last known signed record. He left it to me in his will. I brought it to the festival last year and put it on display. You should have seen the fuss. The tribute artists kept posing with it and snapping pictures.”